Ugly Duckling: A True Life Story of Beauty, Manipulation and Murder
Page 6
My sister-in-law, Mercedes, softly tells me that M.C., her son, has been killed on a snow mobile last evening in the Wisconsin woods. Luckily my number two son, Erik is with me when I clutch the phone in disbelief. M.C.’s little girl, Kim, was in his arms. My eldest brother, Frank, has a son in jail. My other brother. Merv, had a son that was a CEO of Quaker Oats in Chicago. Now dead at 37. Maybe the good die young is a true saying. We are all in shock and I make plans to fly back to his funeral. I want to find books on death for his three young kids and journals for them to write their feelings in. I am devastated. M.C. was such an outstanding young man and father. Where was Pam?
WISCONSIN WINTER
Tucked away in the northern woods
the snowmobiles were lined up in a neat row.
They were all inside
shaking snow sparkles off
by the fire drinking rum toddies.
All except M.C. and his eleven year old daughter.
From the frosted window, they could see him
racing across frozen Bass Lake.
Dusk had fallen
snow crystals highlighted the hilly landscape
Hang on tight, Kimmie, we can’t make it around this tree!
Sounds of splintered wood echoed from birch to birch.
Leaking gas odors permeated the cold air.
Kimmie fell off sliding across the ice.
His chest had been crushed against the tree.
Stay with me...I think I’m dying.
Crimson blood dripped from his lips.
Kimmie started crying.
Help, someone, Help us!
The family went to search for them.
His mother ran across the frozen tire tracks screaming:
Do-something-Do-something-Oh-my-God-Do-something
His Dad called 911
The paramedics said they couldn’t do anything.
Eleven people received organs that New Years Day
Eyes liver heart skin
He lay in the mahogany coffin in a green sweater
Thirty-seven years old
hundreds of stunned people silently shuffled by
M.C. Phillips III, the youngest CEO of Quaker Oats
with wife and three beautiful kids
house in the suburbs the Porsche
He had it all
Or had he?
Sketch by my mother of M.C. III
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AUGUST 13, 1993
Trip to Bali via Guam and Honolulu in August 1993. The Island of Bali, then back to Guam, then Micronesia, by way of the EXPLORER ship via Abercombie & Kent to SCUBA dive. I always wanted to go to Bali. I am a solo traveler and plan to stay in a Balinese owned hotel, Tandjung Sari Hotel in Sanur. Later, I will go live with a local Balinese midwife. The sun is shining, and I can see little tiny islands. They are all in a row, like pearls on a necklace. I wonder if they are inhabited. Probably not. The blue is just breathtaking, and the clouds we fly over on the horizon look like heaven.
Scuba diving in Micronesia
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AUGUST 14, 1993
The private guide did not show up at the airport. Luckily, I knew how to get a taxi in third world countries, as there is a procedure. My taxi driver of Taxi Number 96, whose name was Yoman kept telling me that I was going to have a good time in Bali. I kept him talking because after he asked how many children I had, I replied I had three. He told me that three was an unlucky number and that he could help me getting a number four. I shoved my tape recorder in his face and kept him talking.
A large metal gong was rung to herald my arrival. The hotel was rich in Balinese art. The hotel staff and the bellboy are all wrapped in the sarong. It seems like two pieces of cloth on the bottom, then a shirt over. Then the headdress. It is some kind of cloth, twisted in the front. Like a turban, but instead of going up, it twists down. I have a bungalow suite with a sunken tub and a tiled outdoor shower in a small garden laden with tropical plants and flowers. Near the pool there are platforms of gods and shrines filled with fruit and flower offerings. I feel perfectly comfortable here solo.
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AUGUST 15, 1993
After a breakfast of decorated fruit carvings on the beach, I watch yellow sarong men sweep the sand clean with palm fronds. As I pray my thanks for being here, absorbing the beauty, a waiter walks towards me with a large mobile phone. “For me?” I say startled. “Yes, Madam. From America.” I am alarmed and worry about my children. Could Pam be in trouble? When I answer it is Captain Jim.
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AUGUST 16, 1993
My guide and I are passing a rice field, where a farmer is tilling his pond with oxen. Every bridge we pass has temples to the guardians. The Balinese respect the high places, like the mountains. This is the home of the good spirits. The lower places are the home of the evil spirits, like the oceans, the rivers, also the crossroads. The houses are set up to face the high places. I don’t reveal my SCUBA plans of diving with the evil spirits.
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AUGUST 19, 1993
After touring for many days, and river rafting and trek hiking, my guide takes me to many local dance ceremonies, which I love. I am not so sure about the monkey temples as those little brazen guys scare me. Drums and gongs abound. We passed a funeral procession in the street and it was beautiful. It seems all in Bali is artistic and a ceremony. I feel like I am moving in a dream. Pam will have me showing slides later of this exotic place.
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AUGUST 20, 1993
I got a massage from a betel nut chewing old woman with black teeth. She has nine children, and had hands of steel. She said she had massaged President Reagan. Hmmmm! One hour for $5 dollars.
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AUGUST 22, 1993
Up in the small town of Ubud located amongst rice paddies and steep ravines in the central foothills of the Gianyar regency, I had another massage at an American spa that had to be the best in my world. After a mud bath, I had a massage by a river filled with tropical flowers. The song of birds lulled me. The air was scented with ginger flowers. This must be heaven!
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AUGUST 24, 1993
It is time for me to leave my beautiful hotel. I am thinking that the midwife will live in a hut and I might be sleeping on a coconut mat. The tour owner, Jan, originally from America, introduced me to this idea when she found out that I was interested in babies and mothers. This was her very own midwife in Bali. But, to my surprise, the retired midwife, Ibu Karthi, lived in a fancy new development on a hill. It was like a palace. She had a driver, a cook and a gardener. So much for my negative projecting.
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AUGUST 25, 1993
We were hoping to witness a birth but none of the clinics we visited had mothers in their third trimester. Ibu Karthi took me to many temples and we prayed together. She was responsible for helping over 5000 babies into the world. She takes me to the nursing school Sikola Provat Teshatan where women are trained at 16 to be a nurse. The nursing course is three years and to be a midwife is one year more. They had 152 students with equal amount of male and female nurses. The midwives are all female.
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AUGUST 27, 1993
I am learning so much from lovely Ibu Karthi. How blessed I am. She made me my black rice pudding with the coconut milk as a parting gift. I cried when I said goodbye to her.
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CHRISTMAS EVE 1993
I have always been intrigued by people of the earth that have not been swayed by our Judeo/Christian religions. Yep, that is why I want to meet the cannibals in the Asmat one day. As my kids scolded me for being too adventuresome, I explained this to them all as we shared our Christmas dinner.
These were the last Mayan ruins on my list. I wanted to learn more about the Chamulans and the Zinacantáns and Tzotzils. Each indigenous group had maintained their very own language and customs. It was the last place in Mexico that I had to go experience. I asked them to pray for me because I was worried about flying in
a rented plane and landing on the grass next to the Usamacinta River. It was either that or a canoe trip. I had asked all my writing buddies to send me good energy as well. I had a photo of the grass patch I would land on next to the Yaxcilián ruin. What was I doing? I knew it was going to be a rough visit.
We all had tears in our eyes as we hugged goodbye.
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DECEMBER 27, 1993
As my Aero Mexicana flight landed, I noticed the name of the airport was Aeropuerto Internacional Ángel Albino Corzo. That looked like a good sign to me. It means “The Heart of the White Angel”. I rented an old VW bug and found my way up the mountain to San Cristóbal de las Casas. My small posada was on 5 De Febrero across from the town hall and square. It was so cold, I was grateful for my bright turquoise jacket however, it made me really stand out as I towered over the locals. I met my guide, Oscar, who drove me to a ranch in Las Margaritas via Comitán near the Guatemalan border to catch a four seater Cessna. I then flew to Yaxchilán and Bonampak ruins. In 1994, the Mexican government would decide whether to dam the Usamacinta River washing away thousands of years of Mayan history. Archaeologists mistakenly cleaned Bonampak’s treasured frescoes with kerosene and they are swiftly fading. These would be the last Mayan ruins for me having tromped all over México and Latin America. I was thrilled to finally see them as not many make this arduous trek. Now on to the indios surrounding San Cristóbal. I can’t wait to visit their various tribes. At the Zinacantán village, I beheld men wearing bright red and white striped tunics and flat ribboned hats. The women wore hand-woven embroidered shawls and plump satin bows. Oscar shares that the ribbons on the male hats represents each child that they fathered. And that the USA Cola Company has convinced the men to drink more as it helps fertility!
False American advertising?
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DECEMBER 28, 1993
As I stroll through the zócalo in town, I notice a change in the frigid air. The children are no longer friendly. A tiny old lady lunges at me and smashes an orange into my camera! I also notice that the local men are drinking copious amounts of posh becoming hostile. I wonder what is really going on.
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NEW YEARS EVE 1993
Oscar invited me to his family celebration in traditional Chiapan style. Firecrackers exploded all over town. As a marimba band played merrily, we danced on a fresh grass floor. At midnight, lights are turned off and everyone waves sparklers wishing each other FELIZ AÑO NUEVO. At 2:15 A.M. ski masked gunmen rushed in with machine guns. What did they want? Were they going to kill us? I was used to the idea that anything could happen in México. But now, I thought, this is really happening and if I am going to die, what am I dying for? We found out the town had been taken over by guerrillas and had blown up the town hall a block away. We were marched to the posada and told not to come out. We learned that a rebel army called Zapatista National Liberation Army had looted and burned and trapped us.
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NEW YEARS DAY 1994
I slept on the floor as my posada window faced the town square. The rebels had painted their demands on the remaining walls. The graffiti said: We want jobs, land, education, food, independence, liberty, democracy, justice and peace. My posada is running out of food. I am very quiet and began to make deals with God knowing this was incorrect. I prayed, “just take all of me-don’t let them cripple me.” I thought about the indigenous tribes and wondered how they would know that I was sympathetic to their cause. I thought a lot about my kids individually and wondered what Pam’s life was like living with Gary. I hoped I had taught all of them as much as I could with love. I became very quiet.
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JANUARY 2, 1994
Today we were able to call out on phones as the leader, Subcomandante Marcos, wanted the real truth to be known across the world. I called my eldest son and told him I was a hostage. He told me to keep a low profile. I laughed to myself remembering how my tall blonde being loomed over the locals. He called the American Embassy. The US Ambassador called me back and said not to worry as the rebels were just carrying sticks. “Try large machine guns and grenades.” I answered curtly. “Oh, then you may be there for weeks.” He then asked me, “How’s your posada? Would you recommend it? Does it have hot water?”
Suddenly, the realization that unlike the US movies, there would be no one coming to save Royal!
Becoming a hostage, Zapatista Rebellion
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JANUARY 4, 1994
A war was beginning and I had to get out of there before the Mexican Army maneuvered up the mountain road. Several days later Oscar appeared.
“Follow my van closely with your car. We’ve got authorization to cross the road blocks.” Oscar was truly my angel. I sped off as fast as that VW would go passing army tanks and soldiers.
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JANUARY 5, 1994
I called the posada manager the next day from Tuxtla Gutiérrez to see how they were doing. She said that there were now three army tanks positioned in front where my little VW had been parked.
Violence to create peace? Is this our common thread?
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NOV 4, 1994
Rodney, my ex husband, passed away at the age of 55 on October 26, 1994 from a rare blood disease. He had just helped create the Mall of America with the shopping center Simon Brothers. Rodney’s funeral service at the Santa Barbara Cemetery was something to be remembered forever. His second wife had a Dixie land band in crumpled red and white striped costumes prance through the cemetery. Rodney had been a surfer and requested his ashes be thrown off of a boat into the Santa Barbara channel. The very same wife was afraid of water and refused to honor his request. My children were aghast when they saw their fathers ashes go into an urn that looked like it came from Kmart, buried in the cemetery.
Again, where is Pam? This funeral was upsetting to all of us. Rod’s good friend and business associate, Herb Simon, had a lovely party for him after the strange cemetery happening. That event helped somewhat.
Rod’s monument at Mall of America 1994
Rod Putz and Walter Mondale
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FRANK’S DEATH
FEBRUARY 17. 1996
Merv and I whisper and agree that for dignity sake, Frank would have wanted a closed coffin. He doesn’t even look like my big brother. Pam’s little kids are here in the funeral parlor. I later ask her what she’d done to prepare them for this horrific event. She says, “nothing”. Her kids are cute and lively but so young to be going through this grisly death with no explanation. She tells me she has had a nanny for them. She looks so tired and worn out. Todd tells us to get to know each other again. Your little brother, Todd, is a peacemaker. So, we make plans to see each other. I wonder what that will bring. She is telling me what a terrible divorce she went through with Gary. I am sad for her but glad we were not communicating during this marriage time to Gary Triano. In my heart, I know I made the right choice to separate from her. I will visit her soon in Aspen. Maybe on one of my trips to Wyoming.
DESERT DEATH
The ring jars me awake.
The call comes at last.
You’ve been in a coma.
6 months of wasting away.
You were once my jolly big 230 lb. brother,
Always a clown, a dare devil,
Twelve years older.
You went through six wives.
The first bore you 3 children.
My eldest nephew went to prison twice for dealing drugs.
He is missing now.
Dead, or living in South America.
Your beautiful daughter married twice at 38.
Two children from the last ‘O.J.’ style marriage.
Your youngest at 34, a commercial pilot,
Newly married with a new baby.
And last wife, an industrial nurse for a meat packing plant,
Who couldn’t let you go,
Fed you internally.
Tube in your stomach, shots of Morphi
ne into your rectum.
Who would want to linger on like that?
Without dignity?
So, finally you sighed your last breath.
The morn after Valentine’s Day, my birthday.
You are free from your body of pain, now.
I fly to Las Vegas, drive to Phoenix.
You are in the open coffin,
A white waxy shape of 114 pounds.
You look one hundred years old,
Dressed in your racing suit.
Your wife says you’re racing in Heaven.
I can’t recognize you.
There are no tears,
Because that’s not you.
Not my big brother
that gave me a Springer Spaniel puppy when I was eight.
My other big brother, Merv, arrives from Maui,
Tan and fortified with cocktails.
He sheds some tears but is repulsed by your open coffin.
There are rosary beads wound around your bony fingers,
that once held a drink at ten in the morning.
I soberly face my demons,
The blood family I left behind,
the niece I reached out to,
my hand stung repeatedly.
I reach for her hand again,
but it’s only for the moment.
She has few but tired tears.
The next morn we return.
Acacia Mortuary.
I don’t want to look at your remains,
And focus on Jesus hanging on the cross above you.
Police escort in white limos
To St. Mary’s Basilica in downtown Phoenix.
A funeral Mass...
Only a few of us know the Catholic prayers.
Your steel blue coffin is shut now,
Covered with flowers of pink and red.
The priest sprinkles holy water on your casket,
After we all receive Communion without Confession.
We won’t burn in hell,
Because we grew up in hell.
You’ll be buried in Tucson,
Next to your first wife.
five white limos carry the family down the desert road, South.