Playground Zero

by Sarah Relyea

  The professor was gone, replaced by a girl—too young for college, Marian judged—who draped her legs in a young man’s lap. She was uncombed; he was unshaven; they had no shoes. The girl giggled as the young man massaged her foot.

  Marian was grown up and grounded and would bypass much of the youth movement, though she wondered where she would have ended up, if college girls in her day had been more daring, less focused on manners and men. Though embarrassed by some of the bodily candor, she was eager to engage herself in a new world where young people had political commitments and personal styles and live-in lovers before marriage, where they turned on and made things—woven rugs, macramé, clay pots glazed and fired in a basement kiln. She’d never made rugs or pots, though of course she sewed; her own mother, immersed in housework, had made manual labor seem so unappealing. Maybe Marian had been wrong; maybe these things could be enjoyed. She and Alice would use a potter’s wheel together. With her mother’s encouragement, Alice would openly enjoy the mess, would learn the new rhythms and dance freely, spared the formal moves of the days before rock ’n’ roll. As long as her young daughter was there, no one would censure the mother for coming along. Alice could become a folkie, strumming a guitar; they would work on that.

  Marian opened the Berkeley Barb. Paging through, she ran across a blurb for the Folk Singer’s Circle. Maybe Tom could be persuaded to give it a go. On the same page was a column on Black Panther Huey Newton, charged in the murder of an Oakland cop. Scanning the column, she learned that the trial had already opened—on July 15, hard on the heels of Bastille Day. Then as she paused, wondering who she would know in the coming years, she saw a reference to the Peace and Freedom Party and remembered having heard of them from her Washington neighbor. Tom would come with her, she was sure.

  Alice

  THERE WAS A school playground on the corner. She was enjoying having a playground nearby for the summer—so far a long and lonely summer. She could say she was going to the school and then wander freely, as they had in the old neighborhood, where they’d known everyone. Then there would be less concern from her mother. For her mother, school was the place to go, even in summer when no one was there, only some younger boys.

  If only she had been happy in the house reading, there would have been no problems. Her mother approved of reading. Other things could be iffy.

  The neighborhood was lush and blooming; there was something alluring in the yards they passed, reminding her of the land of Oz—when the changeover from Kansas came, and the scene glowed in Technicolor.

  The school on the corner was only for the younger grades, K through three, so she would be going somewhere else—Lincoln School on Ashby Avenue. Lincoln was far enough away that she would be going by bus. Her mother had promised they’d see the place before school began, but her mother was moody these days and so far there’d been no chance. So for the remaining weeks of the summer, there was the nearby playground, just down the block. Lincoln was far, even by bicycle.

  In Washington, she’d gone off alone every morning, reveling in the few blocks of freedom. She could join a group or go alone. She could run, as the crossing guards flagged her on.

  On the other hand, she’d hardly ever been on a bus—only a few times in Washington, with her mother and Curt. The school bus would be completely new. Because Lincoln and the bus were unfamiliar, she found a sense of freedom in imagining them. They were grown-up things. She would do as her father had done every morning for as long as anyone could remember; she would have a personal place away from the family. She’d been alone in a swimming pool in Las Vegas; now every evening before sleep she imagined the palm trees and the statue, the brass room key. Along with these images, a new world was forming; it hung low in the sky, a moon she’d never seen before.

  Alice and Curt were heading for the playground. On summer mornings in the old neighborhood, they’d gone to the schoolyard together. There on the grass fields dampened by morning dew, a group of boys would be playing baseball. The boys were always there; like the weekly TV shows, the game would never end. For a season she’d had a place in the game as long as her brother was there. He was large and commanding—a leader. And so, because she had a boy’s swing and could run, she could join in the game. From the outfield, where nothing much happened and no damage could be done, she could safely observe the boys, free from teasing and the struggle for belonging. Whenever a fly ball came her way, her brother would run up, waving her off; he would never have her losing the game for the boys. Now and then, demanding her chance, she’d caught a high fly, feeling a rush of glory as the ball dropped hard from the sky, nearly taking off her glove.

  They reached the playground, where some boys were hanging around the jungle gym. Curt glanced around. He was dangling a baseball glove in one hand, a ball in the other.

  “I’m going by my school,” he announced. He’d already passed over the boys by the jungle gym, who seemed Alice’s age or younger. “You can come, or—”

  “Who’s going to be there?” She eyed the faded jersey he always wore—Frank Howard’s number, 9. Curt was becoming leaner and more muscular.

  “Some guys from my team.”

  “Do you have a game?”

  “No,” he responded, glancing away. “The guys go anyway.”

  The junior high was a few blocks away, off Telegraph. Curt was there every day, playing baseball or hanging around. He had a group.

  “Maybe you can find some girls here,” he suggested, surveying the schoolyard through the fence, “though it hardly looks promising.”

  The problem was real enough—she should have her own group, but how?

  “Or you could go by your school,” he proposed.

  “That’s far.”

  “You have your bike.”

  “Mom says—”

  He gave her a long glance. “She say when she’s taking you?”

  “No.”

  “So, go on your own,” he said, shrugging.

  “Mom says no.”

  “Mom always says no,” he said sharply. He was daring her—she could join in and keep him from turning on her.

  Maybe things could be easy. Contemplating breaking her mother’s rules, she made no response.

  A boy rounded the corner of the playground, gliding along on a skateboard.

  Curt followed the boy’s progress. “Mr. Henderson’s moving me up,” he bragged as they watched the boy push off, looping a figure 8. “If I go on playing well, I can be on a good team next year.”

  “What’s wrong with the team you’re on now?” she asked.

  He glanced over her frayed collar, as if confirming something. As usual, she was wearing old stuff he’d outgrown. “Maybe you can play for them.”

  “They take girls?”

  He laughed. “You’re so dumb.”

  They were coming along the playground fence when the boy rolled up, fingers grasping the aluminum mesh, leaning, grinning, eyeing them through the links.

  “That’s your girlfriend?” he demanded of Curt. His black hair was tousled and curly, and his jeans were fraying.

  “Who?”

  The boy glanced her way.

  “No, she’s only my sister. Why?”

  “Thought so.” The boy swayed back and forth, fingers enmeshed in the fence. “She looks like you,” he added, then deadpanned, “That could be good or bad.”

  “No good for her.”

  Alice moved off, wondering what was brewing. Some boys would let her tag along, while others refused. The clues were often confusing. The boy followed, gliding by the fence long enough to make her pause. Then he rolled back toward Curt.

  “Where’s your skateboard?” he pursued.

  “At home.”

  Her brother was covering; skateboards were a California thing. She could have informed the boy; and so she was impressed by the way her brother coolly ignored her as he shrugged, idly tossing the ball—he was so sure of her. He was larger than many boys his age; he eyed the other boy, smal
ler than himself though probably in the same grade.

  “You play baseball?” he inquired, tossing up the ball, barely moving as it dropped in his glove.

  “Sure.” The boy was enjoying the show. “Hey, I’m Sammy.”

  “Curt. Wanna play?”

  Sammy glanced over the playground. “Here?” He was small and wiry and would never have enough power for baseball. Alice wondered if he’d rather do something else.

  “No, the junior high. Willard.”

  “They’re all playing summer league—”

  “There’s no game today. We’re just having fun.”

  Sammy glanced around. “I’m going to Telegraph. I have other things to do.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. Say, are you new here?”

  “We came in June.”

  “From where?”

  “Washington.”

  “You mean Seattle?”

  “No, Washington.” Curt paused. “Frank Howard, LBJ.”

  Sammy pondered for a moment. “And what does everyone do there?”

  “Same as here, I imagine.”

  “Funny guy.” Sammy scuffed at the ground, smiling, then nodded toward Alice. “And what’s her name?”

  “Oh man, I forget.”

  Sammy pondered. “Pollyanna,” he proposed.

  “No.”

  “Cassandra.”

  “That’s funny.”

  “Medusa.”

  Her brother guffawed. “How’d you guess?”

  Sammy scooped up the skateboard. “Hey, Pollyanna, you coming with us?”

  “Where?”

  “Telegraph. We can see some bongs.”

  Her brother shrugged, as if bongs were vaguely boring. “Sounds okay.”

  Sammy surveyed him. “Ever used one?”

  “Sure.”

  “In Washington? With LBJ?”

  “Oh, man. You’re funny.” Curt was gazing impassively, ready for more information, but Sammy just headed for the playground gate, waving them along.

  The boys ran ahead, Sammy’s head bobbing by her brother’s shoulder. Alice followed, enjoying the chance for a boys’ adventure. After a few blocks, Sammy veered uphill, away from Telegraph. She ran after them, and as she caught up, he bragged, “I can show you a tree house.”

  “Where?”

  Sammy waved vaguely toward the looming hill. “Up there, in someone’s yard.”

  The lane wound one way and then another, ascending among older homes. The boys ran ahead; now and then Sammy turned, waving her on. There seemed to be no one around, only the homes, jutting from the looming hillside above the road or crouching below. Fantasy worlds, they had archways, redwood beams, tile roofs, dangerously steep driveways; leaded panes looked out on landscaped gardens of rose and tiger lily, palm and redwood and eucalyptus, vying for sunlight in the shady groves. Though no one could be seen, Sammy was creeping along as though he feared someone would hear.

  They rounded a bend on the zigzag road. Four huge trees rose from a square of garden, overhanging the houses.

  “Redwoods,” Sammy said, with a touch of proprietary pride.

  She gazed skyward.

  “And up there—” He moved on, gesturing toward the gray-green trunks, the trees’ lower branches swaying in loose, dangling fronds. “Those are eucalyptus.”

  As they leaned gazing, Sammy waved them along and headed up a footpath camouflaged among some houses. The path jogged and opened on an overwhelming flight of wooden steps. Panting, she followed the boys up the shady path.

  The world of cars and level roads was falling away. Houses rose close by, looming above her shoulder and overlooking the steps. Though the houses were enclosed by fences and shaded by trees, here and there a room could be glimpsed, beckoning her through a window. She leaned peering through the window of a large shingle house surrounded by an iron fence, and found a cozy, wood-paneled bedroom. A wrought-iron gate opening on the footpath was the house’s only entrance.

  She paused, gazing up the steps. Just above where the boys were, a dog appeared and then a woman. The long-legged dog—lean, like a greyhound—had no leash and was bounding along. Graceful, purposeful, he glided weightlessly by. The woman was young and blonde and wore jeans. She jogged by unconcerned, her gaze focused in the descending sweep of branches, casually following her dog’s free wandering. The day was balmy; the swaying branches soon enclosed the woman in gray-green foliage.

  They could hear the dog barking for her. Echoing up the steps, the barking sounded eager and oddly close.

  “Come on,” Sammy urged, rounding a corner by another path. “There’s the tree house, over there. Hurry up,” he added, “before she sends the dog.”

  They had come to an overlook leading along the slope. Just below them lay backyards, and then the awesome world beyond. Alice and Curt paused, gaping on campus and bay, as Sammy approached a yard enclosed by a redwood fence. Beyond the fence, reposing in the branches of an old oak, was a boy’s very own one-room house: shingled roof, redwood walls, bamboo ladder. Unparalleled.

  “So cool,” Sammy said, sighing enviously.

  “Uh-huh.” Curt’s glove was hanging loosely from his wrist. “Who’s the lucky dog?”

  “Boy from my school. They call him Tree Frog.”

  The boys guffawed.

  “Hey,” Sammy said, grinning, “who’s going over the fence?”

  The fence was high. She could imagine them going over and leaving her on the overlook, where the dog could come for her.

  Curt was pondering. “She can go first,” he suggested, cheerfully.

  Sammy came up. “Hey, Pollyanna—”

  “I’m not Pollyanna.”

  “You wanna go?”

  “C’mon,” Curt murmured, “leave her alone. She’s scared.”

  “I’m going over,” she said, steeling herself.

  “Good. Lemme help you.” Sammy crouched by the fence, fingers enlaced. The fence rose high overhead, but she would go over. Once she’d proven she could, Sammy would accept her.

  In a moment of struggle, she clambered up and perched on the fence, searching for a way down into the yard. Grasping a ledge, she lowered herself slowly and jumped to the ground.

  A sudden thumping sounded along the fence, followed by whooping. Her pulse jumped; the boys were fleeing around the corner and away, leaving her alone. Feeling mad and scared, she glanced around the garden where she found herself, wondering why she’d come. Of course: as in Las Vegas, she’d been fooled. Then she remembered the palm trees and the pool, the brass room key. There was no problem—there would always be a way home.

  The bamboo ladder swayed as she grappled up the rungs. Scrambling through an opening in the floor, she was in a boy’s playroom. In one corner was a globe of the moon; a telescope hung overhead. There were maps of the sky.

  She was idly spinning the globe when there came the sound of someone in the yard below, singing to himself. Through the opening in the floor, she saw a gangly redheaded boy heading for the oak tree. He ran up, grasping the ladder, and she moved back—it was a shame to be found out so soon.

  The boy emerged ruddy-faced through the opening in the floor. Peering around, he caught sight of her crouching by the globe.

  “Who are you?” he said, glaring.

  “I’m Alice.”

  “How’d you get here?”

  “Sammy—”

  “Sammy?” the boy scowled.

  “He brought us here.”

  “Brought who?”

  “Me and my brother.”

  The boy looked around. “And where’s your brother?”

  “They ran off.”

  The boy was pondering. “You tell Sammy—,” he began, then paused. “Here’s what. You can stay if you’ll tell Sammy about the dog.”

  “What dog—the greyhound?”

  The boy’s eyes shone, as though he’d just remembered something. “No, the one in my yard.”

  “And what should I say?”


  “He has huge teeth. He chased you up the ladder and nearly caught you.” The boy’s clear blue eyes were laughing as he surveyed her, though she could see no malevolence in them. He reached for a shelf and grasped a pack of playing cards.

  “What can you play?” he asked.

  “Hearts, gin rummy, war.”

  The boy brooded. “Gin rummy,” he concluded, and began dealing cards.

  THE SUN WAS high over San Francisco as Alice came running down the steps, heading home. Reaching the level road, she glanced right, remembering the route Sammy had shown them. Then she ran on through the leafy shade.

  Throbbing sounds were coming through the door of her house. She pressed the handle and the door swung open on the foyer and red thrones; her mother’s bag and a newspaper lay on one of them. Beyond the foyer, the living room was pulsing in bass and drums; she’d first heard the song, “Somebody to Love,” in the playroom in Washington. In any case, there’d been no reason for running. Her mother would be in a good mood—she’d been on a spree.

  Her mother’s head was bobbing in the phonograph’s blaring sound. Pausing as Alice appeared, she blushed as though she’d been found enjoying some embarrassing pleasure and was searching for a justification. Then as Alice came closer, she handed over the album cover with a conspiratorial smile and resumed her role.

  “Where’s your brother?”

  “Playing baseball.” There was no sense in worrying her mother.

  “At Willard?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Oh. I passed the playground on our corner. Were you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Somehow I missed you.”

  “I guess I was looking around the neighborhood.”

  Her mother paused, surveying her face for signs of something. The mood was new, as if her mother had been hoping for whisperings of change, an epiphany.