In Pieces

by Sally Field

  I called my mother Baa most of my life—probably because Ricky did—always called my grandmother Joy, and my father I called Dick, short for Richard. And short he was, barely five feet seven inches, looking a bit like Alan Ladd—in a slightly less handsome way. Audie Murphy reminded me of him too, as did Donald O’Connor, except Audie seemed more menacing and Donald more adorable. Actually, Dick was all of those things: slightly handsome, somewhat menacing, and fleetingly adorable. Which happened to be his father’s name: Fleet.

  Fleet Folsom Field was another man in my family whom I never knew, since he died when I was two. I do have one tissue-paper memory of my father’s mother, whom I called Jen—even though her name was Jane. She and I are sitting together on Dick’s sepia-toned sofa and she’s reading the Little Golden Book of Disney’s Cinderella to me, carefully enunciating each word. I sit enthralled at her side, the skirt of my dress fanning out over the cushion as I noiselessly suck my thumb and gaze at the only bit of color in the room: the pages of Cinderella’s world. Every time Jen reaches the end, she gently asks if I’d like to hear it again and I nod my head, while trying not to lean on her unfamiliar shoulder. I remember I liked her and didn’t want her to stop, but though she lived until 1961, I don’t recall ever seeing her again. I never had a conversation with her, never learned anything about her, and it’s only now that I wish I had. Dick’s older sister, Betty, wrote to me through the years, letters that I kept but never read because I wasn’t interested, until this very moment. In one she writes that her mother desperately wanted to be a concert pianist and that Jen’s father, Betty’s grandfather, refused to allow it, claiming that displaying herself onstage was inappropriate behavior for a woman. I don’t know what kind of image I had of my grandmother Jen, but that was not it. Not of a young woman who had dedicated herself to a skill, who had become an accomplished pianist and was forbidden the opportunity to perform. Where did she put that longing? Where does anyone? Carl Jung wrote, “Nothing has a stronger influence psychologically on their environment and especially on their children than the unlived life of the parent.”

  Next to the container of Aunt Betty’s letters I have a tattered suitcase of Dick’s that found its way to me after my father passed away in 1992. The small cardboard valise is old and almost as fragile as the memorabilia stuffed inside, a mishmash of things I’m examining for the first time. In it is a yearbook from the University of Pennsylvania, where he received a business degree, and inside the big padded book are pictures of him as a member of the baseball team, where his nickname was “the runt.” There are also some newspaper clippings reporting that he was a prominent member of the “Mask and Wig Club,” which put on an annual musical performed by men dressed as women. The crumbling articles and faded photos lead me to think that maybe you had to be there to get the whole—less than dazzling—concept. But I remember how Dick would boast about his time onstage, seeming to get a big kick out of it, then he’d pause and shrug, as if discarding the unimportant thought.

  His sister Betty never shrugged away that thought. She was the only family member to remain on the East Coast, where she struggled to become a dancer, and when that didn’t happen, she taught dancing. The rest of the family treated her ambition as though it were a frivolous fancy, calling her passions “idiosyncrasies.” Eventually, Betty became an usher at the Lunt-Fontanne Theatre on Forty-Sixth Street in New York, where she spent most of her life. In her letters, which I’m only now appreciating, she sends me clippings and reviews, plus pages and pages describing the magic in her world of the theater, while she proudly led patrons to their seats with a flashlight in her hand.

  My mother told me that Betty had been kind to her during my parents’ divorce when the rest of the Field family gave depositions or testimony—or whatever was required back then—all in an attempt to have my mother declared unfit, hoping to take her children away from her. That was all my mother ever told me about the divorce and I never asked for more or asked anyone else—meaning Dick. The court must have declared that the custody of the children should be shared in some capacity but how that sharing schedule was worked out and by whom, I really don’t know.

  Dick always seemed nervous when Ricky and I first walked into his house for our required time, which initially was every weekend—though at four, I’m not sure I knew what a weekend was. The car ride was fine, but once we were settled inside the house it seemed as though my father didn’t know what to do with us, as though we were not young humans but another species; puppies or kittens that needed a little feeding, then could be left on their own. It’s not that my father didn’t try. I remember him doing a silly tap dance for us in the kitchen as he flipped our grilled cheese sandwiches in the skillet or telling us the same jokes over and over on the long car rides to and from his house after we moved from Joy’s. “Who flung gum in Grandpa’s whiskers?” he’d ask and pause, expecting us to laugh. I did, of course—even though how that was a joke, I’ll never know. Half the time Ricky didn’t seem to be listening, but I was and made sure to laugh in all the appropriate places. I always tried to deliver whatever unspoken need he had of me—his chosen one.

  But once the little pets were fed and amused for a moment, my father would wander back into his life, totally ignoring our existence. And that was okay when Ricky and I were there together, but as we got older, Ricky would often be excused from his obligation, mainly because the women—our mother, grandmother, and especially Aunt Gladys—sympathized with him, muttering how difficult it must be for him to spend time with a father who didn’t care for him. Although I swear I never saw any evidence of my brother’s mistreatment by my father, and to this day, Rick doesn’t remember any. Believe me, Dick ignored us both equally.

  I felt like the sacrificial lamb. I had to go no matter what—with my brother or without—and I hated it. I fought and whined or faked illness: anything to try to get out of the visit. Sometimes, but not often, my mother would cave to my desperation, reluctantly calling Dick to explain that I was sick and couldn’t come, but then the crushing weight of guilt made my freedom hardly worth it. So, I gritted my teeth and endured countless weekends with my father, totally forgotten and ignored. If I wanted to spend some “quality time” with him, I could sit on the sofa listening to Vin Scully announce the ball game on the radio. That would have been just fine with Dick, but I would’ve preferred to eat dirt. I’d sit in the room with him, not to be completely alone, and play with all the things he’d give me from his desk, organizing and reorganizing the pencils, paper clips, and sheets of stationery with his employer’s name, National Drug Co., printed on top. And that was great for a while, but I’ve got to tell you, if you’re four or five or even six, this solitary game of office runs thin. I felt so deeply lonely I was afraid.

  When I got older, and I knew I was in for a quiet, mind-numbing few days, I’d bring Nancy Drew books and Little Lulu comics with me. Hell, I’d have brought War and Peace if I’d been a better reader. Once, when my father waited for me in his car, I asked my mother to hold a small red book titled One Hundred and One Famous Poems close to her heart for a few moments so that when I felt panicked with loneliness during the long days of being held prisoner, I could hug the book like a doll, and feel her essence—though trust me, hugging that book didn’t cut it either. I really didn’t understand why I was there. Dick never took me to the movies or the park, never played games. He hardly even talked to me. Not really. Except once I remember he walked in when I was sitting on the toilet and carefully instructed me that I must always wipe from the front to the back. I was mortified, but I did remember his words and oddly think about them, often.

  One day, about a year or so after my mother had vacated the premises, I was sitting on the floor of my father’s house, in front of the big living room window, carefully cutting out the paper dolls I’d brought to help me endure my weekend. Ricky, who had once again been excused from duty, was waiting for me up the hill at Joy’s house. And as I sat there focused on my scissors—
scraps of paper scattered on the faded rug—the boxwood shrubs in front of the house began to move, scratching against the glass panes. Suddenly, out popped my brother’s little round face, which he then smooshed against the window. I nearly jumped out of my skin. But when he signaled for me to come outside, I was up and out the door.

  Huddled down in the cool damp dirt—a world of spiders and sow bugs—Ricky took my hand and whispered, “I’ve come to rescue you. Don’t make a sound.” Without giving it another thought, we crawled from our hideout under the bushes and ran hand in hand, dashing tree-to-tree. We were absolutely certain that our stealthy getaway had been masterfully executed, but most likely we were two kids, one five and the other seven, in plain sight the entire time had anyone bothered to look.

  In 1951, many of the streets in Pasadena had deep, stone-lined gullies on either side, with short bridges connecting the street to the driveway of each house. Most of these gullies and bridges have disappeared over time, but fortunately, on the day of the great escape, North Marengo’s gullies were still intact, and that’s where we walked, hidden from the world all the way up to East Las Flores. It was probably only a mile—maybe not even that—but to me it seemed like a massive undertaking, like Lawrence of Arabia crossing the desert to the port of Aqaba.

  The entire trek up the hill, my brother excitedly chattered about the huge fort he’d built for me in Joy’s backyard, how he’d planned a dinner for us and convinced our grandmother to build a fire in the outdoor grill that stood deep in the yard, adjacent to the big stone incinerator (where she burned her rubbish every Thursday). It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. We never worried that Dick might panic when he discovered I was gone or that we might be punished for our dangerous adventure, and if either of those things happened, I don’t remember.

  What I do remember is finally dashing up the driveway to Joy’s backyard and standing there, horrified. It looked like the aftermath of a battle. Nothing was left of the fort but a tangle of robes still attached to the trees, blankets and quilts strewn across the grass, and clothespins scattered everywhere like shell casings. When Ricky saw his work of art, now torn to shreds, he sat down and started to cry. I was heartbroken, not for my lost gift but for my brother. Then from behind a row of hydrangea bushes came the triumphant giggles of the culprit, the little boy next door, taunting us as he witnessed our reaction. Like an attack dog, I dashed at him, flinging my whole body against the chain-link fence that stood between us as the boy backed up, stunned by my behavior. Ricky didn’t say a thing—also stunned by my behavior—and quietly walked into the house, refusing to speak, much less play with me, the rest of the day. I was his little sister, and he should have been the one to go after the creep for wrecking the fort, not me. But Rick never would have. Somewhere inside, I knew he couldn’t and I could.

  The two escapees. Pretty sure that’s not what I was wearing.

  When I said my father never took me anywhere, that wasn’t completely true. He took me to church on Sundays, and on Saturdays to the racetrack. I felt equally stupefied at both locations. At Sunday’s Catholic church service, I’d sit with my rosary in hand, feet dangling, unable to touch the ground, as I tried to entertain myself by wrapping the beads around my fingers. Dick sat with a solemn face, meeting my eyes only when he’d shoot me a mean look if I squirmed around trying to pull my dress down so my legs didn’t stick to the seat. I knew all the prayers and recited each one loudly at the proper time. Dick had taught them to me, but he never told me why I was saying them, never explained why I had to kneel until my knees were dented and bloodless, or why I had to hit myself in the heart asking for God’s forgiveness. What had I done? Except want out of this boring church, except wiggle around too much, except leave with my mother when she broke his heart.

  When I was about eight, Dick moved from his house in Pasadena to one in nearby Arcadia, two blocks from the beautiful Santa Anita Park racetrack. On Saturdays, he’d take me with him to bet on the horses, which you’d think would have been great, except Dick never got anything but general admission tickets. If there was a seat somewhere, I never sat in it. We’d always stand in a herd of people near the rail, though I’m only guessing that we were near the rail because I never saw that either. Matter of fact, I never saw anything but a bunch of butts. I do remember my father trying to hold me up every now and then, but I’d feel his arms begin to tremble and very soon he’d put me down again. Plus, he didn’t seem to want to hold me, or to hug me, as if it made him uncomfortable to be close to my face. I’d spend most of the time standing at his side examining people’s back pockets or their shoes, but honestly, after fifteen or twenty minutes, tops, I was about ready to eat dirt again. So, I developed a game. Trying not to be stepped on, I’d scoot around and gather up the tickets that had accumulated on the ground, stuffing them into grocery bags I’d brought with me. When I got back to Dick’s house, I’d sit at the dining room table with the racing form and check, ticket by dirty ticket, to find hidden treasure, convinced that someone had accidentally discarded a winner. Needless to say, I never found one.

  It was two weeks after my thirty-eighth birthday in November of 1984. I had long since quit trying to please my father—mostly because I avoided him—and had successfully tucked the thought of him into an unused corner of my brain. Occasionally he’d call to ask how I was doing and whenever I heard his voice on the other end of the phone, I’d grit my teeth, bracing myself as if preparing to give blood. He’d immediately segue into asking who I was dating and did we want to meet at his club for a round of golf, finally offering to teach me to play. The only time I’d try to conjure up his image was when a writer from Ladies’ Home Journal or some such magazine would ask about my parents in an attempt to create a profile on me. Most of their inquiries about my childhood I’d dance around, telling only an edge of the truth, but when they asked about Dick, my answer was always the same: I didn’t really know my father. On that November day, now with two children of my own and about to enter into my second marriage, I received a manila envelope addressed to me in my father’s instantly recognizable handwriting. I didn’t read what it contained. I couldn’t face it. I put it away, but I didn’t throw it away.

  The thought of that small manila envelope, stacked in a plastic shoe box with notes and letters I’ve kept over the years, has floated to the top of my memory—belly up—many times. But only now, as I dig to uncover all the pieces of some lifelong puzzle, do I feel brave enough to read his words.

  Inside the envelope are two folded documents and a note from my father, written on two small sheets of lined notebook paper dated November 12, 1984. I read that first. It’s curt and angry.

  Unfortunately I picked up this month’s McCall’s Magazine and read about your happy life and successful career. As usual I was depicted as the man who divorced your mother when you were three years old. This time, however, I was categorized along with some of your past boyfriends as missing something you desired in a man. For your reference, I am sending copies of a letter to you and Rick written in 1951 after your mother had left.

  Even now I feel a stab of—what? Guilt? Sadness? Fear? I can feel my father’s anger, the jolt that I’ve disappointed him. I set the small note aside without finishing it and pick up another of the envelope’s contents. It’s a copy of the legal document stating that on January 23, 1953, the Superior Court of the State of California for the County of Los Angeles, after the required one-year waiting period had elapsed, decreed that the divorce was finalized. Margaret Field and Richard Field were no longer married.

  Then I look at the last of the documents: a mimeographed copy of a letter my father wrote to Ricky and me on October 23, 1951, a month before the divorce papers were originally filed. It’s a three-and-a-half-page handwritten letter on the National Drug Co. stationery, never finished and never mailed, but clearly never thrown away either. This letter has had a long history: First it was never sent; then it was sent, but never seen. Now, sixty-six
years later, I hold that letter, or rather its mimeographed copy.

  They are the words of a man who feels wronged, who wants his children to know why they are not going to be with their father, who thinks his children are entitled to know him. If he had been forced to live separately from his dad, he writes, he would have wanted to know why, so that his “judgment of him could have been fairly appraised.” He in turn wants us, his children, to consider him fairly and for us to know he “craves” the love and respect of his little boy and his little girl too, and that on this day, he has signed the divorce papers, to give our mother her freedom. “Without going into it,” he writes, “the divorce is being settled out of court because of what any published proceedings may someday be to you” (meaning if the press got hold of the story). He goes on to say that in no way would such proceedings reflect on his character, adding that he’d been told that, had he chosen to contest the divorce, he would’ve had a good chance of keeping his children (meaning sole custody). Instead, he will lose his two children, whom he wants—giving us up, without a fight, to protect us from gossip. He tells us that he has loved our mother, perhaps too much, “for if I hadn’t, I might have been able to keep her from wading in until she got over her head.” He writes that there has never been anyone else but her and there isn’t now. The letter stops, almost midsentence.