by Sarah Relyea
As the class was breaking up, Joel proposed in a sly tone that they read something for the following week. “You can learn so much about the closed group, the perverse group, by reading some of the family case studies in R. D. Laing,” he said, holding up a copy of Laing’s Sanity, Madness and the Family. “You have the book—I gave you Laing, along with Sartre’s No Exit, right? Well, the family is a wonderful model for understanding the perverse group.”
“That’s for sure,” Andy agreed. “What do we read?”
“I want you to choose one family and read the case history.”
“Are any of them like my family?”
“That’s for you to say,” Joel responded. “I don’t know your family. But Laing shows us how a family can become a perverse group—rigid and authoritarian, unable to accept members who refuse to conform. I want you to tell me what that means and how it compares with what you’ve seen in your own family.”
Helen announced, “‘Happy families are all the same; every unhappy family is unhappy in a different way.’”
“Who says?” Andy demanded.
“Me.”
“I thought it was Trotsky.”
“Oh, Ray gets everything wrong,” Helen scoffed. Then she added, “Just be glad you come from an unhappy family.”
Alice wandered from the room, passing through the heavy doors of Finnish Hall and along the block. Even when she’d wandered off, her parents had made no moves beyond sending her to Joel. Now Joel was offering a Happening, a performance made from the ashes of her life.
She heard the sound of someone running.
“Hey!” Helen caught up. “I’m so glad we’re out of there, aren’t you?”
“I guess.”
Helen shook her head. “Joel’s such a phony. Last year we were doing Happenings every week, on our own. We went to supermarkets, department stores, a bank—we were nearly charged with trespassing!”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. And hey—we were even in a film!”
“I know.” Alice had heard the rumors.
“Even if Joel’s a phony, he has contacts everywhere.” Helen tossed her head. “That’s why I hang around—I want to be in another film. It’s worth putting up with Ray, don’t you think?”
Alice was feeling jealous—she’d missed something after all.
“What was the film?”
“Oh, something about a free school, of course. The producer was begging Joel for help. So we drove to L.A. and spent a week in the studio.” Helen eyed her. “I bet you’ve never even seen a film studio.”
Alice shrugged.
“Well, you can come see the film with us when it opens.”
THE FOLLOWING WEEK, when Joel’s rehearsal class for the Happening convened, slyly and knowingly he commanded a dozen young people to spread themselves on the floor, eyes closed, and imagine an asylum. He droned on in a soothing, hypnotic tone, as the room settled down, troubled only by breathing and the barely heard sound of cars on the avenue. Wearing the Finnish army jacket she’d found, Alice lay on the floor, hands on her stomach, feet splayed, her head angled uncomfortably on the hard surface as runaway thoughts flooded her mind. Johnny’s figure flashed before her, captured somehow, like a man jumping a fence only to be caught in the rungs. She pushed the image away.
She sensed a presence near her shoulder, as though a hand lay there. Fingering the frayed cuff of the army jacket, she was becoming absorbed in the smooth cloth, worn by use and years, when her face tingled, unexpectedly, reminding her of grasses and fronds and Johnny’s tangled hair. Her eyes opened: there lay the others, eyes closed, breathing evenly. Nearby sprawled another girl, unmoving and serene, hands open on the floor. The girl’s easy abandon revealed how tense Alice was—and so she would appear to Joel, for surely her feelings were conveyed by every movement. If only she could calm herself.
There came the sound of Joel’s murmur, close and fatherly. “You’re in an asylum; you can choose any madness, just so long as you make the madness happen—now, here, in the room among everyone. The moment comes when everyone chooses one or another way.” Joel paused, laughing. “‘That way madness lies.’ Now—choose your way and open your eyes!”
The others were already moving and happening. Alice rose, having found nothing she would choose and unable to purge her mind, as the others appeared to have done. Uncomfortable revealing herself to them, she was ashamed of her body, her way of moving, her boy’s clothing. Helen paced the room, proclaiming a loud and rambling monologue about an imaginary lover. Andy and another boy argued in threatening tones, while one of the girls scolded them as if they were preschoolers.
“Learn to share, boys!”
Andy snarled and grabbed at the other’s sleeve.
“Naughty boy! Come to Mommy!”
Hoping for a few moments to conjure some form of madness she could safely perform, Alice moved to a corner of the room.
Soon Andy appeared, hanging on her shoulder, laughing and raving and passing one hand over her face. The girl followed.
“Bad boy! Learn to share!”
Andy was now grabbing at Alice’s clothing; angered, she pushed him away, but he held firmly to her arm. As they tussled, the girl wandered off, mumbling, “Oh bad, naughty!” Maya passed by, applauding and laughing; she had brought face paint and now proposed coloring Alice’s face. Andy ran off, jabbering loudly.
“Close your eyes,” Maya commanded. “Who are you?”
“. . .”
“What face do you want? Are you happy or sad?”
“. . .”
“Some of both, maybe. Are you a clown?”
“No.”
Maya laughed. “Then what? I have to know what face to make.”
“A monkey.”
“Why a monkey?”
“Dunno.”
“Maybe because you’re watching everyone, but you never say much.”
Maya worked with ease. Around them the madness unfolded apace, but the makeup now offered a screen—a one-way mirror—through which Alice could observe the gathering. Suddenly Joel approached; it was as though he’d never really seen her before. He was peering at her jacket.
“You found it in a thrift shop?” he asked, leaning to examine the collar.
“Yes,” she lied.
Joel nodded joyfully. “From the Red Army!” he exclaimed.
As he spoke, there came the sound of breaking glass. They looked over to see Andy waving a chair, ready to smash another window of Finnish Hall.
chapter three
Alice
RAYMOND’S FADED BLUE Volkswagen van was hauling over the Berkeley hills toward the eastern reaches of San Francisco Bay. Early on a Saturday morning in February, the beginning of a three-day weekend, Other Paths Open Academy was beginning a winter retreat. For months Joel had been promising how, in March, the school would finally have a permanent home in a new space, a former warehouse near San Pablo Avenue. Then came the snag: the new home would be delayed, and the school would have weeks—maybe a month—of wandering. And so, as a way of preparing for the temporary homelessness, when they’d have no common gathering place, Joel and Raymond had planned what they jokingly referred to as a “Bohemian Grove weekend” on the wooded slopes near Mount Diablo. They would use the long Washington’s Birthday weekend to commemorate the school’s founding—two years already—and plan for the coming challenges. School-board funding had not yet been renewed, and other problems remained. Joel had convened the Other Paths adults during earlier emergencies, when they’d feared for the open-school project; now the students would have a chance to do the same.
Alice was eager to go. She would be leaving Berkeley soon and would lose her chance of ever belonging to such a group—of being among the rebels and revels. Everyone else was enjoying themselves; so could she.
Raymond had rounded up the early birds. Under a feeble morning sun, the group was yawning and subdued, though buoyed by a sense of carefree camaraderie. Jammed along the van’s bench
es was Raymond’s usual group, joined by a few others. Joel and several carloads of young people would be arriving throughout the day; but Joel was no longer enough of a leader to be there from the beginning—or so Raymond complained to the group in the van, as though the revel had already begun.
Helen’s voice rose, clear and confiding; as usual, she’d grabbed the passenger seat. “Ray’s preparing a palace coup,” she announced, glancing back so she could gauge the response.
Andy was leaning, forearms dangling, a leather cap perched loosely on brown, sun-bleached curls. “Man, you shoulda warned me. I woulda brought my hunting rifle.”
“No, Andy, nothing so banal.” Helen eyed Raymond. “They should know, Ray,” she prodded.
“Know what?”
Helen leaned over the seat, facing the group. Her eyes were puffy from sleep, and she wore her floppy sombrero. “Ray’s playing dumb.”
“Ray’s always playing dumb,” mumbled Jonathan. He had entered the van after Alice and found a place near her on the bench. She wore the old army jacket from Finnish Hall, a ragged cuff hanging over each knee. Whenever the van swung around a curve, there was the pressure of Jonathan’s shoulder leaning on her own.
“We’re facing big changes at Other Paths; we can talk later,” Raymond concluded.
Soon they were on a rural road. Through the back window, they could see firs and redwoods receding in a random, curving line. In the front seats, Raymond and Helen pursued the usual verbal tussling; though the words could be heard well enough, the meaning confused Alice, whose parents had sparred, humorlessly, and who wondered how Raymond and Helen managed to make it so much fun. For they were clearly amused by each other.
The van lunged around a corner and down a gravel road. “Hey, we’re here,” called Raymond. He pulled the van sharply to the left, braked, and released the gears. The engine idled for a moment and shuddered dead. Raymond jumped out. The sliding door heaved open with a scrape and a thud. They found themselves in cool damp weather on the border of a lawn; beyond rose a wooden lodge. A couple of the boys dashed across the lawn, laughing and turning somersaults, as the others huddled by the van, wondering what to do. When someone proposed a walk in the nearby woods, Raymond agreed and led the way. Near the border of the woods, the ground became muddy. The boys trudged on, but Helen shuddered and flounced away toward the lodge, followed by her group of girls, complaining loudly of the mud. Alice nearly followed them, but there would be nothing to do in the lodge before Joel and the others appeared. Anyway, she enjoyed the woods and was used to groups of boys.
Soon they found a clearing. There the group slowed, as though by unspoken consensus. The clearing was damp and barely warmed by cool winter sunlight. The temperature had dropped as they’d reached the eastern slope; the boys huddled, laughing and horsing around to stay warm. She could see her breath. As Jonathan joined her by the edge of the clearing, she wondered why the others had paused. Then Andy produced a joint, and she understood—they’d entered the woods for a smoke. She was feeling removed from the group, as Andy had a toke and passed the joint along to Raymond. She’d smoked with her pals from Telegraph Avenue, but never with boys from the school. She’d assumed that Raymond would use grass; still, it was jarring to see a teacher sharing a joint among the group of boys. He glanced at her, teasing and brotherly, and waved her over.
“What’s your father’s name?”
“Tom.” She was feeling unsure of her place in the group. “Why?”
“So, does Tom know? Is he gonna complain?”
“Why would he?” She was confused; Raymond was no longer teasing.
“Hey, no playing dumb. C’mon, we’re heading back to the lodge. Anyone who’s smoking for the first time, you’re on your own—I’m not gonna be involved.” The joint waved in his hand as he spoke, leaving a small plume of smoke.
Andy reached for it. “Ray man, you’re wasting our resources.”
One of the boys giggled. “‘Ray man’—that’s good.”
Raymond’s eyes flared. “Hey man, I’m—”
“Hey man Ray man, hey man Ray man!”
Andy began the chant, and soon the group was howling in the woods among the damp leaves. Jonathan jumped on a fallen log only to have the wood crumble away; he landed in a spongy bed of ferns. As Jonathan groped his way from the ferns, the shouts tapered off. Soon they were gathered once more around Raymond.
Now Jonathan produced a joint. He hung it from his mouth and, reaching for a lighter, turned to Raymond. “You can leave now, big Ray, ’cause I’m gonna see that Alice here has her share. And furthermore, I can assure you—anyone who comes to Other Paths has already found the devil weed.”
“That so?” Raymond surveyed Alice, fingering his red mustache.
She shrugged. Jonathan toked and handed off to her. She would have preferred to leave the group but there they were, eyes on her; she could hardly refuse. The other girls had done as they pleased, but she’d followed the boys and here she was, no running away now. Long ago, she’d learned from her father never to be a renegade from the group. Now he was gone—and would she also be a renegade? Inhaling lightly on the joint, she huddled with the group, hearing the sounds of the woods. When the smoking was through, they headed in a slow march toward the lawn and lodge. Jonathan fell in alongside her.
“I could hang out all day in the woods,” he remarked casually. “And you?”
“I don’t come here much.” She wondered what he was really saying.
“I spend as much time in the woods as I can,” he pursued. Then suddenly, “We could go around the other way—are you game? They’re just gonna be hanging out in the lodge, and that’s no fun.”
She was enjoying the woods, but she hardly knew Jonathan. He had been following her around all day.
“C’mon, there’s another path.”
“I’d rather—”
“Oh boy.” He turned from her and brushed some dead leaves from one elbow, where he’d landed on the ferns. He held up the elbow for her to survey. “Clean enough for you?”
“Yeah, clean enough.”
“Good.” He reached a hand to her shoulder and nodded in the direction of the lodge. “C’mon, you lead the way.”
They had come farther from the lawn than she remembered. As they finally approached the border of the woods, shouts rang out. Some other cars had appeared; young people were running back and forth by the lodge, trampling the muddy grass near the porch.
Raymond was leaning on a porch railing, surrounded by a group of girls. They buzzed eagerly around him, all but Helen, who was hovering by the edge of the group as though hardly aware of the others.
Jonathan eyed the group and sighed, “Ah, look at all the lonely people.”
“What’s going on?” Alice wondered.
“Ray’s having a class on men.” Jonathan’s gray eyes clouded with annoyance.
“Huh?”
“Oh yeah.” He nodded toward the group. “Go on, there’s room for one more.”
“Why would I—”
“Or you could hang out with a man.” The eyebrows rose as he moved closer, leaning toward her. “Something tells me you can manage on your own—no class, no Raymond.”
She was searching for a good response. He was humming, no longer “Eleanor Rigby” but a song she’d never heard. The humming stopped. “You seem shy and thoughtful all of a sudden.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” Inhaling slowly, he released a long sigh. “Care to tell me more?”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“That’s what they all say.”
She made no response.
“You seem lonesome. But hey, why hang around with me?” The eyebrows wriggled in a funny face. “I could be some creep. Your mother should warn you away.” Then he shrugged. “Well—see ya.” And he turned to go.
She found herself alone by the muddy forest path. Nearby, a squirrel was rummaging in a heap of leaves. The image of Jonathan hovered before her:
gray eyes, full mouth, heavy ponytail down the back. The image confused her, so she preferred to remain near the woods, hearing the rustling of the squirrel, until Jonathan was very much gone.
When a few moments had passed, from the upper branches came the harsh sound of a blue jay. The sound urged her once more to the woods, where she wandered among firs until she found the blue-jay tree. There she lingered, hearing the jay and the groaning of trees in the wind. The ground was damp and spongy; she pressed forward along another path, plunging down a gradual slope among fallen branches and beds of dead fern.
The path led across a stream and then began to climb. A fallen log lay over the stream, serving as a bridge. Placing one foot carefully before the other, using her arms for balance, she crossed the log and began following the path as it wound uphill. All around her rose fir trees, ascending the slope in a loose mass. Wearing her Finnish army jacket, she moved among them, no longer cold. Soon the climb became rough and jagged. Overhead the sky could be seen shining through; she was nearing the crest of a low ridge.
She rounded a boulder and came upon a clear overlook. Gazing down the slope, she could see where she’d come from, far below: the lodge and the lawn. On the faraway grass a group chased here and there in random play—a game having no ball, no squads, no rules. There was no use here for baseball, the game she and her brother had played.
Beyond the boulder lay a far valley. The trees swayed, as though gathering energy for a long march, before the forest fled down the slope. Noonday sun blinded her, and she closed her eyes; from the lawn rose random, joyful shouts. As she opened her eyes, there came a gust, its raw, whipping force impelling her back down the path.