Playground Zero

by Sarah Relyea

  But as the house door closed, Charles paused; then he resumed in a low tone, saying, “She’s come home early.”

  “Oh my, she’s here!” her mother announced loudly.

  There was another pause, followed by murmuring. The murmuring was new, as well, and made her uncomfortable; more than once she’d heard enough to infer that they were speaking of her. She wondered what Charles had been told, just as she wondered how much her mother had deduced. Some days she would have preferred that they confront her, so she would know what she was dealing with; other days she was thankful for any delay. There was some hope of making a favorable impression on Charles—so far he had no reason to blame her—but only if he remained above the fray.

  Then Charles addressed her in a formal tone, “Come on in and say hello.”

  Maybe he’d already heard about her. There was nothing to do but comply; she would have to say something—now.

  As she prepared in the foyer, he resumed the interrupted story. There was the sound of her mother’s laughter.

  Alice advanced through the doorway. Charles was standing by the fireplace, one hand enclosed around the usual highball glass. Larger than her father though less robust, he had dark eyes and hair, and he was formally dressed, even at noon on a Sunday. An unknown and unprecedented person, he gazed at her.

  “Oh, here you are,” he called, as though glad to see her.

  She shrugged, unsure of how to respond.

  “You’re back early,” observed her mother.

  Alice was rehearsing her story when Charles jumped in. “Yes, and that’s a good thing. Your mother and I were just planning a walk in the rose garden.”

  “What rose garden?”

  Her mother’s face had a strange incandescence. “Charles has heard of a lovely rose garden in Northside. I never even knew it was there.”

  From Los Angeles, Charles had managed to learn more about Berkeley than her parents had learned in three unhappy years. They would be gone for the afternoon; any reckoning would be delayed. She turned to go.

  “We’re leaving very soon. Do you want to change your clothes before we go?” her mother wanted to know.

  “Me? What for?”

  “You’re coming with us, I hope,” Charles urged, peering warmly at her.

  She wondered what the new game was. Family outings had ceased long ago, and she was too old for dragging around with her parents. Nonetheless, she was aware of encountering another mode in Charles, one that demanded response. “Some of us came back early—we were bored. Maybe I’ll go and read—”

  “You would enjoy the roses,” her mother suggested.

  “Oh yes,” Charles nodded, “they’re just the thing for girls your age.”

  So far, Charles was nowhere near as bad as she’d feared—he was even eager to have her along. All the same, she had never heard anything so daffy as the fuddy-duddy line about girls and roses. He was everything the people around her abhorred: formal—even stuffy—in clothes and manner, a real square. She’d never seen such a person up close, not for years. They were not leaving her to choose; the man’s manner demanded her presence in the rose garden. She would have to go and take her chances with the new parental couple. If only her mother would forget to inquire about the retreat, she could use the day to observe Charles more closely. She had to know—and fast—what to do. The outing would offer some new information, and the roses would be a useful decoy. She shrugged, and they headed in a group for the door.

  THE ROSE GARDEN was in the form of a small amphitheater facing the bay; hundreds of bushes grew along the terraced rungs, row upon row in full bloom, red and orange and blush and yellow. The place was uncanny, under the gray-green and purple eucalyptus branches; though as she paused, the color ceased dancing and gathered on the bushes, grounded by some unfolding event.

  Charles moved up on her shoulder. “I’ve always loved yellow roses,” he remarked, pausing to examine a blossom; then he added, “My mother had roses,” as her own mother advanced ahead, wearing sunglasses, her face in an unusual glow.

  Alone in the man’s presence, Alice was feeling uneasy. She made no response and headed for a shaded path as Charles pursued.

  “Don’t wander too far,” he warned.

  Her mother returned and together they gazed along the rows of flowers. Alice was feeling a wild impulse to reveal the madhouse scene, but she’d promised Ray and the others.

  “Tell us something about your weekend,” Charles proposed, as though reading her doubts. She fought a sense of foreboding, but there was none of her father’s cold probing; it appeared that Charles was hoping to be amused. As he looked in her eyes, for some reason she remembered Maya.

  “I made applesauce with one of the girls,” she responded. “She was the only one who could peel an apple.”

  Charles laughed. “When I was in the army, they had me peeling a hundred potatoes a day. I never got the hang of it.” He looked at her. “You found something more than peeling apples, I hope.”

  “There was nothing else to do.”

  Charles scrunched his eyebrows. “What was her name, the apple-peeling girl?”

  “Maya.”

  “Hmmm . . . and how was the applesauce?”

  “Okay . . . good.”

  “What else was there?”

  “Huh?”

  “Ham, maybe?”

  “No, just applesauce.”

  He was looking at her mother now. “Just applesauce . . . I knew there was a reason she came home early,” he concluded.

  Her mother frowned. “Oh, but there was a real dinner, I’m sure.” She gazed uneasily at Alice. “There was, wasn’t there?”

  “Applesauce . . . and Maya was going to make bean soup today.”

  “But I thought you told us Maya was one of the girls.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why was she cooking for the whole school?”

  “I guess she wanted to.”

  “But where was Joel?”

  Alice shrugged. “Busy . . . the Happening and all.”

  “Oh my—a Happening. And?”

  “And what?”

  “How was the Happening?”

  Alice was feeling very warm. “That’s today also.” She’d promised to say nothing that could endanger the school.

  Her mother frowned. “I thought you’d stay for that.”

  “No big deal.”

  Charles sighed. “We’re glad you’re back, Happening or no Happening.”

  They moved along the row of yellow rose bushes. Suddenly Alice wondered something. She turned to Charles.

  “What color were they?”

  “My mother’s roses, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, red, mostly. And a few yellow ones. Which color do you like?”

  “The blood-red ones . . .”

  “Royal red . . . of course.”

  Under the early-afternoon sun, they ascended row upon row and found the way back to the car.

  chapter four

  Alice

  JOEL HAD SUMMONED Alice. The call came one evening, as the Raysons were having dinner—minus Tom, of course. Curt jumped up when the phone rang; with Charles far away in Los Angeles, he was the man of the house.

  “Some guy for Alice,” he remarked, holding the phone like a ball he was refusing to surrender.

  “Some guy?” her mother demanded, frowning. “Does he have a name?”

  “Guy named Joel,” Curt shrugged, seemingly bemused by Alice’s world.

  “You mean Joel Cohen?” her mother wondered, suddenly eager.

  “Maybe.”

  “Oh my! Speak to Joel, dear,” her mother urged, eager and breathless. It was as though she’d been dreaming all her life of such a call.

  Joel was summoning her to Parnassus Road. He was working on a book project about Other Paths and needed her help. He’d already met with some of the students—Maya and Jonathan and others she knew. Now he was hoping to hear from Alice as well—her voice belon
ged in the book. Joel’s words burbled warmly as he suggested that she come by Parnassus Road on Wednesday at one o’clock. They would have a conversation; he would ask her to speak about a few things and tape-record her responses. Alice could feel her mother hovering, ready to inquire; feeling she’d finally made an impression, she agreed to go.

  Heading up La Loma Avenue just before the scheduled hour, Alice was gasping for breath. La Loma sloped steeply toward Parnassus Road; nearly there, but unable to go any further, she paused under some redwood trees and glanced over the bay to San Francisco, where her father was. He would be working; if she made her way there, as she’d made her way to Parnassus Road, she could see him. But no, she concluded, feeling the sun on her body; no, she would have nothing to say.

  A car came whining up the road. She remembered the other summons to Joel’s house, when the Raysons had come by car. So long ago—before Johnny. Though Other Paths had been a dud of a school, she would speak to Joel. He would hear what she had to say; her words would be in a book.

  The day was warm, the hills awash in sunlight as she rounded the corner of Parnassus Road. As before, Joel opened the door and welcomed her in. Once again she found herself in Joel’s living room, awed by a glass panorama hovering above the world. A gleam escaped below; feeling far away, she wondered why he’d asked her, why she’d come.

  Joel came up, offering a jar of pickles.

  “Go ahead, have one,” he suggested, as though offering a fancy morsel. “They’re imported.”

  The things were swimming in greenish water, so unappealing that she refused. “No, thanks.”

  “No?” Joel was frowning. “How come?”

  “I never eat them,” she responded, wondering why he cared.

  “Are you feeling comfortable here?” Joel gazed on her somberly. “In many cultures, if a guest refuses food, it’s because she has some fear of the food, or maybe the host.”

  There was a long pause as Joel eyed the panorama, leaving the message to hang in the room. She was being judged again by someone from Other Paths—this time by Joel. The whole encounter had already gone wrong.

  Then he moved on. “Are you ready? Come, we can use my office.”

  Joel’s work space was on a lower floor, away from the rest of the house. The room was cramped, and though there were glass doors facing west, toward the bay, nothing could be seen through the houses and trees. Offering her an armchair, Joel made himself comfortable in a leather recliner by the desk. He paused, giving her a moment to take in the room: books and papers all around, framed photographs and awards, young people’s drawings on the walls. Then, leaning back, he fingered a large reel-to-reel tape recorder, adjusting the microphone, bringing it toward her. As if by reflex, she moved back. Joel gave her an unrevealing glance, adjusted the microphone again, and pressed a button. The reels jerked and began slowly revolving.

  Joel was suddenly encouraging. “Maybe you could say something about yourself,” he nodded, spreading his hands, palms up.

  She was feeling unprepared.

  “Maybe you could begin with your family,” he prompted, head bobbing. “How are things at home?”

  Joel was as much a stranger as he’d ever been; moreover, during her months at Joel’s school, she’d refused to say much about her family to anyone.

  “Hmmm?” Joel murmured.

  The room seemed stuffy; Alice was feeling warm. “My parents just broke up.”

  “Oh?” He leaned in, eyes round and encouraging. “When were you informed?”

  “Last summer,” she managed to reply.

  “I see—almost a year ago.” Joel glanced down his nose, as though he’d caught her misleading him. “So, you’ve had a chance to adjust.”

  She nodded, feeling she was learning a role.

  “And how do you feel now?” Joel’s glance was cool and probing.

  She looked away.

  “Is your mother or father seeing anyone?”

  She flushed and forced herself to respond. “My father . . . there’s a woman from work—”

  “Oh—a secretary!” Joel nodded eagerly, as though he’d heard the story before. But he had the story wrong; Ginger was no secretary. Her father—or maybe Ginger—would be angry if Alice let the error go.

  “She’s another lawyer in my father’s office.”

  “Oh? Not a secretary?” Joel’s eyebrows rose.

  “No, a lawyer.”

  “So, how do you feel about that?” Joel seemed amused by the idea.

  She was feeling annoyed. Following her father, she was supposed to say that a woman lawyer was preferable to a secretary, even when she ran off with someone’s father. But why? The judgment seemed phony and impersonal; real feelings were less clear. Joel’s response made her even more confused—if she had to know these things, then so should he. The job of informing him had fallen on her, it seemed; but Joel was a grown-up, and she was not. He would never learn lessons from her.

  “Maybe it’s better for him—”

  “For him?” Chin up, Joel gazed on her. “And for you?”

  “Maybe.” She would hedge.

  “How smart is she?”

  “Smart enough.”

  “So, your father, he wants a smart woman?” Joel’s eyes were laughing.

  Alice’s annoyance was growing—how far would he go?

  “Let’s see,” Joel pursued. “Your father found a woman lawyer—”

  She’d heard enough. “My mother’s smart, too.”

  “Oh? So then, where was the problem?”

  “They just never got along.”

  “Never? Not even on the honeymoon?”

  True enough, her theory sounded absurd. But that was how she saw things.

  “What’s your mother doing now—going back to college?”

  “No, she went to college already.” From now on, Alice would be safe and cling to the formula she’d heard from her mother. Words unfolded before her—a clearing in the forest—and she rushed through them. “She’s going to marry a man named Charles. He and my father knew each other in law school. We’re moving to Los Angeles.”

  “Why Los Angeles?”

  “Charles lives there.”

  “You mean he refuses to move?” Joel leaned in. “Does he love your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Alice grasped for her mother’s formula, but the words refused to come. She blamed Joel for that—he was arguing with her, tempting her to say something wrong. She glanced at the tape recorder; she was running out of safe words.

  “He works for a company in Los Angeles. So we’re moving there.”

  “And what does he do?”

  “Lawyer.”

  “Another lawyer? Same as your father?”

  “My father works for the federal government. Charles works for a company.”

  “You mean he works for a big law firm?”

  “No, a company that makes things—airplanes, computer chips.”

  Joel had been eyeing her smugly. Now he leaned forward, frowning. “And what’s the name of the company?”

  “North American Rockwell.” She was glad she’d remembered; from now on she would need to know.

  Joel’s fingers were rapping on the desk. He was no longer amused.

  “I see. You mean your new father works for a company that makes bombers.”

  Joel was no longer expecting any response; he’d made a judgment, and there would be no contesting it. The hands lay folded over his chest, fingers flexing.

  “So—he’s a baby-killer.” Joel glared down his nose. “And what does he think he’s doing?”

  Her anger flamed, warming her whole body.

  “Is he immoral or merely ignorant?”

  There would be no use in defending Charles here. Joel had been slamming her family all along; now he imagined she would be open to slurs regarding the newcomer, Charles. Joel had found her vulnerable point—for who was Charles? Beyond the day in the rose garden, she cou
ld hardly say, while Joel was offering a clear-cut and damning image.

  The tape was running out; the reels were turning at uneven speeds, like cars in parallel lanes on a freeway. As the tape passed from one reel to the other, Joel’s demands and her responses were being recorded forever on a fragile length of tape. The thought that Joel would play it—maybe over and over—made her queasy. She sat staring at her hands, harboring a smoldering rage at the man who’d made her feel that way.

  SHE MADE HER way back down La Loma Avenue and across the campus, heading for Raymond’s house. Even in early May, the school had no home, so Helen and the group around Raymond had begun congregating in his bungalow. Alice had passed some afternoons there, as the group hung out, smoking grass. She couldn’t go home right away, following the confrontation with Joel; with Charles hovering around, her mother had woken up and begun probing. There could be no purpose in revealing Joel’s condemnation of Charles or the comments regarding her father’s preference for a woman lawyer.

  Rounding a corner, she came upon a long driveway and Raymond’s dusty, sky-blue van. Beyond the van and concealed by the main house was a bungalow, a seeming relic from some long-ago frontier. The low, sloping roof was covered by a green tarpaulin; the shingles were uneven and the door crudely made, the work of a squatter or a Sunday carpenter.

  The sound of the Rolling Stones’ “Midnight Rambler” was coming from the bungalow; Raymond was home. Alice rapped on the glass, then—as Raymond’s group was always doing—opened the door on a low room. From the doorway, she could see a sagging couch. Sound rumbled through the place, channeling the roar of her thoughts; a sour smell of marijuana hung in the air. Stepping into the room, she encountered Raymond’s exasperated face in the gloom. He was wearing only jeans. Overcome by a queasy feeling, Alice saw another person emerge from the shadows—Helen.