Playground Zero

by Sarah Relyea

  Her father scooped up the newspaper and folded it, seemingly lost in speculation.

  Soon, Alice thought, imagining covered wagons coming in sight of a new ocean, sandy beaches, soon enough we’ll come to the wonderful place of gold and seagulls.

  Marian

  THE MOVE HAD been Tom’s idea. One day he’d come home from the federal agency where he was working on Johnson’s civil-rights agenda and announced that he would be leaving by the end of the month. “I have a job in San Francisco—a big move up,” he had informed her, without further ado, as though the summary could be counted on to convey all. To Marian, Tom’s manner had seemingly implied that she could go or remain as long as she needed for herself and the children, though of course no such dilemma or referendum had really been proposed. Marian was happy in Washington—they’d been there several years, longer than anywhere else, and she’d made a good home among people she was pleased to know. The children had begun school and found a group of regular companions. The neighborhood was uncommon, somewhat daring, full of younger people like themselves who opposed school segregation and the war. There were black families and many people from New York, lawyers and academics employed by the government or by one or another program or research group. A new world was happening all around; she could now see herself as a member of an important group, along with others who demanded that something be done about civil rights and the war. She went with Barbara when they gathered for demonstrations on the Mall and marched on the Pentagon; they had plans for the schools, Congress, the South; everyone was reading something adventurous, by some black or left-wing author her parents would have snubbed, had the author managed to be found in a room with them. Now and then something had truly happened. A leader had been assassinated and a phone call from Barbara had come as she was napping. Someone had moved to the Maryland suburbs, usually for the schools. Then there was the summer Tom had strayed; in the aftermath, she’d found a gray tabby cat for her son, but he—the tabby—ran away and was never found. He’d chosen a new home—or so she reassured the children, to spare them fears of something worse.

  Tom had refused to reveal any purpose underlying the California move, beyond the step up. As she now understood things, he would be second in command, with a chance of soon heading the regional office. That sounded good; but he’d never been a manager, and he complained of the Washington bureaucracy. Regardless, the move had happened, and fast. There had been days and days in the car, through lush familiar farmlands of grasses and trees and corn, followed by a sunburned moonscape, barren and dry. Tom had surprised her by gambling in Las Vegas, and by the appalling hour in Los Alamos. She’d never imagined he would drag her to the place where they’d made the atom bomb; as much as the death of Bobby Kennedy, it had cast a pall over the final days of the trip. Then one gleaming, sunny morning in mid-June she’d heard the cars by the motel in Berkeley and opened her eyes. The room was bare. Tom’s duffel lay open on the floor, rummaged. The children were playing in the larger room; she could hear them squabbling together in low tones. They’d been roused by the sun, she supposed, for there were no shades in the room.

  Marian groped under the pillow for her watch: nearly ten o’clock. Hardly surprising; she’d been fatigued for days. She pulled on a bathrobe and opened the hollow plywood door of her temporary bedroom. In the living room, the children’s sleeping bags lay bunched on the floor. Curt was dangling from the couch, grouping baseball cards, while Alice was lounging on the floor, reading. They hushed as Marian appeared in the doorway. She was consoled to find them peacefully engaged—the room would be home for a month, until mid-July. She and Tom had rushed there from Washington to buy the house, choosing in a day a fine one near the campus. That part—the large, wood-shingle house near the campus—appealed to her; but she was unsure how she would manage for a month in such a cramped space. Tom would be very busy. As for the children, in September they would be entering seventh and fifth grades, and already they were losing what she remembered as an early companionship. Maybe sharing space would be good for them.

  Curt glanced up from the baseball cards. Reaching for one of the sleeping bags, he unearthed a small portable radio and pressed a lever. Sound burbled in a steady stream as he arranged the cards.

  “Are you guys hungry?” Marian asked.

  Curt was nodding in rhythm to some barely heard song. “Had some cereal already.”

  “You, honey?” she added, turning to her daughter.

  “We had the cereal.”

  “Well, then . . .” And she enclosed herself in the bedroom to prepare for the day. Tom had gone to the new job, across the bay in San Francisco. The place was a name to her, a photograph in a magazine. Nob Hill, Lombard Street, Haight-Ashbury, the Golden Gate. Tom had planned to use the car, though only for today. She wondered how far she would have to go for shopping. Already she needed coffee and eggs and something for dinner and then more cereal for tomorrow. She hung the bathrobe on a hanger and unfolded a casual flowered dress from her luggage. Glancing in the long mirror on the door, she donned the dress, along with loafers she’d worn for the car. Fumbling for a brush in a small travel bag, she smoothed from her forehead and shoulders rumpled blonde waves and clamped to her ears small dangling pearls. Then she rubbed on her mouth a layer of barely observable gloss.

  In the other room, Marian told the children to amuse themselves until she returned. She opened the door on the glaring sunshine of a parking lot and wandered over warm, oil-smelling asphalt to a shabby avenue of gas stations, motels, and liquor stores. There was nothing to help her know where she was, only the name, University Avenue—though there was no campus to be seen. She rounded a corner, coming upon small yards and bungalows, the grass already turning from emerald to dull gold. There was a balmy smell from the bay. The sun shed an odd charm on the dreary bungalows, the colors of pale faded blossoms. As she looked closer, she saw crumbling adobe and small unusable porches and tumbledown fences and abandoned cars. There were few people around, only some black men on the avenue, in what was seemingly a black neighborhood. So far she had seen only a small grocery, selling chips and beer, where an older man in shades leaned on the counter reading a newspaper. There she made a few purchases: a can of coffee, eggs, milk, and some English muffins.

  As she ambled along the warm avenue, remembering the journey in a blur, wondering how they’d come to be here, she glanced up. The avenue sloped up and away from the bay, leading her eyes along until they found a range of hills, rounded and hung with clouds. They would be there soon, near the hills. She paused for a moment, remembering how unprepared she’d been.

  Marian bore her purchases through the parking lot. As she passed one of the rooms, a boy appeared; though hardly older than Curt, he was coolly dangling a cigarette. He glanced at her, surly and unconcerned, and swaggered through the door of the other room, indistinguishable from her own except for its number and place in the row. He seemed as though he’d always been there, and she wondered: How many other families were renting these two rooms by the month? And who were they?

  She passed along the row and through the door of her room. The children were there, more or less unchanged, Curt studying the baseball lineups and averages—would he follow new teams now?—while Alice continued reading. The sound from the radio had become louder, Marian thought, and more annoying. She’d heard them arguing as she approached, but now they were flung apart, ignoring each other’s presence. She set down her purse and the grocery bag.

  “Honey, could you turn that down? Someone could be sleeping.”

  Curt barely glanced up. He was chewing gum. “Now?” he wanted to know.

  “Yes, now, when I ask.”

  “I mean them—they’re sleeping now?”

  He’d never approved of her sleeping in. Fortunately, Alice was undemanding and forbearing, able to amuse herself. The swimming in Las Vegas, though alarming, had surely been a fluke. Even as a baby Alice had played by herself on the floor while her older brother made ha
voc with the pots and pans: what a handful he’d been. If given leeway, he would soon overload the room they were all sharing. Marian would have to figure out how to manage them, fast, for she already knew there’d be no wandering around the neighborhood for them, through those deserted blocks with the bungalows. Even the avenue would be a problem; what was reasonable for her, a well-dressed woman no one would dare to bother, made no sense for young children. Tom should have found another motel in another neighborhood; she should have demanded it. But there’d been no leeway when they finally crossed the hills—yesterday, already evening, so lovely then to gaze on the darkened bay and glimmering lights, yet considerably waylaid. For once Tom had been the slow one, touring around Los Alamos and Las Vegas as though they were ugly Americans, delaying them for three whole days. Then he’d rushed to work in the early morning.

  Curt had agreeably lowered the sound. Now he glanced up, infused with purpose, eager, smiling. She loved that look. He jumped up; he was no longer dangling from the couch.

  “Can I go out?” he asked. He was already as tall as she was.

  “Have some eggs,” she offered. “I’m making them now.”

  “Had enough cereal.” He paused, unsure whether he needed permission. “I’ll go look around.”

  Her daughter had closed the book. “Can we see the house?”

  “No, dear, your father has the car. Maybe tomorrow.”

  Curt was leaning through the doorway, looking up and down the row. Marian saw her son’s halo of tawny hair, like young tiger fur; sometimes she imagined running a hand through it. He was ready to go, wearing the same polo jersey and jeans turned up at the hem—she bought the jeans long, though he always wore them out before he could grow into them. He’d even donned the leather school shoes; the laces, of course, had been hanging loose for as long as she could remember.

  “Curt.”

  “Huh?”

  “Please don’t go wandering around.”

  “I’m just going for the newspaper. I need the box scores for yesterday’s games.”

  “Then I’ll take you for the paper when I’ve had my coffee. Or you can go with your father when he comes home.”

  Curt paused by the door as though stranded, then scuffed slowly to the couch.

  Alice was also gazing out the door. Though less slovenly, she was beginning to seem more of a problem, in cut-off jeans and an old long-sleeved shirt formerly belonging to her brother. Marian had encouraged the hand-me-downs when her daughter was younger and had shown a preference for outdoor play; allowing the girl to wear her brother’s old shirts was less objectionable than buying her brand new boys’ clothing. That would have been a clear endorsement. Now, however, she was growing up, and some change was in order. Marian surveyed her daughter—more somber than herself, with her long eyes and a pouting, revealing mouth.

  Through the screen Marian saw the unfamiliar boy saunter by, no longer holding a cigarette. He glanced through the door, waved at them, and then tore off toward University Avenue.

  Marian gathered herself together. She would forgo coffee for now. From her purse she pulled David Copperfield, the book she’d been reading to them in the car. “We could read together.” No one responded as she removed the bookmark. “Now where were we?”

  When Tom finally showed up, he had no time for the store. He was in the bedroom, working.

  SEVERAL DAYS LATER, when Tom had begun riding the bus and no longer needed the car, Marian was able to show the children the new house and neighborhood. They drove up University Avenue and along some other streets, turning here and there. Nearing Telegraph Avenue, Marian was forced to pause as a throng of young people surged around the car, barely allowing them through. A young man rapped on the hood of the Chevy, then flashed a V-sign when Marian glared. Finally they reached a shady street of lawns and London plane trees. Marian pulled up by a looming wood-shingle house: 2928 Forest Avenue. She’d told them the house was large and grand, and now she wondered how it would measure up.

  The children scrambled from the car.

  “The house has much more room,” she commented, following them.

  Curt had been edgy for days. Now he seemed unhappy. “We had enough room in Washington.”

  “Oh honey, there’s a den and a sunporch and—”

  “How about the yard?”

  The yard would be good only for a flower garden. “We’ll come with your father and see the neighborhood,” she reassured them.

  “Who gets the sunporch?” Alice demanded.

  “No one. But maybe you can have the nearby room. Unless your brother—”

  “She can have it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Dad asked us already—I want the room over the yard.”

  “As long as you’re agreed.” She was glad Tom had taken care of something.

  Then they drove up a road leading through the hill neighborhoods overlooking the bay. Though she’d never been there before, she’d heard wonders; but the narrow, winding streets and bold upgrades soon unnerved everyone. More than once she encountered a stop sign on the upgrade, as the hood of the car launched toward the roofs and clouds. Marian could see her daughter’s nervous face as she ground the gears loudly for fear of flying backwards down the hill. And she wondered how the children regarded the elegant yards and fantasy homes; already she wanted one herself.

  The peak held new and awesome challenges: canyons plunging from the road, so that they seemed to be traveling through the heavens, but for the blaring horns sounded by more rushed and daring drivers. On her left, a vacuum; on her right, rock and sand and clumps of grass, whirling round as they passed. For a moment she glimpsed a promontory and Florentine villa, seemingly perched on the bay, when suddenly a grove of unfamiliar trees rushed swaying toward her along the road.

  “Oh my,” she gasped.

  The children were speechless.

  As they descended, Marian chose less winding streets, hoping to bypass the plunging grades and curves, though soon the road swooped down, down, like a fairground ride, tumbling so far and fast that she feared burning the brakes and barreling through the red glare racing up from the crossroad. The car jammed through the red light over more level roadway and slowed, sending up smoke and a foul stench of burning rubber. As the car recovered unhappily by the curb, Marian and the children regarded the stone walls and sloping gardens of the neighborhood. Near the car rose towering walls of herringbone stone and ivy, topped by a lawn of fern and then camellia, reveling in aggressive glory, bursting with red blossoms. They had never seen such opulence. Marian was unsure where they were.

  That evening they regaled Tom, making an amusing story of the ordeal, but he would have none of it.

  “Planning to go again, are you?” he demanded, as though they’d been naughty.

  Tom had heavy hands and shoulders, a broad forehead and chin. As a boy he’d been almost redheaded, though no longer, and he was closely cropped. He had pale eyes, the color of a stormy sea surrounding a cavern or keyhole, through which he observed the world. Marian often wondered what he saw, for he would so rarely say.

  “Why, Tom, I was only showing the children the house. And then, of course they wanted to see some other things.”

  Tom regarded the children, saying nothing.

  Every evening, Tom was immersed in learning the San Francisco job, where he was the head lawyer managing local school and civil-rights compliance for a regional federal office. He’d begun dropping the names of new colleagues and the acronyms of federal programs, as though Marian had always known them. Marian found herself wondering if something was happening that he’d rather conceal, though of course there was nothing, only Tom’s ways.

  Tom

  COMING WEST, HE’D seen many of the big things he’d wanted to see. The impressive part had begun in Santa Fe, when he’d consulted the map as Marian drooped on a bench in the old Spanish square. They’d been following Route 66—Tom had heard the song as a boy and imagined traveling west in his f
ather’s Ford—but a road was a road was a road. Santa Fe was Marian’s call; he’d assumed she would be gushing over the adobe houses and shops peddling turquoise jewelry made by Navajos, but as soon as they got there, she made for a bench in the shade, saying she was feeling queasy. They’d just come through a gaudy canyon road—the land was huge and lonely and ungoverned, just what a man was looking for—and there she was, complaining on the shady bench in Santa Fe, when he read the name Los Alamos, another hour up the canyon. When he showed her the map, one thumb pressed under the name, she blanched. But he had resolve; he would see the place where Peach Street became Oppenheimer Drive. He would go there, the family be damned.

  There had been other places he’d always wanted to see: the Mississippi River, the Grand Canyon, Las Vegas. Now he could say he’d seen them all. But he’d rambled and delayed; they’d barely reached Berkeley and found a reasonable room—a room Marian would regard as passable—soon enough for him to show up for the new job, Day One.

  Now the journey was over and a job was looming. He would finally be in command; and how would that go? That was the everlasting conundrum, dogging him for as long as he could remember. In the race he was running, there was no gun lap, no end—just a growing burden of things undone. On the other hand, the new role would be higher profile and more hands-on. In Washington he’d become a cog, codifying ever-changing policy demands, concerned mostly with fending off legal challenges before they could happen. Here the game, though fundamentally the same, would be played more from the implementation angle. The problems—school desegregation, welfare programs—were big and bureaucratic, but they had far-flung impact, and they were headline-grabbing.

  On the morning of Day One, fog was on the bay. Tom suppressed any looming concerns and reveled in the breeze coming through the car window; in any case, there would be no more suffering through the Washington summers. The fog grew dense as he was approaching the Bay Bridge. Beyond the surrounding cars everything faded, vague and gray, so that the Chevy soared as though launched from a cannon. As he passed Yerba Buena Island and was descending the span, the fog cleared and the Chevy emerged under a cool fresh sun. Ahead lay San Francisco, rising from remnants of fog. There came a lurching in his spine as he imagined the days to come. He would forgo lunch and wander.