Chapter Text
Friday, June 22, 2018
Every morning for the past year, Rey Burke woke with the sunrise and jogged a five-mile loop up and down the Oceanfront boardwalk before preparing for work. The ensuing thirty-minute commute to work in heavy traffic did little to frustrate her, so long as her coffee stayed hot and the radio kept her entertained. Today, in particular, her mood had lifted to new heights. This marked the first anniversary of her position as assistant curator at The Naboo Gallery, the best damn job in the world.
To her delight, her boss acknowledged the milestone by presenting her with a pink box, tied in string, from Rey’s favorite bakery. She set it on Rey’s desk and took the chair opposite her. “I was thinking we might share these after lunch,” said Mon Mothma, smiling. “Today is one to celebrate in more ways than one.”
Judging from the glow on the older woman’s face, Rey hoped it meant good news on a specific front. Among their other duties, they’d spent the past eight months researching and collecting materials for Time Has Come Today, an exhibition on the 50th anniversary of key events in the Sixties counterculture movement. Robert Kennedy’s assassination, the protests at the Democratic National Convention, rebellion and anti-war sentiment versus the establishment.
Rey had loved every stage of the exhibit’s development. Since receiving word of the assignment she devoured books on the era, set up recorded interviews with people on both sides of the issues, and sorted through miles of photos and film footage. The exhibit was scheduled to debut on the first day of August and run through the end of the year, and they were nearly set to show an amazing and diverse collection of media.
That Mon implemented Rey’s ideas of tying in contemporary activism -- Occupy Wall Street, Black Lives Matter -- into the exhibit boosted Rey’s confidence. This was her first crack at curating a show, and she couldn’t wait until opening night. Mon’s news this morning further elevated her spirits.
“Last night,” her boss said, rather coyly, “I received a phone call from Bazine Netal.”
Rey’s breath left her body. “And?”
Mon folded her hands on the desk, tilting her head to one side in pause before speaking. “She’s agreed to loan us some of her father’s items.”
Hot damn. Rey wanted to whoop for joy at finally obtaining the missing link to complete the exhibit. No retrospective of this time in history would be complete without something attached to one of the decade’s best-known activists. “Mon, this is amazing news.”
Mon clasped her hands together and stood. “Come walk with me.”
Rey followed her out of the offices and into the atrium of the art museum. The elegantly appointed space featured marble flooring and fountain installations along the back wall. A large white Chihuly chandelier hung from the tall ceiling; its illuminated curling fingers seemed to point at the four arched doorways, each of which led to a different exhibition hall. The gallery wouldn’t open for another hour yet, and she and Mon slipped behind the large partition blocking the first entrance.
Inside, they walked past framed photographs and video kiosks looping archival news footage of the Vietnam War and the protests resulting from it. Pedestals displayed vintage clothing and other items under glass -- among them musical instruments, handmade jewelry, and protest signs.
Rey caught sight of the mini theater space off to one side, a darkened room in which the interviews they’d recorded would play on a continuous schedule. She was about to ask whether they had secured the subject in question when Mon broke into her thoughts. “We need to clear out this corner,” her boss said, gesturing to an array of media depicting the history of the convention riots and Chicago 7 trial. Everything looked too spread out, only because they lacked the content they’d just now been promised. “I already have the graphic design team working on signage.”
“Will Mrs. Netal be bringing everything to us?” Rey asked. “When can we expect it?” She was eager to sort through what the woman had for them.
“Actually, we’re going to her. Mrs. Netal cares for her father now, and is reluctant to leave the house. What do you say we head up after lunch?”
“I say yes,” Rey said. Her heart lurched, thrilled for this new development in the first exhibit she helped to curate. Not only that, she was likely going to meet Ben Solo, the legend himself.
***
Rey watched the scenery pass from Mon Mothma’s car, anticipating their arrival at Bazine Netal’s house. She was the only daughter of Ben Solo and his former wife, now deceased, and by her design the main point of contact for retrieving media for the exhibit. One of Rey’s tasks as Mon’s assistant had been to reach out to various private collectors, museums, libraries and notable figures of the era to secure loans for the displays. Ben Solo had been the lone holdout until now.
Rather, Bazine Netal. Rey never spoke to the man; the daughter answered initially for him, until she stopped answering altogether. It baffled Rey that the woman ghosted the gallery, since Ben Solo remained a vocal activist for social justice, even at the age of seventy-eight. Of course, most of his output occurred through social media, and Rey followed all of his accounts once the project was greenlit.
“You’re lost in thought,” Mon said as she took the exit toward the north end of the beach.
“I was wondering why Mrs. Netal changed her mind at the eleventh hour. I mean, I’m glad she did,” Rey said. “I’m sure people coming to see the exhibit would remark about the absence of Ben Solo material, given that he’s local.”
“I heard a rumor he’d suffered a stroke. That’s why he hasn’t been out in public lately,” Mon said. “Either way, Bazine Netal sounds like a helicopter parent.”
Or else she was embarrassed by her father’s legacy. Rey had studied up on the man; Ben Solo was pure hippie in 1968. She closed her eyes to bring up the images found online. Shaggy black hair framing a roughly handsome face, piercing dark eyes, round John Lennon glasses. A scruff of beard a girl would love to feel scraping across her shoulders and down her bare back…
Calm down, girl. Ben Solo had over half a century on her now. Though, what recent photos she’d found of the man showed him leaning into silver fox territory.
Not that she was into that sort of thing. Her interest in Ben Solo was strictly attached to this exhibit.
Bazine Netal lived on the corner of a high-numbered street that dead-ended at the beach. The house fronted the ocean, and a two-door garage with a wooden door faced the road. Rey noticed a sun deck on the roof, not an uncommon feature for homes in the area. Rey lived further inland, and therefore envied their view.
No driveway, so Mon had to park on the side of the road. As they entered the gate leading to a side door, they were greeted by a woman with long dark hair. Bazine Netal wore bright red lipstick and a floral, maxi-length beach dress one might put over a swimsuit. “Thank you for coming out,” she said in greeting, shaking their hands. “I also apologize for the lateness in choosing stuff to send you. It had nothing to do with your museum.”
“It’s not necessary to go into detail if you don’t want to. We’re grateful you and your father decided to contribute,” Mon said. They followed Bazine through the door that led to her kitchen.
Bazine took them through a spacious living area awash in pastels and into a smaller room -- a study with bare walls and boxes on the desk and floor. “My father can be contrary at times. He never fails to speak his mind, especially about this current administration,” Bazine rolled her eyes, “but every time the subject of this exhibit came up he’d put it off. Would you believe it finally took one of the women you interviewed to convince him?”
Rey was curious, but Mon seemed more interested in getting the boxes into her car before either Bazine or her father suffered a change of heart. “We’re glad she did, and thank you, Mrs. Netal,” Mon said. “Is your father home? We’d love to thank him personally.”
Bazine shook her head. “He’s taken his dog out to the beach. They spend most of their mornings there, it’s his happy place.”
Mon murmured that perhaps they’d meet at the opening night reception. The daughter was noncommittal about that. Mon then gave Rey a look that said Let’s take this stuff and go.
Rey walked out with Bazine, each carrying a heavy file box. “I watched a documentary about the protest your father staged before The Who concert here fifty years ago,” he said. “It must have been interesting to have lived with a father like that.”
“I used to think everybody had a father like mine.” Bazine laughed. “He kept the same circle of friends most of his life. All radicals and thinkers, and doers. Yet when he speaks of those days, he doesn’t get personal. It’s all politics.”
Rey set the box in the trunk of Mon’s car. “I guess he figured that was more important.”
“Yeah, but he obviously has stories. He hung out with Bob Dylan, Abbie Hoffman...and then there’s all the women.”
Rey didn’t have to ask. The documentary mentioned a number of Ben Solo’s romantic conquests, confirmed and rumored. Hippie free love, and all that.
Rey’s phone rang; the museum was calling. She excused herself while Bazine returned to the house, and she paced a stretch of road as she clarified the events calendar with the museum’s marketing manager. When she rang off, she saw she’d walked the fifty feet to the public beach access path. A yellow Lab, his fur matted wet and smelling of ocean brine, was galloping her way.
“Hey there,” she greeted the enthusiastic dog, and let him sniff her slacks. “Did you have fun at the beach? What’s your name?”
“His name is Wicket.”
Rey looked up as the older man approached. His name, she knew. Ben Solo was dressed for the early summer weather in white linen pants and an unbuttoned blue shirt over a matching-colored tee. His left forefingers were hooked into a pair of slip-on Vans and in his other hand he carried a chewed-up tennis ball.
Whatever seventy-eight was supposed to look like, the man made it good. He skewed quite younger in appearance. His hair still held that Sixties shag style, but it was mostly gray -- what she could see under his hat. He was clean shaven now, tanned by the sun, with attentive eyes that could no doubt stop conversations.
He caught her gaze and stopped short of a greeting, mouth gaping a bit. Rey held out her hand.
“Mr. Solo, I’m Rey Burke. I’m here with Mon Mothma to --”
“I know who you are,” he cut in. The astonishment in his tone surprised her. She thought for a moment he might renege on loaning them his personal items, but the older man then shook his head. “That is to say...Mon Mothma. You’re with that museum.”
“Yes.”
He lifted his hand in a signal and the dog left her to sit at his feet, panting. “Did you get everything you need?”
“I believe so. Mr. Solo --”
“Ben.”
Rey gave a nervous laugh. “Ben...thank you for your contribution. I do hope you’ll come to the opening reception to see the exhibit in its entirety.”
“Will you be there?” he asked.
“Of course. I helped curate.”
He smiled. “I wouldn’t miss it, then.” Ben paused a moment, then asked. “By any chance, did you attend Old Dominion University?”
“Uh, yes.” Talk about a question coming out of left field. “How did you…?”
“Majored in history, yes?”
Two for two. How did he know this about her? Rey then remembered her bio on the museum’s website. Perhaps Ben had researched the venue before deciding to give his life’s work. “And a minor in art history.”
“That I didn’t know. It makes sense. Did my daughter show you the van?”
“The van?” Surely he didn’t mean the famed Solo Samba, the multi-windowed VW microbus that carried Ben and his merry band of peaceniks across the country? Oh, to have that as part of the exhibit. “You still have it?”
“Would you give up your first child?” He dropped the shoes and shoved in his feet. “Come have a look. We’ll see if there’s any magic left in it.”
Ben clicked his tongue and Wicket stood to attention. Gesturing for Rey to walk ahead, they started for the house. Rey made small talk along the way, glancing back every few seconds to see Ben staring at her. With interest or adoration, she couldn’t tell. It put her on edge, yet at the same time intrigued her.
Was this older man trying to flirt with her?