“Let me take care of that for you.” There was Lee, leaning into her, her eyes firm on Jeannie’s, her own hair swinging in dark waves, a smile rounding her face. Charlie lay calm, his body rising with slow breaths. Something hot and shivery, like a fever, prickled the back of Jeannie’s neck. Lee moved closer, and her fingers went to Jeannie’s face again, but there was no stray hair to fix. Jeannie’s breath roughened; the feather of a question.
Lee’s hand trailed over Jeannie’s cheek and dropped down over Jeannie’s breast, resting at her waist.
A shiver of needles, a rush of heat, and Lee leaned in and pressed her lips against Jeannie’s mouth, her tongue opening Jeannie’s lips, her heart scooping beats in her chest, the warm wetness of her kiss, her hand on the nape of her neck, hair like lace in her fingertips. A shudder of breath, maybe from Jeannie or Lee or the child sleeping beside them; and a feeling—a feeling of falling.
Jeannie woke before light touched the windows—dry-mouthed, a sticky fear crawling over her. It took a moment to locate herself: in her bed, Billy breathing beside her, a stillness down the hallway in Charlie’s room. And then it flickered together in a noisy rush of pictures, like the riffle of a cut deck of cards. The long kiss (a greasy bubble of shame in her stomach); Lee’s eyes opening at the crack of floorboards; Jeannie standing in time to see Billy checking the guest rooms along the hallway; Lee strolling out of the bedroom moments later, smiling and saying hello; and then they were back in the party, Jeannie trying to steady the totter in her heart as Billy shook hands and pecked cheeks, asked after sick mothers and grown children, until finally it was over, and Billy lifted Charlie from his bed and placed him on the backseat of the car for the woozy drive home. Long giddy hours watching the window for dawn, the groove of Lee’s fingers still on her skin, until the night thinned, and sleep fell like an ax.
Jeannie turned from Billy, the dumb weight of a headache sliding from one side of her head to the other. Guilt picked at her, like it might unpeel her.
“What happened?” Billy sat and threw off the bedspread; it dragged her nightgown up over her waist.
“What?” Jeannie clutched her gown and sat.
Billy snatched up the alarm clock.
“Damn thing’s broken,” he said. “I’m late.” He pushed a sweaty kiss on her forehead. “Got to go.”
The next few days brought rain and resentment. Charlie kicked and screamed his boredom away before falling into a sulk that not even a visit from the bread man could shift. Jeannie trained her mind on her labors to tune out the memory of Lee. But eventually the work of the day stopped—Charlie put to bed, the laundry and the pans and the trash put away—and Jeannie was defenseless. Lying empty on the couch, she let the memory play, with all its charm and horror; and at the drop of Lee’s fingers, she closed her eyes and felt her face fill with shame, her heart welter with something excruciating, like hope. Each time she returned to the memory it was a little more worn with use—a loss of sharpness in the image, a blurring of the sequence—until after a while it had the muddiness of a dream, and Jeannie found it hard to connect to the electric charge, the disgrace of the fact that the girl in the picture was her. She wondered about Lee, wondered if she lived in Lee’s thoughts the way Lee lived in hers; and it almost felt possible that if she imagined Lee enough, she might witch her into the flesh—a chance meeting on the street, a strange knock at the door. But weeks passed, and the rain cleared and the fog lifted off the hills, and if desire was like waiting, Jeannie had given up that anything was coming.
One Friday evening more than a month after Dorothy’s fundraiser, Billy and Jeannie were sitting down to a dinner of veal casserole with lima beans when the telephone rang. Billy looked up from his newspaper, wiped his mouth on his wrist, and went to answer it, pausing to push his sleeves up his arms.
“Dr. Harper speaking.” He stood, legs wide, his knees slightly bent, ready to drop the receiver and sprint to the hospital.
A pause, and Billy straightened.
“Who is this?” He eyed Jeannie.
What? she mouthed.
“All right,” said Billy, a note of disappointment in his voice. Jeannie’s anxiety slowed to curiosity. “Who?” she said, but Billy just shrugged, handed her the receiver, and returned to his dinner.
“Hello?”
“Is that Jeannie?”
“Who is this?” Jeannie watched Billy push his face close to his Chronicle and shovel beans into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in days.
“It’s Lee,” said the voice. “Lee. From the party.”
Jeannie’s heart swallowed a beat. She turned her back to Billy.
“Hello?” said Lee.
The dip-and-drum of Jeannie’s heart grew unsteadier. “What is it?” she said, tightening her voice to stop it from giving her away.
There was a pause at the other end of the line. Jeannie wondered if she’d lost her. “Hello?”
“I’m in trouble,” said Lee.
“What do you mean?”
Jeannie heard a tapping noise in the background, the murmur of talking.
“I’m at a police station in Oakland—”
“What?”
“—And I need you to come get me.”
“What?”
Lee cleared her throat. “I’ll explain when you get here.”
Jeannie heard the flapping sound of Billy closing his newspaper and lowered her voice. “I can’t just—”
“Please.” Lee’s voice was small with fear. “I can’t call anybody else.”
Jeannie tried to tug her thoughts together, but they floated away like balloons in the wind.
“It’s bad.” Lee breathed into the receiver; and it was as though she were right there, her mouth on Jeannie’s ear. Jeannie hesitated.
“You’re coming?” said Lee.
Jeannie glanced at Billy, who was looking at her with questions stamped over his face, gravy flecking his collar.
“What happened?” asked Jeannie; and she heard the stiffness in her voice, but her mind was making itself up.
“I can’t talk right now.” The hum of talk in the background rose to yelling. “If you won’t do it, I got to go—”
“Don’t hang up,” said Jeannie. “Where exactly are you?”
“It’s just off the freeway, near Jack London Square,” said Lee.
“Okay,” said Jeannie. Anticipation balled in her stomach. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“One more thing.”
“What is it?” asked Jeannie.
“I told them you’re my cousin.”
Jeannie heard the dial tone but kept the receiver to her ear as she assembled a face, and a lie, for Billy.
“I’ll see you there. Good-bye,” she said, hearing her voice outside the telephone and in the room. She set down the receiver.
“What was that about?” said Billy, sweeping the last slicks of gravy with his forefinger.
“It was Nancy.” Billy assumed the doomy expression he always did at Nancy’s name; her affair with the head of his department was the talk of the hospital.
“Why didn’t she tell me it was her?” Billy frowned. “What’s the problem?”
“She thinks she might be pregnant.”
Billy looked like he’d been smacked on the nose. He stood and dropped his cutlery onto his empty plate. “This is all I need,” he said, his ears glowing red. “As if she hasn’t caused enough gossip already.”
“She’s upset,” said Jeannie, talking fast to deliver the lie and see if it was strong enough to stand. “Professor Fairchild threw her out and she can’t get home.”
“Has she thought about a cab?” said Billy, with uncharacteristic sarcasm.
“Please,” said Jeannie. “She needs a friend.” She reached for his shoulders and stroked the length of his arms, weaving her fingers into his, feeling a pinch of guilt at the surprise and pleasure that showed in his face. She tiptoed to kiss him on the mouth. “Let me help her out,” she said. “She’s like a siste
r.”
“Some sister,” said Billy, squeezing her hands and letting go. “She only shows up when she needs something. Doesn’t stop to think about how you’re doing.”
Jeannie thought of Kip, and felt uneasy.
“I’ll go,” said Billy, his shoulders hunching like he’d hauled a load onto his back. He took his keys from the counter. “It’s late.”
“You want your boss to see you picking up his pregnant girlfriend?” said Jeannie.
Billy paused.
“I’ll take a cab,” she said, easing the keys from his hand. “I might be late. If you need to go in, Cynthia can watch Charlie.”
Before he could answer, Jeannie hurried to their bedroom to retrieve her sweater and purse, stopping to pull her mom’s vanity case from the top of her dresser and remove four five-dollar bills.
“’Bye,” she called as she opened the front door, not turning to look at Billy’s face.
The night was fresh with rain. As she stepped down to the sidewalk, Jeannie felt a loose, empty feeling, and wondered if it was freedom.
“You’re just in time to miss all the trouble,” said the cabdriver as they crossed over the Bay Bridge, mist smudging the lights of Treasure Island.
“What trouble?” asked Jeannie.
He flicked a hard look at the mirror. “You been living under a rock?” He shook his head. Jeannie had never been to Oakland before; and the looks the driver was giving her through the rearview mirror confirmed it wasn’t the smartest place for her to visit. She looked out the window at the lights of the ships bulking the water, the vacant lots fronting the highway, and let her mind fall blank. Then there was a thickening of buildings, a clot of traffic, and they pulled up with a jerk outside the police station.
“Can you wait?” said Jeannie.
The driver tipped his chin in both a “Yes” and a “Fuck you.”
Jeannie pushed through the door. The waiting area was crowded and noisy, with what Jeannie assumed to be students sitting among placards and banners. Three cops with loose-strapped white helmets leaned against the wall, watching them. In the corner, a guy Billy’s age (whose stringy arms and facial hair were reminiscent of an ape’s) thumped his fingers against a typewriter balanced clumsily on his lap. Billy had talked about Berkeley students making trouble; and now Jeannie had the pieces of the puzzle: Lee had gotten caught up in a protest with her classmates, and needed a ride home. But why Lee had called her—Jeannie returned to this question with anticipation and discomfort, like pushing her tongue against a loose tooth. She walked to the desk, steadying her breathing, and waited for the officer to get off the telephone.
“I’m here to get Lee—” Jeannie realized she didn’t know Lee’s last name.
“You’re the cousin, right?” The officer reared up, thrusting his belly and rubbing his lower back.
“Right.” Jeannie spoke quietly, to make the lie small.
“It’s always the same. Kid gets in trouble, parents are no place to be found. Where the hell are they?”
The truth came at Jeannie slowly and surely, like a train making its way along a track. Jeannie tasted blood in her mouth and swallowed. Lee was a kid. Lee—in the half dark, smooth-limbed and soft-mouthed—a child. Lee was a kid who needed an adult to fetch her out of trouble; and who, scared of a scolding from her mother, had picked the nearest grown person she had something on and called Jeannie.
“Lost your tongue on the way over? Jesus.” The officer shook his head like he was already trying to forget their conversation. “Wait here a minute.”
Jeannie craned her head; the cab was still outside, its windows steamed. She thought of leaving; imagined the smell of stewed meat in the kitchen and Billy’s questions, and hesitated. And it was too late—a familiar murmur, and there she was, slighter than Jeannie remembered, wearing a white scarf and an outsized black jacket, bare-legged, as though she might be naked underneath. Her knees were scabbed and her ankle boots gaped at her calves; she looked as small and clumsy as a middle schooler. She saw Jeannie and her face snapped into the smart smile Jeannie recognized from the party; only this time her cheeks were unrounded.
“You didn’t bring Charlie?”
“Of course not.” Jeannie looked around; the man with the typewriter had paused over the keys to stare at them from across the room. “What the hell is going on?”
“I’ve got a story for him.” Lee hooked her arm into Jeannie’s; Jeannie slipped her arm away.
“Hey, kid.” The desk officer banged the table and waved them over. “You’re not done.” He knocked a finger against an open ledger. “Sign here, lady.”
Jeannie bent to make an unreadable scrawl. The officer looked it over; and all Jeannie could hear was blood hammering in her ears. Finally, leisurely, he signed next to her name and closed the ledger. He leaned on his forearms, his face crunched in a frown, his eyes shining, like he was going to enjoy this.
“You’re not in San Francisco anymore,” he told Lee.
Jeannie stared at the floor and counted till she could get out of there. One thousand, two thousand, three thousand . . .
“You’re in Oakland now; and you bring your bullshit here, you’re going to get hurt. You’re damn lucky I didn’t throw you in jail for the night.” His voice rose, and Jeannie suspected that Lee wasn’t looking sorry enough. She glanced up; the officer was firing eye-bullets (Kip’s phrase) into Lee. “I got enough shit to deal with,” said the officer, throwing his head toward the sound of the typewriter knocking in the corner, “without spoiled kids like you running out here to get your kicks.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you.” He bucked his head at Jeannie. “Tell those folks of hers to do their damn job. Next time she’ll get a rap sheet.”
The telephone rang. “All right, out of here,” he muttered. He sat back in his chair and picked up the receiver, watching them as they turned to leave. As Jeannie pushed open the door, one of the cops leaning against the wall lurched at them and growled like a dog. Jeannie quick-stepped outside, the door closing on laughter behind them. She slid into the cab, Lee behind her.
“Back to the city,” Jeannie called, ignoring the driver’s look of naked hostility.
They sat quietly for a minute before Lee placed a warm hand on Jeannie’s wrist. “You’re mad at me,” she said.
Jeannie removed her arm and looked out of the window. The headlights of passing cars blurred in the tears that were, babyishly, skinning her eyes. The freedom she’d felt leaving her home earlier that night had turned into something cold, exposing. Jeannie waited until they were on the bridge and her eyes had dried before turning to Lee in accusation; but instead of looking sorry, Lee was watching the approach of the city, her face calm and curious.
“How old are you?” asked Jeannie.
Lee looked surprised. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it does.”
“I’ll be a senior next year.”
“So you’re seventeen?”
“Almost.”
Jeannie raked her hand through her hair.
“You and that hair,” said Lee. “I like it when you look a little tangled.” She edged closer to Jeannie. “Are you going to tell on me?” As they crossed the bridge, bars of light flew across Lee’s face, giving her skin a celluloid glow that made her look unreal. One day you’ll be dead, thought Jeannie.
“You got to lighten up,” said Lee, not unkindly. The driver banged his horn. “Our friend in front here too.”
Sitting on the cab’s tired upholstery—warmed and worn by a thousand butts—Lee tapping her fingers to the radio, the city stepping before them, bright with hope and money, it was easier for Jeannie to ignore the bud of disquiet that had formed inside her at the police station just a half hour ago. Maybe they could forget about that night, let time bury it. It already had the feel of a lie about it—the kind of dirty tale Kip would tell his buddies.
“Something Stupid” rolled out of the radio up front. Lee called out to the
driver. “You like this song, mister?”
He ignored her; she blew him a kiss.
“What were you doing?” asked Jeannie.
“What do you mean?” said Lee, leaning to catch the view from Jeannie’s window.
“Out in Oakland.”
“Stopping the draft,” said Lee, her face in shadow.
“How?”
“We barricaded the induction center.” Lee sat back against the seat. “Guys were burning their papers. It was beautiful.” She had been inching closer, and now they were touching—thighs, shoulders, arms. She had a familiar, too-near scent, like dirt baking in sunlight. Jeannie shifted away.
“They arrested you?”
“Wrong place, wrong time. Got myself next to some dumbass throwing bottles.”
“Did they hurt you?” said Jeannie.
“The cops?” Lee shook her head. She closed the space Jeannie had made and put her head on Jeannie’s shoulder. Her hair tickled Jeannie’s neck. “No batons this time.” She yawned.
“You have to take care of yourself,” said Jeannie.
“We have to take care of our brothers,” said Lee, tilting her face so her mouth was close to Jeannie’s. “We’ve got to keep them alive.” Her breath had something sour in it, like hunger.
Jeannie’s mouth was dry; she wet her lips with her tongue.
“Want to tell me where the hell we’re heading?” yelled the driver.
“Twentieth, Potrero Hill,” called Lee, then murmured, “You have a brother, right?”
Sensing Jeannie’s surprise, Lee lifted her head to give her a frank, mischievous look. She rested her fingers on Jeannie’s thigh, and Jeannie didn’t move away.
“How did you know where to find me?” said Jeannie.
Lee ignored this. “My brother disappeared,” she said. She said it casually, but she straightened to look Jeannie full in the face, her fingers dragging from Jeannie’s leg. “They sent him in a big bird over the jungle.” Lee peered into Jeannie’s face, as though it were she who was listening to Jeannie’s story, and not the other way around. “The communists shot it down.”
The Outside Lands Page 7
