The Outside Lands

by Hannah Kohler

  But the higher-ups keep on with their listening posts and their patrols and their baits and traps, throwing good blood after bad; like they haven’t heard the war is over, that the good folks back home aren’t hungry for it anymore. And he was the worst—Captain Vance, Mister America himself—greedy for the mission, for the glory, for the fucking lie. I am Private Kipling Jackson, and I protest this war. Write it on my helmet, pin it on my chest—all hands off Vietnam.

  Jeannie / August 1968

  Charlie wriggled in Cynthia’s arms and began to cry.

  “I’ll be back soon, honey.”

  “He’s got a temperature,” said Cynthia, holding the back of her hand to Charlie’s forehead. He yanked her fingers away, ribbons of spit between his lips.

  “Billy will take a look at him when he’s back from work.”

  “Jeannie—”

  “Thanks, Cynthia.” Jeannie tapped down the steps, head down, saw the bare legs waiting for her on the sidewalk.

  “Lee—” Jeannie turned her head to see Cynthia standing at the top of the steps, her arms closed around a tearful Charlie, her easy face gathering into a frown as she closed the front door on them.

  Lee’s face was bright with excitement, her chest rising and falling with large breaths, as though she’d been running.

  “Something happened,” she said, her voice light and rough; and, registering Lee’s elation, Jeannie’s heart lightened. “Is it Walter? They let him go?”

  “They arrested the Reverend,” said Lee. “They found him in some motel in Los Angeles. Silver told me. They got him on all kinds of charges: not just selling falsified documents but mail fraud, obstructing justice, criminal battery, possession of controlled substances, and—get this—statutory rape. They’re going to sink his fucking ship.”

  Jeannie’s blood grayed. She heard Cynthia’s door open, Charlie’s cries turned up loud, the smack of Cynthia’s Mary Janes on the steps.

  “You know what, you take him.” Cynthia loaded Charlie into Jeannie’s arms.

  “Cynthia—just today. Please.”

  “He spends more time with me than he does with you.”

  “Just one more afternoon. Please, Cynthia.”

  “Why? So you can go hang out with your hippie friends?” Cynthia looked Lee up and down, took in the bruises on her shins, the thrift-store dress, the leather bands fraying at her wrists. Lee smiled back. “I’d sure like to know what you’re up to all these hours while I’m looking after your kid.”

  Jeannie felt the hard inquiry of Lee’s eyes. “I’m visiting a friend. In the hospital. I have to go, and I can’t take Charlie with me.”

  “Then she can take him,” said Cynthia, waving her fingers. “Now, excuse me while I go see to my own child.” She turned, her thin freckled legs taking two steps at a time, and slammed the door behind her.

  “I’ll take him,” said Lee.

  Tom / August 1968

  A nurse came to lotion his face and jack up the blinds. “So gloomy in here,” she said. Tom took in the sad, flat sun. She was late.

  The meds trolley had come and gone by the time her footsteps closed in on his room. They were faster than usual. She opened the door. She crossed the room to lower the blinds, leaving a narrow stripe of light at the bottom.

  “More light,” he said. She widened the stripe. She didn’t sit. Her hair spilled from its pins, and her cheeks were pink.

  “Pass me that shirt,” he said.

  She handed him the button-down that was folded on the locker; he sat and showed what he’d been practicing—the push of each arm through the holes, the two-handed buttoning of the front, propping his good fingers against the severed ones to push the buttons through the holes. Once he’d buttoned it all the way to the collar of his hospital gown, he unbuttoned it again, flipping the buttons as fast as he could from their slits. “The chief said he’ll discharge me tomorrow.”

  “They got someone else.”

  He looked up; she stood, jiggling her heel. “They arrested the man who ran the whole thing. The Reverend.” A cynical sound escaped Tom’s mouth. Her heel stopped mid-bounce. “They’re drawing in the nets,” she said.

  “Jeannie . . .” He heard the sticky undulation in her throat as she swallowed. She looked as though she was going to cry.

  “You need a lawyer,” he said.

  She stared at him, empty-eyed.

  “I’m always trying to save the wrong people,” she said.

  The door opened.

  “Passing through the building, thought I’d stop by,” said the chief. “How are—” He stopped and gazed at Jeannie, a stunned look on his face. Tom guessed what the old man was thinking—who was the lovely girl, and why was she with the cripple?

  “Excuse me,” said the chief. “I—”

  She was already gone.

  Tom / August 1968

  Jeannie ducked out of the room, head bowed, shoes brisk on the vinyl, out of the building, through the courtyard, along the dark pathways that expelled her at the main entrance. The sunlight exploded on her. She shouldered through the lingerers on the sidewalk, down Parnassus, onto Stanyan, along the park, past women pushing babies, children chasing birds, lovers walking, the heels of her pumps growing rickety on the sidewalk as she hurried into a half run, like she was being followed, devils at her back; onto Oak, along the din of traffic, across the street, turning into the park at Clayton, through the trees and across the grass, her breath quickening.

  She scanned the playground, sweat spreading under her arms. Saw Lee’s black hair rising in the wind, called out. Lee turned. Her face was strange; she ran toward Jeannie. Jeannie looked for Charlie, and couldn’t see him.

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s gone.”

  Alarm swung at Jeannie; her feet faltered.

  “I was talking to somebody and he disappeared. I looked all over. I can’t find him.”

  The sun dropped, raising black midges into the air.

  “He just vanished.”

  Kip / August 1968

  He got what was coming to him.

  My mom used to say that heaven and hell were lies, that God made his justice happen right here on earth. One way or another, you get yours—all your goods and bads and uglies paid back in full by the big bean-counting Universe. Vance didn’t die—but that grenade would’ve done its work, would have torn great strips off him, wrecked that movie-star jaw of his, ruined him. All this talk of justice, of charges and courts-martial and punishments, but Vance got his too. Shea was just one of us he murdered—if it hadn’t been for his gung-ho bullshit, those VC never would have come for us that day. They never would have cut the wire, wriggled their bellies over the dirt, and killed all those American boys. Seventy-four good American boys.

  When all’s said and done, he got his.

  Jeannie / August 1968

  Jeannie ran among the eucalyptus trees, checked under benches and picnic tables, behind trash cans, hollered until her voice scratched. Soon a gang of mothers gathered behind her, spreading the search, clutching their own infants to their chests. The sun blared her eyes as it sank, and she felt the slow seep of despair. She ran back to the playground, her lungs raw, and checked every piece of equipment for the fourth time: the playhouse, jungle gym, swing set, sandbox. Schoolkids covered the asphalt; Jeannie craned her neck over the crowd, elbowed through their stubborn bodies.

  No Charlie.

  She stood in the corner of the playground, shielded her eyes, and scanned the crowded space. At the far edge of the play area, pushing its fronds through the chain-link fence, was a juniper bush, dark and overgrown, its berries fat as grapes. Memories of Charlie last summer, dirty with elderberries in her dad’s backyard. She ran, called out; heard a noise. As she neared the bush, she heard crying.

  “Charlie?”

  She scissored her legs over the chain and squatted, pushing her arms through the branches.

  “Charlie?”

  Crouched in the shadows of the bu
sh, limbs tangled in untidy branches, dark scrapes on his bare legs, sat Charlie, his face a mess of tears.

  He saw her, and his face split.

  She scrabbled through the brush, branches scratching her skin, and pulled him out. He held fast to her, his whole body palpitating with the beat of his heart; she felt his heat and sweat, and pushed her mouth to his wet hair.

  Her eyes rose to the playground, saw the soft acknowledgment in the other mothers’ faces before they turned away. Only Lee approached, arms outstretched. The sound of thunder.

  The rain thickened, driving mothers under trees and tempting good shoes into puddles. Soon Jeannie’s dress was pulled wet against her skin. Charlie burrowed into her shoulder, his legs cold and sodden.

  “I have to get him home,” called Jeannie. Lee’s hair was slicked like eels over her shoulders, the dark circles of her nipples pressing through her pale dress.

  Lee nodded, and followed. Jeannie shook her head. “Go home,” she said. She quickened her stride, Charlie solid in her arms, the rain hissing on the path. She turned her head to see Lee following like a stray, and spurred her feet out of the park. Thunder exploded; she looked up to see a sky of hot silver, clouds rolling like smoke.

  The rain misted the sidewalk. Jeannie paused at Clayton and Fell and scanned for the warm light of a cab; but lights were dimmed, and windows were dark with bodies.

  Lee was at her side. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Jeannie looked into Lee’s face and felt empty of feeling—the heat of desire and anger now cooled to ash. She was just a girl; all the threads that had tied them together slackened and split. “It’s all right,” she said, gripping Charlie tighter and continuing up Clayton, her eyes searching for a cab. She walked, fatigued with relief, looking for a street that would deliver her a ride home, until she found herself all the way up on Geary. Lee trailed behind, hangdog in the rain. The sky darkened. Jeannie felt Charlie shivering against her shoulder. She realized she was only a few hundred yards from shelter. She found the turning, and walked.

  Fanny opened the door and called out in surprise. Dorothy appeared, concern and offense already mingling in her face. She reached for Charlie and pulled his soaking body against her linen suit, then turned to Fanny and ordered her to fetch some towels.

  “My boy,” said Dorothy, pushing her face into Charlie’s neck. “Quick, quick.” She beckoned Jeannie, who ducked her head under the threshold, water dripping warm down the back of her neck. Dorothy looked beyond Jeannie to see Lee, near-stripped by the rain, knees shivering. Something like sadness touched the older woman’s face. As she edged back under the porch, she caught Jeannie watching her, and her face closed over.

  “Leonora Walker,” said the older woman, her voice soft against the rain. “Get inside.”

  Lee obeyed, her sandals sucking against the soles of her feet and leaving dreggy smears on the tiles. She bowed her head and allowed Fanny to swallow her in a large monogrammed towel. Dorothy gave Jeannie a look of such naked accusation that she wondered if her father-in-law had already reported her presence at the hospital. She dropped her eyes to the floor.

  “What happened?” said Dorothy.

  “We got caught out,” said Jeannie.

  Lee found Jeannie in the guest room, buttoning herself into an old day dress of Dorothy’s. Lee looked like an unhappy Deanna Durbin, all gussied up in a smocked gown with puffed sleeves. “I’m sorry I lost him,” she said.

  “It’s okay. He’s safe. It’s fine.” Jeannie fixed her eyes on the cloth button at her cuff that rolled stubbornly at her fingers.

  “Where were you?” said Lee.

  Jeannie couldn’t answer, couldn’t find the place where the story began. Lee stood, her hips rolled forward, her hands awkward on her hips. She looked younger than her years. “Please, Jeannie,” she said. Her eyes were as hard and pretty as beads.

  “It’s over, Lee.” Jeannie heard a creak along the hallway, glanced at the open doorway, saw nothing.

  “I’m going away, anyways. Heading south.” Lee’s hand was pulling Jeannie’s cuff tight. Jeannie drew her wrist away; Lee’s hand went to Jeannie’s chin, tipping it so that Jeannie would see the invitation in her face.

  “You’re running away,” said Jeannie, contempt slipping into her voice. Lee heard it; she edged backward, sliding her hand from Jeannie’s chin so that it rested where her shoulder met her neck.

  “I’m moving on,” said Lee; and there was something about the casualness of her hand at Jeannie’s neck, the strangeness and possessiveness, that ran Jeannie’s blood warm and cool, an odd mix of pity and alienation. “I can’t be around her anymore,” said Lee. Jeannie thought of Virginia, with her milky beauty and her steel; how strange it must be for her to have a daughter like Lee.

  “This isn’t about your mom,” said Jeannie. “You’re afraid.”

  Lee raised her other hand, placed it on the other side of Jeannie’s neck, her fingers loose, her face tilted up to Jeannie’s. “Afraid of what?”

  “Afraid of—” Jeannie’s eyes went to the door, and she shrugged herself from Lee’s embrace, hushed her voice. “Of Walter, the Reverend. Of getting caught.”

  Lee gave a lazy smile. “I won’t get caught.” Her breath smelled of burned leaves. “They don’t know who I am,” she said. “They called me Lyla.”

  “And what about me?”

  “They don’t know who you are either. I didn’t tell them.”

  “Then Mrs. Dewey. Walter just needs to give her name to the police and they’ll find Billy’s name on the medical letter.”

  “She never gave Walter her name. Why would she? He just gave her a time and place to meet us. He doesn’t know anything.”

  Jeannie thought of the cold control in Walter’s eyes, the way he weighed and measured her at each encounter. “He knows everything,” she said.

  “Walter? He thinks he does.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “I was going to,” said Lee. She gave an exaggerated shrug.

  She wanted a reason to come back, thought Jeannie. She studied Lee’s face. “I don’t know if I can trust you.”

  “I’ve not lied to you, Jeannie,” said Lee; and Jeannie struggled to thumb down whether this was true. She remembered what her mom used to tell Kip—if you’re going to lie, tell someone who wants to believe you; she wondered if she was falling for Lee’s bullshit all over again.

  Jeannie took a breath and closed her eyes, tried to find where she was, to place her sense of danger. The darkness behind her eyes blotched with light, and Lee’s lips were on hers, her tongue pushing soft and bitter into her mouth, her hand pressing the nape of her neck, the taste of ash; and she felt the death of the kiss even as it was on her mouth, Lee’s lips always on the point of falling away: a last kiss.

  Jeannie stepped back, felt Lee’s body drop away, opened her eyes.

  Saw someone, moving from the doorway.

  A car sounded its horn outside.

  “That’s my cue,” said Lee, disappearing before Jeannie could say anything. Jeannie wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She listened to the thud, then the pat, of Lee’s footsteps; heard murmurs, the slam of the front door. Jeannie went to the window. The glass was warped with age, and the street below shimmered. Rain drew in long strokes over the sky. Jeannie watched Lee run to the waiting cab, her dark hair slapping against her dress, which billowed pale and showy in the wind—like a heroine in a black-and-white movie. At the last moment, Lee turned and lifted her face to Jeannie’s window, raised her palm, mouthing something unreadable, then folded into the cab, which shined its weak lights into the afternoon and drew away.

  Jeannie sat on the bed, her body rimpling the silk beneath her, her heart scurrying. She listened to the sounds of the house: Fanny crashing pans in the kitchen; Charlie hurtling down the hallway; Dorothy’s low murmurs—a story, maybe a game; the opening and closing of the front door; the whistle of the kettle; a bang, a cry—Charlie; D
orothy shushing; the bawl rising, lifting in the house—Mommy.

  Jeannie stood. She walked slowly down the stairs, saw Charlie in Dorothy’s arms, his face angled up to Jeannie, his arms outstretched. Dorothy had her back to Jeannie, and Jeannie noticed a small bald place at the top of Dorothy’s head, the scalp showing soft and pink beneath her silvered hair. Dorothy’s back stooped against Charlie’s weight, her knees moving stiffly to bounce him; and Jeannie was surprised by a feeling of tenderness for her, the mighty, declining matriarch—until Dorothy turned to look at her, and Jeannie saw the truth in her face.

  “Dorothy, we should go,” said Jeannie, taking Charlie into her arms; but the words were feeble in her mouth.

  “Fanny’s set a tray with tea and English muffins,” said Dorothy. “Let’s go sit.”

  They sat in the dining room, Charlie on Jeannie’s lap, sniffing and chewing, snowing fat crumbs over the parquet floor. Dorothy ate greedily, talking in bright tones about her fundraiser for Nixon. She seemed excited. Unease climbed Jeannie’s body as she sipped her tea. After pushing two muffin halves into his mouth, Charlie slid off Jeannie’s lap to make his escape. The tightness in Dorothy’s body stopped Jeannie from taking him to the bathroom to clean up, and both women watched as he careened, greasy-fingered and dirty with bread crumbs, out of the room, yelling for his toy car.

  Dorothy took another muffin from the tray. “And you?” she said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Dorothy smeared the muffin with grape jelly. “You’re coming to the fund-raiser?”

  “Yes,” said Jeannie. “We’ll be there. I’ll bring a meatloaf.”