Playground Zero

by Sarah Relyea

  Sabrina swept back her bangs. “Oh come now, you’ve never played the heavy, why should the poor Chancellor? You know Governor Reagan is the problem, not your guys.”

  “Reagan intruded on our problems because we refused to solve them. Now we’ve seen how far he can go. We’re the enemy now.” Michael was gazing gloomily around the room. “And Reagan has no careless, magnanimous ways. He’s shepherding resources for the ongoing war—on us.”

  Helen wagged her head. “Fucked up, man, what they’re doing.” She lay on her back now, her dark hair spread over the floor in a halo. “Man, that park was so beautiful . . . of course they had to make war on us.”

  “Were you there?” Alice whispered.

  “Sure . . . weren’t you?”

  “Once—”

  “I thought she was much too young for the park,” Alice heard her mother saying, as Curt wagged his head, smirking.

  “There are other arguments,” Sabrina began in a commanding tone.

  “Yeah, how about your women’s group,” Helen called out, “and what they say about orgasms?”

  The mothers exchanged wary glances. Things were veering dangerously. Then Sabrina resumed, her speech clear and calm, as though they were in a meeting. “As Michael says, the University of California purchased some land, pushing people from homes to clear the way for development. Then the money ran out and the improvements never came. So people improved the land for themselves, developing gardens and so on. Now those people want control—what’s the legal term?”

  “User’s rights.” The grown-ups hung on Tom’s words as if an oracle had spoken—one that could save them from rumbling anarchy.

  “Ah, yes,” Marian sighed.

  “User’s rights, of course,” Sabrina said, smiling. “What a wonderful concept.”

  “Nonsense,” Michael scoffed. “It’s merely the law of the jungle, somewhat cleaned up. I grab up some land, and once I’ve made good money from it, I become the owner. It’s only moral if you’re dealing with real, uninhabited wilderness.”

  “Come on, there’s no such thing,” Helen muttered.

  “I read something,” Alice heard her mother musing, “about some old Spanish ranchos here, before the Gold Rush. Whatever happened to them?”

  “Americans—Anglos—won the land through the courts,” came her father’s lawyerly response.

  “But how?”

  “Through war, mainly.” Michael was pouring a glass of wine. “Before Mexican independence, the Spanish government chose to grant rancho land to Spanish army men, in exchange for forcing Catholicism on the local peoples.”

  “You mean serfdom,” Helen interjected.

  “Yes, of course. They thought it would produce good workers—good serfs. The whole East Bay was one huge rancho belonging to a man named Peralta. Not much farming, just the usual ranch amusements—rodeos and horse racing, cattle roundups, and so on. Then in 1848, the United States won California from Mexico, and along came the Yankees. Here in Berkeley, a man named Shattuck squatted on Peralta land, and when the courts were through the land belonged to Shattuck—known, of course, as Berkeley’s founder and early developer.”

  Sabrina smiled. “So then, squatting’s in the scheme of things.”

  “And how,” murmured Helen.

  “Only useful, enterprising squatting,” Tom deadpanned. “User’s rights endorses economically meaningful squatting, as opposed to mere camping. Maybe those People’s Park folks improved the land, maybe not—for now, Reagan’s the judge of that.”

  “So what you’re saying, Tom,” Marian summed up dryly, “is that unless we plant a garden very soon, some group could come along and occupy our yard.”

  “Yup,” Curt nodded.

  “That would be pushing the case law. However, if the yard became enough of an eyesore, the neighbors could legally compel us to do something about it.”

  “But what I’m asking is: Could they grow marijuana in my flower beds and gain control of our yard?”

  Helen gave a war cry.

  “Because when you come down to it, Tom, that’s how People’s Park came about.”

  “Not exactly,” Michael corrected. “The park belongs to the people of California. So the problem becomes: Why is the people’s land reserved only for the very few?”

  “Even public land is governed by rules,” Marian argued. “Suppose a caravan of people wanted to form a squatter’s community in Golden Gate Park?”

  “Oh man, they already have,” Helen announced, “and it’s far-out.” There was an awkward pause. Helen rose on her knees. “Don’t you get it? They murdered a man over People’s Park—he’s gone! They’d be happy to murder us all,” she remarked gloomily. “Someone told the cops they had to stop shooting—‘You’re killing my friends,’ he told them. And you know what the cop said? ‘That’s what you get for fucking around.’”

  She rose and, giving them a withering glance, abandoned the room.

  Alice was impressed by the wild, fearless girl—and scared by her. How would she manage among such peers? Helen’s rebel words were exciting, but also daunting. There was danger in them; everyone in the room was feeling the moody anger, as though a fire had just caught and they were facing the leaping flames.

  OVERLOOKING NEARBY YARDS and wiltingly hot, the sunporch was secluded from the family. Through oak branches that dangled leaf-heavy by the window, Alice could see the comings and goings of young people on the neighboring veranda. She was feeling caught up in the group’s camaraderie as a bearded man sang, strumming a guitar. It was already July; her brother was off playing baseball, while her mother was in the bedroom, napping as usual.

  Alice was paging through the Berkeley Barb. Newspapers were new for her—she’d begun with the Barb and had no grounds for comparison as she leafed through eulogies to People’s Park, outraged censure of the occupying forces, mourning hymns and rallying cries. The paper appeared regularly in the house for the enlightenment of one or another of the Raysons. It would be her way of learning how the world was changing, as everyone around her was forming groups, agendas, plans for a new order.

  There were the gushing early columns on the people’s Eden, evenings when someone sounded a drum, pounding the rhythms of work and love. Soon drumming came from shovels and cans, summoning the park workers round the fire for a communal feast—the sharing of roast pig and smoking of grass. Photographs showed a woman’s form, nude and young, gleaming in the light from the bonfire’s leaping flames. The free men among us have made a homeland near Telegraph Avenue. But the pigs are planning the rape of a dream—stealing our homeland, replacing our Park with a holding pen guarded by savage dogs. And those of us who refuse to go beyond where we’ve gone so far will have to get out. Another column claimed the park had founded a strange freemasonry—“What is freemasonry?” Alice murmured aloud—of street people and mothers. She thought of her mother, who’d gone to Peace and Freedom Party meetings but then dropped the group. Some mothers had been ready, it seemed; some had gone very far—in fact, her mother had gone very far. And why had she changed?

  Glancing up, Alice saw the neighbor’s veranda through the leaves, a man and a woman fondling each other, the woman’s hand caressing the man’s thigh. Lured by the unfolding idyll, she wondered if they could see her through the trees.

  Then came the fence and the bayonets, the skirmishes on Telegraph Avenue and photographs of the wounded, followed by days of confrontations, gassings. She’d seen the pages before and remembered the phrases: We must build a People’s Army . . . Capitalism is a deadly drag . . . Mayor Johnson, leader of the occupation force’s Quisling government—“and what is a Quisling?” she murmured again, promising herself that she would ask her mother, if her mother ever reappeared from the bedroom. Days of marches, then an appalling finale . . . the release of gas over Sproul Plaza—CS, the standard gas used in flushing out tunnels in Vietnam . . . At Tolman Hall pigs barred the doors and stood by laughing as people squirmed in seeming suffocation.
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  Reading on, Alice reveled in the camaraderie. On any corner, people smile and nod, sharing news, candy, grass, and conjecture. We’ve learned to live in the flash of our shared dream and resolve. A pig car lurches up and we’re clubbed and handcuffed. We’re on our bloody streets planning revenge—and they’ll never enclose and suppress our dream, for we are stealing everyone’s children.

  Surging from a collage of People’s Park photographs was a Black Panther holding a gun, and on the following page, an image of nude and laughing girls—three or four years old—playing in the grass. In the sun-drenched room, her body seemed drugged. She folded the paper, feeling confused by the ravaged Eden, the nude images, the guns and rebel words.

  A presence loomed and she glanced up—her mother had appeared, a wary look on her face. Wondering what she would say, Alice surveyed the faded rug.

  Finally her mother sighed, gloomy. “You’re reading about all those things. Why?”

  There seemed to be nothing to say. Alice glanced up at the veranda, where the couple continued the embarrassing fondling.

  Her mother followed the glance. “Why do you come up here? You’ve read those papers already,” she snapped.

  Alice suddenly remembered something. “What’s a Quisling?”

  “A leader who serves the enemy—a puppet, a collaborator. Why?”

  “Just wondered.”

  “And who are they calling a Quisling?” Her mother sounded annoyed.

  “The mayor.”

  “Who can even remember the mayor’s name?” her mother said sharply. “But of course we all know he’s a Quisling.” She turned in fury from the doorway, leaving Alice alone in the sun-baked heat of the room.

  There was a long backlog of things Alice could have been saying, as new spasms convulsed her world and old ones receded. But who would hear? Or would she go on, never bothering to say, because no one would hear? As she wondered, she heard the words in her head, forming tales: things happening, though no one would hear. Words passed in a rushing river, and as one tale ended, another began. She was feeling overwhelmed by things to say. Sometimes she rehearsed a story, changing it for the good; then she could remember it whenever she began to feel something bad.

  Marian

  CLOSING HER BEDROOM door, Marian glanced in the mirror. Her eyes were puffy, her cheeks flushed. She was aging; she was feeling abandoned and fearful. Ginger was becoming a formidable danger—if things continued, Marian’s life would be damaged forever. Yet she’d never even seen the woman. Marian examined her own angry face, her scowling eyes, damp and glossy, and unhappy mouth. Ginger would be carefree, of course; the signs of her easy, sexy command were becoming clearer day by day. She’d rejuvenated Tom, gifted him with hope—the complacency of a man who saw things going his way.

  Or was Marian imagining things? Of course California was good for Tom, freeing him from the pressures of a career in Washington. Open space, good weather, informal clothing—he’d found a personal paradise.

  Nonsense. He was dallying impulsively with a loose female lawyer, leaving Marian to manage the family.

  The bedroom phone rang. “Hello?” she responded, feeling weary of everyone.

  “It’s Sabrina. Are you coming on Wednesday?”

  Sabrina had been urging her to rejoin the women’s group. So far Marian had begged off, fearing Tom would respond by becoming even more aloof. “Oh, Sabrina. I’m sorry.”

  “We’re reading the essay,” Sabrina cajoled.

  “The essay?”

  “Yes, the one about orgasms. I assume you’ve seen it?”

  “Yes.” Orgasms were a phenomenon Marian would never feel comfortable discussing in a group—even a group of women.

  “And?”

  “Every couple has problems, I imagine.”

  “Some problems are general.”

  “Maybe.”

  “How’s Tom?” Sabrina asked, lowering her voice.

  “Oh, nothing’s changed.”

  “Maybe the group can help.”

  “I’m sorry, Sabrina. Could we just have lunch?”

  “Good idea.”

  They rang off.

  Marian opened a dresser drawer and removed an envelope. The card from Charles, Tom’s law-school roommate, had come in May, during the People’s Park uproar. Even so, she’d been pleased to hear from Charles, who was in Los Angeles. When they’d last heard from him, in Washington, he’d been working for an aerospace company—bombers and spacecraft, presumably. That could be awkward—among other things, he would argue for the war, and under Nixon, he’d probably gone Republican. Even so, Tom and Charles had once agreed on many things, at least in the legal world. During the years in Washington, however, geography had been a problem. And then Charles’ wife had passed away, leaving him and the boys alone, and he’d fallen out of touch. Marian remembered him with a yearning fondness.

  Now Charles was suggesting coming up to Berkeley for a few days and bringing the boys. So far Tom and Marian had made no response. How regrettable—poor Charles would feel they’d forgotten him.

  She was feeling an unaccustomed surge of energy. She should be enjoying things—why should that woman Ginger be given the reins? She and Charles would make plans, and Tom would have to agree. Company—another family—would cheer her up and soothe Charles as well. He would bring good French wine, and the house would have energy. They would help each other by remembering when they’d been happy.

  chapter two

  Alice

  THE SCHOOL BUS dropped the girls on College Avenue. It was January, and the group, now in Mrs. Donnelly’s sixth-grade class, was heading for a Girl Scout meeting—all but Alice, who’d quit the Scouts. She had regrets; she’d imagined replacing the group, but now, months later, found herself spending afternoons alone while the other girls were at meetings. They gossiped, and though gossip made her uncomfortable, she was aware of missing out. After People’s Park, however, the green uniform and badges seemed wrong, an ugly getup for aspiring guardsmen. She could never be a guardsman, one of the enemy. And so her uniform lay on the floor for weeks. Then one day she came home and it was gone—washed and folded, in a drawer. Though she’d enjoyed the Scouts and leaving made her sad, she’d already chosen, and there could be no going back.

  Tammy and Nora were buying beef jerky from a corner market. Debra was eyeing the candy. Alice hung back, wishing she could go with them.

  “Going home?” Debra inquired. She’d grown plump, and her uniform bulged.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you do there?”

  “Read . . . play records,” Alice said, with a shrug. In fact, it was her mother’s birthday, and she would be scrambling around for a present.

  “Sounds boring.” Debra enjoyed reading about astronomy, but she made fun of Alice’s books.

  “So’s Scouts.”

  “If you say so.”

  Tammy and Nora came up. They’d both gone vaguely hippie, wearing beads even on Scout days. The beads swayed incongruously over the green uniforms.

  “Well, are you coming?” Nora asked brusquely. She asked the same thing every week, and every week Alice refused, loyal to a mirage of the park.

  “I can’t. It’s my mom’s birthday.”

  “Oh! What did you get her?” Tammy demanded eagerly.

  “A cookbook,” Alice said, lying. Even Tammy would blame her for delaying so long.

  “Well, bye!”

  “Bye.”

  The girls moved off, heading for the church and the leader her mother disapproved of, Mrs. Chaney.

  Feeling blue, Alice ambled up Forest Avenue, passing the school playground near the house. There had been the usual January rains, and the yards were soggy. Looking up the block, she saw a row of London plane trees soaring damp and gray-green above her family’s brown-shingle house.

  Crossing the porch, she found the door ajar. In the foyer, her mother was moving the red velvet chairs, the ones she’d bought in Washington on a spree. They’d been i
n the foyer for over a year, gathering dust; now it seemed they were in demand again.

  “Could you help me?” her mother asked. Her hair was damp from the shower, and she was wearing a new dress.

  “Sure.”

  “Do you remember Charles?” her mother pursued, eyeing her warmly. “He was your father’s law-school roommate. He came to our house in Washington.”

  “Maybe.” Alice had a vague memory of an amusing though formal man.

  “He’s in Los Angeles now. We were hoping we’d see him for New Year’s, but something came up.”

  “Oh.”

  “He just phoned an hour ago, and he’s coming for dinner. I’m so pleased!” Marian paused. “Come, help me get ready.”

  “I was planning on going out. There’s a present I want to get.”

  “Oh, then hurry. Charles is coming around five.” Her mother smiled. “Don’t worry. I can manage the chairs.”

  The day was damp. Alice grabbed her windbreaker and headed for Telegraph Avenue. There would be a jewelry store and a head shop selling incense and dangling earrings. There would be book and record shops. She ran along, imagining Charles—would he be formal, as she remembered? And would her mother send her off early, as she’d done in Washington whenever there were guests, so the grown-ups could talk? Alice was passing rambling yards, houses made of weather-worn shingle, the porches overgrown by tangled flowering plants, the windows hung with loose drapery, faded American flags, or colored glass mandalas. Random melody rang from a wind chime.

  She ran along, soon coming to Telegraph Avenue. Rounding the corner of Telegraph, she paused by the door of a head shop and peered in. Speakers squawked above the doorway; the room’s deeper recesses glowed with fluorescent black light, a shadowy lavender glare. There was nothing for her mother—or was there? She was contemplating candles and hookahs in the window, wondering what the hookahs were for—serving tea?—when a group in peach-colored robes passed by, and she was briefly surrounded. They were swaying randomly, mumbling chants and clanging cymbals, shuffling along in lazy parade. Smoky waves of incense rose from an orange-robed man swinging a censer. Following him, loyal among the careless pilgrims, was a woman with shaven head, her eyes mournful as a hound’s.