Playground Zero

by Sarah Relyea

  “Teacher let that white girl—”

  “Come here!” Brandishing the yardstick, he bore down on Vaughan. The boy cowered, his hands over his head, as the man grasped him by the shoulder, dragging him up and through the rows to the front of the room. There they confronted each other, Vaughan staring through the man’s chest. Mrs. Whitman had moved back from the fray, occupying a place by the door.

  “Now get down there,” Mr. Haynes commanded, grasping the yardstick and pounding the floor once, “and show me fifty pushups.”

  Under the admiring eyes of the class, Vaughan dropped down and, with unrepentant bravado, spread himself full length. Hands firmly planted by the man’s shiny leather shoes, he began pumping wildly. “Three, four, five . . . twenty-one, twenty-two . . . thirty-eight, thirty-nine,” counted Mr. Haynes.

  Suddenly Vaughan collapsed. The man’s legs towered over him.

  “You have more to do.”

  “Can’t do no more.”

  “Hurry up—you’re wasting my time.”

  Vaughan lay gasping on the floor. Then he slowly propped himself through several more pushups. As Mr. Haynes counted each pushup aloud, he slapped the yardstick hard on the boy’s butt, as though keeping time. Vaughan was blubbering now, his face messy with tears. Michael turned from the ugly scene, angry and scowling in defeat, as the class—spellbound and ashamed—absorbed the spectacle of Vaughan’s punishment.

  Mr. Haynes enjoyed humiliating Vaughan and making him cry. Alice had never seen such demeaning punishment in school, and it made her queasy. She’d done something wrong and Mrs. Whitman had let it go; in any case, Mr. Haynes would never have punished her that way—she was white, and white parents would surely be outraged. But Vaughan was black, and that changed the rules. The scene was strange and repugnant, not least because Mr. Haynes was also black.

  As Vaughan slunk away down the row, Mr. Haynes gave the others a sour, frigid smile, as though daring them to jump into the boxing arena for a new round. Then he addressed Michael.

  “As for you, young man—come to my office tomorrow. I want to see what kind of manchild you really are.” And grasping the yardstick, he marched from the room.

  There was an embarrassed hush, and then the final bell rang. Jocelyn turned toward Alice, and the two girls glared at each other in smoldering rage.

  THERE WAS NO reason to go home, thought Alice, where her mother would be napping or reading a novel on the couch. Her mother’s involvement with the Party had ended, and she was now engaged by another group, composed only of women, whose purpose was unfathomable to Alice. So many things were becoming unfathomable. Though she’d had enough of Vaughan and Michael and the trouble they caused, she’d never imagined Mr. Haynes would choose such a degrading punishment. Mr. Haynes was a bad man, she thought; Mr. Boyd, the principal, was reasonable by comparison. Mr. Boyd had scolded her for calling Ben an ugly name; but if she’d tangled with Mr. Haynes, things could have been much worse.

  The school day had been ugly. Jocelyn was a classroom neighbor, no more; yet Alice had hoped for some communication, some casual exchange, even as they went separate ways on the playground. She’d been a fool—the girl detested her. Everywhere around her was anger and conflict. Mr. Haynes was mean, and as he was humiliating Vaughan, a harmless loudmouth, other boys were getting away with worse things every day.

  Lured by the presence of people who seemed safe and peaceful, Alice headed for Telegraph Avenue. Rounding a corner, she came upon a park. The park had sprung up only weeks before from a muddy lot, and though she’d heard her mother refer to it as “People’s Park,” she’d never seen the place.

  On fresh turf, by a young tree, a group of drummers played for a surrounding throng; near them danced a girl in clown face and a long shawl. Her cheeks were painted red and yellow, and there were blue diamonds around her eyes. Flowing cloth hung from her hips as she moved around a boy who was playing a saxophone. As Alice passed by, her mind overflowing with the girl’s lithe movement and the boy’s reedy melody, the image of Vaughan’s misery gave way before a flood of hope.

  Beyond the drummers, groups of young people lounged on the grass. Alice found a bench near a flower bed, where she could see a woman watering the flowers. Opening her book, she began reading. Soon a boy and a girl her age ran up. She’d seen the boy before: he’d been on the playground, and Debra had called him “freaky.”

  The girl ran up, smiling. “Hey!” She and the boy may have been scruffy, but they were more welcoming than Debra.

  “Hi.”

  “I’m Valerie,” called the girl.

  “And I’m Jim,” added the boy. He flashed a big grin. “Our father made this park. Welcome!”

  Laughing and waving, Valerie and Jim ran on.

  chapter four

  The Dupres

  AFTER DAN DUPRES left for California, in 1965, Valerie and Jim stayed in Colorado for three years with their mother, Carol. She’d married Dan at seventeen, not long after the army school had expelled him. They’d done the ceremony before a justice of the peace, who’d frowned on Carol’s maternity gown; and then the baby came. Dan soon found a machinist’s job in a plant near Denver, a place called Rocky Flats. A year after Valerie was born, along came Jim.

  Once the children were in school, Carol found work in a flower shop. Colorful and perfumed, flowers were easy—they never whined. Soon she could arrange and wrap them and sell them to anyone who came along. That was a blessed thing, because one payday, eight years and four days after he’d begun the rounds in Rocky Flats, Dan abandoned family and job to ramble further west. When the phone rang four months later, he had an address in a place near the Naval Supply Center in Oakland, California. He had no money, he told her. Though he left a phone number, she found no reason to call. They were through.

  One day a man known as Hawk came by the shop. A large, rough man, he appeared as though he would not know an orange tulip from a poppy, but when she handed him the flowers—a bouquet of her choosing, red roses, pale lilies, and lilac—he nodded the leather cowboy hat and murmured something too low to hear. When he returned the following week, wanting another bouquet, Carol could see he was courting someone.

  Dan was no flower man, Carol would always say—he dealt in army jargon and beer. The jargon had carved him a place in the army school and then the plant; beer and raucousness won a few hours of freedom. By 1965, when the war began to boom, he’d already passed the favored age; old by army standards, he was reasonably safe. He’d turned yellow anyway, grumbling about the war. Carol never understood why he’d turned so bad, so cowardly; he had a good deal, she was always saying, a government job and a suburban home in the shadow of the mountain.

  Hawk had another job at the government plant. One Saturday evening, he’d purchased a bunch of red roses, held them up, and then handed them back to Carol. For a moment she thought he’d found something wrong with them, but then she understood. Before long he was hanging with her, then moving a few belongings to the house. He was another one for army jargon and beer; not a problem, Carol would shrug, so long as he was no coward, no AWOL man.

  Jim and Valerie shared a room in the small suburban house. They’d always shared a room. Now Hawk was always with Carol, and he was no father. One evening when the room had gone dark, there came muffled sounds.

  “Pssst!”

  “What?”

  “I wanna go somewhere—”

  “Now?”

  “Soon.”

  “Where?”

  “Dunno. But I’m gonna go somewhere.”

  “On your own? How?”

  “Dunno. But I know there’s a way.” Jim lay in the dark, hands folded on his chest. “How come he—never mind.”

  “What?”

  “How come Dad had to leave?”

  “Because he had to.”

  “I know, but why?”

  “How should I know?” Valerie wondered when he would stop. It used to be that he would cry; now he asked unanswerable, imponderab
le things. She wanted to sleep.

  “She’s a . . . bitch,” he added, barely loud enough to hear.

  “So what? What are you gonna do?”

  “I’m gonna leave. You coming with me, or no? Things’ll be better, I promise. No Mom. No Hawk. No school.”

  “Oh no, I’m gonna see what happens here. ‘The morning is wiser than the evening.’”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Dunno, but I heard it somewhere.”

  “Hey, Val, you sure hear some strange things.”

  And so they stayed with Carol and Hawk in the shadow of the mountain.

  One day, the four of them went for a long walk. It was a Saturday, and when Hawk and Carol emerged from the bedroom, Hawk announced that he was going to show them how to climb the mountain. Jim and Valerie would have to learn to do more for themselves, he said. Hawk brought them in the car to the foot of the mountain, where he knew there was a path. Then they climbed up, up, up, following the path and Hawk as he forged ahead, until they had nearly reached the top of a ridge. The whole world unfolded below, or so it appeared to Valerie: slopes layered with evergreen forest, an upland valley dabbed with lakes and ponds, and, above them, gleaming peaks challenging the sky. She thought she could see the house they’d come from crouched at the foot of the mountain, near the glinting surface of a pond, gleaming like aluminum in the sun.

  “Oh, no way,” laughed Hawk. “Too close to the mountain. That’s a house for ski bums.”

  “Then where?”

  “See that clump of houses? Somewhere in there . . .” And he gestured carelessly, as if at a blade of grass.

  There, with everything else, she thought to herself. But she was unsure what to feel; though the house was somewhere below, she was unable to find it among the heap of houses jumbled there.

  Carol gave them a crust of bread and some cheese. Valerie took her bread and cheese and sat down on a rock. She was hungry. When she looked up, Hawk and her mother had found a shady ledge. Her brother had wandered down a path to a small meadow, where he was throwing crumbs to a flock of ravens. Soon he was done feeding them and came up the path, looking for something else to do.

  Hawk and her mother emerged from the shady ledge onto the path, dusting themselves off. Now they were ready to go. The group began journeying down the mountain, the dappled shadows hovering on them, around them. Her mother and Hawk went on ahead, while Valerie and Jim scuffed along the path, snapping low-lying twigs from the trees as they passed and thrashing the bushes with them. Once, as they rounded a bend, they saw a stag bound onto the path. Antlers flaring, the stag turned, surveying them a moment, and then ran on through the woods.

  When they came to the base of the path, the sun had gone and the shadows hung cool and damp as the gloom of a woodshed. Beyond the car rose a small wooden house, a tavern; above the door glimmered a red glass, pouring sparks of gold over those who passed through. Carol pulled Valerie by the arm and told her, “The walk was long. Hawk wants a glass. You and your brother stay by the car—you’re too young to come in. The bartender says no, Hawk says.” She paused long enough to frown. “No wandering off, now. We won’t be long.”

  They went to the car. Valerie scrambled onto the front passenger seat, where her mother now usually rode. Soon her brother was slumbering in the back. She heard the cawing of ravens. She dragged herself along the seat until she was staring through the wheel, one foot pressing on a dead pedal. Her brother awoke.

  “What’s happening?” he yawned, then added, “I miss anything?” as though he’d fallen asleep during a cops-and-robbers program and had just tuned in again.

  She touched the rearview mirror, slanting it so she could see him without turning around. She saw the small shadow along the chin: a scar from when he’d fallen from a jungle gym, before her father left.

  “Well?” pursued Jim. “They coming back or what?”

  “Hawk needs a glass. That’s what she told me.” Valerie turned, smiling. “He’s quenching his thirst.”

  “I could do with some quenching myself. Quench, quench.” Jim paused. “Those ravens sure are happy.”

  “That’s ’cause you fed them.”

  “Naaah, it’s not the same ones. Can’t be.” He opened the door. “Well, I’m going in. You coming?”

  “They told us not to go in.”

  “Who says?”

  “Hawk says.”

  “Hell with him, I need some quenching.”

  “Maybe there’s a stream.” Valerie turned and through the wheel she saw a meadow, and beyond the meadow a forest. “Water comes down the mountain. There’s bound to be a stream.”

  They climbed out of the car and ran, thrashing through tall stalks of meadow grass. Soon the meadow ended in a sparse grove of aspen. It was dusk; they could enter far into the forest before coming upon a stream or small pond.

  “No,” she called, “I’m going back. There’s enough water at home.”

  “C’mon, we’re almost there.”

  “You can have some when we get home.”

  “No way. I’m gonna find me a stream, now.”

  And so they went on, deeper and deeper into the gloom, aspen leaves fluttering overhead, until at length they stood by the bank of a fast-flowing stream. Jim sprang forward, kneeling in the mud, but as he leaned over the rushing stream, Valerie grabbed him by one leg. He glanced up and saw where she stared warily along the far bank. There in the waning light hovered the nose and ears of a lean gray animal; the eyes shone pale yellow.

  “Run,” commanded Valerie, “before that dog jumps over here.”

  And so they ran. They ran and ran through the trembling aspen, coming at last to the forest’s end, and there they stumbled from the shadowy canopy into the meadow, heavy with the last remnants of day. Soon they were near the tavern.

  “What was that?” he gasped.

  “Some dog—”

  “Unh-unh. No way that thing was a dog.”

  “What, then?”

  “Could be a wolf,” Jim concluded. Then he stared around. “Where’s the car?”

  “Dunno.” Valerie glanced at the tavern, chewing on her lower lip. Golden strands heavy as rope fell over her shoulders. “Maybe she’s in there with Hawk.”

  They approached the door of the tavern and leaned, peering in. Near the door slumped a man in jeans and a full mustache. He wore a red-and-black hunting jacket; a young German Shepherd slumbered by his feet.

  “Come on in.”

  Valerie entered the room, followed by Jim.

  “Looking for someone?”

  “My mother and Hawk. They’ve been here for over an hour.”

  “Hmmm. Look around then.”

  Valerie ventured forward, taking in the room. It was early evening and few people were there. Her mother and Hawk had gone—that much was clear at a glance. For a moment she surveyed the room, wondering what to do. Four men were gathered round a table playing cards; another leaned on the bar, smoking and jawing with the bartender. Valerie ignored the card players and approached a corner table, where someone had abandoned a jug of beer. There she found a chrome lighter: a horse galloped across the front, four red rhinestones studding the mane. The horse belonged to Hawk; he would be wanting it. Feeling the chrome cool and smooth on her fingers, she pushed it deep in her pocket.

  Jim was observing the card players. He hung shyly by a man’s shoulder; the man wore a cap shading his face, and he was dealing the cards, slapping them down. The other players scanned the cards one by one as they came; then they played, morose and cool, tossing them on the table. When the hand folded, the dealer glanced up, scanning Jim from head to toe.

  “Oh my, what have we here.”

  “Hey . . .”

  The man gave a raspy laugh. “How’d you come here, son?”

  “Hawk brought me.”

  “Hawk. Oh my.” He panned the room, pausing as he came upon Valerie. “He’s gone now. Along with the lady . . .” There was smothered laughter from the tabl
e.

  Another player, a sunburned man with heavy hands, held up a tumbler of golden rum, beckoning Jim with the other hand. “C’mon, boy, you’re looking dry. Did your ma take you up the mountain?” There was more laughter from the group of players.

  Jim flashed a phony grin. “Man, they took us way far.”

  “I see. Then you’re real dry by now.” A rough hand pressed the tumbler on the boy.

  Suddenly the barman growled, “I warned Hawk, never bring no boy around here.”

  Jim grabbed for the tumbler, but the sunburned man flung it to the ground. “You heard the barman,” he commanded. “Now go on, leave.”

  The barman was glaring, palms on the bar.

  Valerie moved for the door, above which she now saw an enormous bear’s head, stuffed and mounted on the wall. Followed by Jim, she rushed through the door into the unpeopled evening.

  They stood in the meadow near the foot of the mountain, wondering what to do. The road curved gradually beneath a street lamp and then tapered off in the dark. Soon the headlights of a car appeared, rushing toward them in the gloom. “Maybe we can get a ride,” suggested Valerie, who ran to the shoulder of the road and put out her thumb, as she’d seen people do. The car rushed past and then slammed to a halt, the door gaping open. Her mother leaned out, waving impatiently.

  “Hurry and jump in,” she called. “I told you to stay by the car, but what do you do?” She glared at Valerie. “You went wandering back up the mountain, I’ll bet.”

  She shoved them in and slammed the door. The car lurched onto the pavement. Hawk gunned it, and they sped on.

  “Always wandering off,” Carol scolded, never turning around, “same as your father. I should send you there—have your fun with him. You’re the same—always trouble, always wandering off. You want trouble, go stay with Dan.”

  Hawk grunted with amusement.

  Jim’s fingers rapped on the window. “When can I go?”

  Carol turned and glared. “You can go now.” Jim made her mad, for sure. She was always saying he was young Dan and growing up every day—and she’d had enough. “Tomorrow, on the bus—both of you. Gather some clothes, whatever you have, ’cause you’re not coming back.” She paused, as though alarmed by her own words. “You heard me,” she added.