Playground Zero

by Sarah Relyea

  Passing through the woods, she found the stream again. A dog had appeared; crouched on the far bank, forepaws wading, he was lapping from a shallow pool. As she made her way over the fallen log, the dog glanced up and then resumed, seemingly heedless of her approach. Then, stepping from the log, she landed with a snapping sound on a dead branch. The dog looked up and rushed forward, growling and barking. She ran along the path, turning to see if the dog pursued, but he was pacing by the stream, barking and lunging at shadows.

  She ran from the woods. More cars had appeared. The lodge was overrun by people, who thronged the porch and upper windows, hollering to each other. Raymond was nowhere to be seen; he would be in the lodge or the woods, hanging with a group from the van. A blues melody rose from some nearby firs, and Manny emerged from the grove, playing his saxophone and followed by a girl, her eyes lowered, her hands folded over her pregnant belly. From the grove came another couple, draped in a sleeping bag. The grass was damp from days of bad weather, and the woods were worse. Of the foursome, only Manny belonged to the school; the others would be Manny’s groupies. Alice paused, unsure of where to go.

  From the upper windows of the lodge leaned Andy and several others, applauding Manny’s advance. Manny and the girl marched slowly, passing the porch and rounding a corner of the lodge. A blaring soprano sound faded, suspended above a far grove.

  Alice crossed the lawn. Something had happened during her foray in the woods—the mood had changed, for sure. As she placed one shoe on the porch, a loud boom rumbled from the lodge and then a long absence, as though the world had been quenched by some rude uproar. She jumped in alarm, but the others appeared joyfully unconcerned. Suddenly there pounded a thump and drone, the rhythm pressing up through her rubber soles, the drone surrounding her like an enveloping ocean wave or undertow, pulling her here and there. She covered her ears and lurched along the porch.

  In the far corner were three girls from class. One of them, Becky, nodded and waved for Alice to join them, mouthing words submerged by the din. The other girls were engaged in an argument and merely glanced up as Alice approached, then resumed shouting. The thump had speeded up and now moved compulsively through her shoulders in shuddering syncopation, as though she were usurped by alien forces. She was reluctant to move, for that would mean revealing how her legs, as well, were under the control of some unknown rhythm. Leaning on the porch railing, she regarded the shouting girls and now understood that there was no argument; if anything, they were confiding through the ocean of sound. She glanced at Becky, who leaned, waving her nearer. Becky’s mouth was moving but Alice could hear nothing, as a crashing bass-and-drum solo hammered her shoulder through the porch railing. Then the thumping stopped in a loud nnnnnnk! and pop! as the churning rhythm evaporated like bubbles rushing the surface for release. And where has it gone? she wondered, hearing an echo of dead sound. On the porch she moved to and fro, marveling at her recovery of muscular control.

  Then a new sound came from somewhere above her head—a human sound howling in the wilderness. She glanced up: Raymond was leaning from a window, waving one arm.

  “Hey, everyone! Hey!”

  “Hey man Ray man, hey man Ray man!” From another window, Andy commenced cheerleading.

  “Enough, Andy—

  “Yeah, Andy, shuddup!”

  Raymond paused, fingering his red mustache, then resumed. “No more joking, you guys. Joel phoned—”

  “The dude should get on over here, man,” Andy whined. “Where is he?”

  “Joel’s not coming. He—”

  “No way!” Andy squealed.

  “—an emergency.”

  There was a pause. “A what?”

  “An emergency. Joel had an emergency.”

  Andy slammed the window just as Helen appeared, on cue, coming through the doorway of the lodge. In bare feet and sombrero, as though she’d just straggled in from the Amazonian jungle, she stepped from the porch and sang out, “Ray, they need to know what’s happening.” Then she moved long-legged over the lawn.

  Raymond resumed, “Joel’s flying to New York, then Washington—he has funding meetings next week with the Carnegie people and the feds. It’s really important—this could be our big break.”

  In the middle of the lawn, Helen flung open her arms. “And here we are, on our own!”

  There was a murmur from the porch. Three boys hung with wire-trailing guitars stumbled through the lodge door. One of them was Jonathan. “What’s the deal?” he demanded. “Ray unplugged us and—sayonara!”

  Helen pulled off the sombrero, her dark hair tumbling on her shoulders, and flung it away. “No Joel,” she announced. “And here we are.”

  “Wow.” Jonathan gave a sour laugh. “Where’s our fearless leader?”

  “He’s back East, meeting with some robber barons.”

  Raymond called from the window, “Hey, no whining. Joel has a big funding gig—something that can help us all.”

  Andy demanded, “But what about the Happening?”

  Subdued by the news, the group on the porch had begun wandering off. Some girls rushed up to Helen, loudly complaining, while Becky made a sad face. “Poor Joel—he’s missing all the fun,” she remarked to Alice. “You’re in the Happening, right?”

  “No.”

  “But I thought you were in Joel’s class.”

  “I am.”

  “Then you rehearsed the Happening with Andy and everyone. Or so I heard.”

  “No.”

  Becky appeared confused, then she remembered. “Oh, of course—the rehearsals were at Joel’s house!” She giggled. “They were keeping it a surprise.”

  Alice found the revelation annoying. How had people been chosen for the Happening—and why was she always passed over by Joel? Maybe because she was younger, the only seventh grader; or maybe because she’d been such a flop during the early rehearsals, succumbing to some fear or other, unable to reveal even the corner of an underlying fantasy world. Joel encouraged them to be rebels, but the purposes were commonplace; there were only so many symbols of personal freedom: songs and drugs and sex and hobo clothes . . . These symbols belonged to someone else, many someone elses—or no one. They would never help her know what to do.

  A bearded boy—he was one of Joel’s group—came across the lawn. Becky moaned, “Oh no,” and rushed for the door of the lodge. Alone on the porch, Alice wondered how she would become one of the people from Other Paths—there were so many hurdles. She moved toward the door, planning to survey the lodge and grab a bed before they were all gone. Already she had been running around in the woods while the others were finding a place; as Raymond had told them, they would be free to choose a room—he and Joel knew they were no longer children.

  As she approached the lodge, the bearded boy rushed past her and through the door. He was familiar from Joel’s classes, one of the boys planning the Happening. Then Jonathan could be heard from the lodge. “Hey, Don, looking for Becky? She’s gone adios!” He appeared in the doorway, facing Alice. “Looking for Don?” he deadpanned, waving a hand toward the hallway. “He’s gone hasta luego!”

  She rushed forward, confused, following Jonathan’s vague gesture. The hallway opened on a large kitchen. By the counter, near a mound of apples, was Maya, from the Happening class. She turned slowly, surveyed Alice, and calmly remarked, in her songbird tone, “I’m making applesauce. You can help.”

  Maya had removed her scarf and woven a long braid reaching nearly to her hips. For once she wore no clown makeup, only some markings around her eyes, elongated like cat’s eyes. She wore a loose handmade sweater, a colorful skirt, and purple high-top sneakers. She had been peeling an apple when Alice appeared; she held up the paring knife and the apple segment, as though offering them.

  “There’s no peeler. You’ll have to use a paring knife,” she commented, seemingly aware of some symbolic meaning in her words. “Everyone uses a peeler now; no one even knows how to peel an apple anymore.” Her eyes danced wit
h laughter. “But you can learn. It’s fun.”

  Alice grasped the paring knife and apple and began scraping awkwardly at the peel. She tore off a small strip and dropped it on a heap of peelings on the wooden counter. “We could leave the peel on; my mother usually does,” she proposed.

  “We’re probably the only people here who’ve made applesauce.” Maya peeled the apples effortlessly, glancing around, her hand moving in clean, graceful strokes around the curve of the apple, ending with a long, curling segment of peel hanging between thumb and knife. She suspended the peeling over the heap and released it, reaching with her other hand for another apple. “Cans and jars of phony food,” she chanted, marveling, her hands working expertly. “And they’ve never had a real apple.” She tossed another peeling on the heap and paused, turning her cool observing eyes on Alice. Still holding the same apple, Alice was feeling foolish. Maya continued, “Dancers have to learn how to breathe. Everyone imagines they know how to breathe, they say, ‘Oh, of course I can do that, it’s natural.’ But the body barely remembers anymore where it comes from.”

  Maya’s dogmas were new to Alice, who knew nothing of dancing. What if she focused on breathing—would she be able, for example, to peel apples while truly breathing? She inhaled, held her breath, and slowly exhaled. Her shoulders loosened, leaving her hands suspended around the apple. Suddenly sleepy, she yawned, using the half-peeled apple to cover her mouth.

  Maya giggled. “Who’s in your family?” she inquired.

  “Who?”

  “You have a mother and . . .”

  “A brother.” Alice pondered for a moment. “My father moved out.”

  “Are you happy or sad, then?” Maya had the unruffled manner of one who always asked such things. “Maybe some of both,” she added, when Alice made no response. “Probably more sad than happy.”

  “No.” Alice held up another peeling. “More the other way around.”

  Maya was humming now to herself. “And your brother—is he like you?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Strange and quiet.”

  Alice was feeling warm and confused. She had no response, because no one had spoken to her that way before. She wondered if Maya was judging her. So many people she met at Other Paths seemed to be making judgments, as though they knew the way things should be.

  Maya was smiling to herself. “Everyone’s who they are,” she concluded ambiguously, tossing another apple in a large cauldron. “Oh, look!” she exclaimed. “We’re all done.”

  Alice gazed around at the counters. Along with the apples, there were bags of beans and potatoes. “I wonder what we’re having for dinner.”

  Maya giggled. “Applesauce. Joel was supposed to bring the food, but he’s not coming. We can have soup tomorrow.” She shrugged. “My family’s poor, we have bean soup all the time.”

  “Well—”

  “You can help make soup tomorrow.” Maya added some water to the apple cauldron, covered it, and turned on the flame.

  Alice remembered why she’d entered the lodge. “I need a room. See ya later.”

  Maya frowned. “You’re slow. They’re all gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Yes, the rooms in the lodge. Where have you been?”

  “I was in the woods.”

  “Sounds fun.” Maya paused. “There are some cabins. You could go see Raymond—” She rolled her eyes. “Uh-oh, second thoughts. He’s very busy. Go around by the cabins. I heard Manny has one of them, but maybe the others are free.”

  The cabins were near the far end of the lodge, camouflaged by a grove of low cedars. Alice had seen them from the ridge but had assumed she would be staying in the lodge. Leaving Maya and the cauldron of apples, she passed through the hallway and entered the common room, where Jonathan’s band had set up. There were long bare tables and an empty fireplace. Above the fireplace hung a moose head crowned with huge antlers. In the corner of the room crouched a jukebox, flashing mutely. Leaning on one of the tables and reading a book was a boy—Francis, who was always reading the same book, Games People Play. He glanced up and waved. She supposed he was learning chess, or maybe poker or backgammon. If so, he was very slow in learning the rules.

  She passed through the porch door as Francis resumed reading. The porch had become strangely deserted, as though everyone had packed up and gone.

  In the cedar grove were four cabins. She wondered whether Manny had taken one, as Maya supposed, and whether he would have chosen a near one or a far one. A near one, she reasoned, where he would be close by the lodge in case anything happened. Not that anything appeared on the verge of happening just then; Joel’s absence had proved to be a damper, and the place had gone dead. Passing the nearer cabins, she came to one shaded by a leaning cedar. Though the door was ajar, no one was there. She entered and found the room larger than appeared from the square facade, for there was space enough for two double beds.

  Leaving her scarf on the bed by the door, she ran to Raymond’s van and swung open the side door. Her carryall bag was stowed under the bench. The bag crumpled in her hand, as though ephemeral, holding only pajamas, clean socks and underwear, a toothbrush, and R. D. Laing’s Sanity, Madness and the Family. No one had warned her of the colder weather, and she had no clothes warmer than those she wore—a heavy pullover and the Finnish army jacket. During the day, the woods had been damp and cool, though comfortable as long as she was moving; now the sun was fading and a sharp chill seeped through the canyon.

  She ran back to the cabin, dropped her bag on the bed, and grabbed the scarf, pulling it close over her neck and hair. She thought of returning to the hill in the dark, under the moon, if only she could find some others eager to go. Maybe during dinner they would plan an adventure, a replacement for Joel and the Happening. The day so far had proved commonplace, even dull, and she was feeling left out of the fun and companionship—for surely the others were off somewhere having fun. The group was beyond her already, older and unruly, beyond the group she’d found the year before. The others were forming couples; there was no place for her. Apparently she’d come here to learn to peel apples.

  For a while she remained alone in the cabin, reading, then returned to the lodge. The apple cauldron bubbled, but Maya was no longer there. Removing the lid, Alice savored the warm cloud of fragrance that rushed up. The apples had changed to a pulpy mush. She reached for a wooden spoon and stirred, releasing more bubbles from the mush.

  Maya appeared. “Applesauce is done. We can serve anyone who’s hungry.” She brought a wooden bowl to the counter near the burners. Alice grasped the handles of the cauldron and tipped it over the bowl, pouring out steaming pulp. Bearing the bowl before her, Maya entered the common room and placed it near Francis. He had ceased perusing Games People Play and was arguing with another boy, who wore overalls.

  “Have some applesauce,” Maya suggested, as though recommending a home remedy.

  The boys looked puzzled.

  “Hey, where’s the rest?” demanded the boy in overalls.

  “There’s homemade applesauce.”

  “Ew, kinda lumpy,” Francis said. “Warm and lumpy, ew.”

  Maya turned, concealing a smile, her eyes dancing. “Made from real apples,” she announced over her shoulder.

  “Hey, man,” called the boy in overalls, “we need spoons!”

  “And bowls!”

  Maya wafted from the room. The boys looked wonderingly at Alice. In a moment, Maya returned with a stack of bowls. On top were a dozen or so spoons. She placed the bowls on the table. Then she handed the serving spoon to Alice. “You helped cook,” she remarked simply. “Go on, have some.”

  The four of them dined on applesauce. Hardly anyone else showed up—only Becky, who regaled them with her family’s plans to move to Bolinas. When they’d had enough, the others departed one by one, leaving Alice alone.

  She emerged from the lodge and found Becky on the porch, eagerly waving her over. The evening was cold, peaceful, agl
ow with moonshine. They had come to a wonderful nowhere. A feeling of random energy came over Alice. Everyone was alone, responsible for themselves; no one would know how they’d spent the hours before morning. She could hang around the porch or wander through the woods. In the van, she’d refused Andy’s offer of LSD—he’d brought some and would share with anyone—and now she had nothing to do.

  Becky was bored. “I imagined there’d be a dance or something,” she complained. “I mean, we have Manny here, and the band. Oh, well.” Seated on the railing, she swung her legs loosely as one hand played in her hair, winding a long strand one way and then the other around two fingers.

  The band’s loud thumping had seemed false; now, however, they heard only evening sounds echoing over the lawn.

  “What does your father do?” Alice asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Your father—what will he do in Bolinas?”

  “Oh, there’s nothing to do in Bolinas—that’s why we’re going there.”

  “Oh.”

  “You look confused.”

  “Well—”

  “He’s a professor, silly. He’s on leave and has a book to do and . . .” For a moment, she waved her arms as though conducting a symphony, before folding her hands in her lap. “In nowhere Bolinas no one will bother him. So we’re all going.”

  “I see.” Long, racing clouds covered the moon and then tore open, glowing yellow and gray. Alice was enjoying herself. “What does he profess?”

  “How should I know? Something-ology.”

  “You really don’t know?”

  “Of course I do—sociology. There, that says everything, no?”

  “Not really. What’s sociology?”

  “Society, social, sociology. The study of people in groups.”

  “That covers a lot of ground.”

  “Yup.”

  “What does he tell you about it?”

  “Mostly that I’m too young to understand. But he’s wrong—you should see some of the books I’ve read. That’s the great thing about Other Paths—I can stay home and read in my father’s study while he’s teaching.”