by Sarah Relyea
“From the park?”
“No—,” Valerie began, but Jim cut her off.
“Yeah, from the park. Used to go around with a woman named Carol.”
“Hmmm.” Arlene searched her memory. “How come I never met them? I thought I knew everyone.”
“Maybe they had other names,” Jim said, smiling. “You know, like Marlboro Man. That’s not his real name.”
“So what are they called?”
“Who?”
“Hawk and Carol. What do people call them?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Jones.”
“You’re joking.”
“Naaah, what’s wrong with Jones? Hawk Jones—that just about fits. Right, Val?”
Valerie made no response.
Arlene was drying her hands on her legs. “I see.”
“Yup—Mr. and Mrs. Jones. That’s what we call ’em.”
Arlene smiled. “Like in the Bob Dylan song.” Then she sang softly: “And you know something is happening . . .”
Jim laughed.
“. . . but you don’t know what it is. Do you, Mister Jones?” Well, that’s all gone,” she sighed. “You won’t be seeing them anymore.”
“And that’s just fine,” Jim said, sadly.
chapter five
Alice
TAMMY, NORA, AND Debra were already members of the Girl Scout troop when Alice signed up. It was Tammy who’d pushed her to rebel, while her mother pooh-poohed the Scouts as a dreary, humdrum group for unimaginative girls, demanding, “Are you sure you’re a joiner?” The word “joiner” had made Alice vaguely uncomfortable, as though she were succumbing to a dangerous contagion, but she’d gone ahead anyway, in the hope of doing something with Tammy, even if that would be confined to congregating weekly in a church assembly room and managing the school day in uniform. And so on Thursdays, she now showed up in the lunchroom as one of a group in Girl Scout array, resembling army nurses. The uniforms left Alice feeling aware of her long bare legs—by comparison, Nora enjoyed showing off her soccer legs and swimmer’s shoulders; Debra’s flesh bulged; and Tammy dangled her spindly limbs as though juggling umbrellas. If only Alice could be happy as a follower, she would be subsumed by the group under Nora’s command.
The beleaguered foursome had formed under pressure. Being in a group had problems, especially when some of the members were less appealing than the girls they made fun of—for example, Kathleen, a lively person from a Catholic school in the neighborhood. Of course that made her an easy target for Nora and Debra.
“Her school is freaky—no boys,” Nora scoffed, as she passed on the embarrassing rumor.
“And they go to chapel,” Debra added.
As usual, Tammy was aloof from the group, even while enjoying its bonds. “They say she has four brothers,” she shrugged, smoothing things over. “That’s enough boys.”
Nora gave her a cool glance. “Have you seen them?”
“No.”
“They’re Ken dolls. They’ve got crew cuts.”
“Yuk,” Debra concluded.
Alice had passed Kathleen’s house and seen her brothers; they were handsome, square-shouldered boys, altogether a good-looking family. But by Berkeley standards, they were clearly nonconforming, boys from a 1950s family drama or an Uncle Sam ad.
“Where’s her family from?” she asked Tammy, doing her best to ignore Nora and Debra.
“You mean you don’t know?” Nora cried, leaning close and blinking slowly so the group could feel Alice’s failing. “They came a year ago . . . from England!”
“London?”
“No, some village,” Nora groaned.
“Oh.”
“Oxford, maybe,” Tammy suggested.
“Oxford? Are you kidding?” Debra demanded.
“Or maybe Cambridge. Her father’s a professor.”
“How do you know?”
Tammy giggled. “Why else would they be here?”
“Because everyone wants to be here.” Nora folded her arms. “England’s a has-been place. My dad says so.”
“They have a queen,” Tammy mused, furrowing her brow as though imagining a very faraway place.
Across the room, Kathleen appeared perky and confident in her green uniform, though vaguely formal, never slouching as the other girls would do. Alice had never seen herself as a sloucher; it was Kathleen who’d informed her, with gleaming eyes, that she was. As far as Kathleen was concerned, many Americans slouched; they were careless, casual, even slovenly. She, on the other hand, came from an orderly place, and though the girls made fun of her, she was leaning on her advantages. She could always find ways of impressing the troop leader, Mrs. Chaney. Mrs. Chaney was a middle-aged woman with grown-up daughters. Long bangs nearly covered her eyes; she enjoyed drama and singing. Kathleen could sing.
They were supposed to be choosing new badges to earn—singing badges were encouraged, and Kathleen already had one—but Alice’s group preferred gossiping, and there were no badges for that. Alice had no badges so far and wondered why she should earn them by learning skills that had no appeal for her: the seafarer’s knots Nora had shown them, Debra’s homemade fig bars, or Tammy’s embroidered jeans.
Suddenly her mother came rushing through the doorway. The out-of-place figure caught Alice by surprise. She gazed for a moment, confused by her mother’s careless clothing: a shapeless old cardigan over her rumpled house dress; no earrings or makeup, only the sunglasses she now wore everywhere; bare legs and sandals. Leaving the sunglasses in place, she approached Mrs. Chaney. While the women conferred, Kathleen could be heard exclaiming, “So you’re Mrs. Rayson!” as though she’d always wondered, as though the slovenly, impulsive woman was even more amusing than her imaginings.
Alice’s mother had never come for her before. There was an odd moment of seeing her with Mrs. Chaney and Kathleen, chummy, heads together. Tammy leaned over.
“How come your mom’s here?”
“Not sure.”
“Your house is so close . . .” Tammy was surveying Mrs. Rayson, her face responding to the casual hurry of the clothing. Alice rarely found her mother embarrassing and was unsure what to feel. Her mother removed the sunglasses, revealing puffy eyes and a scowl that was seemingly fending off some ordeal. “Just passing by . . . maybe,” Tammy added, covering for her, one arm dangling over her knee.
“It’s my brother’s birthday.”
“Oh.” Tammy paused, searching for a response. “Your mom’s busy, then.”
“I guess.”
“You should go,” Tammy concluded.
In any case, Mrs. Chaney was waving her over. She’d dropped her usual bubbly manner for an icy composure; something in Mrs. Rayson’s words had annoyed her. As Alice came closer, she could hear Mrs. Chaney saying, “You’re scaring my girls”; then the Scout leader’s jaw clamped; her plump hands wrung each other.
Her mother made no response. The other girls were now whispering as Mrs. Rayson led Alice through the doorway. Her mother led her along a gravel path away from the church’s high, sun-splashed walls. Pausing by the curb, her eyes fraught with dismay and scorn, she glanced back at the church as though passing judgment.
“That woman—your leader—was angry because I came for you. She accused me of alarming the girls. But something awful is happening, and even Girl Scouts should know.” Her hands were trembling; one grasped the car keys. She gazed over the roof of the Chevy toward the campus, her face clouded by unbearable feelings. Scared and confused, Alice wondered who would come for the other girls.
“Telegraph Avenue’s in an uproar,” her mother continued. “How could I know you’d get home safely?”
“Telegraph Avenue?” For a moment Alice thought her mother was accusing her of planning to go there. The words hung over the suburban scene, so near the danger zone and yet so far.
“Oh, honey, I could just imagine you rushing down there . . .” Her mother grasped her shoulder, smoothing the green Girl Scout cloth, comforting herself by the w
arm touch. “They’ve destroyed People’s Park. Now they’re shooting people on Telegraph Avenue.”
“Who?”
“The cops! They’ve got guns and tear gas!”
“But why would I go there?”
“Oh, how do I know where you go these days?”
Her mother’s vehemence made Alice feel ungrounded, as though she just might do as her mother feared. The calm, tree-shaded neighborhood was confusing and false. A breeze blew in the phony peace, wafting a sour odor. If she rounded a corner, and then another . . .
The news seemed unreal as they climbed in the Chevy. Alice eyed her green hem and bare knees. The uniform seemed confining.
In the warm lull, her mother adjusted her sunglasses and turned the key, starting the car. “The cops came in the dead of night. Then they fenced off People’s Park and trampled the lovely flowers.”
The park had remained a fantasy: Alice had been there only once, the day she’d gone after school. Even so, as they headed up Forest Avenue, serene, barely urban, and only blocks from People’s Park, she was plagued by images that jumbled her thoughts—mangled trees, armed men in uniforms savagely uprooting flower beds.
“When people heard what had happened, they came marching down Telegraph Avenue.” Her mother’s hands clenched the wheel as the car moved slowly along. “The park was a lovely, peaceful thing. Sabrina and I were planning to take you girls someday. But now I’m appalled by everyone—the cops, the university administrators, and the demonstrators wreaking havoc. I thought we could do things in an orderly manner. Why must people go so far?”
Only days before, her mother had admired the park people. Now she was blaming them and everyone else.
They parked by the house in the long shadows. Her mother seemed to be resolving something in her mind. “The demonstrators have gone mad,” she began, grasping Alice’s hand and squeezing hard. “Why won’t they leave and go home?” The cardigan hung loosely, an anonymous garment once belonging to her father. “The cops are just as crazy. They even gassed your brother in the junior-high-school gym—thank God he’s safe.” Then with a weary sigh, “Confronted by so many angry people, maybe I would do the same. Who knows anymore.”
In the ensuing pause, droning could be heard, then a dog began barking. “Gassed him?” Alice wondered aloud, uncomprehending, though she’d heard clearly enough.
“Yes, tear gas!” her mother snapped.
“And he’s okay?”
“Yes, he escaped along with the others. But how awful for them. The boys planned a game in honor of Curt’s birthday. Such a lovely thing to do. And then the damn cops gassed the gym!” She yanked the keys from the ignition. “Everyone’s gone mad—the cops, the mob, everyone.”
Her mother opened the car door. Alice was feeling shaken. She’d always heard the people were good—and it was the cops who’d done the gassing, not the mob.
Slamming the door, her mother headed for the house, calling over her shoulder, “He was recovering when I went out. I’ve got to see how he’s doing.”
Her mother ran up the walk, cardigan flapping. She’d never run before. Alice came through the grass, feeling jealous and confused. The danger having receded, the story was more intriguing than scary: he’d been where it was happening. She imagined the scene, wondering what she would do. The Scout uniform was absurd; she would be surrounded by people wearing something resembling her brother’s torn jeans and jersey, jammed together in a surging crowd. Her mother had hoped she would enjoy the park someday. Now it was gone forever. Alice was feeling rebellious—yes, she thought, glancing toward the campus, her mother’s ideas were changing; only days ago, she’d been glowing when she spoke of the park, and now they were an awful mob . . .
A heavy mechanical throbbing poured from the sky. Looking up, Alice saw a helicopter swooping low over the trees, spewing gas from the belly. Fleeing through the grass to safety, she slammed the door and found herself alone in the foyer, confronting her own uniformed figure in the mirror: bangs askew over her mother’s almond-shaped eyes; arms and legs slender and bare; the anonymous green of someone else’s team.
As she glared, imagining tearing off the uniform, her mother appeared on the second-floor landing.
“He’s coming down,” she called. “He’s feeling well enough for dinner.”
They gathered in the living room. Curt was wearing a pajama top and old jeans he’d nearly outgrown, which made him seem older. He had puffy swellings around the eyes, under a lush, sun-bleached wave overhanging the forehead.
“What happened in the gym?” Alice asked.
Curt shrugged, rubbing a hand under the pajama collar. “We were just playing a game. Cops ran in, clearing the gym. Then before we could get out, they gassed us.” The words had an angry edge.
“Oh no!” her mother cried. “I thought you boys escaped!”
“Cops lobbed some tear-gas grenades, we ran for the door. Damn gas was everywhere.”
“But why would they—”
“’Cause they’re crazy.” Curt seemed edgy, unfamiliar—a brother who’d gone far away and come back. “I hope they get what’s coming.”
Her mother responded slowly. “And what do you suppose is coming?”
“Someone’s gonna stomp them.”
Her mother’s eyes were damp. “Your father’s coming home soon. Go and shower.”
“One of the guys was gassed before. He was okay.”
“What—one of the boys you know?”
“Don’t freak out. He was okay.”
Curt shrugged and was gone, leaving an unpleasant hush. Soon the hush was filled by the sound of rotors whirling overhead.
WHEN CURT CAME back down, damp-headed and wearing fresh jeans and a blue-and-gold Cal jersey, Marian was preparing dinner, a beef stew.
“Have a snack,” she suggested soothingly as he came loping in.
“Not hungry.”
“Honey, are you sure?”
“Can we hear the news?”
Though her mother usually enjoyed the news while cooking, she gave a weary shrug. “Right now?”
Ignoring her, Curt found KPFA, the local left-wing FM station. They heard a somber male announcer.
“Today was worse than anything I’ve seen—and yes, I was in Chicago last summer during the unleashing of the police assault there. We could be reporting from the Watts uprising, August of ’65, or Newark, July of ’67, all over again.”
Her mother was chopping onions. “Oh my, he was in the fray. Now we’ll hear everything.”
“Shhh!”
The announcer continued. “Throughout the day cops from surrounding areas have been converging on People’s Park and Telegraph Avenue. We’re hearing some very scary things about the blue-uniformed Alameda County sheriffs. Be forewarned—the Blue Meanies are armed and dangerous. It’s been confirmed that the Alameda sheriffs have permission to fire if they deem it necessary. The authorization is for birdshot only; but we’re hearing reports of buckshot, and scores of people have been wounded, some severely. There have been hundreds of arrests in the Telegraph Avenue area, and Governor Reagan has declared a curfew for 10 p.m.”
A second announcer chimed in. “How have park supporters responded?”
“The response has been overwhelmingly peaceful, although police claim that a small group surrounded and burned a squad car near the corner of Parker and Telegraph. The squad car had been abandoned. No one was harmed.”
Her mother was no longer chopping. “Burning a squad car!” she snapped, turning toward Curt. “That’s not peaceful! No wonder—”
Curt leaned closer, turning up the volume.
“. . . tear gas was used on the grounds of Willard Junior High, only blocks from People’s Park.”
“Do we know what happened?”
“Yes, gas was used in the boys’ gym.”
“Are we hearing you correctly—the junior-high-school gym?”
“That’s correct.”
“And how many of the enemy
were cleared from the gym?”
“Eleven schoolboys, according to the Pentagon.”
“Presumably they were armed with basketballs and very dangerous.”
“Presumably.”
Curt had a glowing smile. “Hey, we’re on the news!”
They heard murmuring and then the second announcer: “It seems we’re in an undeclared state of war—”
“Or not so undeclared. Remember, Governor Reagan placed Berkeley under a state of emergency in early February, during Third World Liberation Front demonstrations in Sproul Plaza. That order remains in effect. And so, we’ve already had four months of ongoing emergency. Now it could go on much longer.”
“What about the shootings?”
“A bystander was severely wounded on a Telegraph Avenue roof. No information yet on his chances. A man has been blinded. And dozens have suffered minor injuries. The Alameda County sheriffs, the Blue Meanies—”
Her mother snapped off the radio. “That’s enough.” Her eyes were shiny. “Thank God there was only gas in that gym.”
Curt was grinning. “They’re gonna stomp those Blue Meanies!”
Alice edged toward the door as her mother opened a cupboard, took down a bowl, then slammed the cupboard door. “Soon they’ll be using guns on schoolboys!”
Through Alice’s body flashed an image of Telegraph Avenue and something tearing her as she ran. She was feeling queasy. Her body was cringing, overpowered by mangled figures from the overseas war—a napalmed body that she struggled to push from her mind. The figure seemed both compelling and unreal. A new image formed—a flaming squad car engulfing a man who struggled to flee. The image oppressed her so much that she shuddered, shaking it off.
“What’s wrong?” Her mother sounded dismayed.
“Nothing.”
“You’re bothered by the news.”
“Maybe.” Alice moved away, feeling vulnerable. What was evil, anyway? Was it burning villagers with napalm, or burning a cop in a patrol car over a neighborhood park? She was supposed to refuse . . . regardless of the cause.
“What’s tear gas?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why do they use it?”