by Pat Murphy
The camphor tree had generous branches that gave her good footing. The jump from the branch to the roof was only a few feet.
White rice paper blinds hid the room’s interior, but Jax could see that the window was not latched. She pushed up on the window, but it did not open. She tried again, harder this time. The frame shuddered, but remained closed. Chips of cream-colored paint flaked off and showered onto the roof. She braced herself and put her shoulder into the push. The window frame moved reluctantly, opening a few inches. Jax slipped her fingers into the gap and heaved up on the window. It slid another few inches, then a foot, a foot and a half. She pushed the blind aside and squirmed headfirst through the opening.
The air smelled of dust. She could make out the vague shapes of furniture: some bookcases, an upright piano, a sofa, two overstuffed chairs. On top of the piano was a vase that held several withered flower stalks.
The past was thick in the air around her. It crowded her, pressing close. She walked across the room, her footsteps loud on the hardwood floor. When she played a few tentative notes on the upright piano, they hung in the air, like a question she had not intended to ask.
From the mantelpiece, she picked up a photograph of a smiling family. In the dim light Jax could see a dark-haired woman, a man with curly red hair, and two young boys. The woman leaned lovingly against the man; she had her arm around his waist. Her right hand rested on the shoulder of one of the boys.
Jax carried the photograph to the window where the light was better. The woman in the photo looked very much like her mother, but she had never seen her mother smile like that. It was a happy, open smile; the woman in the photo was calm and at ease with herself. Jax peered at the faces of the man and the boys, wondering what it was about them that made her mother smile so.
She set the photo back on the mantel and prowled through the house. She was used to empty houses: shelters bounded by walls and roof and floor, places where people had lived and died, leaving behind bits and pieces of their lives. She had wandered through many houses, examining photos, books, bowling trophies, children’s drawings held to the refrigerators with magnets shaped like fruit, ceramic knickknacks of horses and dogs.
But this house felt different. These things meant something. She had lived with her mother for sixteen years, but somehow the mother she had lived with seemed like an abandoned hull, a mechanical woman. The essence of her mother was here, still in this house, still in this city, lingering here with the things that her mother had left behind.
When she was a child, she had sometimes watched her mother in secret. Once she had climbed a tree that grew by the garden. All day long, she hid among the leaves. Through the hot afternoon, she had watched her mother pull weeds and pick cutworms from the tomato plants. Late in the day, after her mother went inside, she had climbed down and noisily returned home, claiming that hunting had been bad. She did not know what she had expected to learn by watching her mother, but she could not stop herself from doing it.
One evening, when her mother had sent her out to get wood for the fire, she had stopped at the window and stared in. Her mother was reading a book by the light of the kerosene lamp. Jax remembered feeling as if her chest were being squeezed by a big hand. She had not been able to breathe. Her heart had pounded as if she had run a long way. She had turned away from the window, gotten the wood, and fed the fire, saying nothing to her mother. She had not known what to say. Exploring the house now, Jax felt as she had when she stared through the window at her mother.
In a bedroom decorated with pictures of dogs, she found her brothers, the two boys from the photo on the mantel. They lay in twin beds. Their flesh had decayed; only discolored bones remained. At the head of each bed was a miniature license plate that identified the bed’s occupant. Mark lay on his back, with the covers drawn up to his chin. John was curled up on his side. On the table between the beds were medicines: a jar filled with pale blue capsules, a bottle in which cough medicine had crystallized.
Jax sat for a long time in the rocking chair that was between the two beds. This was where her mother had sat when she read bedtime stories to the little boys. Jax tried to imagine her mother, the mother in the photograph, sitting in the chair and telling a story in a low soft voice. She closed her eyes, but the only sound was the chirping of a bird outside the window.
She left the children’s room and stepped back into the hall. Beside the children’s room was a small study. Here Jax felt her mother’s presence most strongly. She sat in the oak desk chair in front of a cluttered desk. A color snapshot was tacked to a bulletin board: her mother stood with two other women beneath a banner that read “Peace In Our Time.” Beneath the photo was a political cartoon: a scruffy-looking monkey stood between two men: Uncle Sam and a portly man wearing the emblem of the hammer and sickle. Each of the men held one of the monkey’s hands.
Jax examined the clutter on the desk. In the center was a folder stuffed with yellowed newspaper clippings. A rubber band was wrapped around the folder, holding it closed—as if her mother had prepared to take the folder with her, then changed her mind. The rubber crumbled into stiff pieces when Jax tried to remove it.
Jax shuffled through the clippings. They all seemed to be about the movement that Books had described, the one that had brought the monkeys to San Francisco. She flipped through them idly, wondering why her mother had bothered to clip them out. “Girl Scout Troop Raises $10,000 for Peace Monkeys,” “Zoo Director Welcomes Peace Monkeys,” “100,000 Attend Parade.”
Halfway through the stack, Jax found a photo of her mother, beneath a headline that read “Buddhist Activist Struggles to Bring Peace Monkeys to San Francisco.”
By the dim light that filtered through the dirty window, Jax read the story. The reporter told the legend of the monkeys in much the same way Books had. The article described the movement to bring monkeys from Nepal to the United States and quoted Jax’s mother at length.
“‘People say that the monkeys are just a symbol,’ Laurenson says. ‘I agree. But you must not underestimate the power of symbols. The Christian cross, the Star of David, the swastika—these are all just symbols. But they are symbols of great power. People have fought wars over symbols. It only seems right that we should use a symbol to bring about peace.
“‘Don’t get me wrong—I’m not opposed to all conflict. Conflict is, unfortunately, inevitable—there will always be arguments, marital spats, and territorial squabbles. What I’m against is war: the institutional dehumanization of the group of people that we label the enemy. The Bible says, “Thou shalt not kill,” but that refers to people, and when we’re at war, the inhabitants of another nation are no longer people. They are the enemy, and therefore we can kill them.’”
Jax shifted in her chair. Reading her mother’s words made her uncomfortable.
“‘Of course there are things that I would fight for: I’d fight to protect my children, my home. But I might not fight the way you expect. I think we’ve become, over the centuries, locked into one way of fighting: kill or be killed. That’s why the British were so startled by Gandhi’s approach to conflict. He came up with a new way of fighting, a method that recognized the essential humanity of the people on the opposite side. The British didn’t know what to do with him.
“‘The military establishment recognizes that the peace movement has found a new way of fighting, a new weapon, in the peace monkeys. They’re still trying to figure out how to deal with this movement. They’ve tried dismissing it, discrediting it, suppressing it. But none of their traditional tactics has worked. I can only hope they choose the next obvious tactic.’ She grinned, as if at a private joke when asked what that tactic might be. ‘They join us, of course.’”
Jax slipped the article back into the folder and looked quickly through the other articles. In the back of the folder, tucked behind all the rest, was the front section of a newspaper, doubled over and stuffed into the folder. Jax unfolded it carefully, trying not to crack the brittle newspri
nt. The letters in the headline were three inches tall: “PEACE MONKEYS LINKED TO PLAGUE.”
Jax did not read the article. She put the paper back into the folder and left it on the desk. Leaning back in the chair, she looked at the snapshot on the bulletin board. Her mother was smiling. Her mother had led her here so that she could read these clippings and think about symbols and peace and the humanity of the enemy. Jax did not want to think about such things.
Jax left the study and stood for a moment in the hallway. The door at the end of the hall was open, and she stepped quietly inside. On the white wall behind the bed hung a Japanese scroll on which a rain-drenched landscape had been painted. The pastel colors of the painting were muted by a layer of dust. Except for the dust and the dead flies that lay in the corners, the room was tidy, with no signs of a hasty departure.
Jax sat on the chair by her mother’s dressing table. The things on the table were covered with dust. One by one, Jax wiped them clean with her fingers and studied them. She picked up a hairclip made of enameled metal, decorated with flowers and birds. With one hand she wiped part of the mirror clean, then held the clip up to her hair and looked at her reflection: small, dirty face; ragged hair uncombed since yesterday, broken fingernails. She carefully placed the hairclip back on the table.
The hairbrush held a few dark hairs. A small cut-glass bottle still held a trace of her mother’s perfume. Jax pulled out the stopper and the room was filled with fresh wild scent, like spring flowers after a rain.
Each object in the room seemed touched with power: a hand mirror in a silver frame; a rhinestone bracelet; a crystal box that held a jumble of earrings; a silk scarf, faded from the sun; a silver pendant dangling from a silver chain.
Jax picked up the pendant and examined it. Carved on a circle of silver was a man, sitting cross-legged. He held one hand up in what looked like a benediction; the other hand pointed at the earth beneath him. His face was untroubled. A peaceful man. Dannyboy would like him.
In the distance, she heard faint sounds: the laughter of children, muffled by the bedroom walls; the sound of light footsteps coming down the hall. She clung to the pendant and closed her eyes, afraid that by looking she might break the spell.
The footsteps came closer. The room was filled with the scent of her mother’s perfume. She felt a breeze tickle the back of her neck, a faint breath of fresh air. Someone reached over her shoulder and took the pendant from her hand. Still Jax did not move. She felt the chill of the silver chain against her neck, the light touch of fingers fumbling with the latch. The pendant was a cold circle in the hollow of her throat.
Jax reached up. “Wait,” she whispered. Her mother’s hand brushed lightly over the back of her hand, an urgent caress. “I don’t like this. I don’t understand any other way to fight. Wait.” She heard the sound of retreating footsteps.
Jax opened her eyes and she was alone in the room. Watching herself in the mirror, she touched the silver Buddha. “I don’t like it,” she said, protesting to the empty room. No one answered.
She fled like a thief through the open window.
Danny-boy found Jax in front of the hotel, curled up in the easy chair. She was watching the monkeys play in the abandoned cars. When he came and sat on the curb beside her, she did not speak.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said.
She glanced at him, but he could not interpret the expression in her dark eyes. “I found my mother’s house.” Her voice was rough, as if she were fighting to keep it under control. “My mother would have agreed with you.”
He noticed the silver pendant hanging around her neck.
“I can’t say I like it,” she said. “I can’t say I agree. But I’ll help you fight this stupid war your way. I’ll do what I can.”
Her voice broke and he reached out to take her in his arms, murmuring reassurances. “It’ll be all right. Take it easy.”
She shook her head and pulled away from him, rubbing her shirtsleeve across her eyes. “It won’t be all right. No good lying about it.” She gazed at him steadily. “But I’ll see it through to the end. I guess I’ll stay and die with the rest of you.”
“We may not die.”
She shrugged, as if she had already accepted the inevitable. “Maybe not. But I’d say there’s a good chance of it.”
PART 3
Art in the War Zone
“In war nothing is impossible, provided you use audacity.”
—General George Smith Patton, 1944
CHAPTER 20
“YOU’D BETTER KEEP HER on the leash for the first few days,” Jax said, handing Jezebel’s leash to Tommy. “Otherwise, she might run away.”
The dog wagged her tail hesitantly, glancing from Jax to Tommy and then back to Jax. Jax avoided looking at Jezebel or Tommy. She stared across the courtyard. Duff’s market area, usually bustling with traders and farmers, was nearly deserted. Word of the coming war had spread. Outsiders were staying clear of the city until the trouble was over.
On the far side of the open space, a farmer was loading Ruby’s suitcases into a horse-drawn cart. Ruby, Tommy and his sister, and all the other noncombatants were being evacuated to Marin, where farmers who were friendly to the cause had agreed to shelter them.
“I don’t see why Jezebel and I can’t stay,” Tommy said. “Jezebel’s lousy at an ambush,” Jax said. “She’d run out to meet Fourstar, wagging her tail, and get her head blown off.” Recognizing her name, the dog whined deep in her throat and pawed at Jax’s leg. Reluctantly, Jax knelt and rubbed the dog’s ears. She understood now why Danny-boy had decided to do a final check of the barricades, and had asked her to take Jezebel to Tommy. Saying goodbye was harder than she had expected.
“But how come I can’t stay,” Tommy said. “My sister could take care of Jezebel.”
Jax shook her head, but the boy persisted.
“I’m good at ambushes,” he said. “Ask anyone. I’m real good at hide-and-seek. No one can ever find me. I’m good at sneaking up on people.”
Jax stood up. “Goddamn it—this isn’t like hide-and-seek. This isn’t a game. You’ve got to understand that. This is a war. Nobody seems to accept that.”
Tommy stared down at his feet, his hands twisting the leash into knots.
Jax bit her lip, immediately ashamed of herself. She had not meant to snap at him. It wasn’t his fault that no one seemed to be taking this war very seriously. Sure, people had been building barricades and gathering weapons and practicing combat maneuvers, but they did it all with an air of playfulness, as if it had no more importance than painting the bridge blue or writing a good poem.
“I’m sorry,” she said to Tommy. “I’m just worried, that’s all. I didn’t mean to …” She let the words trail off. “Look—when you get back, I’ll teach you to shoot my crossbow, OK? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
The boy didn’t reply.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated softly. “I know you’re good at sneaking up on people. Give me a break, will you? You’ve got to take care of Jezebel for us. Danny-boy and I are counting on you.”
The boy looked up and met her eyes at last. “OK,” he muttered. “You’d better get going,” Jax said. “Take care of your mother and sister. They’ll need you.”
Tommy took a step toward the wagon, then turned back. He hugged Jax quickly, as if it didn’t mean anything. “’Bye,” he muttered, then he ran toward the wagon where Zatch was hugging Ruby goodbye. Jezebel looked back over her shoulder, as if wondering why Jax didn’t follow. Jax turned away, not wanting to watch them leave.
Danny-boy admired the barricade that blocked Van Ness Avenue, an elaborate construction of automobiles, street signs, and barbed wire. The signs, which had been taken from freeway onramps, all read: DO NOT ENTER or WRONG WAY. The surrounding buildings were hung with arrows taken from one-way streets. All of the arrows pointed back toward the Bay Bridge.
Just behind the barricade, a trench made the street impassable to jeeps an
d cars. With a backhoe that he found on an old construction site, The Machine had dug trenches in a great ring surrounding the Civic Center. As much as possible, they wanted to restrict Fourstar’s mobility.
Danny-boy stepped into the open doorway of an apartment building beside the barricade. He went up the stairs and ducked through a hole that The Machine had blasted in the wall connecting the apartment building with the neighboring office building. He strolled down the hall, climbed three flights of stairs to the roof, then crossed over to the roof of another building. For weeks they had been creating and mapping circuitous routes through the city. They had installed ladders and blown holes in connecting walls, explored the storm drains, and identified access routes to the tunnels where Muni trains had once run. Making use of these routes, a person could cross the city while remaining, for the most part, under cover.
From the roof of the third building, Danny-boy looked down onto Polk Street. Below him, he could see Rose watering the plants that decorated a barricade made of wrought iron. She wore rubber gloves and stood as far as she could from the sprawling oak saplings. In the sunlight the leaves glistened an attractive red, the telltale sign of poison oak. A soldier who brushed against the colorful leaves would get a rash that itched for weeks.
Danny-boy walked across the roofs and took a fire escape down into an alley. One block over, the Holy Family guarded Larkin Street. Zatch had liberated cement statues of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph from various churchyards. Half a dozen Christs stood in the center, flanked on the left by a dozen Madonnas and on the right by a group of Josephs. The figures stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking the way. With razor wire, Zatch had embellished the crown of thorns that circled each Savior’s head. The wire was looped in loose tangles around and between the other statues.
Danny-boy was turning away from the statues when he felt a hand on his shoulder and an arm putting pressure on his throat. “Where’s your rifle?” Jax hissed in his ear.
