Playground Zero

by Sarah Relyea

  Soon Alice began following her own commands. Choosing to keep away from the bench, she would go her own way on the playground or, if nothing good came of that, she could read in the school library.

  One day, bored by the lunch-hour playground and daydreaming away from the crowd, Alice wandered through the large, gloomy building. The lunch hour was nearly over—there would be no chance for browsing books. She passed her classroom on the second floor and paused, hoping the bell would ring, for the hallways were somber and abandoned. Beyond her classroom was an announcement board and then more classrooms. Sounds came from the far end of the hall, as several black boys slammed through some double doors, laughing and scuffling with each other. The group was coming her way; they neared, closing the gap, and the joking ceased. As they approached she veered away, regarding the floor, wondering why she’d come here when there were safer places to go. Even so, she knew why—there was something galling in being pushed around by other people, by fear.

  A boy spun loose from the edge of the group. He was long-limbed and angular, with a loping walk and sober eyes. Alarmed, and with the boy heading her way, she glanced over the group; one waved, grinning falsely. A smile formed uncomfortably on her face as the boy sauntered up, murmuring softly in her ear, “Gimme some pussy,” as one dangling hand made a sly movement and snagged her between the legs. Barely aware of the words’ meaning but lashing out against the grabbing arm, she shoved the boy’s shoulder and, unable to repel him, became entangled in a clumsy embrace. For a moment the group surrounded her, laughing mirthfully; then they swaggered on down the hall. A new feeling spread beneath her suddenly snug jeans—a grotesque merging of rage and pleasure.

  She heard the boys slam through more double doors just as the bell was ringing. Others were coming, and she had nowhere to go. Longing to leave and go home, she found a back stairway down to the schoolhouse door, where lawn and flagpole formed a no-man’s-land. Beyond was a black neighborhood. She could go up Ashby Avenue; she would be safe on a large street. But then there was her mother, and how would she judge what was happening? She would blame someone; there would be probing. Who were the boys and why had she been in the hallway? Why had they shamed her, if that’s what they’d done? And why—though of course no one would ask—had her body responded?

  The following day, when Tammy found her alone on the playground, Alice was feeling ashamed. Things were happening; boys were choosing her. She was not choosing for herself, as her mother supposed, or even accused her of doing. She wondered if these things were happening to Tammy and the others, but there was no way of asking. If only her mother could help—but so far the conversation was unimaginable. What if her mother blamed her, as she’d done with Jocelyn? In any case, the boys had faded away among many others, so what could anyone do? No, her mother was from somewhere else and could be of no help. She imagined what her mother would say: something about how she would grow up and love a boy someday. For her mother, that was the all-important thing—what she should feel someday. Before those things could happen, however, her anger would command her. She would choose, and she would refuse these boys.

  If anyone could help, it would be Tammy. Maybe Tammy would have something to say, though things would go on happening. Tammy would say something real now, as she had before. Tammy was open; she’d been tearful and unashamed and she would understand, somehow that was clear.

  As Alice emerged from her brooding, she became aware that Tammy was regaling her.

  “And your brother, is he foxy?” Tammy was leaning close.

  Alice shrugged, confused, and Tammy laughed loudly.

  A boy ran up. Though nothing like her brother, he was handsome, with heavy eyebrows, pale eyes, and a splash of sunburn, as if he’d just come from the beach. She remembered the face; she’d seen him somewhere before.

  “Hey, do you know Jason?” he asked, eyeing Alice. Of course: he hung with Jason, the shaggy, piano-playing boy from Mrs. Whitman’s class. He’d been looking for her; maybe she would choose him.

  Tammy moved away, as though on cue.

  “Yeah, from class.”

  “Oh.” The boy came closer. “Where do you live?”

  “Forest Avenue.”

  The boy nodded and said, “Jason’s on Garber.”

  The boy had some unannounced purpose. She’d heard the rumors: Jason’s father played the banjo and owned a guitar store off Telegraph Avenue, and he was known around the Bay Area for sponsoring folk concerts. Feeling a pang of envy, she’d even dropped by the store. Jason rode her bus, and though they rarely spoke, she could probably see the house on Garber Street from her brother’s room or from the bathroom they shared.

  “Jason’s having a slumber party on Saturday,” the boy said, grinning. “He says you can come by.” And he laughed and ran off.

  Tammy came closer. “Maybe he has a crush on you,” she murmured. “But my God, what a jerky thing for him to say.” Her laugh was overlapped by the bell.

  SATURDAY MORNING CAME. Alice remembered the party, though surely the boy had been teasing, because no girl would ever go to a boy’s slumber party. The suggestion was confusing and ambiguous, a demeaning compliment. Even so, she couldn’t help wondering what the boys would be doing. Opening the telephone book, she learned that Jason’s house was just around the corner from her own.

  In the evening, before going to bed, she searched from the sunporch for Jason’s house but saw only a corner of the roof and some trees overhanging glowing house lights.

  On Sunday morning, as she was in the bathroom lounging in the tub, she remembered the party once more, and wondered what games the boys had played.

  That afternoon, the phone rang. Feeling an odd foreboding, Alice answered the call. There was a boy on the other end.

  “How was your bath?” he demanded.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We saw you through the window, a whole bunch of us.”

  She was dumbfounded. The boy must be from Jason’s party. “I never had a bath today.”

  “You had a bath this morning, we saw you.”

  “Who are you?”

  The boy laughed. “Are you going out on Halloween?” he wanted to know.

  “None of your business.”

  “If you go out, we’re gonna rape you.”

  She hung up hard. Warmth rose up her face in a fever of shame and rage. Her mother called from the living room, “Who was that?”

  “No one—just a boy from school.”

  “A boy?”

  She would have to regroup, fast. If she confessed one thing, then there would be another and another—who could say where things would end? Life was suddenly overwhelming. Her mother appeared in the doorway.

  “That reminds me,” she began. “Have you made plans for Halloween? It’s coming on Thursday.”

  “No.”

  “Are you planning on going out?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Curt’s going with Sammy. I suppose you could go with them—”

  “No way.”

  “—or we could see about Sabrina’s daughters. Helen’s too old but maybe the younger one—”

  “I’ve never met them.”

  “Maybe there’s a group—”

  “No.”

  She should reveal nothing—that much was clear. Things had already gone way beyond where they should be. Her mother glanced at her, wary and vaguely annoyed, as though finding her hard to fathom. Back in Washington, Alice would have followed the plan and gone with family friends. But Sabrina’s daughters had seemingly come from nowhere; even her mother hardly knew them. They were older and had no reason for wanting her along. She’d been counting on going with Tammy but then learned that Tammy would be one of Nora’s group. They planned to dress as characters from The Wizard of Oz. In theory Alice could go along, but the good characters had already been chosen, leaving only the Scarecrow. As she thought of the Scarecrow and Nora and Jason’s house and the phone call—altogether too much—she was no
longer interested in playing dress-up.

  When Halloween came, Alice hung around the nearby playground before going home from school; she was in no hurry to see her brother getting ready. When she came through the door, he was in the living room, wearing boxing gear. From the school gym he’d somehow borrowed boxing gloves, and he wore a gold-colored warm-up jacket and matching gold sweatpants, borrowed from another boy. Engaged and focused, he was adjusting the laces on the gloves as she came in. He glanced up.

  “Mom says you’re staying home,” he remarked. He’d grown a head of wavy blond hair, unshorn for months and bleached by the sun. Wearing jeans, he would have resembled the local boys, or maybe someone from an album cover.

  “Yeah. So?”

  “How come?”

  “Because.”

  Curt glanced up, encountering her eyes. He was in a surly mood. “I’m going with Sammy. You’re not coming along.”

  “I know. Whoever said I was?”

  “Mom was asking me.”

  “Well, I’m staying home.”

  “As long as you leave me and Sammy alone.”

  He glanced away.

  Alice passed through the living room and dining room. In the kitchen, her mother was playing the news.

  “Your brother’s looking so grown up,” she commented. Then she added, “Are you sure you don’t want to go with him and Sammy?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Then would you mind turning up the radio? There’s some breaking news.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Let’s hear what they say.”

  Indeed, something big was happening. Lyndon Johnson’s slow Texas vowels were coming through the speaker, announcing that because of progress in the Paris peace negotiations, he had ordered a bombing halt over North Vietnam, and the bombardments would be ending the following day. The words made her mother gasp, and then as the American leader was concluding the speech she sighed, “If only there could be peace.”

  Curt came through the doorway, boxing gloves dangling by his thighs. He’d heard everything. “Soon as the election’s over,” he shrugged, a gleam of humor, or anger, playing in his eyes, “he’s gonna bomb them back to the Stone Age.”

  Her mother’s eyes clouded. “Let’s hope he means what he says.”

  Election Day was coming soon. There would be much news, and though it would be confusing, they could be on the verge of some momentous change. The war would end . . . if only . . .

  Remembering an image of a burning girl—it was an image from the war; the girl had been napalmed, and her suffering flashed appallingly on the evening news—Alice sought refuge in the yard. Images from Vietnam were everywhere, even in her mind; yet the girl’s suffering was unimaginable. Alice lay on the grass, eyes closed, her flesh recoiling from her thoughts. She had an impulse to flee—but no, the house and yard were safe. She wondered why she should be safe, or safe enough, when so many others were in such danger. True, some boys had phoned saying they’d seen her bathing and claiming they would rape her, but how could they? As long as she stayed home for Halloween, there was nothing they could do.

  She wondered why she should fear going out, when it was safe for Curt.

  She wondered why her school was such an angry place. Some days she would pass the hours in class wondering why so many others were angry, why they enjoyed harming her, when they hardly knew her. She’d heard many things—slavery, segregation, so many evil things in the South and even the North. But now things were changing and her black peers could harm her, if they chose; they could get revenge for those humiliations. And what of the boys from Jason’s party—why were they coming after her? Though it was unimaginable, things could simply go on this way.

  The sun was fading through some trees. Evening was coming.

  Soothing herself, she remembered the swimming pool in Las Vegas. The place was cool and cornflower blue, and she remembered the pale stone statue of a boy, one arm dangling loose as though he’d just thrown a spear and was watching the weapon’s flight.

  Closing her eyes, she imagined lying by the pool. She could feel the coolness, the blades of grass by her face as a boy wandered up, holding a spear . . .

  Opening her eyes in alarm, she glanced along her belly, her legs, and wondered how many girls had been ambushed in school by groups of boys.

  School was going badly. She’d managed to annoy the girls, other than Tammy; bad things were flowing from that. She’d been alone and in the wrong place and was partly to blame. Even so, getting along with the girls would be challenging. They were following family, and so was she. How could she learn something new on her own? Everyone was learning from someone—that was how people were.

  Then there was her father—a lawyer. The dangers of ignoring or defying the law had always seemed overwhelming, because her father’s anger was more than personal; he spoke for the government, the law. Even so, many others had no such fear. She was young, only ten years old—yet already, boys had groped her body, forcing on her things she refused; they’d phoned and menaced her with worse. She’d never heard of such ambushes in her school in Washington. They were outrageous, and yet out here they were common enough—so common that boys would gather in groups for the sport. And because the boys had no fear, there was nothing that would keep them away, if they chose her. The problems would get worse as she grew older. Would she just have to endure these things?

  She thought of telling her mother, but her mother would blame her. “Are you sure?” she would ask, as if Alice could be making it all up. And what of her father—had he done aggressive things to girls before he’d chosen her mother, before he’d begun enforcing the laws?

  He was becoming a confusing power. He would go away on Saturdays, coming home after dinner, bringing a funny odor as though he’d been around dogs. One evening, he’d even gone around the house to the basement before coming in.

  She’d been wondering why.

  She stood up and crossed through the grass to the house. Wooden slabs led down to the basement; the door was slightly ajar. Just beyond the door was a light switch and a tangle of protruding wires. She turned on the light; a bare bulb hung dimly over the room. The damp, rough floor had a sour odor of mildew. An abandoned workbench ran along one wall; nearby was a cupboard. She crossed the rough boards toward the cupboard. The handle hung loose, the hinges were red and crusty, but the door swung smoothly open, revealing cowboy boots. Apart from some sand and mud, the boots appeared new. Reaching for them, she heard clumping sounds overhead.

  She carefully closed the cupboard. Moving soundlessly, she sped up and along the flower beds.

  Orange clouds gleamed over the yard. She caught an animal odor as her father’s image rose from the grass and then faded.

  As Alice came through the house door, she heard the phone ringing and then her mother’s sharp response, drowning out the radio announcer. So many things were happening: the campaign, the bombing, Johnson’s speech. Only her father would be calling now; other family members were thousands of miles away.

  Marian

  THE PHONE WAS presumably Tom, informing her that he’d be late. Glancing at the clock, Marian heard a woman’s voice: someone from the Party, then.

  “Yes?”

  “Oh, it’s Ginger,” the woman said, in a singsong voice. “Have you heard?”

  “No—”

  “Johnson’s announced a bombing pause.”

  “Oh, yes—I just heard the speech.”

  “Is Tom home? Does he know?”

  Marian felt her cheeks burning. Tom had referred to a woman named Ginger—rather warmly, she thought—but he’d mentioned her only in the beginning. They were no longer working together—or were they?

  “Is there some message for him?” she demanded, more coolly than was wise.

  “Just the news,” Ginger responded. “I thought Tom should know. G’bye.”

  Marian hung up the phone, trembling. How revealing that Ginger should call before any other of Tom�
��s colleagues.

  Looking up, she saw her son, wearing boxing gloves.

  “That was Ginger,” she announced in a phony voice. Then, as he made a face, she fled the room.

  ONE EVENING IN November, as the Raysons were passing the bookshop on Telegraph Avenue, Marian paused, scanning a bin of used books. There was no chance of browsing through them now; the others had already rushed ahead in a loose threesome, as though unaware of her. When she caught up, Marian found her daughter by a leather shop, fancying a row of cowboy boots—or was she eyeing the fringy leather jacket in the window? Marian was amused by her daughter’s way of glancing around, for she rarely revealed her cravings so openly. And then, just as the girl was moving on, Tom came up close on her shoulder, nudging her.

  “See something?” she heard Tom saying.

  Marian knew the game: he was moving Alice along. There was no chance he would buy her a leather anything, just as there was no chance she would beg.

  There was only a shrug from Alice, as she glanced over her shoulder. Marian thought there was some girlish pining in her face.

  “I’ve always admired suede,” Marian commented. Then, with an encouraging emphasis, “Would you wear one to school?”

  “Wear what?”

  “Weren’t you admiring those fringy jackets?”

  “No.”

  “What, then?”

  “Nothing. Just the boots. What are they for?”

  “Oh, they’re for style, I suppose.”

  Marian followed her family, wondering how they would seem to her had they been someone else’s. Of course, she could never see them that way; she would always be aware of so many background things. Her son was loping along, as though he’d come to Telegraph Avenue alone. He was spending weekends with Sammy and Sammy’s older brother, because Tom was busy nearly every Saturday. He’d come home one day wearing someone else’s red velour pullover, saying some boys had been dumping clothes around the gym. She wondered if Sammy could be the problem, though that was only a hunch. There’d been another day when the boys had come home waving money they’d found by the bank, or so they’d proclaimed. So far she regarded Sammy as the ringleader.