by Sarah Relyea
And so when Joe came looking for Alice on the playground, she made a move, leaving school with the group and going to the campus. Surprisingly enough, when she came home just before dinner, her mother never asked where she’d been; the Fillmore evening had faded away and been forgotten in a rush of new concerns. Her mother was almost encouraging, as though they were sharing in a new freedom, a new bond—as though the family was moving on.
As the days passed, Alice began walking home from school. That way, she could wander as she pleased, joining the group in roaming the campus.
Then one day on the playground, during lunch, she found the group planning a new caper: stealing a mounted bear’s head from a garage in the hills. From a young age, she’d been taught that stealing was wrong, and so she refused to go along, rousing unease among the group. Things were crumbling.
That afternoon, Alice headed up Ashby Avenue alone, going home. Under one arm was The Three Musketeers. For days, she’d been plodding through the book during class. Rounding the corner of an overgrown lot, where a fire had raged the year before, burning a house, she made her way through clumps of crabgrass. She approached the gutted shell of the house, peering through an opening in the wall.
When she looked up, two girls were coming through the crabgrass. They were black and somewhat older—probably from the junior high, her brother’s school, where she would soon be going—in sequined jeans and collarless blouses, magenta and pale blue. The girl in the magenta blouse had a permanent; the other wore the looping braids of the younger girls. They were laughing as they sauntered along, heads together, never glancing over.
Then as Alice was passing the girls, a rough slap landed on her shoulder. She stumbled forward, feeling a rush of anger but preferring to dodge a fight; against two black girls, she would lose, and lose badly. But before she could get clear of them, a punch slammed her upper back. Turning, she found the older girl waving a lanky arm and glaring from under her glossy permanent, ready for more. Though it was cowardly, Alice knew she should get away; fighting was wrong, her mother was always saying. But adrenaline charged through her, a submerged rage that had been bubbling for months. Throwing off her mother’s commands and phony pacifism, she would defend herself. People made trouble for her regardless.
Words were the place to begin, and so she demanded, “What was that for?”
“You brushed me.”
“When?”
“Just now, when you passed.” The girl paused and added, “You wipe that innocent look from your face ’fore I smack you again.”
“But that’s no reason to fight.”
Magenta Blouse was glowing. “Who asked you? How come you never apologize?”
“I have nothing to apologize for.”
“Nothing? Huh! You hear that?” Magenta Blouse demanded of the other girl, who now moved around by Alice’s shoulder, surrounding her.
“I hear you.”
“Now go on,” Magenta Blouse commanded, “say you’re sorry and go on where you belong.”
“Sure enough no one wants you around here,” murmured the girl by her shoulder.
“Why are you doing this?” Alice demanded, feeling queasy.
“I do as I please.”
“Then you’re a fool.” Alice responded as Mr. Boyd, the principal, had urged, seemingly reasonable and exact, even when angry.
The words hung heavy with seeming challenge as Magenta Blouse rushed in, her open hands slapping wherever they could. Random blows pummeled Alice’s head and shoulders, and though she could parry some of them, the agile hands left no gap in her enemy’s armor. She was already off balance, overpowered, when she heard the girl on her shoulder cheer in a stirring and urgent tone, “Kick her butt, Pam! Kick her butt!”
Soon a dozen black faces crowded around the girls, enjoying the fun on the way home from school.
“Get her, Pam!”
“What that white girl do?”
“Ooooh, I seen her before . . .”
They’d come from Alice’s own school. Maybe she’d made waves on the playground—or maybe she was just white to them. Either way, they’d remember and make more trouble for her. Pam was buoyed by the group as they pressed in, leaving no room for Alice to defend herself. She was feeling sheer danger—who could say how far they would go, if she bumped against one of them? They could close in and smash her to a pulp.
A gap opened in the crowd. Seeing her chance, Alice ran, stumbling over clumps of crabgrass. They made way, but then came Pam’s cry, loud and commanding, “Get her, before she’s gone!”
Alice sprinted up Ashby Avenue, wondering how she could lose them—though fast, she’d never run from real danger before. Pausing at Grove Street for the light, her pulse pounding, she glanced back at the loose group of boys and girls straggling through the crabgrass. Only a few were running; the others had slowed, their arms flailing as though in a game or performance. Cars were speeding by, barring her way. A black man leaned from a passing Ford, frowning and surveying the scene. Soon the light changed, and Alice dodged across Ashby Avenue, racing as hard as she could. She would run along Grove Street and hope for a bus; if none came, she would just run.
Low aluminum fences lined the street, guarding faded bungalows. Shades were drawn against prying eyes and a blinding afternoon sun. The way seemed long and full of dangers, and no bus was coming. Then, as Alice was passing one of the bungalows, a black girl reached for her arm, murmuring, “In my house, before they come.” Confused and frightened, Alice pulled free before glancing back and seeing that the girl was from Mrs. Donnelly’s class. Even so, who was she? For months she’d been in the back row, so subdued a presence that Alice could only conjure her name, Denise, and a vague impression. Denise was now urging Alice down some cement steps and toward an open doorway, pulling her by the arm, saying, “Hurry up, they’re coming.” Aware of a boy running up and two more following, Alice allowed herself to be dragged through the doorway.
Denise slammed the door. They were in a gloomy garden apartment smelling of mold. The room was narrow, with a couch along one wall. The floor was covered in a gold shag carpet.
“I saw them bothering you,” Denise was saying. “They’re some bad kids.”
Alice was gasping, her chest pounding. She was among strangers, depending on them—and why should the girl help? They hardly knew each other. Yet Denise had seen the group going after her and refused to join in. She was a loner among the black students, rarely speaking in class, holding herself apart from the small group of black girls there. She had an unusual and unfashionable way of being, as if new to California—not churchy like Ben Forman, just country. Maybe she was from the South.
“Good thing you can run,” Denise was saying.
“I guess.” Cowards run, thought Alice.
“They’re so mean.”
“Yes, they are,” boomed a voice, as a man in jeans and a gray beret emerged from the back of the room. He came forward, filling the space.
“Don’t be scared,” he smiled. “I’m Denise’s father.” Then he added, “I hope no one harmed you.”
“I’m okay.”
“She’s fast!” Denise announced, more of a presence than she’d ever been in class.
“That so?”
Alice made no response. Running from other people was always cowardly. So was the fear she was feeling. She wondered how soon she could leave.
“How about some Coke?” Denise’s father was asking.
“Yes. Thank you.” She would have a soda and go.
Denise’s father brushed past the girls and headed for an area separated by a counter and holding a refrigerator and stove. He opened a cupboard, reached for a cup, and poured some Coke from a half-gallon jug.
“Here you go.”
Mickey Mouse was grinning from the cup. Alice drank slowly, ashamed of needing anything.
“Are you in my daughter’s class?” the man was asking.
“Yes.”
“Where you from?”
“Where you living?” the man pursued. “Where’s your house?”
Now she understood. “Near College Avenue.”
“I see, way up there. Then how come you’re walking?”
“She’s always walking,” Denise chimed in. “I see her going by.”
“Some days I walk home,” Alice confessed. If her own family learned what had happened, they would blame her for causing problems. But even though her mother had urged her to take the bus, it seemed a babyish indulgence.
“Hmmm, walk.” The man was mulling things over, thoughtful under the beret. Then he poured some soda for Denise. “Your mother and father, do they know?” he pursued.
“Know what?”
“That you’re walking home from school.”
“Yes.”
“And they’re okay with that?”
“I guess.”
The man eyed her. “Just be careful. What’s gonna happen tomorrow, when you’re out there by yourself?”
Alice had no response.
“See, you’re safe on the bus.”
Alice wondered why the words made more sense coming from Denise’s father than from her mother. Maybe because the man knew the danger—he was responding to more than a vague fear.
He peered through the blinds. “They’re gone now.”
Alice placed the Mickey Mouse cup on the counter. Denise’s father turned away from the window, facing them.
“You go on home now. Your mother’s worrying.”
The girls glanced at each other.
“Take care of yourself.”
“See you.”
Passing through the door, Alice glanced along the street; there was only a boy leaning on a nearby gate. She wondered how long he’d been there and if he’d seen the chase. Where had Pam’s group gone? Maybe the boy by the fence had been among them, jeering and laughing. She passed the boy calmly and slowly, eyes focused ahead because any sign of fear could bring on more trouble. Then, having opened a lead, she began running. Glancing back, she saw the boy following and speeded up, struggling to hold her pace. The boy chased for a block before dropping away.
Coming upon a row of shops, she slowed—scared, panting, sweaty. Blood was pumping in her head; she was feeling weightless and ungrounded. A throbbing had begun near her eye; she pressed the cheekbone and found a swelling. That girl Pam had landed some real punches. Alice approached a shop window and surveyed her image in the glass: rumpled hair and scowling face, one eye puffy and drooping.
As her heart stopped pounding, she weighed going home and confessing to her mother that she’d been in a fight. She was feeling in need of help, or at least sympathy, and if Denise and her father could show sympathy, then so could her own family. On the other hand, Alice was causing trouble again, and her mother would be alarmed by that. Her mother had never been pummeled for no reason and then surrounded by a cheering crowd; she would blame her daughter for fighting with black girls.
Suddenly Alice remembered The Three Musketeers. The book had come from the library and was gone, abandoned during the rumble in the crabgrass. She felt a new wave of panic: now there really was something her mother would have to know.
Unable to calm down enough to go home, Alice headed for the Dupres apartment. Though the group was a problem, she needed a refuge before going home. Unless the signs could be concealed, her parents would see she’d been in a fight, a bad one.
She rang the doorbell. Jim appeared in the foyer.
“Gang’s all here. C’mon up.”
He led her up and through the door of the smaller apartment. “Gimme Shelter” was blaring on the phonograph; the room reeked of marijuana. Joe and Valerie were slouched on the floor, sharing a joint.
Valerie looked up. “Where ya been?” she demanded. “Are you coming with us or not?”
She was referring to the garage, the mounted bear’s head: so, they would be going through with the plan, Alice thought, feeling a growing sense of outrage at where they were taking her. Then, smoke curling from her mouth, Valerie glanced longer. “What happened to you?”
Alice shrugged.
“Hey,” Valerie teased, “who beat you up?”
“Some black girls.”
“Ooooh, they got you bad—”
Alice headed for the bathroom and slammed the door. Valerie was amused by someone else’s problems. She could hear Jim calling, “Hurry up in there, we’re going soon,” and then Joe, low and whining, “Leave her alone.”
Alice dampened a towel and pressed the coolness over her face. Then she dropped her hands. The mirror was clouded, her image marred. She dabbed her sore and puffy cheekbone. There was a pause, the sound of her body breathing and pumping, and then a thump on the door.
“Are ya coming?” Jim demanded, pushing on the door. They faced each other. A sharp repugnance flowed through her as she saw the hard gray eyes and laughing pug nose splashed with sunburn, the scarred chin and rumpled, unwashed clothes.
“I’m going home.”
“Home?” Jim wondered. “You just got here.”
“Yeah.”
“Too bad for you,” Valerie taunted.
Joe was by the apartment door. “C’mon, Chris’s gonna wonder where we are.” Joe gave Alice a hapless smile of mockery and sympathy.
Alice followed them out. The group ran off, leaving her on the corner of Virginia and McGee.
Alice was home before dinner, lying on the couch on the sunporch. Though she’d cleaned up, there was no concealing the swelling under her eye. She wondered how much more school she could endure. The place was dangerous, full of people who meant her harm, and they’d be there when she got off the bus, day after day.
Valerie and the group had been no help. From the beginning they’d made problems for her, and now she was completely through with them. Even Joe had run off, barely saying goodbye. In any case, the world was becoming a desperate challenge; if she would be safe and whole, she would have to be much more careful. As much as the Fillmore, that girl Pam had made her aware of how far wrong things could go, how hard they could be to control.
Now Alice would be alone again. Of course, she’d never belonged in the group—anyone could see that. Even so, they’d been willing to have her along. Maybe they’d wanted to see how long she would go on hanging around the world of Dan Dupres. No wonder they’d laughed—a black eye was no big deal.
And what would her family say? There would be no laughing from them, when they heard she’d been fighting.
Her mother was calling; dinner was ready. No one glanced up during the meal; and they hardly spoke, only Curt relaying some baseball scores. As they were finishing, Alice massaged the swelling under her eye. Though her face was there for the family to see, if they bothered to look, no one made any comment. Valerie’s response had been more aware, even more human. For a moment, Alice imagined confessing the whole thing but then suppressed herself. What if they blamed her for the fight, or worse, what if there was no response? That would be unbearable. No—she’d rather cling to the hope that they would show sympathy, if she ever found a way of telling them.
The family cleared off, leaving Alice in tears.
SEVERAL DAYS HAD passed, when suddenly her mother’s summons came, rounding the family up. She’d been dreading the moment. They had to say something about the Fillmore—but now, it seemed, they would demand a full accounting, and she would have to comply.
Things could change: they could simply dump her.
The other Raysons had already found places in the living room. The reason for the summons was unclear, though if the evening’s unusual togetherness was for the purpose of leashing Alice, the hour had come and gone. Even so, there could be a delayed showdown regarding Valerie and her former group. Alice eyed the family: why was Curt there, unless her mother planned on confronting her? Maybe he’d seen her and the group on Telegraph Avenue and would be specifying her doings—naming the charges, so to speak.
Ali
ce glanced along the couch and saw her brother looking smug; he would gladly inform on her. Her mother and father stood together by the fireplace, guarding some imaginary family gods.
Her mother’s eyes were glowing from an inner light, more in forgiveness than anger. Remorse and hope came over Alice as she began.
“Your father and I have something to say.” An odd passion flushed her mother’s face. “Alice, are you there? What I’m saying involves you.”
Alice glanced up. Though fearful of what was to come, she was beginning to feel a sense of relief.
“Things have gone beyond what we can endure.”
Her mother looked at her so long and so unguardedly that Alice was sure a bloodletting was coming.
“We’re agreed—we can no longer live together.” Her mother paused, as though slightly stunned by her own words. “We’re planning to separate. Your father’s in love with Ginger. I’m going to marry Charles.”
Laughter rose in Alice, mingled with a sense of letting go: the drugs had dredged up something unfamiliar and wild, something cruel. They’d gone on so long pretending to be a family, but she’d seen the family for what it was: a crazy charade. Now they would all be released from the nightmare. Looking at Curt, however, she was awed and shamed by the tears in his eyes. They no longer shared a world—she was smothering a laugh, he was choking back tears.
Her mother glanced around, eyes shining with resolve. “I can imagine how sad you’re feeling, but we’ve done everything we can.” There was no response, and so she resumed. “Your father and I agree—you’ll both be living with me. He no longer wants the responsibility of raising children. Nor does Ginger, I rather suspect.”
Her father was keeping his own counsel, seemingly unconcerned with defending himself from the dig. Alice wondered why he never had anything to say, as though he never cared what anyone thought.
“Charles?” she heard herself say.
“Yes, Charles—the man I’m in love with. You saw him a few months ago.”