Instead I say, “We can’t go in because the widow still lives there.”
“Speaking of wicked witches, can we go to Coronado now?” Darlene asks. Our next stop is the home of L. Frank Baum. Thank god we have something else planned today.
Halfway to Fairyland
“There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away.”
~ Emily Dickinson (1830–1886) ~
We are now speeding across the Coronado Bay Bridge, where, in the distance, the grand old Hotel del Coronado rises up like Oz above the Pacific shore. It’s been said that this flamboyant Victorian monument, with its cupolas, red-shingled turrets, and whimsical architecture, was the inspiration for the Emerald City, and I tell Harper that the author of The Wizard of Oz lived in a now-famous house down the street.
As we pull up to the hotel, Harper catches her breath. “Are we going in there?” she whispers with wonder in a hushed, cathedral-like voice.
“Yes,” I answer. “We’re staying here tonight.”
“It’s all planned. Leave it to your Auntie Darlene,” Darlene crows, as if she had anything to do with the hotel.
“My goodness. Doesn’t it look just like a wedding cake, Harper? Dora, my dear, this is too much,” Bea says.
“Oh no, Bea. I’m doing this for me too. I’ve wanted to come here. It’s nice to have company…wait until we get inside…” I say. Harper is now pulling my hand and excitedly running into the formidable, wood-paneled lobby.
I can hear her giggling as Darlene and I check in and the receptionist confirms our connecting rooms. When they ask me if I want a cot for Harper, I say yes.
“Make sure they don’t charge you for the cot,” Darlene adds in a too-loud voice. “These places always try to gyp you on the extra stuff. And don’t give Harper the key to the mini-bar. The Cokes are like ten dollars.”
I ignore her and take the keys to the room. She sneaks a look at the price and says, “The motel across the street is sixty bucks a night and you get breakfast. This is why you never have any money, Dora. You could’ve snowed Harper with a tour of the hotel and then moved over to the Cozee Cottage.”
It’s always such a delight to travel with Darlene. “Cut it out, Darlene. The whole point is to spoil them.”
“Okay. Never mind. This is really nice of you, Dora.”
They are now serving high tea in the Crown Room and I think, why not? I understand that Baum actually designed the crown-shaped chandeliers that drop from the domed sugar-pine ceiling. We sit at a table next to the window and gaze out on gardens bursting with bougainvillea, hibiscus, and birds-of-paradise. I remember when I first moved out here, I was amazed to see birds-of-paradise growing like weeds next to gas stations—back East they are so expensive and rare.
We go for it and order the whole thing: scones with strawberry preserves and Devon cream, cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off, pastries, chocolate-dipped strawberries. There are five different kinds of imported tea, but Harper has her heart set on hot chocolate so we order that as well.
The presentation is lavish and Harper nods earnestly when a waiter asks her if she wants whipped cream. “Yes, please,” she says, her mouth open, eyes bright, as he leans over her shoulder and spoons out mounds and mounds into the white porcelain cup. He leaves the steaming sterling silver pot on the table next to several three-tiered silver servers laden with sweets.
It is twilight now, the darkness encroaches on our little tea party, and the warmth from the room, the tea, and the company wash over me. I watch Harper demurely reach for a tart and then eat it ever so slowly, one bite at a time.
“My goodness, how fancy,” beams Bea. “This is like a dream.”
“It sure is,” Darlene says, helping herself to some of the child’s whipped cream. “What do you think of all this, kiddo?”
“It’s really good,” Harper says self-consciously.
“Tomorrow we’ll go on a little field trip, see the house of the man who wrote The Wizard of Oz,” I tell Harper, pulling some research out of my purse.
“Put it back, Dora. Don’t ruin this! I don’t want to know anything about him. I loved that movie,” Darlene hisses.
“Geez. Relax. Baum loved children. He was a good guy.”
“Well, I don’t know what other junk you might dig up and, frankly, I’d rather not hear it,” Darlene says as she motions for the waiter to come over.
The waiter appears instantaneously and Darlene says, “Any chance of a little high-octane stuff for the tea? It’s five o’clock somewhere.” She looks at her watch with a flowery gesture of surprise. “Oh my! It’s five o’clock here!”
The waiter, a twenty-two-year-old college student stuffed into formal attire, smiles, and is clearly getting a kick out of her.
Darlene flashes a flirtatious grin. “Just look at these fellows.” She points to a group of middle-aged businessmen at the next table. “I’m sure they’re dying for a little hooch. Aren’t you, guys?” They seem more than agreeable. My lucky night.
Bea and Harper are watching in amazement. Harper’s hand flies to her face, covering her mouth, hiding her smile, like kids do when they’re hearing something they’re not supposed to, and I quickly decide it’s time to reel Darlene in before this goes any further.
“Okay. Time to check out our rooms,” I say with gusto. We head upstairs, passing an antique caged elevator in the middle of the lobby, which is manned by an old-fashioned uniformed operator in a pillbox hat. Harper is thrilled. “Grandma, can we ride in that?”
“We’re on the fourth floor and that old thing only goes to the second. Let’s just take the regular one,” says Darlene.
“Oh no. It’ll be fun. Let’s take this one,” I say.
“You’re such a pushover, Dora,” Darlene whispers fondly. “I can tell what kind of mother YOU’RE going to be. Your kids will get away with anything.”
Our connecting rooms have large balconies fronting the white sand beach. Bea and Harper are staying in one room and Darlene and I share the other. We unpack and settle in for the night. Darlene is very busy in the bathrooms collecting all the amenities: soap, shampoo, conditioner, body lotion, shower caps, and she even throws the candle in her bag. I tell her to at least leave some soap for the shower. And if she swipes the robe, it’ll cost us a hundred bucks. She breezes past me and flashes a heads-up sign. Then she switches on the satellite radio and turns to a rock station. Black Eyed Peas are playing “Let’s Get It Started” and she proceeds to talk about the latest film she saw—something the critics call a religious-horror-satanic spectacle, which I concluded was a terrible movie.
Around eight, she wanders into Bea and Harper’s room and I hear the two of them laughing and carrying on as though they were best friends. The conversation gets around to Bea’s Harper Lady days and Darlene flips out.
“You are such an amazing woman, Bea,” Darlene gushes, loopy and endearing all at once. If Darlene likes you she’ll hang on your every word, in a guileless, completely sincere way. Suddenly, Darlene jumps up and yells, “Bea, it’s starting!” What a coincidence that some campy nighttime soap is “can’t miss TV” for both of them. Darlene flops on Bea’s bed and the two of them become thoroughly engrossed.
That’s when I hear a light knock on the connecting door. Harper is standing there in her pjs and terrycloth hotel slippers that are much too large for her thin bare feet. She is holding her blanket in one hand and a toothbrush in the other. “Can I come in?” she asks tentatively.
I lay her blanket on the bed and give her a big hug. Her body is warm and slight and her wet hair smells like Bea’s castile shampoo.
“Of course,” I say with a smile.
“Bea says that I can only stay for a little while because I might bother you.”
“No, I want you to stay,” I say, closing my book of short stories and laying it on the bedside table.
She smiles and jumps on the bed, slipping under the covers next to me. The hotel sheets are bright w
hite and heavily starched. They feel cool, crisp, and luxurious.
“This bed is nice,” says Harper, pulling the fluffy down comforter right up to her chin.
“Shall I tell you a story?” I ask. She nods and cuddles closer.
“Hmm,” I say, stalling, mentally sorting through all the old stories I read as a child.
“Once upon a time—”
“Not scary,” she interrupts.
“Okay,” I say. “Once upon a time—”
“And not sad…”
“Okay,” I say again, smiling. “Not scary. Not sad. Got it.”
Harper sighs and I feel her body relax.
I tell Harper the story of The Water Babies by Charles Kingsley. I remember most of it but change it around, especially the part about the poor little chimney sweep who was beaten by his master. I’m pretty sure she’s never heard it before because you can’t even find the book anymore. It’s probably because it’s too old-fashioned and the language is difficult.
Harper loved the part about the Irish fairy godmother who changed children into water babies and how they swam around in an ideal world where the sun was never too hot and the frost was never too cold and they had nothing to do but enjoy themselves and look at all the pretty things.
After that, I tell her the short version of The Borrowers. She hasn’t seen the movie, thank goodness, so all the charm and mystery of things just disappearing are fresh and new to her.
But then something happens. I’m describing to her how things you love are never really lost, they are just borrowed by magical fairies, when suddenly, I see tears rolling down her cheeks. Her shoulders are heaving up and down as she buries her head in the pillow.
“I miss my mommy,” she cries.
Oh god. How stupid I am for telling her that story. I pull Harper up in my arms and set her on my lap on the edge of the bed. She leans her warm moist cheek on my shoulder, still sobbing, and I pat her back and stroke her hair.
“Gee, Harper. Such a lot of troubles for a little girl, and you are so brave and wonderful.”
“Why can’t my mommy come back from heaven? Maybe the angels just borrowed her for a little while and they’ll bring her back to Grandma and me and then we’ll all be together again.”
“Harper, baby, your mommy will come back in your memories and in your heart. All your life she’ll be with you. I know it doesn’t feel like that now, but it will happen.” I wonder if what I’m saying is making her feel better. She’s quiet for a while as I rock her back and forth. If this gets any worse, I’m calling Bea.
“Do you want to tell me something about your mother? Something you remember?” I ask.
Her brow furrows. “Grandma and I would sometimes wait for Mommy to come home and we’d be so worried. When she came home, even though it was really late, we’d have picnics on the rug in front of the TV and eat jelly sandwiches with popcorn.”
“Sounds like fun.”
Harper smiles. “Yes. And then she’d tell me stories about her boyfriend and how we were all going to take a trip someplace soon.”
“I bet she was really looking forward to that.”
“And then she’d let me put on her eye shadow and lipstick and we’d dance to teenage music.”
They could have been sisters, poor kid. Harper gets back into bed, I rub her back, and she falls asleep almost immediately.
In the movie version of The Wizard of Oz, Dorothy’s adventure is just a dream. In Baum’s book, Oz really exists, a magical land over the rainbow, where a child can escape all of her problems and sorrows. So now she sleeps. Frank Baum believed in the power of fairy tales, in the power of a child’s imagination to heal and comfort. To pull them out of dark places and carry them to a distant land. I hope she’s halfway to fairyland.
Lost Days and Knights
“You should only read what is
truly good or what is frankly bad.”
~ Gertrude Stein (1874–1946) ~
Fred seems stern and aloof as he walks out of the baggage area lugging his computer bag and a small duffel. His hair is messy, he has a two-day growth of beard, and he’s wearing jeans, a rumpled, untucked linen shirt, and a black leather jacket. When he first catches my eye, he says, “Hey,” with half a wave. But he doesn’t give me the usual warm hug. I can’t really read his expression, it’s remote and closed. I gather things didn’t go well in New York.
We chat about a few innocuous things until we get into the car. “How was the trip? Was the weather okay in New York?” His answers are clipped, almost snippy. Something’s up.
“Not only were they total assholes but they were all of twenty-two years old. What do they know about what makes a good play? I mean, how can you be in this business and not have read Albee or Strindberg or even Sartre, for god’s sake?” he rants.
This isn’t sounding good.
“Well, they must have liked it. They brought you to New York,” I say, trying to stay upbeat.
“First of all, they didn’t ‘bring’ me, I went. And I don’t know why they said they liked it, because they wanted to change everything.”
“Well, couldn’t you work with them on it?”
“They were impossible. Anyway, they called me the next day and passed. The whole trip was a complete waste.”
“I’m sorry, Fred. At least your family was taken care of…” He nods mechanically and then falls silent.
“Yeah, Bea told me all about it.” He holds my gaze a minute and then looks away.
“And…?” I ask.
“What’s going on here, Dora? What do you think you’re doing?” What is he talking about?
“Well, what I thought I was doing was showing Harper and Bea where the Oz books were written,” I reply, swallowing hard. I am baffled and can feel my stomach tensing up. I know he had a tough time in New York but this is ridiculous.
“That’s not what I mean,” he snaps. “You take them on this lavish trip as if they were your little pet foster foundlings who come from nothing and you shower them with bullshit, expensive stuff like you’re the fucking good fairy. They’re not your problem, you know?”
“I’m speechless.” I feel as if I’ve been slapped.
“Listen. I don’t want to hurt your feelings,” he says, softening a little, “but I’ve done my bit. They’re not my responsibility. And, frankly, they’re not yours.”
“They’re your family. They need you.”
“Bea can handle it from now on. She knows how I feel. Anyway, I wouldn’t be any good for them. I’d just end up resenting the whole deal. They’re okay now,” he rationalizes, “and I’m not going to disrupt my life anymore.” I am stunned at his selfishness.
“You really feel that they’re okay now? How can you be so cold?”
I am trying hard to control the tangle of wounded feelings and disappointment twisting through me. I look over and catch him giving me an insolent stare. It’s so strange to be totally caught off guard. This has happened to me just a few times in my life and, afterwards, I’m always amazed at the complete lack of understanding and communication. It’s almost like you’re speaking two different languages and neither one of you can make any headway. Sometimes I hear a little voice saying, “Just walk away, Dora,” but you need the other person to understand. Trying to explain yourself just escalates the situation as you get more and more frustrated and angry.
“What’s this all about, anyway? Maybe you just don’t have enough to do. Maybe you’re just bored.”
“Is that what you think? I like Bea and Harper. Anyone would like them. What’s wrong with you?”
“Don’t throw this guilt thing on me. I don’t have to spend my life taking care of my mother and my sister’s kid.”
“You have no heart.” A little dramatic, but that’s how I feel.
“Oh, like you’re Mother Teresa in your fucking Prada dress and your five-hundred-dollar Gucci shoes.”
I pull the car over to a gas station and say, “Get out!”
What was I thinking? Maybe Fred’s right. Just because someone in your family needs help, does that mean you have to drop everything and take over? How much do you have to give? How much does your family deserve to get? I mean, some people end up devoting their lives to someone else out of obligation and guilt. And you only live once. I had an aunt who spent her whole life taking care of a sick husband and then a sick daughter. Well, her husband finally died, her daughter finally got better, and now she’s seventy-five and alone and bitter. Maybe that’s what Fred’s afraid of, looking back on lost opportunities, a half-lived life filled with regrets.
But how can he just abandon them? How can he live with that? And what about the notion of doing something out of love without worrying about the consequences? Just feeling good that you can help them and make them happy.
Okay, maybe I did overdo it with the gifts and the hotel. But that wasn’t the point. He’s had it with them. I understand how these things work. Sometimes you just want to walk away.
Oh damn! I feel it coming. Yes. It’s definitely coming. I turn off my cell phone, turn on my answering machine. Put on my junky sweats. This is going to be an epic binge. I don’t care if I ever emerge.
What to read? I examine my bookshelf. Nothing grabs me. It all looks so depressing and self-important and the print’s too little and the books are too big. I want to be entertained. I want a page-turner. Maybe something to fit my mood…hard-boiled, gritty, something with guns, murder, body parts, and women getting back at selfish, mean, small-time hoods. Okay. I got it. Sam Spade. I go to the mystery section. (Yes, I do have a mystery section. Macdonald, Hammett, and Chandler were great American novelists.) I start out rereading The Maltese Falcon. Perfect. Spade has a relationship with a woman but doesn’t think twice about turning her in. People who do bad things deserve what they get. Yes!
I settle myself on the couch and move on to the intellectual—Ross Macdonald. I start to read The Chill. Nah, a little too psychoanalytical for my mood. Moving on to, oh yes, my favorite, Raymond Chandler. Where is Philip Marlowe when I need him? A dick with honor. A modern-day knight with a college education. Gray eyes, a hard jaw, listens to classical music. Rescues women from terrible situations.
Literacy and Longing in L. A. Page 17