I threw the prune scoop—a combination shovel and rake—down for the last time. After a week of back-breaking farm labor, I was done. Comrade Carlos, set an empty bushel basket at my feet, frowned and retrieved the harvesting tool.
He held the wood handled rake out for me to take and quoted Mao. “What we need is an enthusiastic but calm state of mind and intense but orderly work.”
I looked at Carlos then at my purple-stained hands, torn fingernails, ragged cuticles, and sulfur-infused hair and said: “Fuck Mao!”
As I stormed off down the hill, I thought about all the Communist propaganda that spewed from Carlos’s lips. He said gender equality was a primary goal of a communist society. He added that under communism the multiple burdens that women had long shouldered would be eased.
All I knew was that the women I met on the ranch did the same work as the men, and most of the cooking, cleaning and child care. Didn’t seem too equal to me.
“Blake, I’m so finished here,” I said that evening after waiting ninety minutes for a shower. “I want a home.”
Blake didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, you’re right. We’ll find a place to live tomorrow.” He peered up at me from our bed in the van. I sat on the edge of the sleeping bag and looked at my swollen toe, stubbed earlier on a tree stump. I was cold, tired, and grumpy. I got up and dug through our clothes box for warmer socks.
I rubbed my bruised arms and stretched my aching back as tears welled up in my eyes. “You sure sound confident. Why do you think it’ll be that easy?” I shivered.
“Because it will. Get in bed and I’ll warm you up.”
I pulled off my clothes, except for my my snugly socks and wiggled into the sleeping bag next to him. “I’m so tired.” I said, not in a mood for sex.
“Don’t worry, sweets. Tomorrow, I promise, we’ll move forward.”
After a sound sleep, I awoke late the next morning to the smell of strong coffee. I propped myself up with pillows, and Blake handed me a steamy mug. “How ya feeling?” he asked.
“Sore. I can’t move my big toe. I think I sprained it.”
“Oh c’mon, crybaby.” Blake pulled at the covers. “We’ll get a Press Democrat at Safeway. Our new home awaits us. You’ll see.”
In the supermarket parking lot we opened the paper and found apartment rentals. “These are expensive,” I said pessimistically. Farther down the page I noticed a section titled Share Rentals. “These prices look more in line.”
Blake scanned the column and then pointed at the last listing.
Sonoma Mountain Road—clinical pyschologist seeks members for adult intentional community.
Private rooms for rent with shared bathroom and kitchen privileges, $150/mo. Call for an interview.
“What do you think?” he asked, circling the ad with a red pen.
“Well, it’s certainly in our price range. I wonder where Sonoma Mountain is?”
“I guess I’ll find out,” Blake said, heading toward the phone booth. He returned a few minutes later with directions scribbled in the margins of the newspaper.
We headed south on Highway 101, merged onto Highway 12 toward Sonoma, and followed Bennett Valley Road east until it hit Sonoma Mountain Road. The steady climb revealed miles of rolling hills, with high meadows, vineyards, and an occasional ranch home. Horses, sheep, and cattle grazed, and turkey vultures soared overhead. As the road dipped into a redwood grove, Blake used a pullout to allow an oncoming VW bug to pass.
“Stop here a minute, I want to get out,” I said, one foot out the door.
Across the road sat a tiny cedar cabin that could have housed gnomes. A small stream gurgled alongside the road, vanishing into a culvert. The redwood smell was pleasantly strong, the air moist. I closed my eyes, stretched my arms up, and breathed deeply. Blake joined me in the center of the narrow road and put his arms around my waist. We stood in the stillness for a minute or two. A man and a woman—together in nature. One more deep breath and we were on our way.
“Your notes say it’s just past the Zen center . . . there’s the sign on the left.”
A narrow driveway curled to the top of the hill. Rocky terrrain flanked the incline, tree roots protruded every few yards holding the topsoil in place. At the top, we pulled into an expansive gravel parking lot adjacent to an eight-bedroom lodge. The forest-green two-story house had three separate wings. A redwood deck wrapped around the second story and a balcony extended from one of the second-floor bedrooms.
It was from that balcony that a voice called out. “Hi, are you here to look at the rooms?”
We got out of the van for a better look, shading our eyes with our hands. A woman clad in a fuzzy pale-blue bathrobe leaned over the railing. The robe, loosely belted, fell open to her waist exposing bare breasts.
“Yeah, we’re looking for Bud,” Blake called out, adding a side comment to me. “This looks like our kind of place.”
“Not too shabby,” I agreed, eying the sprawling house and the native landscaping.
The woman cupped her hands to be heard. “He’ll be back from town in an hour. I’m Asna, I’ll be right down.”
When she arrived, Asna had belted her robe. “Excuse my appearance, I wasn’t expecting company. I’ve been living at Elysium Fields in Topanga Canyon for the past three months and it’s hard to transition to clothed society.”
“Oh we know about Elysium. Isn’t that Ed Lange’s place?” I thought back to Spokane and Mervin Mounce’s nudist history lesson.
“Yeah, it is,” Asna responded. “I hoped that we could keep this place clothing optional.”
“No argument here,” Blake said with a laugh.
We followed Asna and the sound of her flopping Birkenstock sandals into the front foyer. About five feet tall, her sturdy body filled the blue chenille. She had brown shoulder-length hair, wore no makeup, and a prominent nose dominated her face. My first thought was that she looked like a middle-aged Jewish housewife—an accurate impression, we soon learned.
“Is that a dog I see in your van?”
“Yes. He’s friendly—you’ll like him.”
“I doubt it,” she said with her nasal-sounding voice. “Dogs smell. Plus, I don’t think Bud will allow him. Leave him in the van and I’ll give you a tour.”
We obeyed Asna’s commanding whine and she ushered us into the main living room. “Pretty nice, yeah?”
“Nice? This is amazing,” Blake responded.
We stood under a twenty-foot vaulted ceiling, with wood beams. The floor was gray flagstone. An oversized stone fireplace, sporting a three-foot-deep hearth, took up most of one wall. Built-in bookcases housed an extensive library, and a portrait of a crying clown hung on one wall.
“Isn’t that the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen?” Asna pointed at the garish orange and yellow clown painting. “Bud paid a fortune for it. Many nights I’ve been tempted to use it as firewood.”
It was the only ugly thing in the room. Natural light poured through a wall of glass French doors. A slight breeze wafted through an open doorway, bringing the smell of bay leaves into the room. I walked outside and stood for a moment on the expansive deck. I gazed at the blue sky and wispy clouds before rejoining the tour.
The main hall served as a combination living and dining room. A long mahagony table with fourteen chairs filled one end. In front of the fireplace, a contemporary couch, upholstered side chairs, and a hand-hooked rug formed a conversation area.
“Wait ‘til you see the kitchen. Do you like to cook?”
“A little,” Not wanting to appear over-anxious, I played down my favorite passion.
The commercial-size kitchen took up a third of the downstairs. It had two walls of floor-to-ceiling cupboards. A center island divided the room, with more storage over the counters. I admired the built-in double ovens, the ten-burner stove, dishwasher, and stainless steel sink. I could definitely have fun there.
We circled back to the hallway entrance. A flight of stairs led to the second story.
“What’s back here?” Blake asked, sticking his head into an open doorway on the opposite wall.
“Bud’s office and the den, another bathroom, and if you keep going another hallway leading to the therapy room and laundry,” Asna replied. “I don’t have time to show you much more. The rooms for rent are up these stairs.”
Her tone did not invite further questions. So we followed our commander to the second floor. A wide hallway ran the length of the upstairs. We first peeked in the master bedroom.
“This is Bud’s room. He and his girlfriend, Monique, show up about once a month and slosh around on that monstrosity of a water bed. You can hear them all the way down the hall and it isn’t pretty.”
I put my head into the room and shivered. Something creepy ran up and down my spine. It was the smell or the bed, or something. My stomach knotted and the knot moved toward my throat. I shook it off—too weird.
The other rooms felt cozy. Asna had chosen the sunniest one, the walls a soft yellow. As we entered, we stepped around an incline exercise bench, positioned against the side wall. A soft white terry towel lay folded across the top. A futon mattress covered most of the floor and a three-shelved bookcase stood opposite, below the windows. Books of yoga, philosophy, poetry and self-help psychology filled the shelves. One African violet plant shared the windowsill with hand-painted wooden figures—each one slightly bigger than the one before.
“What are these?” I asked Asna, as I fingered the colorful toys.
“They stack inside each other. See, they’re painted to depict Russian peasants, dressed in traditional costumes with head scarves. My grandmother and mother had them as children, now they’re mine. I’ll pass them to my daughter, Nancy.”
The sound of crunching gravel outside interupted our conversation. “That must be Bud. Come, I’ll show you the other two rooms and the bathroom, then you can go downstairs and meet him.”
At the end of the hall, we peeked into two vacant bedrooms. I made a mental note that I favored the one with the balcony. Then we descended the stairs to get a look at our new landlord.
Bud stood six feet tall. His powerfully muscled arms lay folded across his chest. He had peppered gray hair, neatly trimmed just above his earlobes. A thin satan-like beard and moustache framed his mouth. His eyes—cold and steely. I swallowed hard. Then a smile pushed up the corners of his lips, and I remembered to breathe.
“Bud, this is Blake and Elaine. They’re here about the room. I’ve showed them around some. They have a dog.” Asna grimaced. “I’ll leave you to business. I’m going to shower.”
Bud eyed us. “Well, before we go too far, let’s talk. My office is in here.”
We crossed the hallway and entered the room that Asna hadn’t shown us. It had a stereo, couch, overstuffed chair, and an attached bathroom. Another doorway led to a small office with a simple pine desk coated with inexpensive veneer. Bud gestured for us to sit.
I glanced at Blake, who shifted uneasily in his chair. Not only did this man share the same nickname as his father, but his voice exuded the same sense of command. I knew this comparison was not destined to please Blake. We both eyed the door.
“Gosh, where did I put that agreement?” Bud rapidly opened and closed desk drawers. “I’m so disorganized lately. Since my divorce, I can’t find anything.”
He looked at us and cleared the air with a robust laugh. “Oh forget it, let’s just talk. If we like each other, you can move in . . . if not, you won’t.”
Bud leaned back in his chair, raised his arms, and clasped his hands, making a pillow for his head. He put his feet on the desk. My nervous stomach settled, but I couldn’t stifle a continuing physical response to something I perceived as dangerous. I hoped I was wrong; I told myself I shouldn’t prejudge Bud. Plus, we needed a place to live, and otherwise this did seem ideal.
“Since my divorce, I eased out of my law practice and earned a psychology degree,” he began. “I lived at the Esalen Institute in Big Sur for awhile, then decided to use it as a model to create a similar situation here. What I’m looking for is seven individuals or couples to form a core community.”
“So who chooses the people?” Blake asked, doubt etching his voice.
“Well, I thought the members would. You’ve already met Asna—what do you think?”
I dodged that question and asked one of my own. “The rent’s a hundred and fifty?” I fingered the traveler’s checks in my purse.
Bud hesitated. “No, that’s per person. Since there’s two of you, it’s three hundred.”
I turned negotiator. “How about two hundred? We’ll only be occupying one room.”
“Deal,” Bud said, a little too eagerly. This guy needs money, I thought. Then a butterfly fluttered in my stomach—or there’s a reason no one wants to live here.
Blake remembered to ask, “And our dog is okay?”
“Sure. I like dogs. Just keep him off the furniture.”