by Sarah Relyea
Joe murmured by her ear. “We’re leaving the Avenue.”
“Bummer,” Jim grumbled. “Dan’s already gone.”
They rounded the corner by a row of houses. Her legs were leaden and aching as she slogged through damp leaves. Before she could imagine a plan, the others were saying goodbye, and she was alone in the dampness, the freshness, the sweetness of evening.
She was feeling an odd euphoria as she ran along Forest Avenue, passing other people’s houses. Hearing a pounding in her head, she ran on, for the joy of moving freely. A hedge, a dogwood tree . . . Rose canes and red-black flowers bobbed by her arm, luring her in. She leaned, parting the canes with her hand, and the thorns dug in; she felt a stabbing and a tearing as she struggled free.
Wind was cooling her face. She crossed the lawn. In her hand was a branch bearing four red rosebuds—her mother’s present.
Soon she was in the foyer, hearing sounds coming through a tunnel from the inner recesses of the house: an echoing ocean roar, and submerged, whispering voices—her mother’s, eddying in rising and diminishing waves. Alice’s euphoria was flagging. Hours were meaningless, she’d done nothing wrong; even so, the foyer was a treacherous cage.
Her mother gave a cry. Then came her father’s scary hush. Alice thought of the glowing underworld she’d seen, foaming up from beneath the Golden Gate. She would be herself soon—or would she? Who could say if she’d be the same girl—the one they’d known only yesterday, the one who’d gone out shopping only hours before. She’d never imagined such changes; the group had found her, so easy and so soon. She’d been hoping for camaraderie, but they’d unhinged her, they’d offered hours of madness. Who could say how long Alice would be gone—maybe she’d never come back.
Her family would be holding dinner for her. They would help, unless . . . Alarm sounds from her mother could be heard, pressing closer.
Alice rushed from the foyer. Safely on the second floor, she closed her bedroom door and headed for the bathroom. An uncanny image glared from the mirror: eyes enlarged and black, face greasy, head tousled, a body severed from a mind. Giggles were burbling up even as her mind was awash in raging fear. “No laughing,” Jim had commanded. “No laughing,” she gasped in the mirror.
A comb lay on a glass shelf under the mirror, offering its sharp prongs. She grasped it gingerly and pulled the prongs through her hair. On the walls, flowered wallpaper was undulating, woozy with color. She leaned over the bowl, washing her hands in the flow, then pressed sopping hands over her face. No breathing; a pulse was drumming through her forehead. Rubbing her face on a towel, she began breathing again. They’d run down a hill, she thought, feeling a wave of giddy abandon; her pants would be muddy.
She was in her underwear when the bedroom door thumped.
“I’m changing,” she managed to say, feeling awed by the concept. She had changed—and now what would they do?
She pulled cleaner pants from a heap on the closet floor and yanked them on. Another thump. “Come in,” she called. As she faced the door, her father’s cold, assessing eyes were on her.
“Come down,” he commanded, adding, “Charles is here. Your mother’s been expecting you.”
Of course, thought Alice, awash in unaccustomed insight and contempt, he was always pushing problems on her mother. She suppressed a surge of laughter. “I’m coming.”
Her father’s presence was weighing on her as he scanned the room, taking in the muddy pants on the floor, the signs of a rushed cleanup. As he was eyeing her, she began feeling an unpleasant glare of recognition.
“I have some wrapping to do,” she mumbled.
“Your mother says now.”
He moved away, leaving the door ajar. Once he was safely gone, she remembered the flash of awareness on Gayley Road: Her father was away on Saturdays, rooming with Charles. And now Charles was here! A surge of giggles overwhelmed her. “Maintain, maintain,” Joe had counseled, as though they could fool everyone. And as they were saying goodbye, Valerie had assured her, “Your family will never know.” That was small comfort when her mind was foaming. Her family was dumb, but even so . . .
Longing for a comforting face, she made her way through the house. She should never have come home so soon. Anger was always there, she suddenly knew—a web of censure and concealed purposes.
She passed the living room, where a man was leaning by the fireplace, one hand around a highball glass. Larger than her father and formally dressed, here was another of the day’s unknowns.
“Welcome back,” the man murmured, as though imparting a secret. Here was Charles, and her father wore cowboy boots!
Though needing an ally, she made no response. Charles eyed her glumly as she walked on.
In the cavernous dining room, a symphony was playing and candles were dancing in readiness for the feast. Charles was the king, or maybe the hangman. Off with her head!
Her mother came through the doorway and paused, flushed and scowling. Her eyes had a glare Alice had never seen before. She was the queen. Off with your head!
“Here she comes.” Her mother was gathering herself together. “You’re awfully late. Where have you been?”
“Looking for a present.” The response sounded lame. No one would go along with the charade—or would they? She was counting on change now—but they could cover up problems just as before.
Her mother slammed a cupboard. “And you found something, finally?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m eager to see.” Plates clanged on the sideboard. “Let’s eat, then, before it gets any later.”
Now her father began probing. “What happened?”
Unburdened by any sense of falseness, Alice spun a foolish tale. “I saw a girl—from my class. Tammy.” Her words were coming from far away. “I thought it was early. The sun was there.”
“Where’s your watch?” Her father reached for her arm, but she eluded the grasp. “Lost already?” he pursued.
“No.”
“Wear it from now on.”
Her mother glared. “You saw Tammy where—on Telegraph Avenue?”
“On the campus. Her father’s a professor.” The words sounded as false as if she’d rehearsed them.
Charles was by her shoulder. She was cornered and would have to say more. “The campus was muddy.” A laugh was coming on.
“Muddy?” her mother demanded. “Go and change, then. And hurry up.”
“Oh, she’s clean enough,” Charles said, smiling. Why was the hangman coming to her defense?
Now her father looked her over, his mouth curving vaguely up. “She changed already. When you came in, eh?”
She made no response. He’d done the same thing—coming home, running up, changing out of the cowboy boots before anyone could see him. That’s why he wore them—because of mud. He was the dangerous one; he would understand where she’d been because he’d been running through mud.
“Go up and do your wrapping, then,” her mother sighed, barely glancing at her.
Alice went back through the foyer and up the stairs. The roses lay on the closet floor; there was nothing to do in the dimly lit bedroom. Drawn like a moth by the dancing colors from the neighbors’ porch, she leaned on the windowsill. There came a sound by the door; someone had followed her up.
“Come in.”
How long would the flashing colors be there, the fears and giddy abandon—how would she ever come back? There seemed to be no way of controlling the pulsing colors, the flowing sounds and uncanny knowledge, pressing in from everywhere.
Charles was in the doorway. “Everything okay?” he inquired, as though he knew her—as though she should confess. “You look as if something happened.” His eyes moved down her arm.
She should conceal her arm—but where?
“What happened to your watch?”
“It came off.”
“I see.” Charles should be scolding her, but his eyes were shining warmly. “What happened to you today?”
Th
ere he was, formal yet forgiving, as though he could say more.
“Are you coming?” He moved away from the door to let her pass, a gesture her father never made. Then he followed her down to the dining room, where Curt joined them and a gloomy feast began.
The room was dim and reeking of food. Her mother and father faced off across the table, perched on the red thrones from the foyer. Charles, dressed in formal gray, appeared to have come for some undivulged purpose—a spy, maybe. Clearly her father regarded the man as vaguely treasonous.
“You’re on the wrong side,” he charged, accusingly, though Charles laughed it off. Charles was no fool; he was a spy and had a cover.
As the meal was ending, Charles opened the French wine he’d brought, poured freely, and rose to his feet. Then, collar loosened, he led a round of “Happy Birthday,” singing with verve.
Suddenly the grown-ups were laughing—her mother and Charles. Her father slouched on a red throne, seemingly aloof.
When her mother was opening presents, Alice ran up for the roses. Charles smiled and led a toast, and her mother seemed oddly pleased. A symphony played on and on, as though in honor of the sun.
As soon as she could safely leave the room, Alice headed for the second floor. Though her madness refused to go away, she would cover by doing the normal things. Maintain, maintain. Confused and frightened, yet remembering the hours of euphoria, she lay in bed, the covers over her head, unable to sleep. Later, after Charles had gone, her parents convened by her bedroom door, full of suspicion. Her mother was saying, “. . . and her eyes . . . and when the symphony was playing . . . and the roses . . .” Though her father had accused Charles, now he made no response.
The door opened. Light flooded from the hallway, searching, spying. Then the door closed. Mushrooming colors exploded in her eyes.
MORNING CAME. ALICE was no longer feeling woozy. She’d even dozed off just before dawn, only to be woken by the usual rapping on her door. School would be manageable, if only she could lay low and keep away from the girls during lunch; she was in no shape for fending off girl games. More of a worry was her family—though her mother would be sleeping, her father and Curt would be in the breakfast room, making an appearance necessary. There was no way of knowing how much her parents had deduced, or how they would respond to her weird, impromptu lapse—an ordeal, really. If they got angry, the disgrace would be over soon; they would scold and forgive, and she would regain a place in the family. But the family was fragmenting, and she’d gone beyond the pale—unimaginably so. There might be no response; they might give her up to the group. That would be worse than anger, because she’d be alone, and then she’d have a long, hard slog, for sure.
Wearing clean clothes, she made her way through the house. However loony her thoughts now seemed, surely they had some meaning. Her father had been running through mud—he’d been there before; he’d seen through her.
Her father’s muscular presence was cramping the breakfast room. His body made her queasy. Curt came in, glancing her over slyly and smirking, pleased with himself. But her father was deadpan—could he even see her? Or was she beneath contempt? Alice was having forebodings of things crashing down soon enough.
The eggs had congealed, cool and rubbery. She pushed them away.
“Bad eggs?” her father demanded. The edgy snarl made her cringe.
“Not hungry,” she muttered.
Her father gave a shrug. “May I?” He scraped the eggs onto his own plate and dug in. Then, barely nodding, he headed for the front door. Curt followed, barely glancing at her.
Feeling a wave of shame, she fled for the school bus before her mother could appear.
THE BUS PULLED up by the schoolyard fence. Alice hung back, wary of what lay ahead. Would she have a new group? A group should be chosen; more amorphous than a family, it would nevertheless confer bonds and a place in the world. Family groups were supposed to be defining; yet her family no longer cohered, no one any longer chose to belong.
She’d been pondering the problem for weeks. The group of girls was frustrating: always talking and playing psychological games; always gossiping about each other, about family.
As Alice was crossing the crowded playground, Tammy came up slyly from behind. Only the day before she’d been wearing a Scout uniform; now she had low-riding bell-bottoms that could have come from the jeans shop on Telegraph Avenue. She was growing up—slender and newly graceful, she was made for the look.
“How was your mom’s party?” Tammy asked. She would rehearse everything normal from the day before, as though welcoming Alice back.
“Okay,” Alice said with a shrug, soothed by the other girl’s face.
“Really?” Tammy eyed her, suppressing a giggle. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Dunno.” Tammy shrugged, mimicking Alice. She was astute, responsive, and that made her dangerous.
“Well, my mom had fun.” Alice expanded as well as she could, considering the events of the day before. Then, feeling that more was expected, she added, “My father’s law-school roommate was there.”
Tammy’s glance was close and assessing. Alice began moving away, but Tammy followed. “What’s your father’s like?” she probed, scenting a morsel of gossip.
Alice, on guard, merely responded, “He’s a government lawyer.”
“So, he’s a conformist,” Tammy pursued. “And he enjoys arguing.”
“Maybe.”
“And your mother?”
Tammy had some hidden purpose.
“She enjoys arguing, too,” Alice responded, freely inventing. The statement sounded absurd.
Tammy nodded, fingering the beads she always wore. “And your father’s law-school roommate? Does he argue?”
“No, he sings. And he pours wine.”
Tammy laughed loudly. “Good for him.”
“My father says he’s on the wrong side.”
“Well, of course.” Tammy paused. “And you—are you going to be a lawyer?”
“Maybe not.”
“But that’s what your father wants, right?”
“Not really.” Alice was feeling sweaty.
“No? What, then?”
“Dunno,” Alice said. She was dying to get away. Tammy’s line of questioning, with its suggestions of teasing and sympathy, made her feel vulnerable.
The other girl’s purpose seemed almost mocking as she leaned in, her face glowing in warmth and amusement, and summed up, “Oh, there’s something you won’t tell me!”
The bell rang. Tammy ran off across the yard.
Now Alice knew why she’d been avoiding Tammy. Tammy could always see when something was wrong—and something was very wrong between Alice and her father. They barely spoke; the few remarks when she’d come home late were the only words they’d exchanged all week. Who could say what he thought of her—nothing good, for sure, even though she’d done no wrong, before the LSD.
She would get away before he could damage her. Even now, there was something good in her.
Her soul was on an island under a cloudy sky, surrounded by a glassy sea. The schoolyard hung all around her, an unhappy world closing in, but she longed for a faraway place of eucalyptus hills, purple in the new day.
Where was the group? Running through mud . . .
As though summoned by her thoughts, they appeared, running through the crowd under the playground’s only tree. Laughing and wild, they passed her by; maybe she’d find them during the lunch hour.
Hearing the pealing of bells, Alice slipped through the doorway of Mrs. Donnelly’s sixth-grade classroom. There was a soothing feeling in the stagnant room. The day would be undemanding—and for once she was glad. Desks slammed. Mrs. Donnelly perched on her desk, her head graced with curls and waves: a new hairdo. Her eyes were cool, commanding order. The day began.
The morning passed slowly. Tammy was by the window, poring over a book, only now and then moving her eyes from the page. Debra was busy, as usual, doing w
ork she’d brought from home. Nora was pondering Mrs. Donnelly’s new wave. And Alice was immersed in the flag that hung above Mrs. Donnelly’s shoulder.
The classroom was jolted by the lunch bell. Mrs. Donnelly paused, running her jaded gaze over the students. Ignoring her former group, Alice ambled through the door alone.
Before she could get away, Nora ran up. Blonde and bouncing, she managed to make even jeans seem like a uniform.
“Are you coming to lunch today?” she demanded.
“No.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
Nora’s mouth hung open. “How come you never have lunch?”
“Not hungry.”
“Oh, you’re saving money for something!”
Alice shrugged, annoyed by Nora’s game.
“Yes, you are.” Nora’s face glowed, sly and smirking.
“So what?”
“Does your mom know you never buy lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Do you buy candy?”
“No.” Alice glared, contemptuous. “How dumb.”
Nora glared back. “Then what do you spend it on?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Oh, I just thought you’d want to tell . . . someone.” The other girls were emerging from the classroom, Tammy gesturing urgently for Alice to accompany the group. Nora turned back, her glance shrewd and level.
“So—are you coming?”
“No.”
Nora spun on her heels, as the group headed for the lunchroom.
Alice made her way slowly through the halls and double doors to the playground. The yard was empty: the others were jamming the lunchroom. She wandered along the fence, watching the yard, the street, the cloudy sky. She was feeling drained. A few people wandered through the lunchroom door. A group of black girls, one rolling a hula hoop, ran by. Boys appeared in groups of three and four, chasing each other. Alice could have been running free, but her group was nowhere to be seen.
Tammy appeared, coming along the fence. Alice was feeling wary—Tammy knew too much. The other girl held up a magazine and waved her over.
“I found something really cool.” She opened the magazine to a color photograph of people in feathered masks and body paint, dancing on a gorgeous beach. “Here, look. So groovy.” Though Tammy was joking—her usual sly and worldly humor—in her eyes lay a restless curiosity.