by Sally Field
We lived in the Hayvenhurst house only long enough to harvest a few baskets of walnuts from our front yard tree and for Jocko to teach me to ride a bike. I won’t say he was appalled that I hadn’t learned to ride one by the age of seven, but close enough. In my defense, I’d never had a bike or a safe place to ride it, much less anyone who could or would teach me. But if my stepfather was critical about my lack of cycling skills, he was apoplectic about Rick’s. Grandiose to a fault, one day Jocko brought home a tricycle for his eighteen-month-old daughter and two shiny Schwinn bicycles, big red boys’ bikes with crossbars… both. Neither of them the step-through girl’s type. These were bikes meant for older guys of eleven or twelve, not a small boy of nine and a tiny girl of seven. And if training wheels existed at the time, I never saw any.
As I remember, Ricky sailed right into it, literally took off, and I was too confounded with the big red thing to even be jealous. Day after day, Jocko would run alongside my bike holding the back of the seat as I tried to pedal this huge vehicle. Then after the four-hundredth shove, with knees skinned and virginity compromised after slamming down on that damned “boy’s bar” again and again, I finally wobbled my way into the cycling world. I was actually doing it, truly under way and thrilled to feel Jocko’s pride in me. Although pedaling backward was not easy, so working the brakes was always a problem. I had to slow enough to put one foot down—the crossbar making it impossible for both feet—then hop along, tiptoeing to a stop. Eventually, with my heart slamming against my ribs as though it wanted out of my body, I could ride and I could stop… ish.
Shortly after completing the training sessions, after maneuvering through all obstacle courses, when Ricky and I had proven we could fly the craft off the ship, then land again safely, Jocko allowed us—even me—to ride our bikes to school, which was a few blocks away. Never in my life had I experienced a feeling like that, the freedom of sailing along under a canopy of eucalyptus trees while keeping the safety of my brother and his red bike from getting too far ahead. I felt so much love for my stepfather, the man who had cared enough to give me the gift of gliding, untethered.
And then on Sunday mornings, or any morning during the long months of summer, Jocko started calling me to his bedroom, the room he shared with my mother, who was downstairs cooking breakfast. We had moved again, leaving the tract homes of Van Nuys behind to enter the lush world of Encino and the house on Libbit Avenue. Definitely coming up in the world, the Libbit house had a pool, a paddle tennis court, and even a corral for horses, which Jocko promptly populated with a pinto and a huge roan—horses only he was allowed to go near. There was also an enormous garage, home to Baa’s old silver Ford and the white Cadillac convertible with red leather seats that had suddenly appeared in our lives.
Shortly after we expanded ourselves to fit into this grand space, my stepfather started sending for me, using my mother as the messenger. Princess in her shorty PJs and I in my ankle-length nightgown would be quietly playing in our room, frolicking in the delicious “let the day present itself” feeling of childhood, when Baa would poke her head in the door. “Sal?” she’d say, her face puffy with sleep. “Jocko needs you to walk on his back.” It never felt like a request, more like a summons and a great honor. I’d been singled out, the chosen one again.
I’d climb up the stairs, barely aware of the carpet under my feet or the flannel clinging to my legs, glance out the big window halfway up, then stop for a beat at the top of the landing—for what reason I didn’t know—and step into his room, their room. The bright day was visible through the windows and the glass-topped Dutch door, which opened out onto a balcony overlooking the backyard. But even though the bedroom was large, it always smelled musty—thick with sleep and privacy. Keeping my eyes down, I walked to the big bed where my mother’s husband lay facedown, naked and tangled in the sheets.
“Go, baby,” he’d crackle as he sensed me moving in. It was what we did. It was what I was good at—walking on his back—and surely it was what every little girl did, so the distinct “fingernails down the blackboard” feeling I had was to be ignored. It was what I did for him and I was good at it.
I walked on his back until he rolled over, commanding me to keep going. One foot in front of the other, up his chest I tiptoed, my nightgown hanging loose as his hands slid over my legs, then moved up. I’d turn my feet around, walking toward his stomach to be out of reach, and he’d whisper instructions, “Lower, lower.” My steps got tinier as he muttered, “Lower.” I walked on this much loved non-father of mine, carefully trying to avoid where he was aiming my feet, and looked up at the world outside, inhaled the comforting smell of bacon frying downstairs, and part of me wasn’t in the room anymore.
4
Libbit
NESTLED IN THE heart of Encino, surrounded by eucalyptus and sycamore trees, stood the rambling two-story Libbit house. Lime-green lawns stretched out on either side of the circular driveway, and running next to the horse corral, on the south side of the estate, was another driveway—a kind of service entrance off Noeline Avenue. I don’t need photos to uncover buried bits, not of the house or the grounds. I remember it all like an endless loop of film in my brain.
The minute we moved in, the enormous backyard was almost instantly transformed into Jocko’s playground and everywhere you looked was some kind of apparatus he’d either made or quickly acquired, equipment that eventually we were all expected to perform on. Standing next to the swimming pool was a crude split-level pinewood diving platform, about ten feet high on the upper level, maybe seven or eight on the lower. Several two-by-fours were nailed to the back of the wood framing, which were used as a ladder to climb to the shorter platform, where more two-by-fours would take you to the top. Underneath the platform, of course, was a whole lot of water, and needless to say, I didn’t know how to swim. If I hadn’t had access to a bicycle before I met Jocko, I sure as hell hadn’t had access to a swimming pool, unless you count the one at Joy’s house—which was plastic, barely inflated, and had a foot of bug-infested water. I did know how to float, however; I was really good at floating. While hopping around the shallow end of our new pool, I found that when Ricky pushed my head underwater—which he did again and again—if I went totally limp, playing dead, I would miraculously float to the top.
But knowing how to float and jumping from the high dive were two different things, and by the time I could safely dog-paddle myself around, that’s what my stepfather wanted me to do. Climb up and jump off; ready, set, GO. I stood there, rocking back and forth, my toes gripping the edge of the platform while I repeated Jocko’s instructions in my head over and over: legs together, toes pointed, hands at my sides, until finally I’d push off, pointing everything I could point, and jump in. But that wasn’t the end of it. After I could climb up and jump in without too much hesitation, pushing off with enough force to distance myself from the platform, out came the pool pole—a long aluminum stick with a net fastened to one end used to scoop leaves out of the water—now being used as a piece of training equipment. Jocko would hold the pole out in front of me while issuing new commands: Arms over your head, tight to your ears, legs straight, toes pointed. Push off hard and dive over the pole. “Go!”
But I couldn’t move. Not just because I was afraid of the smack in my face or the breath-grabbing sting on my stomach, even though that played a big part in it. It was that Jocko’s tone had changed. Nowhere in sight was the loving patience he had shown during our bicycle training days. Now he sounded mocking and condescending, as if my inability was purposely done to challenge him. Was he teaching me to dive or trying to make me cry? And if I fell on my face would he applaud my attempt or enjoy my pain?
A weekend in Palm Springs. Legs together, toes pointed, hands at my side.
Directly across from the pool, on a lawn to the side of the house, Jocko had erected a square made of iron pipes, standing about eight or nine feet above the ground—a minimalist version of monkey bars. In those days, women with muscles w
ere not considered attractive, so I was rarely expected to perform on this bastardized version of gymnastic equipment. No, the bars belonged to Ricky, and when Jocko started demanding feats of strength that the chubby eleven-year-old wasn’t capable of achieving, no matter how hard he tried, it was not an ownership my brother wanted. With each clumsy attempt, it seemed that Jocko’s need to disgrace my brother, to reveal him as unmanly and incapable, increased. And to top it off, at the end of every demoralizing session, Jocko would push Ricky to the side, then hop up himself, looping around and around on the bar like a toy you get at the five and dime, ending each performance with a dozen effortless chin-ups. Even though he avoided my eyes, I knew my big brother felt just as he was being taught to feel: ashamed.
In the center of the yard was an unfenced, unused paddle tennis court with its shaggy net lying in a neglected heap to one side. A big trampoline now stood between the two metal poles where the net would have been strung. The trampoline—ah, yes. I could bounce—we could all bounce—and I could definitely point my toes. I could land on my knees and then bounce back up. I could land on my butt and bounce back up. I could even land on my butt, bounce, change direction in midair, then land on my butt again, facing the opposite way. But I could not, under any circumstances, do what Jocko demanded: flip. I couldn’t do a flip of any kind, no matter how much he pushed. I wouldn’t even try. So out came the pool pole again, as if this aluminum stick were somehow the answer, the surefire way to address my incompetence. If I could dive over the pole, curling into a somersault before I landed, I could eventually translate that well-executed move into the same kind of smooth aerial display that Jocko so gracefully demonstrated. But I never could because some part of me wondered if his reasons for pushing us were not about our successes, but about our failures. A tiny cell in my head began to distrust.
On the right side of the yard lived the tree: a sycamore so huge that when I put one hand on its mottled torso, balanced on the low brick wall that encased the roots, and slowly walked around the massive trunk, I counted out thirty little-girl steps. If you stood back and looked at it through squinted eyes, the tree became a monstrous giant with two large branches dipped down, one slightly lower than the other, as if they were arms waiting to catch something in flight.
And that’s exactly what we were expected to do: fly. Jocko had somehow attached a long thick rope to each of the sycamore’s arms. Ropes so thick they were impossible to grip and so coarse they tore up your hands, ropes you’d imagine being used to tie the Queen Mary to its moorings. A flier might take off using one of two methods: As you held one of the ropes, Jocko would grab you around the waist, then walk backward until he stood in the camellia bushes, under the kitchen window, as far as he could go. He’d then launch you into the wild blue with an enormous push and if the initial heave didn’t knock you off, the momentum at the top most likely would. Therefore, the method of launch I preferred was the entanglement approach. I’d stand on the low picket fence that edged the pink flagstone walkway surrounding the tree, lace my hands around the rope hanging from the lower branch, then jump backward into the air. While using the rope connected to the taller branch (which was therefore longer) and standing on a much higher launching point (sometimes from the balcony above), the opposing flier, who was often Jocko, would time it just right and take off, gathering more speed than me with my tiny jump back. The performer on the longer rope would then swing out and around my shorter one and when the ropes engaged, it would whip me with a snap of centrifugal force that was both thrilling and horrifying. We’d twirl round and round each other, caught in “the dance of the ropes,” ending when the two partners finally collided. I learned to loop the rope around one foot when I was dizzy and slipping, then I could use my legs plus my not-quite-big-enough hands and have a prayer of staying on. If not, I’d be flung to the walkway below.
The yard echoed with screams and shrieks, the kind of laughter that comes from riding the Intimidator or from being tickled to the point of peeing in your pants. I desperately hated the diving platforms, felt a failure on the trampoline, but the ropes I could do. I could cling to that knot of hemp and live.
The inside of the house kept changing too, as Jocko began accumulating bigger and better things. Furniture, television consoles, and in the living room, a new stereo was set up, allowing the music of Dean Martin and Peggy Lee and Martin Denny to rumble through the house constantly. I remember watching them dance: two people, four feet, my mother on tiptoe while Jocko’s big hand lightly gripped her waist, guiding her to move with him, pushing her back, drawing her in. I watched, fixated, as they danced the cha-cha, that one, two, one-two-three pulse vibrating the floor where I sat with the roaring fireplace hot on my back. When the music stopped, they continued to embrace, Jocko running his hand down her back, cupping her butt, then pulling her toward him. I watched as my mother pushed him away, then headed toward the den to refill their drinks, making a distinct “tsk-tsk” sound with her tongue, the same sound my grandmother would make—a “naughty” reprimand. Was that because of me? Because she suddenly saw me sitting there with my chin resting on top of my bent knees?
Jocko always described Baa as a prude, overly uptight about most things, especially sex. If a crude or suggestive word was uttered in her presence, she’d blush, putting her hand to her face—just as Joy would—and I could feel her embarrassment radiate across the dinner table. It was no secret that Jocko thought my mother was loving but limited and while she could kiss our boo-boos, it was his job to bring us fully alive, to unleash in us all the important primary colors of being human; colors my mother felt uncomfortable or incapable of revealing and he did not. We were her children, for goodness sake, so perhaps she felt it was inappropriate to behave in an openly sensual way in our presence. That’s true, I’m sure, but it was more than that. Joy had raised her, and my grandmother’s troubled childhood, complete with daily lectures on the sin of sex, clung to Baa. It was like a cloud that floated through my mother’s life, dimming her brightness, sometimes making it difficult to see her clearly.
When my mother had left the room, her “tsk-tsk,” floating away, Jocko turned to me. “Come on, Doodle, let’s dance.” I jumped to my feet, having recently attended the Tap, Ballet, and Acrobat class at the dance studio down the street, which oddly enough had included the cha-cha. But Jocko didn’t put one hand on my waist and hold the other out straight, like he had with my mother. He put both his big familiar hands on my hips while he stepped with me—one, two, an’ cha-cha-cha—all the time instructing, “Move your hips. Move your hips,” pushing them this way and that. “That’s my girl.”
They both looked impossibly perfect: he in his dark suit with just a hint of cowboy, she with the black lace bodice of her dress cinched at the waist above layers and layers of a black tulle skirt that whispered when she walked. After a fleeting good-night kiss, followed by the tip-tap of her heels and the thud of his boots, they floated off together on a cloud of glamour, the white Cadillac carrying them away for the evening. As soon as the door was closed, Mrs. Roberts, the new live-in housekeeper, went to her room above the garage—assured that the kids were safely tucked in front of the television—and I drifted up to my mother’s big walk-in closet.
Hiding behind the forest of Baa’s clothes—hers on one side, his on the other—I sat against the wall looking up at the hanging garments, hypnotized by the lingering smell of my mother’s Femme perfume, then chose one beautiful dress, stepped out of my nightgown and into the silk and satin. When it wouldn’t stay on my body, I got a handful of big safety pins from the sewing basket on a shelf in the back, pinned the dress everywhere in a suggestion of a fit, and moved out into their bedroom. Lost in a world of pretend, I danced around the room, remembering Jocko’s hands directing me to move this way and that, the whole time trying to keep the gown from falling off my child’s body. When I finally tripped on the hem—breaking the illusion—I took Baa’s sewing scissors and cut the bottom of the beautiful dress�
� off. Maybe I just needed to make it work. Or maybe destroying the dress was a message, trimmed in lace.
The Libbit house, the new white Cadillac, and the perfect couple.
When she finally found her once-beautiful dress, now wadded into a ball and hidden in the back of her closet, she sat with her head down, confused and disappointed. She didn’t ask me why I had done such a thing, or demand to know what on earth I was thinking—which were two questions I couldn’t have answered anyway. She never yelled or even raised her voice in anger. Not ever. She expressed hurt. And that was much worse. Somewhere in me I had the feeling that I needed to protect her from hurt and as I got older, that meant protecting her from me. There were times when I longed to have her explode in a fury, times when I knew she was silently disturbed by my stepfather’s rough treatment of Ricky—ridiculing him for no other reason than to make him cry—times when I wanted her to rescue me, and on the rare occasions when she did try to dry our tears or soothe our fears, Jocko would call her a worrywart, discrediting her, claiming she would surely ruin us as she had been ruined herself.