Playground Zero

by Sarah Relyea

  “How long have you been living there?” Alice asked. She was wondering how many days or weeks they’d been sleeping in the dingy room.

  “A few months.” Valerie shrugged. “I bet your parents have a house. Dan prefers apartments, more than houses.”

  “Why?”

  “You can come and go, he says.”

  “Come and go where?”

  “When there’s trouble!”

  “I’m in big trouble now,” Alice murmured.

  “Who’s mad—your mom and dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “I have to tell them something, why I stayed out.”

  “Tell them anything. What can they do?” Valerie demanded. “You told your mom you were coming with us, and she knows Dan. Everything’s cool.”

  Alice was feeling exasperated. “But that’s not the problem.”

  “Oh? Then what is?”

  “She thought I was coming home last night.”

  “Hey, we found a van, and you came home with us. Nothing happened. So where’s the problem?”

  “My parents expected—”

  “Do things always happen the way they want? They expect something—and poof, it happens?”

  “No.”

  “I mean, who are they? Some kind of emperors of the world?”

  Her family sounded so improbable in Valerie’s rendering that Alice was beginning to wonder if her fears were real. In any case, Dan Dupres had power, a domain—he ruled over a realm of wild hippie kids. But her mother and father had dropped the reins—they’d given up governing anyone. They were no longer emperors of anywhere.

  The group had crossed the border of the campus. Alice could see Valerie’s shoulder bobbing by her own.

  “Where does your mom live?” she inquired.

  “Colorado.”

  Valerie’s eyes suddenly rounded, as though an emerald city loomed before them. “There’s the Eucalyptus Grove,” she announced, looking across a lawn.

  Although Alice had seen the Eucalyptus Grove before, she’d always come from the south, through Sproul Plaza. But Sproul Plaza was somewhere else, and even the Campanile was no help.

  “Let’s go,” Valerie suggested, nodding toward the grove.

  They veered from the path. The grove lay ahead—a soothing place. Alice enjoyed wandering the campus, but now the game had changed. She was no longer wandering alone.

  A squirrel scampered by, pausing, glancing at them before dashing for a large fir. Joe was already ambling through the grass.

  Alice wanted to resume the conversation with Valerie. “What’s she like?” she asked.

  “Who?” Valerie seemed mystified.

  “Your mother.”

  “Oh . . . She’s in Colorado, I told you.”

  “Do you go there?”

  “What for?”

  “You know, to see her.”

  “She’s mean,” Valerie announced. “She’s strict—a real bitch.”

  The word hung in the air. Alice was feeling uneasy. She’d never heard a girl use that word against her own mother.

  A song rose sharply from the Eucalyptus Grove. From the sloping lawn, Alice saw three women in long scarves gathered in a circle, chanting—the harsh sounds moving through the cool shade of the grove like the swooping of hawks.

  “Let’s wait,” Alice suggested. Whatever the women were doing, there was no reason for intruding.

  “What for?”

  “Those women—let them finish.”

  “Our grove, our grove,” Joe began chanting.

  “Here we are,” Valerie laughed, “as good as them.”

  Joe and Valerie ran down the slope, arms waving like birds of prey, whooping over the women’s chanting as they descended on the grove. Alice hung back as her pals’ raucous cawing rose, submerging the women’s sounds.

  Seeing her chance, Alice ran along the edge of the grove, seeking the creek and wooden bridge, the way home. When she was nearing the bridge, Valerie and Joe came running up, as though patrolling the borders of the realm, arms spread in wings that flapped uselessly before her.

  “Hey, where ya going?” Joe demanded.

  “I should maybe go home.”

  “You’re gonna be sorry,” Valerie called over her shoulder, already moving on.

  The landing would be scary. “I’m going.”

  “Come back soon!” Valerie squawked. Waving and screaming, she and Joe ran back through the grove.

  AS ALICE CAME along Forest Avenue, approaching the family home, the London plane trees formed an archway of branches rising in fragile design against a soundless blue sky. The day now impressed her as cool and windy, a February day. Her ongoing delay was beyond understanding: so, was she a rebel after all?

  She opened the door and paused, but there was no sound or sign of anyone. Then, as the door closed, normal sounds could be heard: the ticking of a clock, the muffled hum of a car passing along the street. Pausing in the foyer, she sensed the lull of familiar rooms and no one home, a space for recovering her bearings. She wondered at the lucky break: her lapse would now be absorbed by the gently humming house. Feeling a clamoring release, Alice passed along the hall and through the doorway leading to the kitchen, her eyes on the red and black linoleum squares.

  She looked up on a changed scene.

  The family, cold and unmoving, had heard her coming. Occupying the red and black squares as though ready for her move, they formed a firm defense. A wave of dread passed through her.

  “Where on earth—?” Face red, eyes wide, her mother was roused; her anger filled the room, barring Alice from rejoining the family.

  She’d done something unforgivable.

  “How could you?” her mother demanded, seemingly struggling with an impulse to slap her. “I thought you were going to a concert. Where were you?”

  Her father was leaning on the counter, arms folded, eyes moving over Alice’s body, coolly noting her slovenly look. By the refrigerator was Curt, contemptuously aloof, oozing a sense of predominance.

  “At the concert.”

  “And then where? That was a whole day ago.”

  Alice’s jaw had gone numb. The red and black squares bound the family together, ready for another move, but Alice’s chance had come and gone. The evening had been so stupefying that she’d been conscious only of her ordeal; now she began imagining how her family had passed the hours.

  “We thought you were dead,” her mother groaned, hearing no response. “Whatever made you do such a thing?”

  As though I’m a criminal now, thought Alice, smothering an alarming spasm of laughter.

  “How could you leave me wondering?” Her mother’s eyes were damp. “I called Tammy’s house and got everyone up; we’ve checked with every emergency room; your father called the police, and now they’re searching for you. Why would you run away?” She paused. “I may not be the mother you want, but . . .”

  Tammy’s house? Emergency rooms, the police? Alice had never imagined so many people would hear of her problems. Tammy was already wondering; no, the problems would never end.

  Her father summed up, “You owe your mother a reply.”

  “I was at Valerie’s house.”

  “Valerie—you mean Dan Dupres’ daughter?” her mother demanded.

  “Yes.”

  “But you promised you’d come right home from the concert.”

  Alice shrugged, helpless. She hadn’t run away—but how could she tell them what had happened?

  “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “No reason.”

  “Alice Rayson!” Her mother was shaking with rage. “What was happening there? What were you doing?”

  Curt’s face had a vague smile.

  “What was so very compelling?” her mother demanded. And then she made a leap. “Who else was there?”

  “No one. Me and Valerie.”

  “Then why not inform us of where you were?”

  “I though
t you’d be asleep.”

  Her mother gave a gasp of injured outrage.

  “And there was no phone.”

  “Now you’re lying,” her mother glared. “You’re saying Dan Dupres—?” A gray shadow was passing from her face. “Tom, is she making that up?”

  “I was going to call, but there was no phone,” Alice repeated.

  “And no one would bring you home? Where was the brother?”

  “He just dropped us off.”

  “And Dan Dupres?”

  “He was asleep.”

  “I see.”

  “I only saw him in the morning.”

  “My, my.”

  Her mother’s contempt stung. Alice could feel the change that had come over her family: in an evening she’d become just a wild, slovenly girl, a runaway who had to be dragged from some crash pad or marijuana den. Telling them how she’d ended up there would only scare her mother, who—in her mad fright—would need someone to blame.

  “I’m about to collapse,” her mother sighed. “No more problems, please—we have enough already.” Then, gathering herself up, she left the room. In a moment Curt followed, clenching his hands.

  Alice could feel her father judging her: a bedraggled Telegraph Avenue teenager. “Can I go to my room now?” she asked.

  He made no response.

  “Can I go now?” she demanded again. Feeling the blood rising in her face, she moved away.

  “Your mother wants you home at night,” he said, as though disengaged from her, as though the problem was her mother’s to manage. “But as long as someone drops you off, she’ll probably let you go to that place in San Francisco—what’s the name?”

  “The Fillmore.” Alice was shamed by his seeming unconcern.

  He glanced up. “As long as someone brings you home, eh?”

  Marian

  THOUGH FEELING WRUNG dry, Marian found no hope of sleep. She lay on the bed gazing vaguely through the windows, as branches swayed in the wind. When the problems had begun, Tom had just come from a day with Ginger in Golden Gate Park. For months he’d been fobbing them off with imaginary projects and deadlines, but during the sleepless hours he’d finally acknowledged spending weekends with Ginger. Marian had been aware of Tom’s forays—even so, everything had changed around her. She and Tom had done poorly; now, as though spurred by some deus ex machina, she was on the verge of another chance. As for Ginger, she was apparently proving to be more of a challenge than Tom had foreseen; he’d been hoping for a simple affair, but she was clearly holding out for more.

  In the hours of panic, Marian had leaned on Tom, as she had long ago, though that impulse was already fading, along with her fear. And he’d been calming, in his way. He’d been sure from the beginning that Alice would wander back; only when she’d shown up, tousled and sleepy-eyed, a girl men would regard as easy, had there been any sense of danger in his face.

  Marian was running Dupres’ image through her mind: shoulder-length hair, probing eyes. He’d come to Peace and Freedom meetings promptly and regularly, an unusual nod to responsibility these days. He’d been agreeable enough when they’d encountered each other in the office. He’d been among the demonstrators for new black and Chicano programs at UC Berkeley, and he’d argued against the growing police presence in South Campus in a sober, even dogged manner. As Marian remembered Dupres’ condemnation of the many police abuses against not only the young people of South Campus but the Black Panthers, she began to feel ashamed of having informed the police. At least Tom had persuaded her to leave Dupres’ name out of the report. But why no telephone? He was employed—manager or even owner of a Telegraph Avenue shop. Could he have come under surveillance, along with others in Peace and Freedom? And her mind placed him in People’s Park . . .

  She’d thought of Dupres as young and unencumbered. Apparently she’d been wrong. Now it seemed he had a daughter Alice’s age and a son who was already driving. There was a shop but no telephone, outings to the Fillmore West and unplanned sleepovers, which Dan learned of only in the morning.

  During the long sleepless hours, Marian had been unable to make sense of things. Even now, she had no confidence in what she’d been told. The story had so many holes. If Valerie’s brother could drive them to the Fillmore, why couldn’t he bring Alice home? Something was being left out. The casual reference to an older brother should have informed her that there was more than Alice was willing to say. She was becoming a head-turning girl, older in appearance than her twelve years. But when the older brother had cropped up, Marian had been calmed rather than alarmed: it sounded so normal. Even the Raysons had gone to a concert in Golden Gate Park one Sunday afternoon, before Tom had become so overwhelmed by Ginger’s demands that a family outing had come to seem rarer than a moon landing. True, these were new pals never heard of before; that was something of a worry, but the name of Dupres had appeased her. In any case, Marian could not always choose for her daughter. And Marian herself was in a huge muddle; it would be preferable for them both if Alice had somewhere to go for the coming weeks, while she sought a way to resolve her problem. For a moment, Dupres’ daughter had seemed a godsend.

  But the presence of an older boy would be a real problem. The more she pondered, the more she concluded that the older boy was the lure, while the seeming enthusiasm for the girl, Valerie, was only a ruse. No wonder she’d never heard of Valerie before yesterday. Even so, much was obscure. When and where had Alice been so charmed by the older brother? The girl was so unforthcoming that it was hard to know what she was feeling; usually that meant a girl was becoming enamored of boys. With Alice, however, one could never tell.

  There came a rap at the door and Tom appeared, annoying her with the poker face he wore these days.

  “So, she showed up after all,” he remarked, dryly.

  “But how could we have known?” Marian was feeling repelled by Tom’s lack of sympathy.

  “It seems she just ran off.”

  “Yes, I suppose you could see it that way.”

  “What do you plan to do about it?”

  “I?”

  “You’re the mother.”

  “Well, yes—”

  “I assumed you were competent to keep her out of trouble.”

  “But Tom, you must be aware that she’s growing up.”

  “Yes, and now you’ve given her permission to go to the Fillmore.”

  “Tom, she was already out. If I’d refused permission, she might have gone anyway. She’s convinced she should be allowed to do whatever Curt does. I’ve always thought it was a bad idea to encourage her to regard herself as a boy—”

  “Now you’re blaming me.”

  “No, though she does have to learn not to behave as a boy in all things. There’s her safety to consider.”

  “And you must keep her home. Am I asking too much?”

  “Don’t accuse me, Tom. She phoned and demanded that I let her go to the Fillmore. With deep reluctance, I agreed. If you feel so strongly, then maybe you should be the one to say no.”

  “I can’t always be here, and you know it.”

  “But you’re so rarely here that we can never even confer. I’m telling you—she’s of an age where she may be needing some response from her father. I can’t give her that.”

  Tom moved over to the window. He was glancing out as though called by something.

  “It seems to me you’re very able to say no,” he accused sharply, “or is your daughter somehow the favored person of the house?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  An uncomfortable hush came over the room. Marian felt the conversation moving into dangerous waters.

  “Please, Tom, I need some sleep. If we can’t agree about our daughter—and she is ours, after all—then leave me alone.”

  chapter four

  Alice

  ALICE FOUND HERSELF confronting a changed landscape. She’d been lonely—that was how the group had lured her. Now things had gone very wrong, and she was in
limbo. Tammy knew she’d gone missing—Mrs. Rayson had phoned in the wee hours, waking everyone up, and of course Tammy was wondering what was wrong—but Alice, leery of prying, brushed her off. There were more and more things she was covering for, beginning with her father’s absences and her mother’s growing heedlessness regarding the family. In any case, hanging around with Tammy and a group of Girl Scouts made less and less sense for the girl Alice was becoming, one who’d smashed so many rules that there would be no easy way back. Joe and the group were wrong for other reasons; but at least they’d be making no judgments on her estrangement from the family. And now the family was angry, compounding her problems; worse, they’d begun seeing another girl in her—an unleashed rebel girl who would do anything if given the chance. A world of amorphous dangers was swirling around her, caught by her mother’s eyes as though by some infrared camera. Sex. Running away. Stealing and jail. Though she’d done none of these things, her mother’s fears had been aroused, and the process of allaying them would be long and dreary.

  For a few weeks, Alice was careful, though no one referred to her lapse or demanded that she change her ways. That was baffling; nothing could be forgiven so fast. If she’d been grounded, she would have forced herself to comply; as things were, she could neither comply nor rebel.

  And so she grounded herself, going home from the bus, spending afternoons reading books in her room. Her mother acknowledged the change by showing Alice around a nearby library and recommending some very long books that would keep her busy for days or even weeks—The Three Musketeers, a thousand pages long, followed by a sequel. Alice passed afternoons and weekends in her room, seemingly alone in the house with D’Artagnan and the three French guardsmen even though her mother was nearby, sleeping or reading or carrying on a correspondence—her mother was lonely, too, because her father was always away. Alice enjoyed reading; even so, the endless afternoons were becoming unbearable. Maybe Valerie had been right—why should she hang around the house with nothing to do? Moreover, being grounded—or so it seemed, though her mother refused the concept—was a shameful comeuppance for a girl who’d never caused problems before. Complying would only make things worse.