Playground Zero

by Sarah Relyea

  “Oh, Andy, they knew already.” Helen pulled off her purple bandana and slapped at him. “You and your palace coup—that’s how. You’re a jealous brat—”

  “Raymond!” Andy spat. “You and Raymond!”

  Jonathan came forward, eyeing Alice. “You heard?”

  “Heard?”

  “Other Paths,” Andy snapped. “They’re closing us down.”

  “Oh—yes.” Alice glanced at Helen. “Your mom called.”

  “Whoa . . .” Andy was pondering. “Hey, Helen, would your mom call the cops?”

  “No way, she’s cool,” Helen murmured.

  Maya sang on, bobbing to a rhythm in her head. “Eli’s comin’, hide your heart girl . . . I know,” she giggled, her laugh rising and falling like birdsong. “It was one of those girls who’s always chasing Ray.”

  “But who?” Andy glared around through the trees. “’Cause I got something to say to her.”

  Jonathan wriggled his eyebrows. “Go ask Alice. She’s in the loop,” he teased.

  “Oh, Jonathan, be real,” Helen said, frowning. “Alice heard from me. She looked appalled and told me Ray was too old.”

  “That’s a laugh.”

  Maya wandered on, singing. Her long shawl was dragging in the dust.

  “C’mon,” murmured Helen. She and Andy followed Maya down the road.

  Jonathan hung back, as though he’d been hoping for a personal word with Alice. They faced each other. “How’s the library these days—fun?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “How come you’re not there today?”

  She moved away. “Other things to do.”

  “Such as wandering alone on the fire road?” Jonathan’s eyebrows wriggled as he followed her.

  “Why not?”

  “Wanna come with us?”

  She shrugged, facing an uncomfortable dilemma. If she refused, she would soon be alone in that burdened place; if she agreed and the others learned what she’d done, they would blame her.

  Jonathan sighed. “You know, a couple of weeks ago I went to the library . . . thought you’d be there. There was only that priggish librarian—”

  “Fernwood?”

  “That’s her name? I asked if you were around and she glared at me, made me feel like some kind of felon.”

  “Fernwood’s okay.”

  “To you, maybe.” He hummed the opening bars of “Eleanor Rigby.” “Now that they’ve closed Other Paths, you’ll have even more reading days.”

  She moved away, gazing on the slope. “It was Fernwood,” she confessed, speaking to the grasses.

  “Huh?” The gray eyes were probing her.

  “I told her—Raymond and Helen—”

  “You what?” He approached, speaking in a murmur. She held her ground.

  “Fernwood—I told her. I never imagined she’d do anything.”

  The others were nearing a bend; now they called out, beckoning Jonathan.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” he breathed, leaning in.

  “Go ahead.” They could blame her; she would be leaving anyway.

  “I wouldn’t do that.” Jonathan surveyed her. “Just so you know, I think Raymond’s a real perv.” He turned, waving to the others. “I’m coming!” Then he faced her. “Well, goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  And she began running the other way along the road.

  Passing a bend in the road, she came upon a grassy slope leading away through the trees. The slope—it was where Johnny had brought her, so long ago—glimmered and rippled, blurring as though in a long camera exposure. Except for the grasses, moved by an unseen force, the day was calm, the nightmare gone. She found herself remembering and judging the world and wondering what she would take with her. Once upon a time, she’d imagined that the things she learned would go with her—she’d carry them on. Now there was no saying. All through the canyon, eucalyptus fronds dangled, releasing a sharp odor. She’d endured one thing and then another; soon she would be moving on. She was hoping for some way beyond drowning in the Now, its rushing stream, its unleashing of half-forgotten, half-life scenes—things she’d once imagined would go with her anywhere. They would weaken and fade, change as her father had been changed for Charles; yet they would go on and on, becoming remnants as she journeyed through newly forming worlds. She would have severed good from bad, if she could, but here, among the sharp odors of eucalyptus, she’d endured a mingling, and now there was no chance of carrying only the good.

  BEFORE THEY WERE to leave, Tom arranged a get-together. Ginger had seen the children, though never for long. She was always in a hurry, her eyes cool and appraising even as she showed her charm. Then one Sunday in early June, he came by the house in Berkeley and drove them to San Francisco. Ginger had made plans for dinner in a North Beach restaurant that served homemade pasta.

  When the Raysons arrived, Ginger had already found a table and ordered a glass of white wine. She wore peach-colored slacks and a pale blouse with a Nehru collar. Her hair had been done in waves and highlights; her long fingernails were manicured. She looked nothing like Alice’s mother, who’d gone longhaired and casual. Tom grabbed the seat facing her.

  “Well, lady . . .”

  “Hi, Tom. No problems on the bridge?”

  “No—all clear.”

  She gave the children a smile. “Bet you’ve never had dinner in a real North Beach restaurant before,” she teased. “They have three grandmothers who make all the spaghetti noodles and sauces here on the premises.”

  Curt laughed, humoring her.

  “I hear they have a wonderful lasagna—that’s something you won’t get at home,” she added. “Have you ever had lasagna?”

  Alice looked up, encountering cool gray-green eyes. “Yes,” she replied, “my mom makes it sometimes.”

  “Oh, does she? That’s very adventurous of her.”

  Ginger signaled for the menus, and a plump, matronly woman handed them around, making eyes at Curt. As she moved on, glancing back over her shoulder, Ginger reached across the table and laced her fingers with Tom’s, the thumbs playing in the candlelight. Curt, handsome and blooming, amused himself by pouring a few grains of salt in his palm; Ginger gave him a smile.

  “Looking forward to the end of school?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “How soon?”

  “Coupla weeks.”

  “Same for you?” she pursued, glancing at Alice. There was an awkward pause, as Alice wondered why she was even asking. “Oh my, I completely forgot—you’re already done with school, aren’t you?”

  “Kind of.”

  “I heard from your dad how they closed your school. Such a shame.” Ginger paused, reaching for the bread with her free hand. “Can you say what happened?”

  Curt smothered a guffaw.

  “A teacher . . . trouble . . .” Alice mumbled, glancing at her father for help, but he was looking elsewhere. Ginger was making mischief by asking; surely she’d heard about Raymond.

  “So shabby.” Ginger made a somber face. “I know your dad was really mad. He never thought much of the place—what’s it called?”

  “Other Paths.”

  “Yes, how could I forget. And the headmaster—I mean the principal?”

  “Joel Cohen.”

  “He really let your dad down.”

  Her father’s eyes were roving over Ginger, absorbing her as she spoke. He mumbled vague agreement, as their thumbs played together. Ginger was showing her charm again, but the gray-green eyes were cool. She began looking over the menu, as the others followed along.

  “Ready to order?” she prompted.

  Tom grunted approval.

  Ginger placed her menu on the table. “Tom,” she smiled, “you can order the veal for me. I’ll go powder my nose.”

  Ginger headed for the rear of the restaurant. The three Raysons sat uncomfortably together, as Tom’s eyes wandered after her.

  Curt began drumming on the table. “Vida Blue’s gonna win the
Cy Young,” he remarked, eager and upbeat.

  Tom nodded vaguely.

  “Maybe we can see a game . . . before I go.”

  “Maybe . . .” He gazed off in Ginger’s wake.

  Eyeing her father’s face, Alice ignored the baseball plans; she would not be going, if she had any say. From the sound of it, no one would be going to a game; her father was caught up in a new world peopled exclusively by Ginger. He’d never shown much enthusiasm before, and Alice was wondering what the change would mean for her.

  Ginger reappeared, hair combed and fluffed, lighting his eyes. Resuming her place at the table, she cast a glance over the uncollected menus.

  “Tom, I thought you were going to order,” she teased.

  “Well, lady, I was waiting for you.”

  As they clasped hands again, the plump woman waddled up. Ginger ordered veal for the grown-ups and lasagna for the kids. She turned to Curt.

  “Maybe you can come horseback riding before you leave. You’d have some real fun.” Then she smiled. “I know you love baseball, but it’s always good to try something new.”

  “Maybe,” Curt shrugged, adding, “I’ve never been on a horse. And there’s the game with Vida Blue.”

  “Your dad’s a fast learner—I bet you are, too.”

  “I’d rather see the game,” Curt objected, turning to his father.

  “Well . . .” Her father’s face had become damp. “What do you say about a game, lady?” he asked Ginger.

  “Oh, Tom, I just thought—”

  “You and I can go to the dude ranch this summer—”

  “Yeah,” Curt muttered, “and I can see Vida Blue throw a shutout.”

  “How about you, Alice?” Ginger pursued. “Anything you’re hankering for before you go, or are you someone who never looks back?”

  Alice thought of the day she’d seen Joel, Helen, and Fernwood, one after the other. Then she thought of the day on the fire road. “I’ve said goodbye . . . in my own way.”

  Ginger was no longer smiling. “I’m not sure what you mean.” For the first time, she seemed uneasy.

  “I already told everyone goodbye. They know what it means—or they can figure it out.”

  “If you say so.” Ginger unlaced her fingers. “Well, here comes the lasagna,” she announced, as the woman came bearing a serving tray. Ginger raised her wineglass. “Cheers,” she smiled.

  ALICE WAS FINGERING the ragged sleeve of her Finnish army jacket. She’d been planning on wearing the jacket for the journey south. Though they would be traveling by car, as before, everything else had changed. They had come to Berkeley as the Raysons; they’d endured the loss of Tom and personal changes; now they were leaving as another family, regrouped with Charles and his sons. Alice had been hoping that her mother would be busy with Charles and say nothing about clothes; that way, she could wear the army jacket, a covering for her wound. But then the day came, a warm Sunday in June, and she suddenly understood. She could carry only so much on the journey south. Someone had abandoned the army jacket long ago; soon enough, someone else would find it hanging in her room. By then, of course, she would be long gone.

  Near the army jacket hung the jeans she’d worn that day—the day Johnny took her so far she could never go back. She’d always planned on leaving the jeans. No one would ever know where they’d come from, why they’d been abandoned. And so she would go on. She would live; Johnny would die.

  Then she remembered. Groping in the jeans, she found the ring she’d bought from a head shop so long ago. The ring had been there, in the jeans, since the day Johnny had changed her. She’d been scared to look; but in an hour she would escape from Berkeley, she would be safe.

  Alice grasped the ring. From now on, the changes would be up to her.

  In the mingling of good and bad, hope could be found—a flame. Not the world-devouring flame of nightmare, but a flame she could carry with her. She thought of trees and sandy beaches, cars and suburbs, a school.

  Joel had made them see the world as an asylum; but the asylum was here, in a failed experiment. The new family was moving on, a new experiment. She hoped they would succeed. She remembered Joel’s slogan: “We destroy in order to create.” Back in Washington, who would have imagined the Raysons could do such things? And yet, they’d done nothing so very outrageous, only what everyone else was doing. She was glad they were going—even minus Tom. The world was a place of beauty and destruction; but though they’d been mingled, for her they could never be the same thing.

  Her mother was calling. Alice fingered the ragged cloth, wondering; then she let the sleeve go. She’d seen things go wrong, and now she was leaving, escaping Berkeley. Who could say if the others would make it: Jim and Valerie and Maya and Helen . . .

  Charles had come for them. He’d come up the day before in a Ford Thunderbird, and now the four of them climbed in together, bound for Los Angeles. As the engine rumbled and they pulled away from the curb, Alice saw her mother and Charles, happy and youthful, exchange a long glance. Then Charles donned the square sunglasses he preferred.

  “Here we go.”

  “Yes, here we go,” Marian smiled, refusing to look back as they pulled away.

  Curt leaned, face clenched, for a last glimpse of the handsome brown-shingle house. Alice saw the soaring palm, then the gray-green London plane trees began rolling by. The June morning was balmy though cool. She thought how odd it seemed, eagerly leaving such a beautiful place.

  They’d hardly gone anywhere when Charles suddenly headed up an old road bordered by ivy-covered stone walls.

  “Where are we?” Alice wondered aloud.

  “Claremont Avenue,” Curt murmured, “heading for Grizzly Peak.” He sounded as if he’d been there more often than he could remember.

  “How do you know?”

  “I used to come here with Sammy.” He gazed away, vaguely contemptuous. “You mean you’ve never been here before?”

  “No more squabbling—let’s just enjoy ourselves now,” Marian purred, as though she imagined they’d never squabble again.

  Charles gave a sigh. “Let’s have a look around before we go. Your mother says she’s never come up here. Hard to imagine.”

  Curt shrugged. “Been here with Sammy . . .”

  The car roared up and up, and soon they were on Grizzly Peak Boulevard, rounding the edge of a cliff. Far below lay the shimmering surface of the bay.

  “Oh, we have been here,” Marian gasped, gazing on a Florentine villa perched on a promontory below. “That strange afternoon.” She glanced back at the children. “Do you remember how scared you were? You’d never seen such hills—and the road was so winding. Do you remember how the brakes were smoking on the way down?”

  So many worse things had happened, but that was how they’d be remembered, thought Alice—as a road winding along a ridge and then dropping down, faster and faster. Only the burning rubber had saved them, by slowing them down.

  Charles drove calmly, peering around the slope, as though on furlough from the world. The road wound along the summit, then began sloping down toward the canyon. Soon they rounded a sharp bend, and Charles nodded toward a clump of sci-fi buildings below.

  “That’s the Lawrence Laboratory,” he commented. “And there’s the cyclotron.”

  He had a reason for bringing them here, Alice sensed, as her mother’s voice pealed.

  “Oh, look at the fog!”

  Sure enough, fog was pouring through the Golden Gate.

  Alice was sitting behind Charles. She leaned forward. “What’s a cyclotron?” She’d heard the ominous word before, and wanted to know why he’d brought them there.

  Charles smiled wryly at her mother. “You mean all they know is People’s Park?”

  “Just look at the fog,” she sighed. “Soon enough, no one will care anymore about People’s Park.”

  Curt leaned in. “It’s where they make the nuclear fuel,” he murmured, as the car dropped down Centennial Drive, past research gardens belon
ging to the university, toward the Greek Theatre.

  For a moment, Alice remembered her dream. She would have to forgive herself for so many things, including leaving the others—Tammy and Joe and Valerie and Jonathan and . . . But she was going far away, and she would have to save herself—that would be the new experiment.

  The Ford rumbled along Bancroft Way, by the border of the campus, approaching Telegraph Avenue. For a year, she’d hardly seen Telegraph; she’d been scared and ashamed. Now the whole scene loomed close: she could jump out and be there.

  Charles sought Alice’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “How’re you doing, sport?”

  “Okay.” It was as though he knew.

  As Telegraph Avenue was whirling by, a scruffy girl ran up alongside the Ford. She had golden ropes of hair and a ragged Spider-Man shirt, and she was ogling Charles—the close-cropped hair and square sunglasses—as though he’d come from Mars. As Charles glared back, Valerie began laughing and waving, then veered away toward the curb. With a shudder, Alice saw her go.

  “Someone you know?” her brother murmured.

  Alice could feel herself going warm, then cold. Telegraph Avenue passed in a blur, and soon the raucous sounds faded. The Ford was rounding a corner, heading for Ashby Avenue. Beyond the window rose the campus hills, eucalyptus trees obscuring the fire road. Who could say how, but she’d been released. That evening they would sleep in a faraway place, and in the morning, she would wake up in a new world.

  Credits

  BALLAD OF A THIN MAN

  Words and Music by Bob Dylan

  Copyright © 1965 by Warner Bros. Inc.; renewed 1993 by Special Rider Music.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured.

  Reprinted by permission.

  ELEANOR RIGBY

  Words and Music by John Lennon and Paul McCartney

  Copyright (c) 1966 Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

  Copyright Renewed

  All Rights Administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, 424 Church Street, Suite 1200, Nashville, TN 37219

  International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved

  Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC