The hot desert morning sun shines down on my face, waking me. I realize I have slept in. Ugh, I think. Everything’s so dried out. I need something to drink.
Everyone is already up and milling about, so I forage through the backpacks for some water. We take our routine turns at the bathroom and pack the car quickly before it gets too hot. Marty avoids my gaze, and that is just fine with me. I don’t want to mess up our chance for a place to stay in California, so I let the whole thing slide.
Dad kind of picks up on the awkwardness between Marty and me. He’s obviously suspicious but doesn’t say a word.
In no time, we are back on Highway 40 heading west again, driving straight through Needles and lots more desert. I hope this isn’t what LA is like, I think as we connect to Interstate 15 in Barstow. Then it is one long road after another as we approach Glendale.
“Are there always this many highways?” I am curious.
“They’re called freeways in California,” Marty informs me dryly.
“Oh.” I take in this new word and spend the rest of the drive absorbing the sights, making note of the differences between the East and the West.
“This is the famous Ventura Freeway,” Marty announces to us on our final leg of the trip. “More people travel this freeway than any other in the US.”
Wow! I think. That’s a lot of cars.
We enter Glendale at dusk, as the colors in the sky begin to fade. It gets cold here at night, I notice uncomfortably, even in summer.
We turn onto Acacia Avenue from Adams and park the car in front of two rows of pale aqua cottages separated by a small, tree-lined courtyard. In the center of the courtyard is a row of baby trees and bushes that run the length of the cottages back to the garages. The front left cottage is 1010-A East Acacia, and the lights are on.
Marty jumps out of the car first. “Cool, she’s home!” He sounds enthused. “Park over there so the manager doesn’t ask you to move,” he instructs, making sure we don’t block anyone. “Let me go in first and tell her I have company. Don’t worry. She’s cool, man. It’ll be cool.” He throws his leather pouch over the shoulder of his patched jacket and bounds across the street.
Terry, Juan, and I stiffly get out, stretch our legs, and scope out the neighborhood.
“Hand me my sweater,” I ask Terry. “I’m freezing.”
There is a light mist in the air that you can see under each streetlamp when you look up and down the block. A heady, perfumed scent wafts from the flowers of the giant trees, and their shadows line the darkened street. It reminds me of the honeysuckle in our New Jersey backyard, and compared to Florida’s streets, this one is quiet except for the noisy chirping of the crickets. Night is different here too, I think, shivering, as Terry and I venture a few houses down the block.
“Come on,” Dad calls out, waving us back. Terry and I race to catch up with Dad and Juan. Dad checks his bandages, and I comb my hair before we walk up to Harriet’s cottage together.
Marty is at the front door. “Come in,” he invites us.
We walk single file past Marty into the living room of the small, one-bedroom cottage.
Harriet, a short, mousy-haired woman in her early thirties, gets up from the couch to greet us. Her brown eyes sit close together over her sharp nose, and they are very red. The room smells of pot as she says with a dry mouth, “Hello.” It seems Marty has smoked one with her while we waited outside. Leaning on the fireplace mantel so she won’t lose her balance, Harriet says, “So, Marty tells me you guys need a place to stay for a while.”
“Uh, yeah,” Dad answers. “Uh, for a couple weeks, maybe. Just till we get on our feet.”
She seems to study us for a long time, especially Dad, and in the haze of her high, she finally smiles at him and says, “Well, I guess some of you can sleep on the floor. The couch is a sleeper,” she adds, slurring her words and losing her grip on the mantel. She grabs at it again awkwardly. “But I gotta clear it with the manager first.”
“Oh. Yeah. Right, that’s cool,” Dad says. His hands are in his pockets, and he’s looking away so she can’t stare at his face too long.
“It will take just a minute,” she says, walking over to the phone and dialing with difficulty. We hear her ask someone on the other line to come over, that she wants to talk, that it is important. “No, you gotta come over,” she insists. “Bye.” She turns to us, grinning, and says, “He’ll be right over.”
“Right over?” Dad is nervous. He is tired and dirty after the long drive and not prepared for an official meeting with the manager.
“Yeah, he lives just across the courtyard.”
Knock, knock, knock. We hear three sharp raps on the door. Harriet wobbles over to answer, already knowing who she’ll find. “Come in,” she says with a mischievous smile, standing back to let the manager inside.
“Hi there!” a tall, gawky man booms out as he strides into the room. He appears to be in his thirties. He has large, intensely blue eyes and dirty blond, curly hair so long it lies in a floppy Afro. His face is ruggedly handsome, even though it is thin. He is shirtless but wears Levi’s cut off just above his knees and white tennis shoes. The air charges up when he enters the room, and instantly he has everyone’s undivided attention.
Harriet introduces us. “Hi, John! This is Wayne, his daughters, Dawn and Terry, and Terry’s boyfriend, Juan. And, of course, you know Marty.” Then, addressing us, she says, “This is John. The manager.” She sounds slightly goofy with her slurred formalness.
In two long steps, John walks straight over to my father with his hand extended. “How you doing there, Wayne?” he says with a bit of a cowboy lilt to his voice. He looks Dad directly in the eyes, never once flinching at his appearance.
“Hi.” Dad shakes his hand, and I can feel his unease.
“Hey, Marty.” John nods in his direction.
Marty returns the nod.
I wait for John to acknowledge the presence of Terry, Juan, and me, but he avoids our eyes and scans the room without a comment. How rude! I think to myself.
“Uh, can I see you in the bedroom please, John?” Harriet asks, distracting me from my mounting dislike for her manager.
“Yeah, sure,” he answers quickly, heading for the room in the back.
“Come on, Wayne. You too, Marty,” Harriet says, and they disappear down the hallway, leaving us wondering what will happen, and me still smarting at how rudely we have been ignored.
After a half an hour or so, John comes stumbling out of the bedroom laughing and exaggeratedly falling into the walls. “I’ll see you later,” he calls out behind him, rolling with laughter. “If you need anything, just let me know. You got my number!” He turns toward the living room with a big, short-toothed grin on his face and then walks directly past us into the kitchen, again without acknowledging our presence.
At the sink I hear the clanking of a glass, then water coming from the tap, and I think, What a jerk! Terry and I turn our backs to the kitchen, as if to say, We don’t care about you either. We stand facing each other by the mantel where Harriet had retrieved her balance.
Still laughing boldly, John heads for the front door to leave. Then suddenly, he spins around, looks directly at me, and asks, “How old are you?”
I’m taken aback by his lightning-quick move and personal question, and I snap as if I’ve been attacked, on the edge, as I was in Carol City. “Fifteen. Why?”
“Mm, mm, mmp. Too bad!” He grabs his chest dramatically and acts disappointed.
“What?” I’m taken off guard, then instantly incensed.
John smiles wider than I ever thought anyone could and winks a big blue eye at me. “Too young!” Again he turns on his heel and pushes through the screen door, roaring laughter to the night sky and all the way to his cottage.
“What…a…creep!” I say with disgust, wanting to scream at him. “He has no idea. Young, my ass,” I add, fiercely blushing.
“Uh-oh, Dawn.” Terry sounds worried.
&n
bsp; “What?” I snap, not sure why I am so upset.
“He likes you.”
I blush even harder.
CHAPTER FOUR
Too Young
Sun filters through the blinds, lighting the hardwood floor of the cottage at 1010-A East Acacia Avenue. Lazily, I open my eyes and scan the room. Sleep blurs my vision as I stretch and remember Harriet’s cottage…and John. What nerve, I think, reminding myself that I am angry. A huge, unfamiliar green lump lies at the threshold of the front door. I stare mindlessly at the sunlight that moves up and down the green surface for a while, wonder what it is, then notice a stringy brown something that resembles hair. It must be Juan and Terry in their sleeping bag; I am happy I didn’t have to sleep on the floor. I roll over and stretch again, feeling my bones appreciate even the lumpiness of the mattress beneath me. I roll onto my side to see Dad sleeping next to me on the pullout couch, his bandages intact. He must have stayed up late to party, I think.
I suddenly have to pee. In my oversized T-shirt and underwear, I scope out the area for the bathroom and tiptoe quietly around the slumbering green lump and the various sofa cushions strewn about on the floor.
I linger in the bathroom; the pink and black tiles feel cool against my feet and the fifties-style sink dispenses a stream of cold water that I splash on my face. Towels and clothing I recognize as Marty’s and Harriet’s litter the small space, and the heavy smell of their muskiness permeates. Softly I tiptoe back to the couch and pull on my pants.
“You up?” Dad murmurs.
“Yeah.”
Dad is silent again, then says, “Wish we had some coffee.”
“Yeah, me too,” I answer, studying the room around me. “Maybe we can find a store.”
“Yeah! Why don’t you and Terry go?” His voice is slightly pleading. “Harriet told you about a little market around the corner last night, remember?”
“I remember.”
Through the filtered light I notice several gigantic houseplants loom from hooks at the windows, making it hard for me to tell the position of the sun. Massive fronds cling to the curtains and walls, threatening to take over the house.
I reach over and tap on the green cocoon with hair. “Terry,” I whisper. “Terry, you ‘wake?”
“Uhhhhhhhhmph,” she groans, “nooooooo.”
“Yes, you are,” I prod. “Come on. Get up. Let’s find a store.”
Terry is slipping in and out of sleep. “Give me a minute.” Slowly she rises, releasing pained grunts and groans. “This floor sucks,” she complains, pulling on her clothes.
“Thanks, Ter,” Dad calls from the other side of the sofa bed.
“Welcome,” she answers grumpily. “All right, Dawn. Let’s go.”
We stumble out into the bright afternoon sun of Southern California, and I realize we have slept in late. We walk down the center courtyard past several cottages and out onto the street, following the directions from the night before and making our way to the corner liquor store for some instant coffee and juice. Our walk back is leisurely, as we take in the different styles of houses and types of trees. The blue sky is clear, with none of the characteristic smog Marty warned us about. The air is warm and dry, not humid as it is in Florida. I’m not sure I like it, and Terry and I complain that our noses are scratchy and irritated.
“Purple trees!” I shriek. “Look, Terry, they have purple trees!”
“Cool! Are they real?”
The ground, covered with blankets of colored blooms from jacaranda trees, beckon us to gather up heady handfuls and breathe in their curious smell. “Mmmmm.” We are delighted and squeal some more. Spiky balls from the western sycamores mingle with the blooms on the sidewalk, making the walk back to Harriet’s awkward and uneven.
As we turn the corner to the cottages and arrive with the coffee, John is there. He is in the kitchen under the sink, clinking and banging at the pipes. Dad and Juan are folding the mattress back into the couch and straightening up our things, piling them in a corner on the wooden floor.
“Wait. Look out!” Dad’s voice is panicked. A massive, hairy dog comes running toward us at the door. I brace myself for attack. Harriet, who is leaning against the doorframe between the living room and kitchen in a slightly odd, seductive way, jumps up to grab her dog’s collar.
“Wolf! Halt!” she commands. The dog freezes. “He’s okay, girls. Let me get him back into the bedroom. He’s a pureblood collie. Do you want to pet him?”
Terry and I fall to our knees to pet the classic-looking dog. “Wow!” I tell her. “He is beautiful.” It is true. His coat is long and tangle-free, silky and warm like a winter fur. A long, sharp nose leads to sweet brown eyes adoring Harriet, and I wonder at the depth of her kindness.
Harriet beams and guides the dog proudly to the back room. Quickly she returns, heading back to the kitchen and her conversation with John.
“Can you hand me that wrench, honey?” I hear him gruff from under the sink.
“Shhuure, John,” Harriet answers, syrupy sweet.
I walk into the kitchen, place the bag on the table, and purposely turn my head away from his voice, ignoring him.
“Would you like some coffee, Harriet?” I offer, opening the bag.
The clanking of the pipes stops. There is a thick silence. And then it starts up again.
“Okay,” she answers swiftly. She gives me a look that says she noticed John’s brief attentive silence.
Abruptly, the long, skinny legs that sprawl out from under the sink curl, and John shoots to his feet. I’m startled; he has my attention. In an instant, our eyes fix intensely; and just as quickly, John pulls away. I look down. Both of us blush, embarrassed. As much as I don’t want to acknowledge John, I can’t turn away from his gaze; and he can’t turn away from mine.
“All fixed, Harriet,” John declares as he breaks away from my transfixed stare and grins from ear to ear.
Oh my God! I think to myself, now focusing on the coffee in the bag. What was that? my brain screams, and I feel frozen to the spot.
“Thanks, John. Thanks,” Harriet hurriedly answers. She is tense now, uncomfortable with the obvious energy John is directing toward me, and she walks over to open the door for him to leave. “Can I call you later, after I talk to them?”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” he stammers and gathers his things. “Looking forward to it.” John flashes a charming smile across the room and sends another glance in my direction before closing the cottage door.
The room is silent and awkward. Dad and Terry are going through the bag of Dad’s pills on the coffee table, and Juan has just come from the shower and is combing his hair with a giant wire pick.
“So, guess what?” Harriet announces.
“What?” Terry has been sitting next to Dad on the couch.
“Well, if you want to earn some extra cash, there’s some work around the courts. John and his wife, Sharon, are willing to pay you for gardening and stuff like that.”
Wife! my mind cries with shock. He sure is acting weird if he has a wife. I attempt to dismiss any kind of feeling I might have about him. This guy is strange, I tell myself, blowing him off, trying to forget his gaze.
“Oh, uh, yeah, sure,” Juan, Terry, and I answer intermittently.
“To help you get on your feet.” Harriet sounds caring, warmhearted.
We thank her.
For a moment, I see us through her eyes and feel pity. We must look pretty bad. I picture how ragged we must appear to a stranger. But I shrug it off and replace the image with us as a family simply starting out in a new place.
“Cool, man. Thanks a lot,” I mumble.
“Good. I’ll call John and Sharon and set it up right away,” she tells us, smiling proudly. Dad sips his coffee and digs in his duffel bag for his deck of cards.
The morning is already blinding and hot as Terry and I walk over to John and his wife’s cottage at the opposite side of the courtyard. The rows of identical pale aqua stucco and white-trimmed single-
story cottages are bland. But the manager’s unit, the second cottage from the front, has a small wire-fenced space between it and the front unit.
Dad, Marty, and Harriet stayed up late the night before getting high in Harriet’s bedroom while we crashed together on the pullout couch. Juan slept alone on the floor, complaining that I wouldn’t let him sleep between Terry and me. Marty was gone early, having told Harriet he needed to “check in” on a job for a while, but having confided to my father that he was going “to see another chick.”
As we approach the red stone steps of the porch, a little black-and-white brindle dog with bulging eyes and flat face races toward us at the fence, ferociously barking and snorting so hard that it’s back legs lift off the ground with every snarling breath.
“Oh my God, Terry, look at that dog! That’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen!”
“What kind is it?”
“Shhhhhh,” I say, lowering my voice and giggling. “He’ll hear you.”
Somehow, the little dog understands we are laughing at him and his barking fades. Holding our bellies, we gather our composure and knock. We hear a few loud steps before John opens the door. He greets us curtly, looking serious and businesslike compared to his demeanor the night before.
“I’ll meet you down at the garages,” he says, searching the room for his keys.
“Sure. Thanks.”
We walk down through the courtyard, this time with no barking dog to alert the neighbors, and stand in front of the garage door. John’s light blue Chevy van sits parked next to an old magnolia tree.
“Terry. Look at the license plate. That’s weird. What does that mean?”
The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes Page 8