by Sarah Relyea
“The campaign, Shel,” Dan urged.
Shel nodded. “As you know, Peace and Freedom will be campaigning for Eldridge Cleaver. Some in Peace and Freedom urged us to endorse Benjamin Spock, the baby doctor. But Cleaver’s now free on parole, and he’s already begun campaigning on the Black Panther program, with its demands for full employment and armed self-defense of black communities. By supporting Cleaver’s independent campaign, we can strengthen Peace and Freedom and advance the Panther platform.”
A shaggy older man called out, “I’m for Dr. Spock! Anyone who can govern America’s babies can govern America!”
Marian laughed, wondering what office they were campaigning for.
Dan was pounding the floor. “We need a real leader—someone who knows the score!”
Shel resumed. “Some people are refusing to support Cleaver, saying he’s a paroled felon and only thirty-three years old, below the minimum age for office. But Cleaver and the Panther program are drawing people into the Movement. We’re already managing Huey’s campaign for Congress; we’re campaigning for Kathleen Cleaver, who’s challenging State Assemblyman Willie Brown.”
Sabrina leaned over and murmured, “Kathleen—Eldridge’s wife, from a Quaker school near Philadelphia and then Barnard College.”
“Willie Brown’s just another black politician,” Dan called out. “The Panthers can pressure him from the Left.”
“That’s right. And now Peace and Freedom is supporting the only meaningful movement in this country by running Eldridge Cleaver for President!”
There was loud applause.
Marian felt a jolt—she hadn’t grasped what they were endorsing. But was Cleaver—ineligible on many grounds—really running for President? If so, they were gearing up for a purely symbolic campaign. She gazed around the room, wondering if her new group would really embrace a hopeless cause. Voting was a fundamental right; she’d never squandered her chance.
A motherly woman announced, “I could campaign for Catiline, the rebel who nearly burned Rome—that’s how mad I am!”
As the cheers resounded, someone produced a baggie full of marijuana and some rolling papers.
Marian demurred, feeling she’d gone far enough for one evening. She bid Sabrina a warm but hasty goodbye and headed for the door, forgetting her bread plate.
THE FOLLOWING WEEK, as Marian was working in the Peace and Freedom office, she found the ruggedly handsome man named Dan Dupres already using her bread plate for an ash tray. Hoping for a chance to see Sabrina, she’d volunteered for a few hours among the smoke and mimeograph fumes, making phone calls, typing correspondence, and proofreading the Party newsletter. Unfortunately, Sabrina was there only in passing; though as she was leaving, she suggested meeting for coffee. Things were suddenly progressing.
As for the young Peace and Freedom people, they were amusing enough; but then, hearing from one of her Party colleagues some implausible phrase—“arming for the struggle,” “freedom from the white mother country”—she wondered why she was there, among the comings and goings of the young.
Dan was on the phone, rehearsing the Panther program. As he spoke on, Marian heard a new demand and began to feel more misgivings about campaigning for such a program.
“The Panthers are demanding land and bread,” Dan boomed, as though speaking from a balcony to a gathered crowd below. “They’re demanding land, bread, housing, justice, education, and peace,” he intoned, waving a cigarette. “Self-determination, Mr. Newsman, self-determination. That’s all they’re asking for. And here’s one final demand—a UN-sponsored referendum to be held throughout the black colony to determine the will of black people regarding their national destiny.”
Dan paused and fingered the pocket of his purple vest, embroidered with cannabis leaves. Frowning, he hung the cigarette from his mouth and dug a lighter from the vest pocket. The long chin moved back and forth, reminding Marian of a horse caught with a mouthful of hay.
“I dare you, Mr. Newsman!” he laughed and hung up.
Marian moved in on her bread plate. “Oh, there!” she sang, sounding sharper than she’d meant.
Dan glanced around uncomprehendingly. “Are you manning the grape table today?” he demanded, as though addressing a tardy employee.
“Who, me?”
“Someone signed up for Sproul Plaza,” he said, frowning, “but they’ve gone AWOL. There’s a grape strike—”
“Yes, I know.” She’d just proofread a long essay on Cesar Chavez.
“Then maybe you can help out at Sproul. Here, you’ll want some ‘Free Huey’ leaflets, too.”
He seemed no longer aware of her presence as she headed for the door, wondering if the children were home from school and how long she could be away from the house. Was it her imagination, or were they sullen when she’d been out doing things?
She rounded the corner and found her car. Who was Dan—a college man or someone who’d fled the defense plants? He was very sure of himself. She was unclear, however, if he really knew as much as Shel, who had degrees, who’d reported from abroad and maybe even co-authored some of the Panthers’ essays. And was black America really a colony? What if the colony chose independence? Where would the new country be—Alabama? Oakland?
She found her way to Sproul Plaza, just beyond the border of the campus. There she helped a young woman in jeans, sandals, and dangling earrings gather signatures and hand out leaflets. The young woman was auburn-haired and curvy; her breasts bulged from a cowboy blouse. Marian found her bold and vulgar. The place was busy, even raucous, for a university campus, where everyone was supposedly studying. But no—there they were, sprawled on the steps of the Student Union or gathered around some bongo drummers. The young woman, Wanda, was vaguely familiar; Marian had seen her before, probably at the meeting. Wanda referred to herself, with grim humor, as a “mother-country radical” and pumped Marian for information about Huey’s trial. Marian finally had to acknowledge that she knew only what she’d seen in the papers.
“Oh? I thought your old man was working with Charles Garry,” Wanda said with a frown, referring to Huey’s lawyer.
“Oh no,” Marian smiled, “my husband does practice law, but he’s with the federal government.”
“Bummer.” Wanda furrowed her brow; then her face hardened. “So that’s what he does for bread, huh?”
“Well, yes.” Marian, who had been feeling condescending and motherly, was now chagrined, as if she’d been forced to reveal some awful compromise. She wondered what Wanda—or maybe Wanda’s father—was doing for bread.
Wanda lowered her chin, scanning the plaza, pausing as her eyes came upon a group of unleashed dogs roaming to and fro. “I would kill for a world where you could use the law to make real change, rather than using it to fuck people over.”
Marian concealed her annoyance. “And what are Huey’s lawyers doing?”
“You know what I mean.”
Later, as Marian rushed through her grocery shopping, she resolved to forgo grapes. Though the kids loved them, they could manage a small sacrifice. California was an overflowing orchard of strawberries, plums, pears, oranges, peaches, and avocados. There was more than enough, and anyway, they should be helping the grape workers. Or so she reminded Alice, who refused the plums and pears and pleaded for grapes.
AFTER PEACE AND Freedom meetings, Marian usually found herself talking with Sabrina, whose husband was a professor of anthropology. Michael Patterson had supported the students during the Free Speech Movement, and Sabrina spoke knowledgeably about Bay Area and California politics. They had two daughters—Helen, the older, barefoot one, and Maggie. Sabrina was taking graduate classes in her husband’s department and wanted to know if Marian would be enrolling in any courses. Michael was usually too busy for Peace and Freedom. An authority on Franz Boas and cultural anthropology, he had been trained by Margaret Mead, at Columbia, and George Foster, at Berkeley. Now he was applying for a research grant to spend several months in South America wi
th a colleague who was studying languages found in the Amazon. Michael was interested in the federal government’s poverty programs and questioned Marian closely on Tom’s work.
Marian began reading Boas and Mead, so she would have something to talk to Sabrina and Michael Patterson about. She wanted to get to know Sabrina and Michael, for she assumed they were more compatible than she and Tom and was hoping to learn how it was done. Sabrina was calm and humorous, confidently self-regarding for a mother of daughters, while Michael was comfortable with both himself and Sabrina. There seemed to be none of the subliminal resentments that contaminated her evenings with Tom. Michael was amusing and informative in conversation, rather than sparring, like Tom. At home, Marian began referring to the Pattersons, to gauge Tom’s response. Though he’d met them, he showed no eagerness for more.
When she was alone, Marian found herself wondering about Michael. Would she have been happy with someone like him? It was becoming harder and harder to remember why she’d wanted Tom, why she’d been so eager to marry him. She’d been young, barely twenty-one. Now she was no less appealing than Sabrina, no less intelligent; though anthropology was new for her, it was no more foreign than law. Perhaps she even had some saving graces that a woman of Sabrina’s confidence and self-regard could be assumed to lack. She would be less demanding: had she not remained loyal to Tom? She wondered how easy a man such as Michael would be—in any case, Sabrina seemed sure of him, even when contemplating his prolonged absence in South America. Tom had grown away from Marian as far as conjugal life was concerned; she could never be sure of him. Sometimes she sensed Tom moving closer, but never for long. Now the move west, though very unlooked-for, had opened up a new independence. A grand upheaval was engulfing her world, and during the Peace and Freedom Party meetings Marian found herself watching the young men around her, wondering whom she would choose had she world enough and time.
In truth her leanings had not changed; now she would have a place for exploring them. She was charmed by academic men, and among Sabrina’s group, she was impressed by the whimsy and camaraderie buoyed by a rebel energy.
chapter three
Tom
ONE SATURDAY AFTERNOON, Tom drove the Chevy along Telegraph Avenue. He’d made some adjustments to the place, wearing jeans, a blue workingman’s shirt, sandals. Now there was something he needed, something he had a hankering for. He’d agreed to go riding with Ginger the following Saturday and was searching for an accessory suggestive of horsemanship. Nothing flagrant; nothing the family shouldn’t see. He was planning on using work as a cover, some project demanding weekend hours throughout the fall—the impact of housing discrimination on schools; a federal desegregation case in the Los Angeles area—anything Marian would go for. If she pumped him for information, he could always bluff; he was drowning in the stuff anyway.
Tom passed a shop selling leather goods. The place had appeal: there were bomber jackets, supple and smooth, suede jackets hanging with fringe, sandals and cowboy boots, rodeo chaps. These things were showy; he needed something less flamboyant—a cowboy shirt or gunslinger’s heavy belt and buckle—just for mood.
Leaving the Chevy around the corner, Tom approached the shop, passing a scruffy boy who was demanding spare change.
“Good with horses?” Tom inquired.
“Huh?” The boy was lean, round-eyed, dumbfounded.
“Are you good with horses? Could you be a stable boy?” Tom demanded, deadpan.
“Go away, man.”
Tom eyed the boy for a moment, as if confirming something, and entered the shop. The smell was overpowering: a warm, beefy odor, soured by the sharp reek of tanning and dyeing chemicals, close and musty as a locker room. Feeling engrossed in the workmanship, Tom fingered some rodeo chaps, remembering the movies he’d seen as a boy, then thumbed through a rack of belts. The buckle was the challenge—no trendy peace symbol, just a good Western design. He probed the hanging leather, comparing buckle designs, and chose a prancing brass horse. The leather was broad and deep brown. He was ready.
Climbing back in the Chevy, Tom dropped by a hardware store and purchased a caboose for Alice’s electric train. It would come in handy.
WHEN HE REACHED home, he was already wearing the gunslinger’s belt.
“Oh, there you are!” came Marian’s greeting, as though he’d been gone for hours.
Passing the dining room, Tom saw envelopes and “Free Huey” leaflets from her new crusade. He had enough meetings and entanglements and, as a federal employee, could not openly campaign for anyone. Though he had some rebel urges that made the Panthers appealing, the thought of Marian campaigning for Eldridge Cleaver was dryly funny. Even so, she was engaged in the world; that would take some pressure off him.
“How was the hardware store?” she pursued. She’d already begun preparing dinner.
Tom would play good boy. “I found something for Alice.” He held up the paper bag with the caboose.
Marian glanced up. “Oh?”
“A new caboose.” Tom paused, assuming a look of vague worry. Then with furrowed brow, he peered toward the dining room, where Alice was playing one of her records. “She’s on the floor, doing nothing.”
“Yes, she’s been there for hours.” Marian’s words sounded vaguely reproachful. He knew her moods; she had some demand in mind. “Playing records, as usual.”
He gave a grunt.
“You know, Tom, you should do something with her.”
“Such as?”
“I’ve suggested the Singer’s Circle, but you refuse. There must be something you can do together. She’s your daughter.”
“There’s the caboose,” Tom proposed, as though he’d just come upon a wonderful idea.
“There’s so much to do here,” she went on. “The redwood parks sound marvelous. Sabrina knows the good ones.”
Tom nodded vaguely.
“Let’s plan something for next weekend.”
Tom was feeling calm; he would parry.
Then Marian’s face clouded. “Damn—Sammy’s going off with an older brother and wants Curt along. Well, we can see the redwoods anyway.” She glanced closely at Tom, eyebrows up. “Are we sure of Sammy?”
Tom shrugged. “He seems harmless enough.”
Raucous sounds were chugging through the house. Through the dining-room door, Tom could see the girl sprawled on the rug. He gave Marian a sharp glance.
“Alice!” she called. “Come here. We’re making plans.”
Alice leaned in the doorway. “Where’s Curt?” she asked.
“Playing baseball. Why?”
“Just wondered.”
Curt and Sammy were doing the right thing, Tom thought—becoming independent. Though Marian imagined the boys wandering Telegraph Avenue, her fears were unfounded. The junior high was on Telegraph, that’s why they were there. As for Alice, she should be off playing as well. The neighborhood was full of young people—where was the problem? The sun was shining, the weather was great, the schools were embracing progress. Tom was enjoying being ahead of the game: Berkeley had headed off a federal compliance challenge by adopting a voluntary desegregation plan, and having a son and a daughter in the schools was a plus as far as the agency was concerned. He was demanding no more of others than he himself was willing to do. People would cling to neighborhood schools as long as they could obscure the underlying purpose—preserving de facto segregation. Only major demands by the federal government, enforced by the danger of losing funding, would make them budge.
The desegregation plan had placed Alice in a formerly black school on Ashby Avenue, barely two miles away—fifteen minutes by school bus. For all the busing furor coming from the urban North, the arrangement should cause her no problems in the long run. So far, however, she was responding by closing up. There could be many reasons for the change, and it would probably be a few weeks—or longer—before she could say what she was feeling. Though the current signs were ambiguous, she could handle school well enough to overco
me any temporary adjustment problems.
Tom would delay the redwoods. The family was no fun; he always ended up feeling responsible for someone else’s unhappiness. Marian would never go far in the woods, while Alice would keep to herself. And anyway, by then—presumably—Ginger would have shown him a whole world up in Marin.
Alice wandered off.
“Well,” Marian sighed, “let’s plan something soon.”
Following the girl, Tom passed through the foyer and climbed to the second floor. Marian had completely missed the prancing brass horse; but then, she never imagined him buying anything for himself. Now he would have a look in the full-length mirror in the spare bedroom.
Coming along the second-floor hallway, he reached the spare room, just across from Alice’s room. Beyond was the sunporch, where she would be. Closing the door, he eyed himself in the full-length mirror. He should have been taller than five foot nine. Nevertheless, the brass buckle gleamed, half-covered by a fold of workingman’s shirt. Casual. Flowing. A lucky charm, a mascot.
Grasping the paper bag with the caboose, Tom crossed the hall and peered through the door of Alice’s room. There on a board were her electric trains, the ones he’d been buying since she was four. She was ready for a new car. As he was gazing through the door, remembering the sounds of the train whistle near his boyhood home, Alice came through the glass doors of the sunporch. She saw him and paused, her face somber. He sensed her concealing something.