by Sarah Relyea
“More groovy than Mrs. Donnelly’s class.”
Tammy giggled. “And just think, we’re in class all day, cramped in our desks,” she scoffed, gathering momentum. “We’re learning to do meaningless paperwork so when the time comes, we can take our places in the machine.” She paused, surveying the response to her new performance.
Alice leaned over the photograph. She was remembering Telegraph Avenue—the neon lights, the glowing orange cones, the three men draped in the flag, the man nibbling on a rose. “You don’t need some goddamn desert island.”
“Gosh darn.” Tammy made a long dachshund face.
“Huh?”
“Some gosh-darn desert island.” She smothered a giggle. “You were saying . . .”
“You can wear feathers and dance around here,” came Alice’s deadpan response. “You don’t need some fucking faraway island.”
Tammy burst out laughing. “No? Even in Mrs. Donnelly’s class?”
“Well—”
“She’d send me to goddamn Mr. Haynes!”
“Maybe.” Alice was smiling; she’d never heard Tammy swear before. “So wear your mask and feathers somewhere else.”
“Such as?”
“When you’re at home. They’ll never know.”
“Oh, I can never fool my mom.” Tammy was looking at her now. “I bet your parents are cool.”
“Maybe . . .”
“I’m sure they are.”
“I guess,” Alice said. “Well, yeah.”
“My mom is cool, but she makes me mad all the same. I know she smokes pot, but she says she’d ground me for doing the same thing.”
“Of course.”
“Man, so crazy.” Tammy nodded and closed the magazine. “How about your mom?”
“What about her?”
“Well, does she?” Tammy leaned in and whispered, even though they were alone. “Smoke pot—does she?”
“Maybe.”
“Have you ever been grounded?”
“No.”
Tammy nodded admiringly. “Your parents are way cool.”
“Not yet, anyway.”
Tammy paused, her eyes sober. “I bet you’re bad sometimes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes you won’t follow orders. Like with Nora—or Mrs. Donnelly.”
“I have no problem with Mrs. Donnelly.”
“So how come you ignore her in class?”
“I don’t. I just get bored sometimes.”
“I’ll say! Today you were staring at the flag all morning.”
“I was thinking—”
“That’s what I mean. Mrs. Donnelly could’ve been a fly on the wall.”
“I have no problem with her.”
“No, you just don’t hear a word she says. She was looking over at you, but you just went on staring at the flag.”
“I was thinking about something.”
“Wow, it must have been deep, because you were in some other zone.”
They wandered along the fence, approaching the gate leading to Ashby Avenue. Gazing back over the playground, they saw a playground counselor tossing softballs with some boys.
“I love baseball,” Tammy sighed.
The pounding of feet made the girls wheel around. As though tagging home, the two boys hauled up as soon as they’d entered the gate. They were her group—Joe and Chris. As they came along the fence, Jim ran up from a corner of the yard.
“Hey, Joe!” he called.
“Jim, my man!”
Jim was wearing the same scruffy clothes. “Where’d you go?”
Joe was laughing. “I’m hungry as a wolf!”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
“Bummer for you. I already had my lunch!”
Tammy pulled Alice away, making an urgent frown. “Do you know him? The one in corduroys, Chris.” Her eyes had a sheen. “He was looking over here,” she added.
“I may have seen him around.”
“Oh, some boys get away with everything.” Tammy blinked. “My mom would really ground me. You know, the basement dungeon. Oatmeal once a day.”
“Sounds bad.”
“Yeah.”
The ball rang. The group of boys ran by. As they passed, Joe turned to wave. “See ya!” And they were lost in the crowd.
chapter three
Joe
ONCE UPON A time in a wood-shingle house in Berkeley, not far from the Red Family commune, there lived a mama bear and her four cubs. Many years ago—so long ago that no one any longer remembered just how it happened—someone told Papa bear about a pond far in the forest and the enchanted swan who made her home there. So one day Papa bear set forth to hunt the swan, and when he’d found her and bound her wings and brought her to the wood-shingle house in Berkeley, the four cubs were very happy.
Then one day when the cubs came home, the swan had flown. Papa bear was also gone. Mama bear, mad and gloomy, told them how the swan had flown away to her pond and Papa bear had followed her there.
The four cubs were growing year by year. Gregory, the oldest, remembered Papa bear well. Papa bear was fun, and when he was in the house, Mama bear was happy and everyone laughed. Then came Paul, but he hardly remembered Papa bear—and mostly he remembered what he’d heard about the pond. He would imagine the swan splashing in the water and the grasses by the border, and he played in the grasses and rolled them up and smoked them. One day Paul learned to sell pond weeds, and now he had a wonderful new . . . a wonderful new . . .
Joe woke to the pounding of bass and drums. He’d been dreaming—not of Papa bear, whom he remembered only from photographs, but of the group he roamed with, three boys and a girl, Valerie. Though Val was no Mama bear, at least she was a girl; she made the gang feel like a family. Joe was glad there was no Mama bear, always angry, always unhappy; now he had a group of boys the same age and could feel cool and proud. He was no longer a younger brother. Even so, the group needed a girl who could bring house and pond and boys all together in one place.
Joe lay in bed, eyes closed, head under rough wool, hearing the marching of ogre’s feet. He’d been hearing it every Saturday for months, the trampling in the living room. There came a pause, as the ogre rolled up some weeds and fumbled for a lighter. Then he resumed the march.
Morning sun splashed on the faded rug. Joe flung off the covers, glad to be free of the heavy woolen army blanket the old man had brought home from the war. Not the war he’d heard so much about—the one happening now, far away in Vietnam—but another one, who could remember any longer why or even where: oh yes, Korea. Joe’s father had fought and come home long ago, before the swan—before Joe. He’d made a world and then he was gone.
Peering through long, uneven bangs, Joe gazed down on the baggy pajamas he wore—Paul’s old ones. Though he had a boy’s slim arms and legs, the hands and feet were already growing. He would be big someday, like Paul, and then no one would push him around. For now, though, he was safe as long as he had a group. The school playground, Telegraph Avenue—he could manage them and do as he pleased.
Loud thumping was coming from the room below: Paul’s new album, announcing that Mama bear, a nurse, had gone for the day. Paul began early on Saturdays, as soon as she left; more than anyone, he had command of the house.
As long as anyone could remember, Joe had shared the bedroom with Anthony, one year younger than himself. He glanced around and found the bed abandoned, a mess of rumpled wool and jeans. Anthony was hanging around a neighbor boy’s house and would be gone for the day. Above Anthony’s bed hung an American flag, brought home by Paul. Joe wondered how he’d come by the flag—Paul was cagey and would never say. He’d ripped it off from a school, for sure—but had he gone in during lunch hour, or crawled through a window at night? If Paul could do such things, so could Joe and the gang. Joe punched the bed, dreaming, planning. For weeks, Paul had been supplying him with grass. He was a buddy.
Near the flag by Anthony’s b
ed hung a poster of the Rolling Stones. Joe looked over the shaggy, flouncing group. The drummer wore a girl’s pale leather boots; Jagger was flashing some leg. Along the lower edge read the words “Free Concert.” Among the four brothers, only Paul and Joe had gone to Altamont—the wild Rolling Stones concert at a speedway south of San Francisco. Paul had gone with some guys from a band, and Joe had gone with Jim and Valerie in a van from Telegraph Avenue. They’d gone early, pushing up near the front. Jim and Valerie had a groovy dad who’d found them the ride. The dad, Dan Dupres, had planned on going, but he had so many things to do. He ran a jeans shop on Telegraph. He was organizing to stop the war. He had a room full of marijuana plants. He was some newfangled dad.
The drumming below surged in a crescendo, paused, and resumed in a slower rhythm. Joe was feeling chill—loose and daring, as if he already had a buzz. He would be running a drop-off for Paul; that done, he would find Jim and the gang. He could roam freely; his mom no longer cared where he was going or when he’d come back. The world was becoming fun and easy.
Joe pulled on jeans, socks, and a soccer jersey and headed for the bathroom. The only sound from below was the moaning of a song. Moving loosely to the music, he found an orange toothbrush, dampened the brush, and began scrubbing. The pounding rose louder, speeding up as he crossed the landing.
Or just another lost angel . . .
From the landing, Joe could see the room below. Near the doorway leaned a dying ficus tree, the only remaining houseplant. Once upon a time it had been a charmed thing shedding sap. He vaguely remembered other houseplants—geraniums and red sorrel—before they’d been alone on Saturdays, before the room had been flooded with marijuana smoke and the crying of the phonograph.
City of night . . .
Paul slumped on the couch by the window, head leaning back. He wore cutoff jeans and a paisley cowboy shirt. Though he had long muscled legs and had begun shaving, he had a girl’s glossy auburn hair, falling damp and loose over hard shoulders, and long, graceful hands. As Joe descended, he could see Paul’s left thumb and forefinger pinching a joint. A plume of smoke rose from his mouth, signs of a smoldering inner fire.
Paul looked up. The eyes were amused and measuring, as though wondering how high Joe would fly before he crashed down. “Here’s my man.”
“Hey, Paul!” Though younger than Gregory, Paul was more daring, more fun. He had things to teach Joe.
A Berkeley High sophomore, Paul made money from the school’s potheads and garage-band boys, who jammed after school and on weekends. Joe had heard how Paul and some pals rode racing bikes through the hills, smoking grass. Other days they would go by van through Marin County. Packing beef jerky, water, and grass, they would leave the van along the upper Muir Woods Road and descend through the canyon’s redwood groves. Joe and the gang would do these things someday, and more: they would sleep on the forest floor at Muir Woods, under the nose of the rangers. He would learn from Paul where the canyon path began; from there they would find the way down. The famous groves would belong to them in dark night; there would be more deer than you’d ever see during the day. During those hours, they would be free . . .
When Joe lay awake, imagining daring deeds, he would see trees as huge as the Campanile.
Joe ran across the room, gliding on bare wood as he reached the couch by the window. For months, the team he’d always formed with Anthony had been dissolving, as Anthony hung around the neighbor boy’s family. Lonely and at loose ends, Joe had sought out Paul, though apart from a physical resemblance—they were pale and long-nosed, and both would be large—they’d never been very close. A younger brother could be useful to Paul, who now saw that Joe was easy, undemanding, in need of fun and numbing, and less moody than the others. Dreamy and loyal, Joe enjoyed smoking grass and remembered how Paul had turned him on. Now he leaned close, bangs framing his face, eyes puffy from sleep, the ends of his full mouth curving up.
“Gimme a toke, man.”
Paul had a deep drag and offered the joint, then changed his mind. “Later, Joey,” he said, coughing.
“Later?” There was a phony urgency in Joe’s voice. “Whaddaya mean?”
“Oh, well . . .” Arm waving by the window, teasing, Paul dangled the joint and Joe pursued, playing the chasing game.
“Gimme the joint,” laughed Joe, “before Mr. Samuelson sees and calls the cops.”
As Paul glanced through the window, Joe made a grab and the coal fell on the floor.
“Now you’ve done it, Joey,” Paul scolded, smothering a giggle.
Joe kneeled. Wincing, he pressed the coal with a thumb. As he was rubbing the thumb on one knee, Paul turned back to the neighbor’s house. Shades were drawn on the lower floor, and the woodwork was peeling. “Old Samuelson never leaves the house,” he commented. “Probably never heard of reefer.”
“Mom will know when she comes home,” Joe teased. “The smoke.”
“I can open a window. She comes back late, anyway.”
“So then, lemme have some.”
“Go ahead, Joey.” Paul waved an arm magnanimously above the floor. “Finders keepers.”
Ignoring Joe, Paul glared through the window at Samuelson’s house, made a monkey face, and flipped off the old man.
Then he eyed Joe, suddenly sober. “You’re gonna do me a favor, remember?”
“Yeah,” Joe nodded, “a drop-off.”
Paul dangled the roach. “Take the stuff to Conrad. He always pays up.”
Joe saw Paul pinch the roach, open a red box, and drop it in. Then Paul pocketed the box. “Lemme know when you’re ready.”
Joe ran down the hall. The kitchen was a large room opening on a porch. In a folding chair on the porch, Gregory was reading a book. He wore glasses and Papa bear’s old blazer; head framed in dark curls and a youthful beard, he could have belonged to another family. The sound of barking came from a nearby yard. Gregory glanced up, eyes concealed by the glasses. Joe, ignoring the older boy who passed for man of the house, rummaged in the cupboard for a box of cornflakes and a glass bowl, as Paul’s new album made a faraway pounding. Joe poured the cereal. He’d learned to be careful around Gregory, who was no longer a buddy, one of the boys: he would finish high school in June and become a man. The summer before, Gregory had taken a job in a supermarket, working Sundays and a couple of afternoons a week. He’d also begun spending time with Caroline, playfully known among the boys as the swan. At first, Joe had enjoyed hanging around Gregory and Caroline, but he’d learned to leave them alone. Some Saturdays she came early and they lounged in the front room. Other Saturdays she showed up for dinner, and then they passed the whole evening in Gregory’s room.
Joe wondered if Caroline would be there today.
The telephone in the hallway rang. Gregory jumped up.
Gregory was not planning on college, unless it became necessary through the graces of General Hershey and the draft lottery, coming up in July. Along with the other young men born in 1951, Gregory would be an honored player as, randomly and one by one, Hershey removed the blue capsules from a glass bowl, a punch bowl laced with chance, Joe had heard. Each capsule held a slip of paper bearing a calendar day, and as each day came up, it was assigned the number that would damn you or spare you. When Joe heard about the punch bowl and the blue capsules, he thought of the strangeness of it, for he was reminded of the game shows he and Anthony used to enjoy, as they imagined winning the new house or Chevy behind Door Number 1, Number 2, or Number 3. Only now, rather than a new car, Gregory would come upon a land mine or some legless villagers. Apparently, that meant the older brother could now tell the younger ones what to do. Anthony was the youngest and had always been indulged. As rebels, that left Paul and Joe.
Gregory stood by the door, looking at Joe. “Caroline’s coming over,” he remarked. “Leave us alone today, eh, Joey?” And he was gone.
In the bowl of cornflakes Joe imagined a blue capsule; in the capsule a paper; on the paper a message, December 9—Gregory�
�s day.
SOON JOE WAS on the porch. He was wearing a Levi’s jacket sewn with colorful patches, and he’d tucked the soccer jersey, formerly belonging to Paul, into the jeans he always wore. Forming a bulge beneath the jersey were six bags of marijuana. Facing slightly sideways, Joe went fast down the steps and through the gate. Though it was nearly ten o’clock, the only sign of life was a faded green Volkswagen whining slowly down the block. Joe crossed the street and rounded the corner of Bateman Street, where he was soon passing a communal house. Weeds grew high in the front yard; from the roof hung a red flag, one corner gleaming with yellow stars; a poster of Che Guevara could be seen in an upper window. One day, Joe had passed the house with Paul, who glanced up and then elbowed Joe. “Fuckin’ revolutionaries,” he nodded. “They’re gonna be ready. You know—guns, bombs, everything. Even the babes.”
Joe crossed College Avenue. He’d learned the address, as usual: 2797 Webster Street. He rehearsed the number as he walked, wondering what would happen if he remembered the wrong number and went to the wrong house. One day, when he was carrying nothing, he’d amused himself by ringing a random doorbell, and an older woman had come to the door. He’d fumbled around, forgetting what he’d planned on saying. When she demanded if something was wrong, he ran away.
Paul always let him know what to expect. Today he’d be seeing Conrad, a garage-band guy. It would be an easy drop: Conrad had come by the house with Paul, so Joe already knew him. Conrad’s family would be away. Joe would ring the doorbell, and then he’d see the boy’s head though the glass. If anyone else opened the door, Joe should leave. Conrad played bass for Orpheus Rising, a high-school band that was already playing the local clubs. Though he wasn’t dealing the way Paul was, he was supplying the band. Paul enjoyed the arrangement because he could hang with the guys when they were jamming—these boys who had money for grass and amps and soundproofed rooms in the family home. Joe was welcome as Paul’s younger brother—and that was enough for now.