by Sarah Relyea
A large hand grasped her arm. In the heavy soundlessness, she nearly pulled away; only pausing, she remembered her father’s presence and how he gripped her arm when he appeared at the house, as if to say hello though saying nothing; and then the grasses surrounded her head and a man’s body pressed her in the dust, the face so near in a tangle of damp forehead and rounded sky-blue gleams black in the center, she’d never seen eyes so close . . . He lurched and pressed a hard mouth to hers, forcing her open as he fed on her tongue, a damp, smoky odor invading her nostrils. She moved her head and he followed, clamping her shoulders to the ground. She turned her head the other way and there he was, seemingly everywhere. Grasses and fronds now enclosed her, dangling above the man pressing on her in every way. When she was younger, her brother had forced her to the ground, though never so far, and when he’d won, then she could go. Johnny had changed the rules . . . Soon she’d gone under, her body no longer responding to the commands her mind was sending. She could no longer move her arms—dead branches, they seemed—as the man’s thigh pressed something on hers.
Something was groping her, then there came a probing beneath her jeans, a rough grasping, a surge of power as arms pressed her against the uneven ground, one hand gripping her shoulder as the other dragged the jeans to her knees, then yanked one pant leg free, as he grappled her, prone beneath the leaden, muscled body. The shoulders above her were pale where they moved, rounded and lurching like living boulders. She’d never been overpowered in such a way, or by so formless a tangle of flesh, crushing her on the ground. She could barely breathe, and for a moment she wondered if she would be suffocated. But just as panic was overwhelming her, he braced as though preparing for something, probed her with his eyes and pressed her hard between the legs, entering her, once and then repeatedly. He was gone, a body moving on her though seemingly unaware of her. She tensed, fearing she would be torn as he leaned in; but finally a spasm loosened the heavy muscles imprisoning her and the pressure in her crotch gave way to an aching dampness. Crouching on her, he gazed away over one shoulder, then reached fumbling for what dangled heavy and subsiding between them.
There was no saying no, anymore; the chance had come and gone. Had she run away when she could, had she refused to succumb, had she hollered aloud . . . From the broad, grassy slope of eucalyptus there rose a pungent, sappy odor, as dampness flowed from her. She reached for her pants, pushing away the hand that advanced once more, as if some show of help could now be made. She hoped for none. Covered once more, she found the jeans no longer offered safeguard or defense, only a second layer of treacherous flesh, abandoned in some jarring change of form and then donned once more, an old covering of weeds and bark and mud.
She longed to be gone, but the man, Johnny, lingered there, an overbearing force or presence that had lodged some demand regarding her, as though she were a parcel of land and he’d come to squat. Throbbing with fear, she wondered how she could unsnarl the day. To go now would reveal how awful the encounter had been for her. And as she’d learned from her father and brother, refusing to cringe or show defeat was half the game; the man would never know how overpowered she’d felt, as long as she refused to show it. And so she glanced over the abandoned slope, wondering tensely what would happen next.
The man rose from the ground on one knee. He would leave; she would be alone. Her thoughts slowed, focused on a random swab of color, a daub over the bay. How she longed to fade off in the sky, leaving the man alone. But there he was, leaning over her as though some force bound them together, as though he would lead on and she would have to follow. She looked away, refusing now to acknowledge the man, though she could feel the gaze on her.
“Come on.” The man’s tone lacked urgency.
She looked away.
“Are you coming?” he said, still calm, assuming that she would comply.
She glanced up, dismayed, and found a bland absence in the man’s eyes, as though nothing had happened. The absence confused her, for there was no possible response—no sense in showing she knew what had happened—when he’d already moved on, called to some other purpose having no bearing on what had passed between them. He had released her; he would go.
“Are you coming?” he repeated in the same toneless manner.
Then she was running hard along the path under warm sun, feeling the grass lashing her shins, wondering why the ground moved so slowly beneath her. She glanced back to see the man leaning on one hand, engulfed in grasses and fronds. As she cleared the head of the path and the stone wall, she nearly stumbled over a small boy pulling a red wagon. Nearby stood a woman, glaring sharply at her. Further on, Alice hauled up, gasping, by a juniper hedge, wondering if her jeans were undone but too scared and ashamed to touch them or look. The boy was crying now, hauling the wagon along as though it were another hand that someone would grab from him. She moved on, fumbling with her jeans; as she moved, something began pounding, heavy and hydraulic. Blood was pounding in her head. She would go now, as fast as she could, before he could come for her.
Marian
MARIAN HAD THE odd sense of having made another chance for herself, for once more she was in a college town dreaming of approaching marriage; and she’d chosen so badly before. Now there would be no danger of that; even so, the memory gnawed at her. Charles was a presence in her; every day there were calls and then weekends together. But the weekdays moved slowly, leaving her hours to brood, hours that were not always governed by the presence of Charles. There was Tom as well, hanging over her world, forcing her to manage her own feelings—hard enough—and then, at any moment, the feelings of one of the children as well. She’d found herself saying far more than she should; so the formulas had grown, ways of saying some things while concealing others, producing one formula for her son, another for her daughter. Anything would be preferable, she supposed, to her own raw feelings. Only the other day—awful to recall—she’d urged her daughter to make sure that any man she married would be appealing to her in bed. As usual, Alice had made no response, had seemingly heard the remark as a reasonable one; but that was no excuse. Marian’s thoughts raced back to Tom . . .
One day from the land of aluminum rode forth a man . . .
Oh, if only she and Charles had known years ago! If only they’d understood that they were in love, if only . . . She paused, one hand on the folded towels, warm from the dryer and scenting of soap. They’d been in love, surely, when Charles had been Tom’s law-school pal. They’d seen each other frequently enough in those years, and she and Tom had even gone along for several gatherings of Charles’s family. That way, she’d had the chance to know them long ago, and now—hard to imagine—she would be one of them. A whole web of connections would be renewed, and she would have her own family, finally—for she’d always been lonely with Tom.
The laundry folded, Marian returned to the living room. Charles loved the baroque and Romantic composers, and she’d found some chamber recordings in the library. Schubert’s “Death and the Maiden” was on the phonograph; she longed to hear it once more. As the phonograph turned, there came the mournful, yearning sound of violins: so lovely, following on the raucous heels of all that thudding stuff everyone else so enjoyed.
Without warning, her daughter was in the doorway. Mother and daughter exchanged apprehensive glances. Marian had not anticipated the girl’s entrance into the room, eyes wary and wandering, face bearing Tom’s flat gaze. Her daughter’s appearance was unnerving, long hair tangled, head down, feet bare. Surely she was brooding on the reasons for her father’s abandonment—surely that was the problem absorbing her now and for several days past. How long would she go on probing the change, Marian wondered. There had been a long conversation only the day before, with Marian carefully choosing her words, and even so, her daughter had frowned, eyes askance. The danger of her daughter blaming her for leaving Tom had spurred Marian on, and so she’d found herself going over the same ground in a thorough unfolding of her suffering during the marriage to Tom, befo
re Charles had pleased her soul. So far, her daughter seemed oddly unmoved for a girl with much to hope for. Clearly the year following the loss of her father would be a confusing and unhappy one; but, with some encouragement, she would respond to Charles, even as her feelings regarding her father would probably fade. That shift in emotional focus would resolve many problems. In any case, Tom’s own encouragement would surely be underwhelming.
“The Schubert is so lovely; it’s called ‘Death and the Maiden,’” Marian remarked. An unfathomable look passed over her daughter’s face, pulling down the corners of her mouth and flattening her eyebrows. Taken aback, Marian paused, wondering what the girl was about to divulge; but as with Tom, there was nothing. Marian forged ahead.
“Charles has played some Schubert for me, and I’m hoping to learn more about the music he admires. That’s so important—sharing in the other person’s interests.”
Her daughter turned away, face clouded, embarrassed by something.
“I do hope you find real companionship someday. It’s so important to one’s happiness.”
As her daughter abandoned the room, Marian heard the throbbing of a cello. There were days when she wondered if she’d been aroused from a bad dream, and how long she’d slumbered. Had she ever been fully living during her years with Tom? There was danger in remembering only unhappiness. Worse, though, was the thought of having loved Tom and seen those feelings change so far, so fast—the danger of losing control. But none of that could be helped now; above all, there would be no mourning for Tom. No force on earth could have compelled her; a new energy drove her toward Charles. There was so much to be done, now and everlastingly, so many things to learn about Charles; for though she’d known him for years, they’d rarely seen one another. She’d always remembered how he stood one evening in the law-school quad, one hand waving a red maple leaf as he argued with Tom—over nothing, she supposed. Now there was something uncanny in the new encounters, both familiar and thrillingly strange.
Once her daughter was in the new school, Joel Cohen’s Other Paths, Marian would have the days to herself. No more dreading unhappy hours; now as she thought of Charles, waves of pleasure accompanied each image of the coming weekend, when she would feel the embrace of a man she loved.
Though the faces of her son and daughter resembled Tom’s, deadpan and wary, she hoped they would soon respond to Charles, as she had done. Tom would fade . . .
Alice
FROM THE DOORWAY, Alice glared at the wine-colored rug. She was angry with herself for having come down from her room. Wearing cutoff jeans and with her feet bare, she’d wandered down on impulse, resolved to unburden herself about the man who had forced her and sensing that the passing days only made the unburdening harder. Had there been no delay, her mother would have responded with dismay, even fright, but with sympathy as well. Now days had passed and there were no signs of damage, only a churning in her stomach and insomnia. The hour of sympathy had gone. Now there would be probing; maybe Charles would be informed, though who could say? That was hard to imagine, so sharp a betrayal; though it was true—anything could happen.
No, the day was all wrong for what she had to say. If she could only hang on, there would be school. The hours would no longer be dead things; she would have her own world.
chapter two
Alice
THEY PARKED BEFORE the wood-frame facade of Finnish Hall, in West Berkeley, Alice concealing her doubts. Her mother had conjured a charming lodge worthy of the Old World Finns who’d once gathered there, something grander than the weathered siding and heavy doors in the unadorned manner of a large rooming house or workingman’s union hall. Nor were there any signs of a school—no lunchroom or playground. But the program was funded by the public schools, and surely Joel was doing what he could. Helen Patterson had found so much through Other Paths, or so the mothers claimed; why shouldn’t Alice, too, learn to move around Berkeley freely, or regard an old workingman’s club as her school?
Her mother glanced over, as though hoping for signs of enthusiasm. “Well,” she began in her soothing manner, “with a man like Joel, you should never rely on appearances; a wonderful teacher could hold classes anywhere. I’m so pleased you’ll be having the chance to learn from someone of Joel’s competence. Usually such teachers prefer college students, but Joel has chosen you.”
Alice glanced up and down, but there was no one around. Feeling confused by so many changes, she was unsure what to hear in her mother’s words; Joel was an enigma so far, and she had no way of knowing how the school would go. There was no saying why she was here, though her mother had reasons, of course. In any case, Alice was feeling frayed and in need of space. Things had gone badly in regular school, then she’d found the group on Telegraph Avenue, and finally there was the awful day with Johnny. Here she would be free of Tammy and the other girls; she’d never have to see them or wonder what they would say, if by any chance they heard about Johnny. And maybe she would be camouflaged by her older peers, so her mother would no longer conjure up reasons for alarm. There was nothing so very uncommon in her adventures, she kept telling herself, though unfortunately she’d been early by a couple of years.
“Joel was a philosopher during college. You have a philosophical mind, I’ve always thought, so that should pose no problem for you. And you’re good at math, like your father. Try to remember the good things you have from him.”
The reference to her father was unnecessary, thought Alice, who’d managed to forget him all morning.
As her mother resumed, an older boy appeared loping along, singing loudly. He wore an old vest and jumper pants, and long blond curls hung from a formless derby. Waving in one hand as he loped was a large journal or pad, pages slapping one leg in rhythm.
Suddenly her mother was in Charles mode, gazing with approval on the boy. “I suppose that boy is keeping a journal. Young men who carry notebooks usually want to be authors.” She hardly paused as Alice flung open the door. “I’m sure that boy—”
The door banged on the curb. “I’m going, Mom.” She was clambering free.
“Honey, have a wonderful day,” came the soothing response, covering for her jarring departure. “Do you know where to find the bus?”
“Uh-huh.”
The older boy had gone through the door of Finnish Hall. She approached the door, hearing the car pull away from the curb. Though it was good to be away from her mother, the presence of the boy made her pause, embarrassed. She waited long enough to be sure he’d passed on, then she hauled open the heavy door and scrambled through as it swung closed, propelling her into a foyer. There she nearly bumped the boy, who was already leaving. Arms flung open and balancing on one leg like Charlie Chaplin, he sprang back, landing spread-eagled on a bench by the wall. He removed the crumpled headgear, bowed to her, and paused, scanning her up and down.
“And who are you?” he demanded. Before she could reply, he announced loudly, “You’re early! No one comes before ten!” There came a happy sneer as he rounded the derby over one hand, brushing and shaping it. Then he rose and lumbered through the door, leaning with one arm and lurching from leg to leg. The door slammed, leaving her in the gloomy foyer.
Wondering when the amusing boy would come back, she advanced through an inner door and found herself in a large room housing only a grand piano, old and weatherworn as the hall itself.
The room was cool and shadowy, its high windows facing north. The walls were bare; the floor had been cleaned and shone dully of wax. There were no sounds, only the cawing of crows on the roof. She’d never been in a school alone; but here she was, early, encouraged by a sense of impending connection to search through the place, as something belonging to her. Surely there would be more rooms beyond the here and now.
Propped open in a far corner, the old grand piano gave the room order. Feeling drawn by the piano, she approached and played a chord, then ran through a door and found herself in a redwood-paneled hallway, near some stairs leading up. She’d
climbed several steps when a man’s voice boomed.
“Come down from there,” he commanded as she froze, caught. “Are you here for Other Paths?”
She nodded. The man wore workman’s clothes, and though light-skinned, he had African features. Waving her down, he led her toward the rear of the building, where they entered a storage room furnished with a gas stove and a large tub. There was only one window; glancing over, she saw a jumble of classroom desks and a ruddy young man, who was slumped in one of them. Wearing greasy jeans, tangled curls, and a bushy red mustache, he was staring at her as though he’d been aware of her long before she’d entered the room.
Lanky and even older than the boy she’d encountered in the foyer, he rose from the wobbly desk. The image of Johnny rose in her mind; but no—the ruddy young man clearly belonged to the school.
“Come on in. I’m Raymond Connor,” he nodded, holding out a hand. “Hey, I’m a teacher,” he added, as she held her ground. “But no one’s gonna make you shake my hand.”
“I knew she’d never shake mine, so I never asked,” declared the other. “I’m Jerome,” he drawled, “and I was teaching when Ray here was being born.”
She heard a merry laugh as another man came through the door. Plump and dark, in a trim Afro beneath a tan fedora, a trench coat, and leather shoes, he resembled Raymond and Jerome in only one way: he, too, seemed to have appeared for duty somewhere other than a school.