by Sarah Relyea
Tom found a garage by the Federal Building. He would be seeing the Regional Commissioner, Fred Mandelbaum, at 9:30, and as usual he was early. Tom was standing in the lobby, hearing the gal answer a call, when he found himself commandeered by a woman who was proposing to show him the floor.
“Good morning, Tom. Ginger Nyman.”
“Good morning.”
Tom supposed she’d been assigned to him. He would remember her eyes; there was something daring in them.
“How was your flight?”
“We came by car. We saw the Grand Canyon,” he announced.
The woman’s eyes sparkled as she surveyed Tom’s drab government gray. “I hope the real thing measures up.”
“And Los Alamos.”
“Oh really.” Her glance paused on the heavy hands and shoulders. “Come along, and I can show you around.”
She was leading him through the lobby, showing her pumps and graceful legs, as the door swung open and Fred Mandelbaum appeared. In Washington, Tom had passed a couple of hours conveying a sense of urgency and command to Fred regarding the agency’s role. Mandelbaum had impressed him as one of the new breed, informal and ready to get things done. Now on home turf the impression was confirmed; the man’s flapping lapels and blooming tan made him appear incongruously youthful as, calm and collegial, he held forth a palm. Tom grasped the hand and pumped.
The woman was no longer there. Tom learned from Fred that she was a colleague on the floor, a young lawyer.
Tom was soon assigning work for the agency’s legal staff. Ginger Nyman, along with Jim Kaczmarek, who was an old-timer in the department, and a lawyer and former caseworker named Claire Forsini, had been managing the agency’s response to the report from Washington on the Hunters Point riot, September 1966, during the final weeks of Ronald Reagan’s successful campaign for governor. The presidential commission blamed the unrest on high unemployment among the largely black population of Hunters Point, near the naval shipyards. Tom was annoyed that Jim—a hangover from the Eisenhower days—was heading the group. They had several working lunches in an Italian restaurant near the Civic Center. Along with the lasagna and salad, Tom had the house red, while Jim gulped a Martini. Ginger preferred lemonade, in a tall cool glass, and Claire ordered espresso.
Though Jim was disarmingly folksy, he soon dropped the easygoing manner and began probing Tom for agency rumors from Washington. Tom responded with admiring comments on the mountains surrounding Los Alamos.
Jim leaned back. “Go south from Denver some day. Now that’s some country.”
Claire narrowed her eyes. “You took your family there? With all the contamination?”
“I thought they should see the place,” Tom responded blandly.
“I see you have an adventurous temper,” Ginger concluded, ignoring Claire.
Tom was pleased to see a woman vying for him. Marian was always remarking on what a regular sleeper he was or how much self-control he had, as though she found him dull—but then, she could sleep all morning. No wonder, when she’d stayed up for hours sipping wine and reading novels. Then when he found a spare hour for something he enjoyed, such as playing ball or poker or working on the Chevy, she’d remind him that he was a Harvard man. Now in the new office, he was in charge and in demand. And he was away from some of the pressure; Congress and the commissioner were dampened rumors, something to jaw about over lunch.
Ginger had been in San Francisco only a year, but Tom could see she was already an old hand. She drove a royal red Mustang, and on Mondays she dropped remarks about her days exploring Marin County, north along the coast. Tom had no comparable amusements, for he had a job to learn and a family to appease, holed up and unhappy in a Berkeley motel.
Soon she found fun in spurring him on.
“Tom,” she encouraged one day, as though prodding a straggling horse, “what about Lombard Street, Fisherman’s Wharf? Have you been there?”
“No chance so far.”
“Gosh, that’s a shame.” She paused over Tom’s lapse, considering something. “By the way,” she added slowly, “you’d enjoy the redwoods—hundreds of years old, taller than the Washington Monument. Your family’s been on the road; go up north and see some.”
“How far north?” Tom inquired.
“Far, I suppose—up by Oregon,” she responded. “But there’s always Muir Woods—you could be there in an hour.”
Tom’s imagination made a sudden curve. He’d never cared much for roaming before the journey west, but now he wondered how the redwoods would be with Ginger. Maybe the job would send them somewhere—Sacramento or even Washington. Then he could show her around, the way he was supposed to do.
ONE MONDAY MORNING, Ginger proposed having lunch at Fisherman’s Wharf. So far Tom had gone nowhere, only the Berkeley campus with the family.
“Planning to join the hippies?” she teased.
“Would they have me?”
“You could always apply.”
They had the rendezvous in the lobby, and no sooner had they emerged from the Federal Building than he was following her through the door of a cab. For all the years in Washington, he’d rarely used a cab. They found an outdoor table by the wharf. He should have the fish and chips and sourdough bread, she smiled, hardly bothering with the menu. A young man in navy seaman clothes rushed up, with much fanfare, and took the order.
Ginger wore pumps and a ribboned blouse beneath a tapered, pale-rose jacket. Tan and blooming, she had a long nose and fun but measuring eyes, and she was younger than Tom by several years; younger also than Marian.
She was telling him about herself. Tom learned that she was a farm girl from Michigan who loved horses. She’d found a horse ranch in Marin, north along the coast near a place called Bolinas, and on play days she drove there, over Mount Tamalpais. So far she’d been savoring her freedom, living month to month really, but she was used to riding and now she’d resolved to save enough money for a horse. The woman who ran the ranch would board a horse for less than Tom was paying for the garage downtown.
“I’ve been using the bus,” Tom confessed.
She paused, as though making a plan; in her hand was some sourdough bread. “Well then, you’d have money for a horse.”
He’d hardly ever seen a horse, but he’d be a damn fool for saying so.
“I’m also from Michigan,” he remarked, just so she’d know they had something in common.
“Are you?” She glanced at him fully, taking in the heavy hands and shoulders. “You’re no farm boy, though.”
“Oh no, Dearborn.”
She held her glance. “Never seen a real horse up close.”
“Well—”
“You can always learn.” She paused, tearing a corner of bread, dabbing casually but elegantly with the butter, as if she’d made it herself. “I suppose you went to Ann Arbor, then. Have much fun there?”
“I’m from Harvard.”
“Oh my, Mr. Ford’s grandson,” she returned, right on cue.
Tom blushed and deadpanned, “You mean nephew.”
She laughed approvingly, as the young man in navy clothes appeared, bearing plates of fish and chips. Tom was enjoying her company, but there was no cause for alarm, he supposed: she knew he had a family. She wanted to know all about the children. “They’ll love California,” she was saying. “They can play baseball all year round.” Then she added, “You should show them the ranch, get them comfortable on a horse.”
“Once we’re in the house,” he told her.
“They say the young ones never fall off.” And her eyes sparkled with humor.
She laughed about her year in San Francisco and wanted to know why he’d made the move. He spoke vaguely of the land, the energy, the causes—how they’d been impressed by the Free Speech Movement back East. Then there was Washington, the sweltering summers and endless government gossip—he’d wanted a change. She spoke of her three years flying around the world for Continental Airlines, before she entered law sch
ool.
“Why, Tom,” she teased, “are you one of those Michigan boys who’s never been away from home?”
“Abroad, you mean?” he inquired. “Why, I’ve been to Canada.”
“Oh, that hardly counts,” she laughed. “I know, Tom, you saw Sault Sainte Marie.”
He’d seen the falls and canal works, and he’d seen the St. Lawrence, too.
Ginger plunged on. “When I was flying, I traveled all over Europe. In Rome, three of us slept on the steps of St. Peter’s. And then there was the Paris flight. You’d love traveling, Tom.”
“I have a family,” he reminded her. He wondered whether she could see him blushing.
“The kids can go along,” she smiled.
After lunch, they headed up the hill through North Beach. Tom found the weather pleasantly cool for June. That was a good thing, for she turned up a daunting slope and then another. As she led the way he could see her shape. Now and then they paused and turned to gaze over the bay.
Soon they were passing below Telegraph Hill. Tom peered up at the tower rising from the top and then glanced away.
“Any longer and you’ll be playing hooky,” Ginger teased.
On the way to the Federal Building, she had the cab go down Lombard Street. Tom nearly laughed as the road unwound below them like a toboggan run looping down an Olympic slope. He had never seen such turns, such folds, such maneuvering as the cab lurched along, paving stones rumbling below. The driver was humming to impress them with his casual command. Tom glanced at Ginger, smiling shyly, wondering how he would have handled things, had he been manning the car. She leaned in as the car pulled around a final curve. He glanced up at a looming house and walled garden. In June, everything was in bloom. Beyond the rooftops rose another hill and then another.
As the cab returned to earth, Ginger told him about a horse show. It would be at the Cow Palace from Friday through Sunday.
IN THE EVENINGS, Tom returned to the motel. The family was bored, but he had a job to learn. He told Marian he would use the bedroom in the evening, and the three of them could read in the other room. When she complained, he reassured her that they would be moving soon. In the bedroom alone, he pondered the California shoreline. Ginger had told him of bluffs and sand and redwood canyons, saying they reminded her of Italy. Tom had never been to Italy. He had seen some museum paintings in Washington, with Marian, but they were old and implausible and far from the real thing, he supposed. For now the Bay Bridge was exotic enough—in the morning, as he drove in and could see the hills and towers of San Francisco, or on the way home under the evening color, coming on around the bay. San Francisco would be a good place for him, a place he could share with Ginger. Tom had been a good boy long enough.
On the job, Ginger had begun teasing him about the close-cropped hair. He’d always worn an army crew cut during the Washington summers, and so far he’d found no reason to change.
“You should grow it out, Tom,” she said, laughing, “or they’ll think you’re a drill sergeant. You don’t want it as long as the hippies—just long enough to spare you a sunburn up there, if you ever go riding.”
“All in good time,” Tom said.
Curt
Feeling edgy and keyed up, Curt imagined the inspiring scene: an incoming fast ball, a swing and a crack! followed by the soaring arc of the ball before it dropped, clearing the center-field fence. As usual, the game’s hero was Frank Howard, one of the great sluggers. Even though the Senators were the American League dogs so far, Howard was having an awesome year, slamming ten homers in a single week in May. Before leaving Washington, Curt had been following Howard’s season with buoyant interest, despite the team’s dismal performance. Then for several weeks, he’d been feeling gloomy and lonely as Howard faded. Now, coming off a July slump with a single and a homer, the slugger was warming up the underdog cause again. The game had been close half an hour ago, but what was happening now? Curt was thousands of miles away, relying on a local announcer’s offhand summary of the game. Along with everything else they’d dropped on him by moving away, the loss of Frank Howard was hard to endure.
Curt was feeling restless, though there was no sense in complaining. His mom was already in an excitable mood.
“That seemed a rather long month,” she was saying as the family came along College Avenue in the Chevy, heading for the new house on Forest Avenue. The moving van would be there. They would have a home now; he would no longer feel he was always in someone’s way.
“Really long,” Curt agreed, sensing a chance to vent, “and really cramped.” He’d had enough, beginning with ten days on the road, as he leafed through sports magazines, feeling numbed by the coming changes. Then the month sharing a motel room, hanging around while his dad was off working in San Francisco and his mom was reading or napping, appearing from the bedroom only long enough to complain about the ballgame he was following on the radio. What was he supposed to do? There was nowhere to go, other than a weedy yard in back of the motel, where there was no space for doing anything much, and some scruffy kids were always running around. He’d managed a few jokes with one of the boys, but as soon as the boy came wandering by the screen door looking for him, his mom would come from the bedroom to see what was going on. That scared the boy off.
Even so, the boy had bragged about playing baseball in a summer league. Searching the phone book, Curt found the league’s number and made the call. Soon he heard from an upbeat-sounding coach who was in need of more players for the San Pablo Lumber team—so Curt was already warming up with the Lumberjacks, as they were known. They would be needing a third baseman, but he was hoping for something more challenging. He could see they were an underdog team, same as the Senators.
“Oh honey,” came his mom’s soothing response. “Here’s our new house.”
Edgy energy overwhelmed him as the Chevy slowed by the large wood-shingle house. The moving van lay open; the Raysons’ belongings could be seen along the curb. Somewhere among them was the jersey with Frank Howard’s number, 9. And somewhere was the bicycle he’d be riding to Lumberjack games.
In the Washington neighborhood, everything he needed had been nearby. Playing fields and Rock Creek Park and always enough boys for a game. A shopping center where he would buy Superman comic books and baseball cards, chewing the bubble gum on the way home before she could say, “No gum.” And there was Joshua’s house, where they would hang out eating corned-beef sandwiches and chips and boning up on the baseball stats. Why had the family gone and dumped such a good place?
Glancing up, Curt saw a shaggy young man emerge from the van, wheeling a familiar bicycle—his old 3-speed. Observing the mover’s clothes and snarly curls—right out of The Three Stooges show, including the overalls—Curt was suddenly glowing; following weeks of mopey suspense, he was no longer restless but engrossed in the day.
Propping Curt’s 3-speed by the curb, the shaggy man came up. “What’s happening on Telegraph Avenue?” he demanded.
“Telegraph?” His dad’s muscular arm leaned from the Chevy.
“Yeah, you passed by the campus, right? Are the cops still there?”
“The cops?”
“Tom—,” came a warning.
“We’re greenhorns,” he announced, cheery and deadpan, “fresh from Washington.”
The man laughed dryly.
“Tom, no fooling.” His mom sounded alarmed. “There’s something wrong.”
The shaggy man nodded. “They’re suppressing our Bastille Day by sending the cops. Our government’s waging war on us, same as the French and goddamn de Gaulle. But the people have had enough.”
There was no response.
“They’re gassing flower people,” the man fumed, as though the Raysons should be outraged.
Curt’s dad merely opened the Chevy door, casting a cool, meaningful glance over the household belongings. “We have some work ahead of us.”
“So we do,” the man conceded, as they headed for the house.
&nbs
p; Curt had already seen the area around Telegraph, overflowing with people and only blocks from the house. And back in Washington, on the evening news, he’d seen mobs rampaging and the cops gassing them. Those Washington mobs, defying the government’s overwhelming power, had been fascinating and scary. But flower people fighting the cops sounded goofy, as improbable as a Rose Bowl parade.
Two more men emerged from the van, carrying the couch from the Raysons’ den. Curt’s dad came from the house, and the family gathered for a moment by the Chevy. The house had dark shingles, a gabled roof, navy-blue woodwork. The day was sunny, and it was cool for July. Curt dangled his baseball glove from one arm, glancing around the yard. A palm tree swayed over one corner of the house. He’d seen the house before—how had he overlooked something as crazy as a palm tree?
“Let’s go in,” his mom said, smiling.
Tossing his glove in the Chevy, Curt ran ahead, barely pausing on the porch. The wooden door was impressively heavy, with ironwork suggesting a fortress or even a dungeon; as he entered, the overwhelming impression was of wood and more wood, cool and shadowy—a musty forest.
“Let’s get some windows open,” his dad said, taking command.
As Curt sprang to comply, he saw Alice in the doorway. She glanced around the living room before heading for the second-floor bedrooms. Curt struggled for a moment with a jammed window, feeling growing frustration.
“Can I go and see my room?” he demanded, barely pausing for a response. He’d chosen a room he’d never seen, and what if he’d chosen wrong? Alice would never change her mind once she was in possession; she would seal the deal before he could challenge her.