Throughout the whole night I worked and sobbed. I didn’t even care if anyone heard me as I trudged through the process again and again trying to get the damnable white powder cleaned up. I prayed to God to punish my mother and told anyone who would listen how much I hated her.
Somewhere around 4:30 in the morning I decided I would work no longer. I didn’t care if she punished me again, I just couldn’t do any better. If it wasn’t perfect, I couldn’t help it. I was only nine years old and I couldn’t do any more. I was only nine years old and I truly wished that the earth would open and just swallow me up and take me out of this eternal misery and punishment. I sobbed as I wrung out the mop for the hundredth time and I sobbed as I emptied the dirty water in the bucket. I sobbed as I walked to my room and I was still crying in the warm shower. It was nearly 5 o’clock in the morning when I wearily climbed back into bed and still the tears were streaming down. Finally I just gave up fighting and cried myself to sleep.
There was one kind of night raid, however, that was not directed at me personally and was not intended as a punishment for any of us. This particular night raid was mother’s alone although we all participated.
It was summertime and the evenings were cool in Brentwood. This night the moon was nearly full and shone brightly over the garden. Somewhere near midnight I was roused out of my bed by the nurse. She whispered for me to put on my robe and slippers immediately and come downstairs. I looked at her face to try and discern what was going on but she just looked tired and agitated. Quickly I followed her instructions and together we hurried down the stairs and she lead me out into the yard. Once outside I head some noise over by the rose garden and could see a couple of people scurrying around.
We had a most wonderful rose garden. It was one of those old fashioned formal gardens with stepping stones through it and each plant labeled carefully. The roses it produced filled our house with lovely fragrant bouquets most of the year. It covered an area approximately fifteen by fifteen feet and had dozens of different varieties. Since it was summer, the entire garden was in bloom and even in the dark the fragrance filled that part of the yard.
Nurse and I proceeded in the direction of the rose garden. As we came closer I saw mother and the cook already in the middle of the rose garden. I didn’t see particularly well in the dark and even with the extra light from the moon it wasn’t until I was standing right at the hedge that separated the rose garden from the lawn that I fully realized what was going on.
Mother had a pair of large pruning sheers with which she was systematically cutting each and every rose bush to the ground! The garden was in full bloom and some of the bushes were over three feet tall. Most of them had great big flowers on them and as the branches fell to the ground the lovely roses were getting trampled underfoot. I was horrified. I started to say something but the nurse quickly clamped her hand over my mouth. Since mother’s back was to us, she didn’t see what had happened. She was finishing with one of the bushes which was now not more than a stubby knob sticking a few inches out of the ground. As she straightened up in preparation for a fresh assault on a neighboring bush, she saw me. As the moon light lit up part of her face I could see that look in her eyes again. It was a haunted, excited look and there was no use trying to talk to her or stop her from completing her current course of destruction. “I want all these branches cleared out of here”, she commanded with a sweeping gesture.
I was grateful that my thin summer robe at least had long sleeves because there were large thorns on most of the bushes and we had no gloves and no wheelbarrow or tools with which to work. I don’t know how long the poor cook had been out here with mother but the woman looked to be on the verge of tears. She was a plump middle aged lady who kept to herself and usually got along with mother. The only trouble she’d had with mother is when mother threw out everything in the entire refrigerator during the cook’s day off. When the cook returned, mother informed her that the refrigerator had been a mess and she didn’t want to find it that way again. Cook later told me that mother had thrown out half a roast beef, a new ham and all the fruit and vegetables as well as the leftovers which cook usually saved for the laundress and the cleaning ladies lunches. Cook was furious at the waste and what she considered an invasion into her domain. She was a fine cook and she took great pride in running an efficient kitchen. But it was mother’s house and she could do whatever she wanted.
So plump little cook trudged back and forth with armloads of stickery rose branches along with the nurse and myself. We worked in absolute silence punctuated only by mother’s muttering to herself and an occasional order to speed things up.
After about an hour of this thorny work, we were all scratched and bleeding. Mother wouldn’t let us stop until we were finished so I licked the wounds on my arms and wiped my hands on my robe. We were all a bloody mess in a very short period of time, but the job wasn’t finished.
When mother had finally succeeded in cutting every last rose bush right down to the ground and the last branch had been hauled away, I thought we would be able to go back to bed. So did the cook and the nurse, I’m sure. But there was one last surprise in store for us. Mother told me to go down into the gardener’s tool room by the incinerator and get the big saw. Totally mystified, I simply did what I was told and returned in a few minutes with the largest saw I could find down there. I handed it to mother without saying a word. Talking to her when she was in these moods was equivalent to asking for a beating and I had learned to keep my mouth shut and just try to get through the ordeals as quietly and unobtrusively as humanly possible.
Mother walked over to the orange tree which stood at one end of the now mutilated rose garden. It was a mature tree standing maybe eight feet tall, producing lots of oranges.
The nurse, the cook and I stood at a kind of incredulous attention watching mother as she proceeded to saw the trunk of the orange tree. We must have stood motionless like that for a half an hour as mother huffed and puffed and sawed away at the poor tree. Finally we heard a cracking, splintering sound and the orange tree toppled over into the stubby remains of the rose garden.
Mother stood back to survey her night’s destruction. Apparently satisfied, she ordered us all back to bed.
Without a word we dispersed like shadows in the night. I climbed back into my bed without bothering to even wash. The blood had coagulated by now and wouldn’t get my sheets dirty, so I could wait for the clean up until morning.
The next day after breakfast I took Chris and we went to look at what had happened the night before. In the bright sunlight it really looked hideous. The beautiful rose garden that our Japanese gardener had planted years ago and Les, our gardener had labored over so lovingly, was totally destroyed. I didn’t know enough about plants to know if it would ever grow back but it looked ugly and sad right now. The fallen orange tree was not completely severed and sort of dangled by its partially sawed off trunk. Chris couldn’t believe his eyes, but we all had the scratches to prove the story. The cook and the nurse were particularly quiet that day.
When the gardener, Les, showed up for work that day he went past the kitchen window as usual with his cheery “Good Morning”. It was only a moment later that the devastated rose garden came into his view. We waited with bated breath for his reaction since no one had the heart to tell him in advance, no one knew exactly what to say. Mother was still asleep and the whispering rule, as usual, was in effect. But Les didn’t whisper when he saw the rose garden. He let out a graphic string of swear words that rang out loud and clear in the early morning air. As he stomped past the kitchen window again on his way out to his truck, he shouted so the entire neighborhood could hear “You can tell that crazy woman I quit!” That, unfortunately, was the last we ever saw of Les, the gardener.
CHAPTER 7
I don’t have any pictures of Grandmother, but I can remember her vividly. Her name was Anna and she was a small woman with brown hair, sparkly eyes and a soft voice. She spoke with only a hint of a southw
est accent. She wore simple dark cotton dresses and black shoes. Mother didn’t like the way she dressed. She said it was depressing to see those dark dresses with the little flowers or polka dots.
Grandmother could do everything. She made wonderful pickles and relish, jams and jellies. She also crocheted and made wonderful simply delicious pies and cakes. Whenever she would come to visit us she always brought our favorites: chocolate pie for my brother and banana cake for me. To this day I can remember how that banana cake tasted. In between the layers of cake there were layers of thin sliced bananas and some kind of filling but never any frosting. No one else much cared about the banana cake so I had it to myself. For Chris she would always have the most scrumptious chocolate pie. He would have eaten the whole thing by himself, but he always had to offer some to everyone else. Those were our particular special treats, something just for us from Grandmama. She always seemed so pleased with our squeals of delight each time the shower of our hugs and kisses fell upon her.
Twice mother took us to visit her. She lived in a small house in a quiet street and had a beautiful garden. It was like pictures of English gardens with things very close together and flowers tumbling over everywhere. There were little paths through the flower beds and the vegetable garden where she grew the pickle cucumbers and tomatoes for the relishes she brought to us so faithfully.
I liked Grandmother’s little house. It was warm and old fashioned and looked like a grandmother’s house. She seemed happy there too and I always wished I could stay with her overnight.
One time mother got Grandmother a new car. It was delivered to her house and she was very surprised. When she came to visit us on Sunday, we all went out to the driveway to look at it. It was a regular two-door sedan with the big running boards and it was shiny black. Grandmother thanked mommie (she called her Lucille) as we ran around examining the new car. I think Grandmother must have said something about it being so black because mommie got one of those storm cloud looks on her face. We all went inside and Grandmother left soon after.
Curiously enough, I don’t remember having any meals with Grandmother. She would come over in the afternoon and stay about an hour and then leave. I don’t think she was ever asked to stay any longer. Most of the time she was just with Chris and me. We would sit in the big kitchen and tell her our jokes and stories and she would ask us about school. The big craze then was riddles and poor Grandmother must have heard each of them a hundred times … first from me and then from Chris.
For Christmas and birthdays Grandmother would make us things. One of her specialties was crocheting covers for wooden hangers. When we were little, she cut the hangers to fit the size of our clothes. Do you know that during the entire time we were growing up, we never had even one plain wooden or wire hanger in any clothes closet in the entire house? Grandmother must have made literally thousands of those hangers since they were for all our clothes as well as mother’s.
I realized not too long ago that I didn’t have any pictures of us with Grandmother. I was really sad about that. But when we were little I didn’t think about it even though we were constantly being photographed for different magazines and publicity stories.
I don’t even think there was a picture of Grandmother in the house. I can’t remember mother having one either. Grandmother’s visits were usually confined to the kitchen when no one else was there. She was never at any of our birthday parties, nor Thanksgiving nor Christmas. She was never invited to have dinner with us that I can remember nor did she ever spend a whole day with us kids in the back yard. I know that in all the time that I was at home she never once swam in the pool.
I really don’t know what happened between them, but the time came when Grandmother was not allowed in the house at all, not even in the kitchen. She didn’t come to visit for a while and we asked if she was sick. Mother didn’t want to talk about it but she said Grandmother was ungrateful for everything mother did for her … after all, she supported her and gave her a car … what more did she want … there was no pleasing Grandmother … all she knew how to do was take and take.
Chris and I were very sad. We loved Grandmother and always looked forward to seeing her … not just for the cakes and pies either. She was fun for us. She was always loving and would give us big hugs. She was little and not much taller than we were and she used to tease us about how fast we were growing.
The last couple of times I saw Grandmother, it was through the back screen door. She was not allowed into the house and we had to talk to her through the door. She handed the chocolate pie and the banana cake to us and we tried to be cheerful always, but we three had tears in our eyes. She didn’t stay very long but we did sneak the screen door open quietly so it wouldn’t squeak and we each hugged her. Both of us gave her a big kiss and whispered “Goodbye Grandmama”. We closed the screen door very carefully without making a sound. Grandmother didn’t come to visit us any more.
Over the years that followed, I tried to keep in touch with her. I wrote her little cards and called her from my different boarding schools. When I went to New York I would write her and she’d send me little notes and some hangers with the crocheted covers and little handmade sachets. I had a friend in Los Angeles who would go to see her at least once a month and make sure she was all right. She was the one who sent me the telegram that Grandmother had died.
When Anna B. LeSueur (or Crawford, as she later called herself) was dying, her doctors called mother in New York to tell her that Grandmother was very ill and was calling for her daughter. The doctors put Grandmother in the hospital in Los Angeles and a few days later called mother again to tell her that they did not expect Grandmother to live very much longer and that she kept calling for “Lucille”.
Grandmother died in August 1958 without ever seeing her Lucille again. Mother had been too busy to leave New York, but she and Daddy (Al Steele) did fly to Los Angeles to make the funeral arrangements at Forest Lawn.
My cousin Joan and I spoke to one another on the phone. We were not terribly close but we both lived in New York at that time and we saw one another occasionally. Neither of us had the money to go to the funeral and we were both heartsick. Joan’s father, Uncle Hal, was Anna LeSueur’s son and so she was Joan’s grandmother, too. My friend in Los Angeles told me where Grandmother was being buried. It was she who had told me about the doctors calling. She had visited with grandmother until she had been taken to the hospital.
I don’t think my mother ever forgave Grandmother for the early days of poverty and for not providing a father. I don’t think she ever forgave Grandmother for hoping that Uncle Hal, the eldest and the son, would fulfill the promise of the family and get them out of their dismal circumstances. Mother told me only one story about Grandmother and Hal. The story was that when they were very poor and living in the back of a laundry when mother was a little girl, Grandmother thought the sun rose and set on Hal. Indeed, from the one picture I’ve even seen of them as children, he was a handsome boy and later he grew to be a handsome man, tall with large expressive eyes and the same strong bone structure as mother had. According to the story, Grandmother used to divide up the bread between son and daughter: the inside portion went to Hal and the crusts to mother. Mother said that Hal always got the best and she got the leftovers. That’s what mother told me.
Curiously enough, in all the years of my growing up I never saw mother eat anything but the crusts of the bread. At breakfast she would cut them off and wrap a piece of bacon around them. It always looked delicious the way she did it. She always laughed and said it was one way she stayed on her diet. She never ate a sandwich. She would put the meat on a lettuce leaf with some mayonnaise and eat it that way.
Uncle Hal came to Hollywood before mother did. He was good looking and people say he was a charmer. He started getting bit parts in movies and was beginning to work fairly regularly by the time mother arrived. Most people don’t remember that anymore and she never mentioned it at all. Uncle Hal’s career never really went anywh
ere, but mother became a star. I’ve heard rumors that she wouldn’t help him later on even though he had introduced her around when she was a newcomer. Uncle Hal became an alcoholic.
There was a terrible scene in the dining room one night when mother was having a small dinner party and Uncle Hal arrived in what appeared to be a rather desperate frame of mind. Mother said he was drunk and for him to leave immediately or she’d call the police. She said she’d given him all the help she was going to and that all he ever wanted was more money. Uncle Hal was crying and pleading with her … he called her Lucille, too. She ordered me out of the room and I skittered around the table and through one of the dining room doors, scared by all the name calling and the sight of Uncle Hal crying. I don’t know if he was really drunk but I remember that he looked terribly upset and kept saying she’d ruined his career.
I never saw Uncle Hal again after that night. I heard mother say to someone on the phone once that Hal was in a sanatorium. She often called him a drunk, said he was weak and couldn’t manage his own life. Then he was just gone … no mention of him ever again.
Not that he’d ever been a regular visitor or that we had any close relationship with him at all, but I used to wonder what happened to him.7
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