Playground Zero

by Sarah Relyea

  Helen jumped up. In a moment, she was by the door.

  “Come on,” she commanded, leading Alice by the arm through the yard. As they reached the van, Helen sought Alice’s eyes; then she looked away. “There’s something you should know.”

  The annoyance in her tone gave an odd charge to her physical closeness. Alice wondered what would follow.

  “That’s why you’re here, right?” Helen demanded.

  Alice remembered the rumor she’d heard during the retreat, and wondered how the confession would unfold.

  Helen flung down the gauntlet: “You probably already know, but Ray and I have been sleeping together.”

  The news was more jarring coming from Helen herself. The older girl leaned in, an odd spasm playing around her eye.

  “Hey, we thought you knew.”

  Alice eyed the older girl. Helen was hoping she would feel dumb. “Maybe I heard something—”

  “Wow, I can imagine,” Helen sneered. “I know how people gossip.”

  “But you’re saying it’s true.”

  “So what? Why would anyone care, other than me and Ray?”

  “I know, but—”

  Helen glared, challenging her to complete the thought. “But what?”

  “Raymond’s twenty-three. He’s a teacher—”

  “Oh, Ray’s no teacher—he’s just an overgrown boy. God, you really are young.”

  Helen was angry now. Alice backed away.

  “Where are you going?” Helen demanded.

  “Home.”

  “You mean, now that you know about me and Ray, you won’t come in?”

  Alice moved away.

  “Well, if that’s how you feel, then you should go,” Helen concluded. Turning away, she ran for the bungalow and slammed the door.

  NOW THERE WAS only the library. Alice could not go home; she was vulnerable and might say anything. Her mother suddenly wanted to know things—where she had gone, who she was with. Her mother wanted to know everything about the people she knew—not only where they lived, but what they read and how they felt. These were things Alice hardly knew. Fortunately, she’d rarely spoken of Helen; now she never would. But she would need a story to overshadow the powwow with Joel, and the safest strategy would be to read something fast in the library. That would offer the necessary detour when her mother asked about Joel.

  Alice entered the reading room. Fernwood nodded and then returned to her work. Alice had no trouble finding books now, and Fernwood was usually busy. There was a shelf of biology books Alice would browse, and several books about drawing. They were always on the shelf. But today she needed an engaging story, one she could remember well enough to regale her mother, if necessary. It would have to be a good story and a lively one, so she could blow off any probing by her mother. Fernwood would know what to suggest.

  Alice approached Fernwood’s desk.

  “You do tear through those books,” Fernwood remarked. “I can see you’re looking for something new.”

  “A good story, a fast one.”

  “Fast?”

  “Something I can read today.”

  “What’s the rush?” Fernwood was peering at her.

  “Nothing.” She paused. “I feel like reading something, that’s all.”

  Fernwood led her toward a nearby shelf, as though nothing unusual had happened.

  “You could try Hemingway,” she remarked. “Love and war—all the big stuff. And they’re short.” She paused. “How are things going on that . . . that other path?”

  “Okay.”

  “I seem to remember . . . there was a retreat—a Walden Pond weekend, no?” Fernwood’s eyes sparkled.

  “Bohemian Grove, you mean.”

  “Oh gosh, I’m confusing it with something. Was it fun?”

  “Not really.”

  “Hmmm. I used to love camping.”

  “We weren’t camping. We . . . there was a lodge.”

  “Oh. That’s easy, then. One floor for girls and one for boys. That works.”

  Alice flushed red.

  “I suppose there were bunk beds,” Fernwood remarked. “Always hard to sleep in bunk beds. I suppose you were up half the night talking with the other girls in the room.”

  There was an awkward pause.

  “And how many teachers were there?”

  “Just Raymond.”

  “My goodness. And you were there for how long?”

  “Just one night. We had to leave—”

  She blushed. Fernwood was worse than her mother.

  “Want to say what happened?”

  “No.”

  “That’s up to you, then.” Fernwood glanced away. “Maybe you’ll like Hemingway.” She made no move to go.

  “There was a girl—”

  Fernwood glanced at her.

  “She and Raymond—”

  “Go on.”

  “They were in one of the rooms. And one of the boys was jealous—Andy. He made a huge bonfire, a palace coup—”

  “My heavens.”

  “A man came with a gun—and then in the morning, we had to leave.”

  “Raymond—he’s a teacher?”

  “Helen says not.”

  “She should know.”

  Fernwood was frowning.

  “Helen says—” Alice caught herself. Then she blundered on. “She says he’s an overgrown boy.”

  “I see.”

  “I just saw her and Raymond—”

  “You mean in class?”

  “No, at Raymond’s house. We’ve been going there . . . for class.”

  Fernwood gave a wry smile.

  “I was angry, I just needed someplace to go—”

  “Who made you angry?”

  “Joel.” Alice’s eyes were watering. “He made me so mad. He says my family—” She paused. “He says Charles is a bad man.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Charles makes bombers—or his company does. Joel says he’s a baby-killer.”

  Fernwood gave a sudden laugh. “And what about Raymond—does Joel know?”

  There was a long pause.

  Fernwood shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Just remember, girl—you’re moving on.”

  SHE’D GONE TO sleep remembering Raymond’s bare chest and Helen’s eyes. She was on a beach, along with a group from Other Paths, and the day was very warm. The sand was burning her feet, and so she ran for the ocean, where she could cool off. Soon they were all jumping in the waves, Helen and Andy and Jonathan and Maya and . . . As they struggled through the waves, the beach was consumed by raging flames pushing them deeper and deeper from the shore. The water was growing hotter as the flames lapped closer, hotter and hotter . . . The Bomb had come and everyone was gone—everyone but the group in the burning waves . . .

  She awoke. Her body was damp with sweat. She’d had the dream before—more than once. She remembered Fernwood’s words: “You’re moving on.” She wondered if the nightmare would move on with her.

  Marian

  ON SATURDAY MORNING when the telephone rang, for a moment Marian couldn’t identify the caller; then, with a sense of shock, she recognized the gloomy tone as Sabrina Patterson.

  “My God, Sabrina, what happened?”

  “Have you heard?”

  “No—what in the world—?”

  “They’re closing Other Paths.”

  “They’re what?”

  “Someone’s been spreading a rumor, and now they’ve got a real scandal going.”

  “Oh, no!” Marian glanced around. Charles was safely in the living room.

  “I thought we were more enlightened than that,” came Sabrina’s disgruntled sigh.

  “But what happened?”

  There was a pause, then Sabrina’s oddly cheery announcement: “Helen’s been sleeping with Raymond Connor.”

  “How awful!”

  “The awful part is that they’re blaming Joel and planning to close the school.”

  “Oh, Sabrina�
��”

  “Helen says everyone knew. But now someone’s gone to the cops and the whole thing is collapsing.”

  “But how could Raymond—”

  “Oh, Helen’s old enough to choose what to do. I must say, though, it was awfully dumb of Raymond. There are people who would just love to destroy Other Paths. He gave them the means.”

  “But how? Where?” Marian’s hand was trembling. She scarcely knew Helen; even so, she was overcome by flashes of a sullen, half-dressed girl. As for Raymond, she had a clear image, though she’d never seen him.

  “Oh, who cares! Helen and Ray are the only ones concerned.”

  “Yes. I suppose.” Marian glanced through the living-room door. Charles was hovering, a cup of coffee in hand; there could be no probing or challenging Sabrina.

  “They were together during the Bohemian Grove weekend. She came home so charged up—” Sabrina broke off. “And Joel was back East, pleading for funding.”

  For the first time, Marian was sorry to have Charles in the house. He would want to know what had happened before she could have any chance of smoothing over the story. He already frowned on Joel Cohen and Other Paths; now he would thoroughly condemn them—and maybe her, for sending her daughter to such a place. There were some things she would prefer Charles never know in any real way. So much had gone wrong; now she could leave those problems behind and go with Charles, if only her children could be induced to come along. That would be hard to pull off, but maybe it could be managed, as long as no one betrayed the old family to Charles. Soon enough, these recent happenings would fade.

  Charles appeared in the doorway, his keen eyes round and inquiring.

  “I really have to go, Sabrina—Charles is here. Please let me know if anything else happens.”

  She hung up the phone.

  “Who was that?” he wanted to know.

  “That was the mother of one of the girls from Other Paths.”

  “There’s been a problem?”

  “I’m sorry to say there has.” Marian groped desperately for a way around exposing the ugly tale; but Charles gave her no chance.

  “Who is Raymond, and what has he done?” he demanded, smoothing his tie. He was suddenly in lawyer mode; Marian had never seen him gear up before.

  “Oh, who knows what really happened.” She paused for a moment, then found she could no longer hold back. “Raymond is one of the teachers, and apparently someone has accused him of sleeping with one of the girls.”

  Charles glared, though not at her. “I never thought it was a good idea to send your daughter there. How could Tom do that?”

  “Tom’s judgment was always poor,” Marian sighed, flushing at her slander. “I agreed because we knew Joel Cohen and regarded him as a wonderful man.”

  “Where could that Raymond have come from?”

  “Who knows.”

  “I imagine Joel brought him in,” Charles groaned. “People do the damnedest things.”

  “I suppose they do.” Though Marian agreed, she damped a surge of loathing for both Helen and Raymond; she was feeling in need of damage control. “Fortunately, Joel had a good deal else to offer.”

  “How much has she seen of Raymond?” Charles pursued.

  “Who—Alice?” Marian’s eyebrows rose.

  “Yes—how much has your daughter seen of Raymond?” he demanded bluntly.

  Marian moved away. Charles, in lawyer mode, was probing the case. “Why, I suppose she’s gone to a few classes.”

  “Maybe you should inquire.”

  “I’m very sure nothing’s happened—”

  “No, I should hope not. But who knows what she may have heard.”

  “Why, who would reveal such a thing?” Marian was struggling to compose herself.

  “Oh, Raymond or the girl, I suppose,” Charles shrugged. “People do brag, you know.”

  “If Joel Cohen had heard, I’m sure he would have done something.” For Marian, Joel was looming larger and larger as the lone hero of an unsavory tale.

  “I can assure you,” Charles responded heatedly, smoothing his tie, “Mr. Joel Cohen would swear he had no idea of any improper dealings.”

  “And maybe he’d be telling the truth.”

  “Oh, perhaps.”

  Alice appeared in the doorway.

  “There she is,” Charles nodded. “Come on in, dear.”

  Alice

  SHE’D HEARD JOEL’S name from the foyer and was already wondering which of the school’s outrages had made the rounds. Her mother knew only Helen’s mother, Sabrina—and Helen had every reason to conceal her connection with Raymond. But maybe she’d confessed other things—such as Andy’s palace coup.

  Charles’ somber face was an ominous sign. “Tell us about Raymond,” he commanded.

  “Raymond?”

  “Yes,” responded her mother sharply, “Raymond and the so-called ‘Bohemian Grove weekend.’”

  Alice made no response. So, had they heard about the palace coup? Or worse?

  “He was there, I presume?”

  “Yes, he drove us in the van.”

  “That’s all?” Her mother’s eyes were glassy. “And what was everyone doing while you were there?”

  “Where?”

  “At the Bohemian Grove!”

  “Nothing . . .” Alice gulped; she would come clean. “Someone made a bonfire.”

  “Of course—you were camping!” her mother snapped. “I’m asking, was there anything else I should know?”

  “No.” Alice was sweating. “What’s wrong?”

  Her mother wrung her hands in rage. “Raymond’s been sleeping with one of the girls—Helen Patterson! That’s what’s wrong!”

  “Yes!” Charles confirmed, in a novel show of grown-up agreement. “And your mother needs to know how much you’ve heard.”

  Alice lowered her eyes. “They’re older . . .”

  “You’ve heard nothing?” her mother demanded, incredulous.

  “Maybe some rumors . . .”

  “How long were they carrying on—have you any idea?”

  “How would I know?” The room was feeling warm. Alice had wondered the same thing, though not about Helen and Raymond. Her mother, dreamy and sighing, had told her over and over how she and Charles had found each other again, but somehow the time frame never made sense—how could so many changes have happened in only a few weeks? There was nothing to do, however, but appear to honor the story of a long-ago love so abruptly renewed. Alice struggled to hold her doubts in mind as her mother pressed on.

  “Raymond chaperoned the weekend, as I recall.”

  “Chaperoned?” The word sounded odd and incongruous, though its meaning eluded Alice.

  “He was in charge of you, no? Was there anyone else—Joel, for example?”

  “Joel canceled.”

  “And so there was only Raymond.”

  Alice shrugged. There was no use denying fundamental facts.

  “Did Helen and Raymond share a room?” her mother pursued, unsparing.

  “Maybe. I heard a rumor—”

  “And what else happened?”

  What else?

  “Your mother’s heard everything from one of the parents—,” Charles said, growing impatient.

  “—from Sabrina.”

  Alice was feeling woozy. What more could there be?

  “You were in Raymond’s van—”

  “Yes.”

  “And what was happening once you got there?”

  “Nothing much,” Alice muttered. “I hardly saw Helen.”

  “And I suppose you were doing nothing wrong.”

  Alice glanced at Charles for help; he glanced back.

  “If you’d told me these things, I would have had you in another school.” Her mother was looking at her warily. “Joel’s been some help, I suppose?”

  “Some. When he’s there.”

  “And when he’s not?”

  “I’ve been in the library.”

  “The library?” H
er mother seemed mystified.

  “Down on Shattuck. I go there and read. There’s a librarian who helps me, recommends books—”

  “You’re supposed to be in school during the day.”

  Alice lowered her eyes.

  “You’ve been lying to me—”

  “Now, now,” murmured Charles, placing a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “From the sound of it, she’s been in good hands.”

  “I know, but—”

  The inquiry lapsed. They looked at each other, as though wondering how to begin anew. For a moment, Alice pondered how much to say. “I heard a rumor during the retreat . . . but I thought maybe it was just a rumor. Then last week . . .”

  “Yes?” came her mother’s weary sigh.

  “I ran into Helen, and she told me.”

  Her mother folded her arms; her head drooped. “Someone went to the police about these goings-on. They’re closing Other Paths.”

  When she’d confessed to Fernwood, Alice had broken Raymond’s commandment. But she’d never imagined that Fernwood would inform on the school. The others would blame her, if they knew. She edged through the doorway, suppressing a feeling of glee.

  A FEW DAYS later, Alice was ascending a fire road above the campus, close by the path where Johnny had brought her. She had no reason for coming here, beyond some internal goading—waspish and maddening—that was driving her far into enemy turf. The place was deserted; that could be good or bad. She was moving with a sense of weightlessness—as though, released from earth, she would soar far above the grasses and eucalyptus groves.

  As she rounded a bend, she came face-to-face with a group of young people. One of the girls was singing; it was Maya, in her usual clown face. On her heels came Andy and Helen, followed by Jonathan. Jonathan caught up, waving at Alice. Then Andy resumed a conversation in progress.

  “Such a bummer . . . someone had to be the squealer. I really wanna know who—”

  “So many people,” Jonathan shrugged, with a touch of contempt. “Could’ve been any of them.”

  “Yeah, Helen, you made sure everyone knew.” Andy glared around, eyes blue and watery, enlarged by the glasses he wore. “Why’d you do that?”