Playground Zero

by Sarah Relyea

  Sabrina flopped on the couch, scanning a nearby shelf of photographs. In one frame she glimpsed a young Michael, standing before the Samoan commissary with an island man of indeterminate age, the men smiling so unreservedly that they seemed to be celebrating some unusual event—a wedding or a reunion. As she remembered, the man had come from another island as an interpreter. Over the years she’d woven many tales around him, so that he’d assumed a presence in her life, some manner of faraway brother-in-law, as he now seemed. He posed bare-chested in the frame, more hardy than muscular, vaguely plump. By the man’s shoulder rose Michael, in trousers and a collar, a wide-brimmed hat shadowing the face. Sabrina could no longer remember the photographer, someone she’d presumably known. Michael would know; he remembered everything, a burden in a profession concerned with morphology and wholes, and became engrossed in things in themselves. When Helen put forth a theory, he probed it inch by inch.

  They’d often summoned up the island in the Pacific: faded, sun-bleached sands; heavy breeze; palm fronds lashing far above a churning sea; grass roofs perched on bare pillars; people who’d been compelled to regard themselves through the eyes of others—or so the Westerners had imagined. As a young researcher, Michael had planned on probing and confirming the Samoan work handed down by anthropological forebears. He’d passed more than a year on the opening journey, learning the language and people and sussing out webs of power among the upper class of men. From the beginning, he’d found the women charming but guarded, so far from Mead’s young women of the many and unentangling loves—beneath the palm trees, he’d concluded, lay only sand and jungle. Of course, in the beginning he’d been shy of wandering under the trees by the edge of the clearing, fearful of coming upon the carefree couples of anthropological report. But when he’d asked one of the men how many of the young women were virgins, the man had repulsed the inquiry, angrily denouncing Mead’s falsehoods and adding how the islanders had jeered once she’d gone. Since then, a gradual sea change had come over Michael’s understanding.

  Sunlight faded from the room, leaving somber evening. The photograph lay under glass, a long-ago, far-flung wave on the shore of the world. Pools of color gathered in the men’s faces, changing from blue to orange to gray, an evening ocean under a receding sky. The long shadows of palm trees danced on the sand.

  Sabrina headed for the kitchen, where the sun had warmed the counters and hardwood herringbone floor. Taking up a peach, she ran it under the tap until she found the damp red fur and then ate slowly, staring beyond the garden fence. She thought about the sun-drenched island in the Pacific.

  As she now understood, she’d been persuaded by the promise of something new, which had entered the world for Michael and through him. That was why she’d been so undone by the image of him and Wanda: a conventional adultery, older man–younger woman, an entanglement from which he would emerge the same, following the known quest. But the lawful resolution depended on her remaining in place—here, just as she was, in hall or living room or, God knows, weeping in the bedroom.

  The peach had come to an end. She dropped the pit in the garbage, wiped her fingers on a rough cloth, and took up the telephone.

  chapter three

  Alice

  IN EARLY MAY, the mornings were sunny and warm. Playground sounds from the early lunch-hour group could be heard through the classroom window as Alice read from the book she’d brought from home, an old one of her mother’s. She’d been reading it over and over for nearly a year, as the binding grew ragged. The book was amusing and seemed a way of doing something useful or maybe just keeping clear of her enemy, Jocelyn. Early in the spring, something final had happened. There had been so many things, culminating one morning in a fatal error, when Mrs. Whitman had charged Alice with explaining some math problems to Jocelyn. The problems were new, though easy enough, and because Alice had caught on fast, Mrs. Whitman had made her Jocelyn’s helper as she passed by, coaching the class. That sign of seeming preference had so angered Jocelyn that she’d rebuffed the help and refused any more palling around—though of course they’d never been pals, only girls in a bad place together.

  Though the class was floundering, the school year would end soon enough and everyone would go off, wherever home was. By September, when they came back and resumed the age-old conflicts, Alice would be gone . . .

  There came rapping sounds and a low humming. Behind her someone’s desk squeaked, then slammed shut.

  She scanned the page. A boy and a girl were journeying alone through the forest, fleeing a cruel stepmother. But the woman had seen them go and so she came creeping along, for she had powers over the brooks in the forest. The day was warm, and the boy was feeling dry, when they heard a leaping brook. Just as he was leaning over, glimpsing himself in the cool waters, the girl heard a murmur. “Whoever drinks from the brook will become a wolf,” she thought, “and devour me.” And so they passed by and soon found a slow-moving brook. But just as he was leaning over the pool, eager for its shadowy waters, the girl heard a murmur. “Whoever drinks from the brook will become a bear,” she thought, “and maul me.” So they passed by, soon coming upon a babbling brook. And just as her brother was leaning over, the girl heard a murmur. “Whoever drinks from the brook will become a roebuck,” she thought, “and run away from me.” Kneeling on the mossy ground, the boy was enjoying the babbling sounds, and as soon as the water touched his lips, he became a roebuck, eager to join in the King’s hunt.

  Alice wore a turquoise ring from Telegraph Avenue. She grasped the ring, turning it round her finger as she read.

  She sensed movement by her elbow. “What’s that?” Jocelyn was leaning over her arm, strangely close, murmuring, “How come you’re always reading some old book?”

  Wondering what was brewing, Alice made no response. With summer coming up, she could ignore the other girl.

  Jocelyn was leaning over, nearly pressing on her shoulder. She made the rules and assumed Alice would comply.

  “That book, what’s it about?”

  Alice glanced up, scanning her adversary. “A boy runs away. When he’s in the forest, he has some water from a brook and becomes a wild animal.”

  “You’re foolin’ with me.”

  “No.”

  “A boy gets mean and crazy, he’s had something more than water.” Jocelyn paused. “He went there alone?”

  “No.”

  “Who else, then?”

  “A girl.” Alice eyed her enemy. “She wants to keep him from the water. He could become a wolf or a bear.”

  Jocelyn leaned away.

  “It’s a good tale.”

  “Sounds like someone’s lying.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Uh-oh, you’re messin’ with me.”

  A page came loose, the edges brown and flaking. Alice had sloughed off her bad mood, reading in peace; but now she could feel Jocelyn’s eyes moving over the book and then over her. They’d been ignoring each other for weeks, so why was Jocelyn bothering her? Something was smoldering in them and for now, they had no hope of getting away. She leaned over the page, no longer focusing on the words.

  “Teacher gave you her book?”

  Alice glanced up. Though Jocelyn’s mouth made a smile, her eyes were cool and roving, taking in the loose page, Alice’s ring and clothing.

  “Your dress looks handmade,” she remarked, irrelevantly. “You made it yourself?”

  “No, my mother made it.”

  “Oh . . .” Jocelyn folded her arms, glancing away. “Never mind then.”

  There was a pause. So, her dress could be jeered at, even though she preferred it to Jocelyn’s fussy blouse and patent-leather shoes. Her mother had done the sewing, using a simple paper pattern, and she enjoyed wearing it. If the girl was so clever at sparring, why should she need classroom help? And why should Alice have been chosen as her helper, now her enemy? Alice was feeling angry. She closed her mother’s book and spread her hands on the desk. The lunch bell would peal soo
n enough.

  “That’s a pretty ring.” Jocelyn’s hand reached out. “Can I see?”

  “Huh?”

  “I said, can I see your ring.”

  Jocelyn leaned close, her hand reaching across the gap and fingering the shiny band and the turquoise inlays. Alice imagined the ring’s powers, how she would steal off, leaving an empty space in class. She moved her hand away.

  “Lemme see it up close.” Jocelyn suddenly grasped the ring and jerked hard.

  “Hey! No!”

  “Just lemme see—”

  “What’s happening over there?” Mrs. Whitman demanded.

  Feeling a growing fury, Alice yanked her hand free, nearly landing a blow as Jocelyn held on, refusing to let go. Jocelyn’s eyes were eager and shining; if things went her way, she would have something to scream and complain about. She was messing with Alice, but Mrs. Whitman would scold them both. There was no sense anymore; the school year would soon be over, and they would be free of each other.

  Jocelyn hunched over her paper, scrawling something. The lunch bell rang. She opened her desk, slammed down the leaf, and ran from the room.

  Alice wandered slowly toward the lunchroom. Though feeling fed up with everyone and aching to be alone, she found her group of girls gathered around a table. The only remaining seat faced Nora, the handball player, who’d overheard the quarrel with Jocelyn.

  Nora glanced up, eyes narrowing, gauging something. Nora imagined she could handle Jocelyn, but they’d never really tangled—maybe because Mrs. Whitman had never shown a preference for her.

  Nearby, Tammy leaned in. “What’s with that Jocelyn?” she mouthed.

  “Dunno.”

  “Man, she has a problem.”

  Nora was ignoring them, and soon she was engaged in a bun-hurling exchange with a handsome, scoffing boy with heavy eyebrows, pale eyes, and a splash of sunburn. Alice recognized him as the boy who’d suggested she drop in on Jason’s slumber party; maybe he’d made the threatening phone call as well. She eyed him, and her pulse jumped as he reared up in a slow windup and hurled a bun, missing Nora. The bun bounced off Debra’s head.

  Debra glared and pushed away her tray. “I’d leave him alone,” she warned Nora. “He has storm-trooper leanings.”

  “So?” Nora shrugged.

  “He’s a bully.”

  “Well, I’m not scared.”

  “Maybe you should be.”

  Debra always seemed aloof, as though judging everyone’s ideas as harshly as she’d judged the Cleaver comment. Faced by the jeering boy, however, Alice found they had something in common, if only a loathing, and she would have some measure of revenge, since Debra would now engage in a running commentary.

  “If he comes near me—,” Debra began.

  “No way!” the boy hollered.

  “—he’s gonna be sorry.”

  “Go away,” Alice commanded the boy, joining Debra in the cause. “You’re a creep.”

  “A big oaf,” Debra added. “A boxer, like that what’s-his-name.”

  “Muhammad Ali?” called the boy. “I think he’s cool!”

  “That figures.”

  At a nearby table, some black girls were giggling to hear them arguing about Muhammad Ali.

  “And I’m gonna play pro baseball,” bragged the boy.

  “Of course. You’re a bully,” Debra responded dryly.

  “What’s wrong with baseball?” Alice asked.

  “Well, if you’re a dumb jock—”

  “My brother plays baseball—”

  “Figures.”

  “—and he’s not a bully.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Alice glanced away, sorry she’d made common cause.

  The group emerged from the lunchroom and headed for the bench. They’d all become Girl Scouts, hanging out at weekly meetings in a church basement on College Avenue. Now and then they would meet at each other’s houses in small groups; that way, Nora and Tammy had come in a group to Alice’s house. Her mother had been showing them how to bake a casserole when her brother had shown up, fresh from the gym, surprised by the room full of girls. Almost before they could respond, he’d gathered himself up, wiping a sweaty forehead and assuming an aloof face. Then they’d had a good look, admiring the all-American face and unruly blond hair before he grinned and loped away. Since then, Tammy and even Nora had made a pal—sometimes a leader—of Alice.

  Tammy leaned, one hand playing in her hair. “Baseball used to seem so boring,” she remarked, shifting the subject. “Not anymore.” Dangling one leg over the other, she scanned the playground, smiling, as though some imagined baseball game had just come to ground.

  “Do you play?” Alice asked.

  Tammy smothered a laugh. “Oh, I’m no good. I just watch.” Gazing on a group of boys tussling by the fence, she wound a strand of hair around one finger.

  Nora smiled. “I play baseball sometimes,” she announced, peering past Debra to Alice, “and I’m no bully.”

  A scruffy boy ran by in jeans and long, tangled hair. He was followed by another of the same style. Alice was feeling keyed-up; if only she could leave the girls on the bench and run over and join them.

  Debra’s gaze pursued them, withering. “Some of those boys,” she murmured, aghast. “I mean, look at them.”

  Hands propped under her chin, Nora was surveying the yard. “Look—there’s another one, over by the fence!”

  The boy was a new breed—pure Telegraph Avenue. Bell-bottoms, grimy jeans jacket, hair tumbling over the shoulders.

  Tammy giggled. “Maybe he’s on LSD.”

  The others paused for a moment, adjusting to the thought. Alice wondered how it could be—after all, even her brother was too young for drugs.

  “Sure seems freaky enough for that,” Debra concluded.

  “Maybe he doesn’t need it.” Tammy chewed a strand of hair. “My mom says, at our age we’re all naturally stoned.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  Tammy giggled again, collapsing her head on her knees.

  “What age is that?” Nora inquired.

  “Oh . . .”

  “Speak for yourself,” Debra repeated.

  Tammy gave her a gray-eyed stare. “Oh, I am.”

  “How freaky you are.”

  Nora glanced at her watch. “Hey, I need something from the library. C’mon, Tammy.” Then she added, “Alice, you coming?”

  They abandoned Debra on the bench and headed for the school door, passing a group of black girls grouped around a transistor radio, talking eagerly. Hovering aloof from the group, one girl swayed loosely on long thin legs, clapping to the beat, as though on the edge of a dance floor.

  When they reached the door, Nora paused. “There’s nothing I really want in there. I had to get away from that Debra, she’s so . . .”

  “. . . freaky,” giggled Tammy.

  The bell rang. As Nora and Tammy ran off, Alice hung back, hoping for a moment alone before confronting Jocelyn again. Fingering her ring, she wandered through the hallways, dawdling, delaying, and finally reaching her classroom long after the bell. She’d never come in late before; such a random, personal moment during the school day was something new. Approaching the room, she heard the sound of Mrs. Whitman’s voice, reading from Manchild in the Promised Land. As she slunk through the door, Mrs. Whitman looked over.

  “Alice, where have you been?”

  “In the library.”

  Tammy flashed a smile, as though colluding in the lie, and Alice heard guffaws from Vaughan and Michael. Looking around, she felt a tingling in her face; all eyes were on her as she confronted an alarmingly empty space—her seat, the way it would be if she’d gone somewhere for good, like Tree Frog. Mrs. Whitman’s eyes were vaguely sad, as though concerned or even baffled by Alice’s small revolt. As she resumed her reading, Vaughan was heard mumbling, “How come she never punish no white girl?” as the guffaws rose louder.

  Mrs. Whitman looked up from the book.


  “Vaughan and Michael!”

  “Huh?”

  “Whaaa . . . ?”

  “Vaughan Thompson!”

  Vaughan glared back at her. “That’s my name,” he responded, angry. “You want my address?”

  “Vaughan, you know that’s no way to answer.”

  “I do as I please. You ain’t nothin’ to me.”

  The room hushed. They’d seen Vaughan go up against Mrs. Whitman, but never so rudely, so unapologetically. Vaughan was angry and charged up by the feud with Jocelyn and the seeming unfairness, and Michael, refusing to be outdone, glowered at Mrs. Whitman and gave a sullen jeer.

  “I can show you who’s the manchild.”

  Mrs. Whitman slammed the book down and rushed from the room, her face red and clenched. The response was new and alarming; no one could say what would follow. Some among the class were enjoying the showdown; others were dismayed by the end of the reading hour. Jocelyn sat, hands folded in her lap, gazing on Mrs. Whitman’s empty desk. Tammy was peering covertly at Vaughan and Michael, as if in sympathy. The moments passed in an awkward lull. Someone coughed; someone else made a drumming sound; whispering began. Nearly ten minutes had elapsed when they heard the clacking of heels and a tearful Mrs. Whitman appeared, followed by the dean, Mr. Haynes, a large, lean black man whose head was always cleanly shaved. In one hand he grasped an aluminum yardstick, swinging it loosely.

  Mr. Haynes marched before the class and faced them, heels together, shoulders squared.

  “Vaughan and Michael!” he said sternly.

  The boys slumped. “Yessuh.”

  Mr. Haynes glared down on the offenders. “How come you’re talking back to the teacher?”

  Vaughan hung his head; Michael scowled.

  “Now, who says you can do that?”

  There was no response.

  “You boys gonna answer me?”

  “Nobody says,” mumbled Vaughan.

  “Then how come you’re doing it?” Mr. Haynes gave a sour-mouthed nod. “Well, young man, I’m gonna see that you stop. Now, come on up here.”

  Vaughan made no move as Mr. Haynes rapped the yardstick hard on Mrs. Whitman’s desk. “I said come here!”