The Initiated

By Micki Voisard

It’s 1968, San Francisco’s Haight Ashbury is an ideal home for twenty-one-year-old, anti-war activist and newlywed, Maggie Finn... and “headquarters” for the Flower children, protesters and topless girls. Free love is everywhere. Then, on a bitter early morning, Maggie’s three-day honeymoon dramatically sinks into a violent swamp. She fights her way out of the abusive control by her husband, Michael. Her world of smoking pot and attending free concerts in Golden Gate Park abruptly ends. Fortunately, Maggie has secured a position, on a dare, as a flight attendant transporting American troops to and from the Vietnam war. After her training, she steps onto her first flight, escorting 250 soldiers into the war zone. She soon recognizes how the men she takes over to Vietnam contrast from the ones she brings home, writing to her mother, “As with so many of the guys I escort from Vietnam, their eyes have changed from when I take them in-country.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jun 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9781684703500

Book preview

VOISARD

Copyright © 2019 Micki Voisard.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-6847-0351-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6847-0350-0 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 05/17/2019

Also by Micki Voisard:

Cancer Then Healing

Becoming The Chef Your Dog Thinks You Are

The Dog Chefs Road Food Manual

This book is dedicated to the

men and women who stepped on Vietnam soil during the Vietnam War. I hope you found a person to share your love with, or an animal who kept you warm or a place where you discovered your worth.

If not, this book is meant especially for you.

"Each one of us is escorting

someone home… in someway."

-Maggie Finn

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to my dear, loving husband, David, who was willing to live with Maggie Finn and myself for over 2 years. His tolerance of not knowing which one of us would show up that day is admirable! I know he must have gotten cues from my four dogs and two cats!

For many years I had this story in my mind but thanks to the wonderfully talented Story Developer, James Bonnet and his wife Diane, who helped me not only see the vision but hear the voices and put them down in real words on real paper.

Sincere thanks to friends and family, especially my sister, Jeanette, who politely sat while I read her a chapter I had just written. I’m sure she would have preferred to go to lunch or on a hike instead.

And special thanks to my late mother, Jean, who always reminded me, upon my return trips from Vietnam, that, Don’t worry, Micki, you just listen to a different drummer!

Thanks to Susan Lindsay who helped put my vision in a graphic form, what a relief she was around!

A huge thank you to every animal who touched me when I needed their touch, their kindness and their incredible way of being able to let go of anything that was done to them. They are the true gods of story! Listen to them.

CHAPTER ONE

FIGHTING IS ALL ABOUT OPPORTUNITY

Without even a Honey, I’m home, Michael slams the front door, yelling at me in the kitchen.

I hold my breath.

When you gonna quit the job, Maggie?

I’ve spent my life squirming under that tone of voice.

Quit what job? I jest, feeling ill-at-ease.

Ya know . . . that stupid airline job, you knucklehead. I’m not havin’ my wife take part in a war that’s killin’ people in a country where we don’t belong! Did you forget we’re against the war, Maggie?

I’m motionless at the doorway of our tiny kitchen enlightening Michael through gritted teeth. I’m not certain if I’m for or against the war. I’m just searching for something more exciting! And . . . I don’t start for two more weeks. How do you know what I’ll be doing?

I’m as surprised as Michael is to hear me blurt this out. Really, Maggie? I marvel to myself. All of this time, I thought I was ready, at age twenty-one, to settle down and have a brood of little Finns running around a modest house. But now the idea disgusts me, and Michael reads my emotional contortions. His face has changed to a violent shade of red, and his eyes dart back and forth.

Don’t argue with me . . . I’m your husband. Just shut up and listen.

We went from yesterday’s magical honeymoon to today’s ugly swamp. It started when I changed my clothes for supper, just before Michael got home. I had bought these adorable, pink pedal pushers at Woolworths, topping them with my see-through, white ruffled blouse, assuming I looked sexy.

I pictured Michael after a hard day of working at the Bike Barn, coming home to his new bride of three days, feeling like a King in his five-hundred-square-foot apartment . . . a hippie version of The Donna Reed show.

I so captivated myself in the mirror that I ignored the french fries baking in the oven. Michael hates burnt fries.

As he opens the apartment door, my outfit is not what he fixates on. It’s the smoke coming from the kitchen that pisses him off.

I’ve seen Michael’s Irish-fuming behavior before, but in the past, I’ve diverted his nastiness with food and a pint of Guinness. That’s always worked. But now, the half-burnt sirloins I lay out on the table merely get him seated. We eat in strained silence, in between his sarcastic remarks about my new career and what I’m wearing.

While I clear off the table, Michael walks over to the counter and opens the envelope I received from the airline yesterday. He leans it against the jug of Concord grape juice near my plate, eating his last morsel of steak. He’s seizing his fork like a caveman.

So, what’s THIS about? He jabs his fork at the letter, his eyes beading.

I have to give them a check for $25 upfront for my uniform. But they’ll reimburse me once I pass my training. Really, Michael,—I stuff my mouth full of food to deflect from my nervousness—they have to do it this way. You know they custom make each uniform for us. If I—

WHAT do these uniforms LOOK like? If it’s anything like what you’re wearing right now, Michael chews his meat with his mouth open, I can pimp you on the street near the Tenderloin.

That hurt. But what woman maturing in the ’60s isn’t hearing it? I recall the same look on my mother’s face many times, just as I feel right now. Her downcast eyes, her tight lips postponing her tears.

I brace myself at the sink, preparing for the dirty dishes. The running water cools my misery. I get a whiff of a fight coming on, just as a horse’s nostrils flare with an approaching bear. But a premonition is pointless if you can’t stop what’s inevitable.

"We can’t afford the $25, Maggie. Go wait tables, and they’ll give ya a uniform for free. That’s more your style, anyway. It ain’t gonna happen, baby. Call ’em tomorrow and quit. That’s final, Maggie.

Michael scoots his chair backward, scratching the wood floor. I change the subject, but he cuts me off. The tension is dancing alongside his building resentment. I try again.

Hey . . . I saw Dermot today! He’s so funny, he—

I don’t want you talking to Dermot unless I’m present. You got that Maggie? He reaches over my chair, poking my arm with his fork. He keeps poking.

Michael throws the letter onto the floor, giving me the chance to snatch it and move out of the narrow kitchen area. I sneak it into my blouse. The last thing I need is for him to read the other letter in the envelope detailing where I will stay for the six-week training at San Francisco Airport. He’ll never allow that to happen. I was going to divulge that information to him after we shared a romantic supper tonight. But now, it’s too late.

You won’t be going anywhere, Maggie. You’re my goddamned wife! Women like you don’t have the backbone to do anything on your own. You’re not goin’ to a job where you’re fucking planeloads of GIs . . .

He picks up a dirty plate from the table, hurling it toward my head. I duck just before he tackles me. He pins me against the door, his clenched right fist inches from my face. Our bodies are so close I pick up the thunder of his heartbeat, conscious of his profuse sweating.

His body odor is salty. His scowl turns his once-soft blue eyes into steel marbles. I pant like a frightened dog who’s become the hunted.

What happens after anger? I’m going to find out unless I leave this argument . . . this apartment. He’s made a serious mistake by trying to overpower me. Straddling my body with his legs spread out, he tries to cut off my escape. With concentrated force, as if an electric current is shooting through my spine, I launch my right knee straight up between his limbs. I sense the tenderness of his groin. He easily collapses to the floor, clutching his crotch with one hand, roaring like an injured lion. His eyes bulge out of their sockets. With his other hand, he struggles to capture any part of me. I reach for the doorknob but remember I’m without shoes. My boots are nearby, and before he snatches my arm, I slip them on and kick him one more time in the crotch.

Why-y-y-y . . . did . . . you do . . . thaaaat . . . bitch? Michael howls, choking for air.

I tremble while laughing, Because I can, Michael Finn. Because I can, you asshole!

A middle-aged couple peers out their door from across the hallway, their faces ashen. They scan me with concern, then scrutinize my apartment door. The three of us take stock of Michael, who’s coiled on the floor against the doorjamb with both of his hands crossed over his groin. He makes a low, audible moan.

I grin at the couple. Hi . . . uh . . . that guy might need help over there?

It shocks the hell out of me I imply it so casually. The couple slams their door.

I take a final look at Michael. The guy who three days ago I assumed would move heaven for me, is spread out on the floor like a wounded animal. Dashing back into the kitchen, I grab his half-drunk Guinness and position it near his crotch. I stroke his cheek, then sprint down the dim corridor to the front vestibule. Pressing my hand to my stomach, I experience a familiar sense of relief.

I crash through the building’s exit doors, the cold drizzle of San Francisco’s winter weather colliding with my exposed arms. That relief I felt a few moments ago? It drains from my bloodstream. I’ve experienced this often in my twenty-one years of existence. I’m a hot-and-cold shower. When I’m in it, I’m into it, and then . . . I’m not, and wish I was back where I started. My mother used to tell me I’m a nice person but I have a loose wire somewhere. I’d have to nod in agreement.

Now the reality hits: I’ve left my coat and purse in the apartment. Once again, I lose.

So-ooo-oo, what the hell are you gonna do now, Maggie Finn? Saying my name aloud delivers an added chill up my spine. I lean against the wet building, paying attention to the cathedral bells chiming nearby. It’s 3 a.m. My finger crosses over the glass face of the new watch Michael gifted me once I got hired by the airline.

The soft mist changes to heavy rain, my head bowing as I make myself aware of one important detail: I can’t return to the apartment until Michael leaves for work. Oh my god, that’s four hours from now! My mind races. What do homeless people do when it’s cold? Cardboard . . . I gotta look for cardboard. I recall an alleyway, used by the locals as a shortcut to Golden Gate Park. Finding my way to the entrance of the alley, I walk straight-lined through the dark center of two buildings’ walls. This is Haight Ashbury, where a backstreet is an ideal hangout for druggies and discarded syringes.

Garbage collection was yesterday, so cardboard might be hard to find . . . but . . . better still, I’ve found a cubbyhole with empty trash cans! There’s an offensive smell of oxidized grease coating the ground inside the nook. I duck under the concrete top, my boots sliding as if on an ice rink. Moving two of the cans outside of the alcove allows me enough room to crouch in the back of this little cave.

Rain-soaked to my bones, I’m shivering like someone possessed. I sing-song to myself with a hint of self-mockery, I-wish-I-would-have-known-I’d-end-up-here-tonight-I-would’ve-been-dressed-more-appropriately-ly-ly.

My thighs cramp. No longer able to squat, I’m forced to sit back. I stretch my legs out, leaning against the concrete block of the cold compartment, my thin pedal pushers surrendering to the grease from someone’s leftover lamb dinner. My bare arms are goose-bumped by the elements. I sink my head into them. I’ve got to stay warm for a few more hours.

A sickening thought hits me. What if Michael won’t be going to work today? Maybe I hurt him worse than I thought? Wow! What if I killed him? Shaking my head back and forth, I toy with the idea that . . . well . . . it might serve him right. I had spent hours entertaining him with the stories of my fight training under the guidance of the Colombo brothers in high school. Some schools had phys ed; we had a fight club.

Steven Colombo used to tell me, Winnin’ a fight’s ’bout opportunity, Maggie, not size or toughness. Most people will figure out they’ve got you because of your height; stay aware of your opportunities.

It’s indisputable that Michael gave me that opportunity . . . It’s his fault. I just followed through on it. I can easily claim self-defense with the number of drugs in his body; that’s in my favor.

Our friends know of Michael’s Irish anger. His buddy, Dermot, warned me how volcanic Michael could be, but Michael was also . . . so wonderfully charming. Everyone, even Michael, had dared us to get married within the three weeks we had known each other.

And Michael knows my fondness for a dare; that’s what extracts my courage. That’s the marrow of who I am. My friends, including Michael, dared me to go through four interviews with an airline, just to see if I could get the job. The day I received the telephone call saying I passed each airline interview AND the handwriting analysis, was the same day Michael and I got married.

My lips quiver recalling the moment we stood in an open field in Golden Gate Park—me, with flowers in my hair, Michael clad in his only good shirt. We vowed our love for each other—forever. We paid the minister with three joints, and our nine friends desecrated the American flag by cutting it in sections and stitching the pieces upside down into their clothes for this memorable occasion. That was hilarious.

Before Michael and I got married, we shared an apartment with five other people. It was difficult for him to tiptoe around the room getting ready for his job at the Bike Barn each morning. He rented out bicycles to vacationing tourists. They came to gawk