by Sarah Relyea
He glanced down: nearly nine o’clock. Ginger had been so engaging, the ranch and landscape so real, that he’d forgotten about an alibi. He’d dream up something by morning. In the meantime, he could drop comments on the day. They’d ordered sandwiches on sourdough, of course. Among his colleagues, only Jim Kaczmarek, from Cleveland, had complained about missing the game—no one else was cheering for the Tigers or the Cards. Claire knew only that her husband was a Dodgers fan, a Brooklyn guy who never gave up. And Ginger? Tigers, presumably, but she was working in another area these days . . .
Tom was passing bungalows along Ashby Avenue, with stubble lawns and old Fords by the curb. Soon he saw an empty schoolyard, the building looming in the background—Alice’s school, Lincoln. A woman ambled by the high fence, a girl hanging on her hand and a boy straggling behind. Beyond the fence, as the traffic signal changed to green, he slowed by a liquor store. A Coors logo shone in the window. Three black men in jeans were leaning against the plate glass; above them the Marlboro Man rode a bucking bronco.
Tom had been there before. Three years ago, he’d begun an affair with a friend of Marian’s, but before long the woman had messed up and let something drop. He’d done damage control but there’d been no going on. He and Ginger would be more careful; they would handle things.
College Avenue was dead, closed up for the night. Tom was nearly home and should be resolving on a course. For now, though, he could always sow confusion. The children, for example, had begun evading house rules by wandering around alone. Take Alice—for she would be home. She’d begun wandering all day, going off on her bicycle. She must be leaving it somewhere—on campus or near Telegraph.
He parked the Chevy by the house. Someone was on the couch, probably reading, and the windows glowed. So, Marian was enjoying an evening alone. Alice, of course, would be in her room playing the phonograph. Good—he would bring up her wandering far from the house, he would show annoyance and concern.
Tom paused on the lawn, glancing up. From Marian’s aimless pose, one hand propping her head, he supposed she was deep in one of her imaginary worlds. That was just as well, for he’d planned poorly—the muddy pants, the horsey smell. He should have brought a change of clothes in the car. Moving away from the window, he examined his jeans and found sand and mud. Bending over, he cleaned the cuffs as well as he could with his stubby fingernails. Then he rubbed his fingers in the grass. As for the sneakers, they were old and already thoroughly worn. He was damp under the arms, but that was no problem as long as he could change before Marian came close.
Tom entered the house. Peering from the foyer, he saw Alice’s somber eyes looking at him from her mother’s place on the couch. Ah well, she would be easy to manage.
“My, my, you’re still up.” Tom spoke evenly.
“I’m reading.”
“Where’s your mother?”
“In the bedroom, I guess.”
Tom moved back from the doorway, away from the lamp. He was already heading for the stairs when he heard Alice.
“I was wondering . . .”
Tom paused in the foyer, hoping she would hurry. He needed to go up and change before anyone came close.
“Yes?”
“Could we see the park tomorrow?”
“The park?”
“Yes, the one in the hills.”
“Why?”
“I’ve never been there.” She paused for a response, then glanced away. “Some girls from school go there.”
“Are you going only because other girls do?”
“No.”
“What does your mother say?”
“She says I should ask you.”
“I’m planning on watching the game.”
Aware of giving off a horsey odor, Tom hung on, assuming she would soon concede. Then he could go up and change in the spare room. Glancing up, ready for the escape, he found himself caught as Marian appeared on the landing, wearing her day clothes. She was coming down.
“Oh, Tom, you’re back.”
“Why is she demanding we go to the park?”
“Who’s demanding?”
Tom gave a nod.
“I thought she’d gone to bed.”
“I’m reading,” came Alice’s cry.
Then in the ensuing confusion, Tom moved away as Marian passed through the foyer.
Responding to the brewing unhappiness, Marian barely glanced at him. Tom slipped away; he was safe.
Alice
ALICE LOOKED UP, feeling abashed—they’d interrupted her mother’s reading.
“So, was there a response?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“He’s planning on the game.”
“And your brother’s with Sammy.” Her mother came from the foyer, her mind seemingly elsewhere. “I knew your father would want to see the game. The Tigers haven’t won a World Series since—oh, ages ago. I remember my father following the winning game on the radio. Men surely do love baseball.” She smiled at Alice as though sharing some secret of human nature, and then changed gears. “What do the girls do in the park?”
“I don’t know, Mom. I’ve never been there.”
“You and I could always go.”
Alice looked down at her book, wondering why her mother was always proposing things she never meant to do.
“What have you got there?” her mother inquired.
“The one you gave me.” It was about a white man who’d made himself appear black, to see what people would do, how the world would change. He was having an adventure, in a sense, though far from the scary Fellowship of the Ring. Even so, she wondered how the world would change, if she could be somebody else—a boy, for example.
“Do you suppose he’s coming back down?” her mother wondered. “Has he had any dinner?”
“How should I know?”
The phone rang in the kitchen. “When he comes down, would you please ask?” And her mother headed for the back of the house.
Soon she heard movement and her father came through the doorway. He’d gone for a pipe, and he’d exchanged jeans and blue workman’s shirt for even more casual shorts and T-shirt. She was sorry he’d changed: now that he had more hair, the jeans gave him a Marlboro Man look that made him seem young and cool.
Her father found a place on the couch. Letting himself down in a slouch, he propped his legs on the coffee table.
“Can you get there on your bike? The park?”
“No.” What was he suggesting? She’d thought the subject was closed.
“Oh? Why not?”
“It’s too far and too steep.”
“You seem to enjoy some very long rides.”
Alice sensed a trap but was unsure where it lay: the park, the bike, making him go somewhere, going somewhere on her own . . . “I took a walk today.”
“Oh? Where?”
“Around the campus.”
“You enjoy walking, do you?”
Her father unfolded the newspaper and began leafing through it. She could see the bare legs and feet; the pipe was propped nearby. She was sure he had something on his mind, but what?
“About the park,” he began. Then rumpling the paper, he scanned some headlines. “Who’s going to win the game tomorrow, eh?” he asked, closing the paper and leaving it in his lap.
“Dunno. The Tigers?”
“Could be . . .” He appeared to be contemplating the odds. “Well, I’m planning on watching the game. If you want to go to the park, your mother’s going to have to take you.” He reached for the pipe.
“I don’t have to go.”
“You seem awfully eager.”
“I suggested it, that’s all.”
Clamping the pipe in his mouth, he fingered a match, scraping it along the box so that it flamed. Alice was no longer reading, or feigning to do so; she made no move as, holding the flame over the bowl, he inhaled and glanced up, blowing smoke.
“Where do you leave your bicycle when you’re on Telegra
ph? In one of those racks?”
“I don’t go to Telegraph.”
“Mmm?” Smoke curled from his mouth.
“Mom told me not to go there alone.”
“I know.”
“So—”
“Are you doing as your mother says?”
“I wasn’t on Telegraph,” she repeated, annoyed.
“Oh? Just the campus?”
Her mother appeared in the doorway. “Are we still arguing about the park?”
“No, Telegraph.”
Her mother had a ready response. “You’re way too young for that scene. Unless you’re with one of us.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Then why are you bothering your father?” Suddenly absorbed in some grown-up problem, she turned to him. “That was Sabrina. There was a Peace and Freedom caucus today. They’ve amended the platform.”
Her father made no reply.
“They’ve resolved to include the Black Panther demand that the Oakland Police Department be banned from the ghetto and replaced by men from the community.”
He glanced up. “Are they so wrong about that?”
“I was hoping you’d go to a caucus and have some words with those young men. You’re so much more informed about the law than they are. If someone like you refuses to show them the problems with so-called community policing—groups of young men with guns settling matters among themselves—then who will?”
“‘Support your local police,’” her father intoned, mouthing a Party slogan. “That’s what they say in Alabama. And if community policing’s good enough for Alabama, it’s good enough for black people in Oakland. Anyway, it’s one more formal resolution meaning nothing—”
“But Dan and Shel are so thoroughly persuaded,” her mother argued. “They demand withdrawal as if referring to an occupying army. Does that really make sense to you?”
“Well, call them what you want, but there’s an appalling use of force,” Alice heard her father respond with unusual feeling.
“So you support those young men?”
“No, but they’re responding to a real problem.”
“I know that, Tom, but I’m concerned about the way they’re responding.”
“Then you should have spoken up,” he countered sharply.
“But you have the knowledge of the law. You’re with the federal government, after all. They would hear you before they heard me.”
Sparring had begun. Though Alice was unfamiliar with what they were discussing, the tone had clearly changed. Now she felt her mother’s eyes on her and glanced up. Her mother looked away.
“Tom, would you mind opening some wine?”
He rose and took a heavy bottle and two long-stemmed glasses from a cupboard. The household had few rituals; for that reason, Alice enjoyed the one that was unfolding. Usually something fun would ensue.
Her father fumbled in a drawer, then glanced inquiringly at her mother, who had taken a place on the couch.
“I suppose it’s in the kitchen.”
He headed for the hall.
“On the counter, Tom,” she called.
On the couch, her mother began leafing through one of the magazines she’d brought home from the Party headquarters.
“Do you suppose your father’s seen these photographs in Ramparts?” she mused. “If so, I wonder what he has to say,” she added, glancing at Alice, as though seeking support.
Soon he reappeared, bearing glasses of red wine. Alice saw her mother glance at him, then place the magazine on the coffee table. She was clearly pondering something.
“You know, Tom, I’m having some qualms. So is Sabrina—that’s why she called.” She shook her head. “I’m annoyed to admit it, but I’m feeling . . . bamboozled. Can we really have groups of armed men threatening lawmakers? Here’s an essay by one of the Panther lawyers, defending the armed march on the California State Assembly.” She paused. “Well, that’s the lawyer’s job, I suppose.”
He had been ignoring her, but now he perked up. “Can we really have groups of armed police imposing their will on an unarmed populace?”
“No, but the way the Panthers are choosing to respond is rather inflammatory.”
“Oh?”
“My God, Tom.” She turned to Alice. “Shouldn’t you be thinking about bed? It’s nearly ten o’clock.”
“She can stay,” her father responded. “She needs to understand these things.”
Unsure whether to stay or go, Alice took refuge in her book. Her father continued in a reasonable yet somehow taunting tone.
“The law never says where one may bear arms, only that one may do so. It says nothing regarding the intent in carrying a gun, unless it can be shown that the gun has been used in a crime. Since the Panthers merely appeared on the floor of the Assembly, we have no grounds for asking why they were bearing arms. They bore arms because they had a constitutional right to do so.”
Her mother appeared increasingly confused, even angry. Alice looked from one to the other. Was her mother wrong? She’d confirmed as much; she was always saying he was a lawyer, he would know.
“Yes, Tom, Second Amendment and all that. But the encouragement of armed uprisings is a grave matter—a crime, if I’m not wrong.”
“Where was the encouragement?” he demanded, though it seemed clear enough, even to Alice.
“An armed force intruded on the Assembly for the purpose of preventing lawmakers from passing a popular law. I regard that as encouragement.”
“And what if a group of nude people came to the Assembly to lobby against a ban on nudity?”
Alice was glad she had her book, because the idea, coming from her father in a dry and humorless tone, nearly made her laugh.
“Nude people are hardly a threat,” her mother responded with marked sarcasm. “Rather the reverse, I should imagine.”
“Many things have harmful uses, but no one says they should be completely banned. Guns, like cars or nude people, have good and bad uses, and it’s the bad uses that should be outlawed, not the guns themselves.”
“I see what you mean, Tom, but what we’re really talking about is a symbolic armed assault on our government and lawmakers.”
“A symbol has substance only in the mind of the beholder.”
“Oh my—what’s happened to common sense?”
“The senses are less common than personal.”
“Oh for crying out loud.”
Her father’s reasoning, though obscure to Alice, had clearly annoyed her mother, who paused, then recommenced in a condescending tone.
“Tom, when a group appears in a room openly bearing guns, the danger is symbolic or real, as you please. But had you been there, you would have run for cover along with everyone else and we wouldn’t be having so absurd an argument.”
“Why should the symbolic danger to lawmakers carry more significance than the danger felt by black men stopped by the police?”
“I don’t suppose it should.” Her mother paused, face flushed. “But as we both know, there’s a presumption in favor of those who are responsible for maintaining public order.”
“Yes, and you see how that holds up whenever cops enter a black neighborhood.”
As the sparring ceased for the moment, Alice closed her book and made her way from the room.
As soon as she was gone her mother resumed, though in lower tones Alice was not supposed to hear.
“Be careful around her, Tom. She’s too exploratory as it is.”
Marian
TOM HAD MANEUVERED around her. Even so, she was sure the problems of policing in black neighborhoods would not be resolved by an armed gang of young men storming the government with an array of demands. That was not democracy. However, Tom’s arguments conjured another image even less compatible with her concept of democracy: that of government forces rounding up unarmed members of an oppressed race. Tom had never held dangerous opinions: on the contrary, she’d always thought of him as reasonable, thorough, careful—to a fau
lt. In Washington, he’d always spoken in lawyerly terms of federal enforcement of voting rights in the South, where state and local governments had long barred black people from the polls. He’d supported sending troops to enforce federal law, if necessary, and he’d been angered by the refusal of Kennedy and then Johnson to do so. He was even more angered when the same administration that had refused to impose order on the South had agreed to send American forces halfway around the world to impose order on Vietnam.
Tom rose from the couch and moved to the door. Marian heard him go up, presumably to bed—though he seemed headed for the study. Surely not now, after a whole day at the office?
She leaned over her copy of Ramparts, regarding the photograph. There were the Panthers, marching in formation onto the floor of the California Assembly. She’d heard of the armed appearance back in Washington—though barely, as something happening far away. Now she made common cause with people who regarded the Panthers with urgent sympathy. Though conceding the need for self-defense, she’d been dismayed by the armed posturing, the photographs of men and women in leather jackets and berets, posing with rifles, flaunting the image of an urban guerrilla army.
Now, in the flush of wine and exasperation as she took in the photograph, she began to find the image amusing and wondered how she would have responded had she been there as an observer. Assuming that no guns were blazing as they entered—and none were—would she really have been so alarmed by these men in leather and Parisian berets? The men were comely, in a sense, if one saw them simply as men, similar to the platoon leaders in a scene from a World War II film, the faces stern, as though to signal a seriousness of purpose. She turned the page and found a photograph of Bobby Seale, who’d led the Panthers into the State Capitol. Of course, it was Newton who was more of an intellectual, who’d read political theory somewhere and was supposed to have formulated the Panthers’ ten-point program, though there was also Cleaver, who’d just published a book of essays and was somewhat literary, one of the prison intellectuals, like Genet, the men who taught themselves to read in the prison library and, if the sentence was a longish one, ended as authors. And hadn’t Newton learned to read in prison by poring over a copy of Plato’s Republic? It was an apocryphal tale, she was sure, but still . . . It seemed the Ramparts group had found Cleaver while he was languishing in prison, even before the Panthers had formed, and had rushed him into print on the heels of Che Guevara . . . She gathered that Cleaver was not as impressive as some of the other black writers, not yet, but she’d had no time to read the book and couldn’t really say.