Marjorie stared at the poster. Its message was blunt: We need rent money. Can you help?

August 1964

Heart and stomach: As she and Mama Mumu left Eddie’s lonely little grave and headed back to the Haight, Marjorie could almost feel them both, alive, pulsing, disturbed. Her heart ached with empathy for another’s pain, and with the unfamiliar concept of total forgiveness. And her stomach? That simply growled, demanding attention, begging for a steak, or a green salad, or even — yum! — Perele Schwartz’s potato kugel.

Thoughts of Mrs. S. brought her back to the life she’d left behind. Mother and Father: What were they doing now? Did they miss her at all? (Not likely.) Were they sending out police, asking others for help, or simply keeping her disappearance a deep, dark secret so that they shouldn’t lose face with the neighbors? Did Perele Schwartz wish she was with her in the kitchen? And what about Artie, with his funny poems and sweet smile? She remembered their last encounter, and the song he’d written for her: On a roller coaster, she travels far / Searching for who-knows-what, in her Mustang car / She’s going to try to make her own home / With dreams and drums, and this nonsense poem.

Well, if I’m going to make this my own home, I’d better get started. She quickened her pace; no more sauntering, enjoying the sights. First stop: Chrissie’s crash pad. It was early afternoon, and she hoped she’d find her friend awake — and something, anything, to eat.

Thankfully, Chrissie was, well, not wide-awake exactly, still yawning in her Mickey Mouse pajamas, but awake enough to shriek when she saw Marjorie. There were kisses, and hugs, and more shouts and as warm a welcome as Marjorie had dreamed of.

But no food.

“We’re all out of everything, Marge, kind’ve a drag, but hang loose, we’ll get some bread together.”

“Bread?” Hopefully: “You mean, like a sandwich?”

Chrissie giggled. “Moolah. Dough. Money, you middle-class bourgeoisie. Get with it girl, you’ll soon be talking our language. And speaking of dough, you got any to contribute?”

“I’m afraid not.” Marjorie recounted her cross-country adventures, ending with the cowboys’ theft of all her cash.

“Bummer, man! No bread in your pocket. Would have been pretty welcome, since we’re in hock for two months’ rent with the landlord and he’s flipping his lid.”

Not good. Marjorie had been counting on Chrissie to help her get settled, but her friend seemed very different from what she’d been when they were in school. Then, she’d been angry, rebellious, restless; now, she seemed like she was drifting happily in some strange and delightfully irresponsible world.