The Outside Lands

by Hannah Kohler

  “I’m sorry,” said Jeannie; but Lee was staring past her, out the window. “Did he—”

  “They took him prisoner,” said Lee. Her eyes were wide and black—the way Kip’s were when he was high—and they dragged back and forth, playing catch-up with the buildings that skimmed past. “What do you think they’re doing to him right now?” Jeannie frowned with concern; but a crack of electric light across Lee’s face revealed an expression that was almost dreamy. “I heard they took your brother too,” she said, dragging her eyes back to Jeannie’s face.

  Alarm rushed Jeannie as she scrabbled to remember the last time she’d heard from Kip. “He’s flying out next week,” she said.

  Lee sighed. “Then it’s not too late,” she said. She pushed her hand into her coat pocket and pulled out a notebook. “You got a pen?”

  Jeannie scooped through her purse. “No.”

  “Give me your lipstick.” Lee opened the notebook and wrote on the paper with the lipstick; she tore out the page, slipped the notebook back in her pocket, and folded the paper into a small, thick square. “Here,” she said, taking Jeannie’s purse and tucking the paper and lipstick inside.

  “What is it?”

  “For when you’re ready.”

  “Where do I drop you?” called the driver.

  “End of the block—McKinley Square,” Lee called. “This is me.” She placed her hand on Jeannie’s knee and paused, before running it under Jeannie’s skirt, slowly, up the length of her stocking. Jeannie’s breath caught; she moved in her seat.

  “Wait—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Lee, moving her fingers higher until they reached the naked skin at the top of Jeannie’s thigh. Jeannie’s breath tightened and she held still, watching the rearview mirror to check that the driver’s eyes were on the road. The cab slowed. Lee leaned as though she were going to kiss her; she hooked one finger under the fabric of Jeannie’s panties and pushed it inside her. Jeannie heard herself inhale. “We have to take what we want,” Lee said in Jeannie’s ear. The cab pulled to a halt.

  “We’re here,” said the driver quietly, his eyes leveled on them through the mirror. Lee drew her hand out from under Jeannie’s skirt and let herself out of the car.

  “How many more?” she yelled as she closed the door, then turned and walked away, disappearing into the trees.

  The driver’s eyes rested on Jeannie. “Back to Noe,” she called; and she stared out the window all the way home, her heart slow-clapping in her chest; through the Mission, with its boarded-up buildings, dark-skinned boys, and liquor stores, her heart beating faster; past Mrs. Harris’s academy on Dolores; along Twenty-First with its sleeping intersections and peaceful families; down Noe, over Alvarado; and they were finally there, pulling up outside the house. She pushed three damp five-dollar bills at the driver and ran up the steps as fast as she could, her blood pounding as she closed the door behind her, shutting out the world and all its danger and promise. The clock in the kitchen told her it was past midnight, and a saying of her mom’s flashed through her head—“Ain’t nothing open past midnight but the hospital and legs.” Jeannie undressed in the bathroom so as not to wake Billy, and she crept into the bedroom; but the old floorboards gave her away, and he rolled under the bedspread and groaned. She slipped into bed, the sheets fresh on her bare skin, her heart slowing its punch enough for her to feel the ache that was hollowing her between her legs.

  “Nancy okay?” murmured Billy, sliding his palm over her belly, his eyes opening at the feel of skin. She took his hand, paused, and moved it downward. She felt his body tense, his fingers snag her hair before sliding inside her. It wasn’t enough, and she spread her legs wide. Billy grunted and climbed on top of her; she felt his hardness against her stomach and wriggled to let him inside her, closing her eyes to keep the image of Lee steady in her mind as he drove hard and harder: Lee looking down at her, her tongue parting her lips, the go and the thrust and she was reaching for her and kissing her neck and taking her by the waist, fingers pressing into her skin and deep, deeper and she was nearly there, almost there when the rhythm faltered and Billy’s weight was on her, his body dense and damp.

  “I love you,” he said, and rested for a moment before rising onto his elbows and collapsing on the bed.

  “I love you too,” said Jeannie. In that moment—her body still warm from her husband’s, Lee out there waiting in the dark, Charlie coughing in the next room—she meant it.

  The next morning, Jeannie sat blearily on the can, the memory of Lee unreal in the frank light of day. She was herself again. She watched Charlie push open the bathroom door and totter toward her, and was struck by how separate those hours with Lee felt from her real life; she wondered if that was how Uncle Paulie had managed his affairs over the years. Then Charlie rested his chin on Jeannie’s knee, raised his fist and opened it like a flower—and there was Lee’s note.

  Jeannie wouldn’t have visited the address lipsticked on the paper—wouldn’t have walked to the streetcar on Church with Charlie two days later—but her dad had telephoned about Kip leaving for Japan and, after a half hour of silences and silver-ish linings, she needed to escape. Even then, as she looked up at the shabby Victorian, she had no mind to lift her hand to the door—she merely had another blank afternoon to fill, and had been curious to see the address. But the drift of colored men across the street were staring; and Charlie needed to go potty; and the windows were bright against the cold; and there were pots of camellias—her mom’s favorite—on the stoop.

  Before she could knock, a tall old woman with crimped white cheeks and hair dyed the color of molasses opened the door and scowled.

  “What do you want?”

  Her voice was deep and scratchy, bearing the marks of what Jeannie guessed were decades of smoking and hard-drinking. With her loud makeup and slack figure, she reminded Jeannie of Aunt Ruth, the kind of life-gnawed old broad that had never frightened her. Charlie, however, buried his face in her leg.

  “I’m here to see Lee?”

  “Don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “This is Nineteen-Eleven Haight?”

  “It is.”

  Jeannie would have left it at that, except that the old woman was staring at them; and Jeannie heard one of the colored men holler from across the street; and Charlie was dancing beside her, his body squirming with his need to go. And so she said, “Young? Long, dark, curly hair?”

  The old woman nodded. “She crashes here now and again. But she don’t call herself Lee.”

  “She told me to come.”

  “This is a political meeting. This isn’t a fucking kindergarten.”

  “Hey,” said Jeannie, drawing Charlie toward her. “Watch your tongue.”

  “Man yelling,” said Charlie, bringing the itch of a smile to Jeannie’s face.

  Jeannie stepped back down the stoop. “We’ll go,” she said.

  “It’s okay.” A man appeared at the door; he had a handsome, empty face and pale hair that reached his shoulders. “Everybody’s welcome.”

  “I made a mistake,” said Jeannie.

  “Lyla sent you?” he asked.

  “Lyla?” Jeannie frowned. “It doesn’t matter.” She turned to go; but Charlie froze, and she watched as a dark circle spread over his pants. He started to cry. “Oh, Charlie.”

  “Goddamn,” murmured the old lady, turning and disappearing into the house.

  “Come inside,” said the man; and he was beside her now, his hand on her back. “Come get warm, get the kid cleaned up.”

  “Jeannie?” Lee was at the door. She was barefoot, wearing a long, translucent skirt; her hair fell loose, a cloth band tied around her head. “I didn’t think you’d come.” She picked up Charlie, his wet pants soaking her blouse (“Oh, sweetheart, let’s get you all dry”), and Jeannie reluctantly followed her into the house.

  The house was dark; and the smell implied that either someone had been hard-boiling eggs or Charlie’s accident was mo
re serious than Jeannie first thought. Lee led Jeannie and Charlie to the bathroom at the far end of the house. The walls were a queasy peach color and sporadically furred with black mold, the bathtub and sink stained brown.

  “What is this place?” said Jeannie, crouching on the tiled floor to ease off Charlie’s pants and wipe his legs with bath tissue.

  “It’s where we make plans,” said Lee.

  “Plans for what?” asked Jeannie, freeing Charlie’s arms from his shirt.

  “Stopping the draft. Saving our boys and brothers.” Lee squatted in front of Charlie and tickled his naked belly; he giggled and arched himself at her fingers.

  Jeannie wondered what Dorothy would make of her daughter-in-law visiting a protest meeting, and smiled. She would get Charlie straightened out, and she wouldn’t stay, and no harm would be done.

  “It’s the old lady’s place?” she asked, opening her purse and pulling out a spare jumpsuit for Charlie. She wrapped his soiled clothes in the dry-ish shirt, tucked them into her purse, and, kneeling, pulled Charlie onto her lap to dress him.

  Lee nodded. “Mrs. Moon.”

  “She’s out of her tree,” said Jeannie, catching Charlie as he wriggled away.

  “She has reason to be.”

  “She didn’t know your name.”

  “She likes to forget things.”

  “The man had a different name for you too.”

  “The Reverend?”

  “He’s a priest?”

  Lee shrugged. “Maybe.” She stood, touched the damp blot on her blouse, and, in one sweep, pulled the blouse up and over her head. She was naked underneath, her breasts plump, her nipples dark as wine. Jeannie looked away and focused on her own hands fastening Charlie’s dry jumpsuit, her fingers slipping on the buttons. Lee tiptoed in front of Jeannie and Charlie, reached up—the stretch of her stomach, the swing of her breasts—and took a man’s shirt that was hanging on the back of the bathroom door. She slipped it over her shoulders.

  Jeannie finished dressing Charlie and stood, noise in her blood.

  “Charlie’s here,” she said, her voice catching.

  Lee’s fingers went to a button on the shirt and fastened it. Then the next, and the next, leaving a deep V of bare skin at her chest.

  “I didn’t mean to come,” said Jeannie. “I should go.”

  Lee smiled. She stepped forward and took Jeannie’s face in her hands. Jeannie thought of Charlie, the unlocked door, the strangers down the hallway, and closed her eyes. A light kiss pushed against her lips, and blood flushed her body; then the kiss was gone, leaving its ghost on her mouth. Jeannie opened her eyes; Charlie was gazing curiously up at her.

  “It’s only a meeting,” said Lee, her face still close to Jeannie’s. “You don’t need to come again. Please.” She waited for Jeannie to nod, then reached past her to open the door. Jeannie lifted Charlie, and Lee led her through the hallway to a living room at the front of the house.

  Where the hallway had been dim, the living room was lit by a low sun glaring through the bay window. The room was large and dusty, the walls shedding their parrot-print wallpaper like skin, and it had layers of smell—cat, mold, smoke, a chemical smear of Glade. Sitting in a leather armchair across the room sat a bearded man, smoking a pipe. He was bare-chested but for a waistcoat, his chest and shoulders crawling with hair, his arms bald and welted with what looked like burns. His face was familiar, and it took a moment for Jeannie to place him—the guy with the typewriter at the police station in Oakland. She was about to ask Lee about him when, as though sensing her thought, he caught her eye, and she swallowed her question in a cough. Mrs. Moon was bent over the coffee table, her raw fingers working over a plate of egg-salad sandwiches, arranging them into unsteady piles. Under the bay window, on a couch cratered with newspaper-stuffed holes, an Asian girl lay sleeping. And on a large shag rug by the fireplace sat three girls of indeterminate age—one tear-stained, one crop-haired, one unhappily freckled. They were dressed in acidic colors, smoking rolled cigarettes and murmuring; on seeing Charlie, the freckled girl whistled and waved, and Lee pulled Jeannie across the room.

  “Hello, little man,” said the freckled girl, too eager; Charlie watched, unsmiling.

  “Serious, huh?”

  Lee made introductions. The girls each had names like lakes—Crystal, June, Silver—and Jeannie had a hard time keeping them straight. While the girls talked about the march on the Pentagon, Charlie’s hands went to the family of china dogs that crowded at the fireplace. There were voices in the hallway, and more people came—maybe a dozen altogether, mostly girls, bare-legged and earnest, in groups of twos and threes, looking for a space to sit on the floor. Jeannie was starting to make her excuses to leave when the freckled girl whistled at Charlie and threw him a carton of playing cards.

  “Thanks,” said Jeannie. “Although we really need to—”

  “We’re starting,” said Lee, watching the door.

  “I’ve got to get him home,” said Jeannie, tugging the carton from Charlie’s fingers. He started to cry.

  “Wait,” said Lee.

  Footsteps brought the Reverend into the room. With his cropped pants, hiking boots, and camel shirt, he looked more like a summer camp leader than a priest. He stood by the bay window, spilling a long shadow over the floor, the sleeping girl at his back. Jeannie let go of the cards, and Charlie sat in quiet victory. The Reverend clapped his hands and shouted over the hush.

  “All right, everybody, let’s start.”

  The girl on the couch didn’t move. Lee squeezed Jeannie’s hand.

  “Welcome to all our new members,” said the Reverend, giving Jeannie a slow, significant look that sent heat to her face. Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed the bearded man’s eyes drifting over her body—still a little soft from carrying Charlie—and moving away.

  “We’re here because we all have brothers, sons, lovers,” the Reverend continued (the teary girl murmured to herself), “who have been sent to destroy a country eight thousand miles away and die in the name of a war that is against God, and against our nation.”

  “Mama, look.”

  “Vietnam is burning. Jungles, forests, croplands are burning. Mothers, grandmothers, burning in their homes. Children, babies—little boys like this one.” He waved his hand toward Charlie; Jeannie brought her arm around Charlie’s waist. “Boys like Charlie, burned alive by napalm.”

  “Water boils at two hundred and twelve degrees Fahrenheit,” said the bearded man, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes on the floor. “Napalm generates temperatures of up to two thousand two hundred degrees.” He sat back, steepling his fingers. “It’s the most painful way to die.”

  “The land of the free, the home of the brave, vomiting bombs on our Vietnamese brothers and sisters, slaying more than one million humans. That’s more people than live in this entire city.”

  “I got cards, Mama.”

  “Most of them children. And for every murdered child, a dozen others made homeless, orphaned, naked, doing anything for food, begging, screwing, selling their sisters.”

  “Look, Mama.”

  “Shush.” Jeannie snugged Charlie closer and glanced around the room. All eyes were on the Reverend. The freckled girl was nodding, her face misty.

  “And what about our men, our boys? Sent back rotting in caskets like Denny and Tony Moon.” Mrs. Moon watched the Reverend, stone-faced, a tremor in her hand as she lifted her coffee to her lips. “Vanished. Crippled, amputated, scalded, blood on their hands, shame in their hearts. For many it’s too late.” The Reverend was gazing at Jeannie. Jeannie looked away, her eyes searching Lee’s, but Lee’s eyes were closed. The tap of boots on wood as the Reverend approached and knelt before Jeannie.

  “It’s too late for me,” he said, placing his hands on Jeannie’s shoulders. Sweat prickled her skin. The Reverend watched her face as though he was trying to discover something; then, bobbing his head as if he had found it, he stood and walked away. Jeannie’
s eyes cooled and her breath loosened—but the sweat was still sticky on her skin. She looked again to Lee, wanted to leave, but the girl was still shut-eyed, cross-legged and dirty-soled like a monk.

  “I’ve been there. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen a wounded GI tied to a tree, rats crawling from his stomach. I’ve seen a four-year-old girl running toward us in the jungle, strapped with explosives. I’ve seen an RPG exploding a plane full of friends, headed for home. I’ve seen a man literally—literally—disappear in a puff of smoke.”

  “Oh, no.” The cards had fallen from Charlie’s hands and scattered across the rug. Jeannie gathered them up, the cards sliding in her fingers.

  “I can show you what I’ve seen,” continued the Reverend. He took an album that rested on top of the yellow-toothed piano in the far corner of the room and handed it to the short-haired girl—June, or maybe Silver. The album was red with white polka dots; it looked like the one Aunt Ruth kept for family photographs. The girl let the album fall open in her hands and leafed through the pages like she’d seen them before, then stopped and stared at a single page. Curiosity got the better of Jeannie, and she leaned to take a look.

  A child, maybe seven or eight years old, lying facedown on the earth, his black shorts bunched around his buttocks like a diaper, his fatty legs awkwardly arranged. His fists were held tight at his ears, and his head was turned to the earth, like an infant huddling at its mother. On the ground, a large, red stain—and something darker, thicker, spilling at his hair. Next to the photograph, a scrawled note.

  “Me see it,” said Charlie.

  “You took this?” said Jeannie, taking Charlie and holding him against her chest, so that he couldn’t see the photograph. She looked up at the Reverend and caught the bearded man smiling.

  “One moment,” said the Reverend, “for one American soldier. This year there have been—” The Reverend glanced at the bearded man.

  “Five hundred thousand.”

  “Half a million American soldiers deployed in Vietnam. Doing—seeing—things like this.”

  Jeannie felt Charlie fidget against her, felt the warmth of his body, his unmuscled softness. Lee’s eyes were open now, and she was turned toward Jeannie, her palms on Jeannie’s leg.