Oh. My. God.
My brain flatlined as a steady, high-pitched hum took over. The ground tilted underneath my feet. I felt dizzy. Nauseous. And, worse,betrayed. The girl in Rosie’s bed. Ron refusing to tell me her identity. How could I have been so stupid?
I had been bushwhacked with the lie of the century.
Easter had come right on time, mid-April of ’66. Memphis city schools had a holiday on Good Friday, but it didn’t mean I’d get a holiday from my piano lesson. Thank goodness it had been moved up to one o’clock. Ron and I had big plans for the afternoon.
“See you next Friday, Mrs. Bohannon,” I said, once my lesson was over.
“Good work today, Suzannah. You have a terrific grasp of this Beethoven piece.” Mrs. Bohannon had often told me I was her best, most advanced student, a compliment that made my parents prouder than it did me. Dad believed the piano was meant for church hymns and classical compositions. I believed it was meant for Beatles songs. Paul played the piano.
“Aw, thanks,” I said, peering out the front window. Ron was late. Again.
Mrs. Bohannon and her next pupil had already entered the lesson room, and the door was nearly shut when I asked, “May I please borrow your phone?”
“Be my guest. You know where it is.”
I certainly did. On the wall, in the kitchen. Punctuality was not my brother’s strong suit.
I dialed home. Twenty-five rings later, I hung up, waited thirty more minutes, and called again. Ron had forgotten about me and was in the basement playing music too loud to hear the phone. He often turned up the volume when our parents were away.
The next time I called—fifteen minutes later—I let it ringfiftytimes. When I got no answer, I could feel anger rising inside my throat. Ron had promised we would spend the afternoon learning a new Beatles tune on his guitar.
At three o’clock, after sixty rings, my anger turned to fear. The ghastly thoughts of what might have happened were impossible to dismiss. I plopped down in a chair on the front porch with nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs. And worry.
“I thought you’d be long gone,” Mrs. Bohannon said, once her last pupil had left.
“I can’t get in touch with Ron.”
“Have you tried your parents?”
“No ma’am, they’re at church. Setting up for Good Friday supper. I’m worried about him.”
“I’ll take you home, honey. Just let me grab my pocketbook.”
A minute later we loaded up in Mrs. Bohannon’s Buick Skylark, and she drove the ten minutes to my house. Cuda was parked out front.
“He must have lost track of time,” I said with a sigh, stepping out of the car. “Thank you so much for the ride.” I flew inside the house, so damn mad. Ron often lost track of time. And often got in trouble for it.
“Ron,” I called as soon as I opened the front door. After no answer, I sprinted up to his bedroom. He wasn’t there, so I barreled back down the stairs and flew to the basement. Not there either.
Convinced something was terribly wrong—like he’d been hurt or kidnapped, even—I hurried back up the basement steps and happenedto hear a funny noise coming from the little room off the kitchen. Rosie’s room. The one we rarely entered.
Pressing my ear to the door, I heard someone’s heavy breathing. It scared me, to be honest. Even so I pushed the door open, afraid of what I’d find.
What I found was a shirtless Ron propped up in bed with his head against the wall and his eyes closed.
“I’ve been waiting at piano for two ... hours.” It was then that I noticed a hump underneath the sheet, strategically positioned.
Ron jerked the covers up to his chin. He just stared at me, mute, while the nameless hump stayed stock still.
I stared back, unable to speak myself, as the reality of what I’d walked into crystallized.
With a mixture of dread and embarrassment tingling through my body, I slowly backed out of the room, shocked that Ron had taken such a big risk.You are such an idiot,I wanted to scream.If Dad had been the one to catch you, there’s no telling what he would have done.
After softly shutting the door behind me, I flew up to my bedroom and yanked my diary out of the nightstand.
Breathing solely on life support, I stared at the stage, unable to move. While the drizzle continued to coat 450,000 people listening to the Grateful Dead rock Yasgur’s dairy farm, the lie rocked me, encasing my body in a thick coat of plaster.
