John continues to keep Terry and me busy with gardening during the month before school starts, but as I promised myself, my attitude toward him is cold. That doesn’t stop him. He takes every opportunity to be the center of attention whenever he is around. On days when he comes to Harriet’s to pay me for work or to give me instructions for gardening, he positions himself in the middle of the room, speaking with a booming voice and moving his body in animated gestures.
God, he needs so much attention, I think. Oddly, he never looks directly at me. Still, the uneasy feeling that John is really trying to attract my attention nags away at my gut, and I flinch at his quick sideways glances in my direction. I resolve to build the walls up around me even stronger—walls like the ones that kept me safe in Carol City. I’m good at that.
Dad spends time away from the cottage registering us for school, signing up for food stamps, and getting himself on the local veterans hospital list for follow-up care for his face.
While he is gone, Harriet and I begin to get close and hang out a bit. The kitchen is warm and full of good smells. She likes describing her incredible treelike plants and teaches me her secret method for making cheese potatoes. The stove sizzles hot with blintzes, a sweet Jewish pancake that is another of her passions. She enjoys teaching me the meaning of kosher foods and how to make delicious Jewish dishes, such as brisket. I am curious and ask lots of questions. I love her stories about her childhood Hanukkah traditions.
Occasionally, when Dad is gone, Harriet will call John over to check on the plumbing, the window screens, or other various things around the cottage. I think it’s kind of odd that she needs the manager so much. I can swear that Harriet is about to swoon every time John knocks on the door.
There is one day, however, when I decide to ask Harriet why she flirts and acts so goofy after John has just left. “What are you doing?”
“What do you mean?” She bats her eyelashes over her glazed look.
“I mean the way you act.” I make it clear that she obviously appears affected by him. “I know he and his wife aren’t together, but do you like him or something?” I ask, trying to figure out a reason for her silliness.
“Like him!” she shoots back. “Don’t you know who he is?” she says excitedly, her face coming in close to mine.
Completely repulsed at her change of character, I glare back. “Nooooo. Am I supposed to know who he is?”
Her eyes like brown saucers, large and round, stare at me with the utmost of disbelief. Suddenly, she grabs my arm. “Come here. Let me show you something.” She pulls me over to her hall closet, looks over both shoulders, and with one hand firmly on my arm she opens the closet door. I am stunned. Inside, long white rolls line the back of the closet wall. It is the largest collection of posters I have ever seen.
“What are those?” I ask, impressed by the collection.
“Look!” Harriet insists, too excited to keep her voice down. She grabs a large roll of posters and begins to unravel them.
The first one has the words Liquid Lips splashed across it in red.
So? I think. Then I see him. There is a super large, very handsome picture of his face as he holds another woman in a deep kiss. “Is that John?” I am shocked at what I see. “Wow! He’s really cute in this picture,” I admit, getting excited that I know a famous actor, simple manager of cottages.
Under the title on the marquee is “John C. Holmes as Johnny Wadd.” Below that, I see an X above the words “Adults Only.”
“Ah, WADD. That’s where the license plate comes from…and X?” I say out loud. The shroud of innocence lifts, and my stomach rises to my throat as the sexual tones of the posters become apparent.
“Uh-huh,” she answers slyly.
Harriet uncovers another one: The Spirit of Seventy Sex.
Oh my God! His shoes! Those obnoxious red, white, and blue sneakers he wore the other day glared at me from this next poster. Harriet continues pulling out posters. The title on the next one is Confessions of a Teenage Peanut Butter Freak.
I can’t take it any longer. “No! Wait! Stop!” I insist, now overwhelmed with shock and trying to hold back feelings of complete embarrassment. This is way too much information for me. I feel strange, almost violated, and I am kind of angry with Harriet for showing me any of this stuff.
“He’s a movie star!” Harriet breathes. “There’s lots more, and he always brings me a poster from every movie ‘cause I’m such a big fan,” she discloses candidly. “You’ve never heard of him? Really?”
“No, no, I haven’t. Really,” I admit in a low tone, shaking my head. “I’ve never seen one of those movies, and I don’t know anyone who does.”
“Well, it’s a secret.” She suddenly sounds uncomfortable, and she looks over both shoulders. “Promise you won’t tell anyone about this. It’s kinda my thing, you know.”
“Yeah, uh, I promise,” I assure her, even though I’m not feeling very loyal to her thing. “Don’t worry.” I close the closet door on Harriet’s fantasy.
Inside, I am numb. That person on the posters—who is that? I mean, I realize it is John, but it doesn’t seem like the same man I met here, the manager. This whole scene is totally bizarre and, as tough as I act on the outside, I know this is completely over my head. Now I am convinced that staying away from John emotionally is the smartest thing to do.
As I suspected, with Marty gone, Dad and Harriet are an item. It seems sure that Marty won’t return, and they get hot and heavy. It doesn’t make any sense to me, knowing Dad’s big story about Pen Ci and Jack coming to the States. But he is obviously into his own thing, and communication with him is distant at best right now. Maybe he thinks I’ll tell Harriet about them, or maybe he is afraid he’ll get in trouble for being an unfit father. I don’t know, but our relationship is much different than it was in Florida. Does he know, I wonder, about Harriet’s closet shrine to John? And if he does, does he care?
The worst part about their new relationship is that Harriet is getting less friendly and more motherly. The closer she gets to Dad, the more she begins trying to act like a parent to Terry and me. Because I still live under her roof, she questions my whereabouts and gives me lists of chores. She and Dad stick together like glue, and I am jealous.
I only get a little of Dad’s time, when Harriet is at work. All we talk about anymore is the VA hospital and how he refuses to have another operation even for cosmetic reasons. “If people don’t like the way I look,” he cries defiantly, “then they can look the other way!”
When Harriet gets home after work, she and Dad slip off immediately to her room to get stoned, leaving me to fend for myself. I head to Terry’s next door and hang out until late at night. The next morning, as usual, Harriet questions me about where I have been most of the night and what time I got in.
“She can’t tell us what to do,” Terry and I insist resentfully when we are alone together. This is simply unacceptable. Nobody can just walk in and try to replace our mother. Not after what we’ve been through. We both miss our mom, even with all the problems we had with her. Though Dad refuses to talk about her, we write her regularly.
In truth, Harriet feels sorry for us. John feels sorry for us. Everybody feels sorry for us. We are two young teenage girls: one with an older, dubious boyfriend, and both with a disabled father. We would be homeless if Harriet weren’t providing us a place to stay or if John and Sharon weren’t giving their permission. Harriet knows that. Food is scarce for us. Harriet shares what she can, but it is never enough. Juan brings home extra hamburgers from work, but still we look as if we never eat. We’re as scrawny as little sticks. The tenants in the courtyard agree we are a family that needs help. The few elderly renters in the middle cottages act nonchalant as they bring us extra servings of food from their dinner tables. John gives us gardening jobs, insisting to Sharon that he doesn’t want to do the work himself—but in actuality, he wants to help us.
School will be starting soon, and we need an address in ord
er to enroll. I can’t wait to meet new friends my age and get some relief from the oddness of this courtyard. At least we aren’t fighting in the streets like before, I think thankfully. But I worry I won’t be able to handle the California school system after such a horrible education in Florida.
To top it all off, with Dad and Harriet definitely close, I feel as if I’ve lost my newest best friend. I’m jealous, but trying not to show it. I keep to myself around the two of them, especially since Harriet’s been in her motherly role.
I rely hard on my poetry; it keeps me sane. Sitting in a corner on the porch or leaning up against one of the back cottages by the garages offers me a tiny place to find the quiet I need to write. Being alone and writing seem the best way for me to release my emotions and process my spinning, whirling life of change.
John often walks past me as I am writing, on his way to his van or back to his cottage. When he sees me alone, he only nods and walks by, respecting my quiet. I appreciate that he understands my need for privacy and find out later that he spends his own quiet time writing poems about his private thoughts and dreams.
John’s brother and sister-in-law, David and Karen, live in a back cottage with David’s stepson, Jamie. David, a tall, thin, dark-haired man with a dark goatee, is rarely seen outside; when he is, he’s in his pajamas and robe and only out to get the mail. “He has epilepsy,” Harriet told me once, “and can’t work.” Karen is a stocky woman with light blonde hair, small facial features, and thick legs. Her son, Jamie, is seven and her spitting image. Both in their late twenties, Karen works as a secretary for a temp agency in Glendale to support them while David takes care of her son at home. Sometimes, I see John go briefly in and out of David’s, laughing loudly as he leaves the cottage, but never do I see any of them together outside. It seems strange to me, but I don’t really give it much thought.
I am sleeping on the pullout couch by myself now, and I stay next door at Juan and Terry’s until after Dad and Harriet go to bed. Late at night, I eat whatever I can find in the refrigerator by myself. Sometimes if there are leftovers from a meal Harriet has made, I sneak portions of food over to Terry through the back door.
Dad calls John the “Candy Man.” He makes regular evening pot stops at Harriet’s and then at Mike’s. His constant companion, a brown Samsonite briefcase, is loaded with candy bars, gum, sodas, and cigarettes for Terry and me. He knows my favorite brand of smokes is a good Marlboro Red, and he just happens to always have a pack handy. The whistling of a cheap spaghetti western tune floats through the courtyard. John bangs the door to the cottage open and stomps in, briefcase in tow. He snaps it open and pulls his corncob pipe and plastic film container from the clutter of crumpled True Blue cigarette packs and his silver flask. Dipping his finger into the container, he grabs a small bud, stuffs it into the pipe, and lights it with a snap and crackle.
Drawing deeply, he smiles and walks over to Juan first and nods as if to ask if he wants some of the sweet smoke, but he doesn’t wait for a response. John turns the pipe around, puts the cob end into Juan’s mouth, and blows a long, hard shotgun into his face. He walks over to Terry next, takes another deep pull that nearly chokes him, waits for her to nod, then blows out the smoke for her to inhale. He turns to face me. I feel my face burn as he bends closer. John doesn’t wait for my okay. He fixes his eyes closely on mine and sends a slow stream of smoke into my mouth. My eyes roll back as I cough back my breath. John stands up, pleased with himself, and throws his things back into the briefcase. Grinning from ear to ear, he takes a sweeping look around the smoky room, laughing his way out the door.
As the weeks roll on, John gets friendlier with Dad and Harriet. They love his pot, and John likes dropping off party treats. “He’s a nice guy,” Dad tells me, and he doesn’t say that about many people. I figure John, like everyone, feels sorry for Dad because of his disability and wants to help a veteran feel better. It’s patriotic.
John still vies for my notice, and although I am friendly, I won’t allow myself to be pulled into his intensity again. On a day when he stops by Harriet’s to “shoot the shit” and drop off some weed, he asks to see if Terry and I can help out with cleaning and painting one of the empty cottages.
“It’s okay with me,” Dad says. “Ask them.” He points to me and then in the direction of Terry’s cottage.
“It’s cool with me,” I answer quickly, excited to be making more money. School is starting in a few days, and I need to buy some clothes.
“Yeah?” John smiles, then pulls back shyly, looks down at his feet, and mumbles, “Well, we’ll need to get some supplies and, uh, I have an appointment tomorrow.”
“Go get them now,” Dad offers, suddenly sounding helpful. “Dawn can go with you.”
A lump sticks in my throat. “Okay. Bitchin',” John says, checking his watch. “Can you go now?”
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
John and I head back through the courtyard, and I suddenly feel nervous and shy. I can’t help looking over toward his cottage, wondering if Sharon is watching from a window somewhere. We silently load up in the van, acting formal and stiff. John hands me a piece of paper and tells me to write down a list of things we will need for the job. My tension eases as we make the list, taking turns calling out the next thing to buy; we make it a challenge, a game, and we laugh. A quick look flashes between us that says, Hey, we work pretty good together.
More relaxed than we’ve ever been together before, we finish our errand and head back home. Looking over at John in the driver’s seat, I notice how handsome he looks while driving. It is a comfortable, warm feeling. His dark blond curls fall around his face in a rugged sort of way. The blue of his eyes shines bright against his mildly tanned skin, and he moves with an air of fierce confidence that makes me feel safe. John plugs in his eight-track tape of Jim Croce and starts singing, “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.” I giggle at his dramatic, loud voice, and he looks at me, smiles, puffs himself up, and sings even louder. Giggles turn to laughter, and I give in and try to sing with him off-key. John tries hard to keep a serious face but can’t, and we both break down into bursts of hysteria.
Back on Acacia, we wipe the tears from our eyes as we unload the van. I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time, I think.
John waves at me and walks away, booming, “Good night. See ya early tomorrow.”
I smile back at him.
“And tell your sister to come to work,” he calls back.
The icy tension between us has been broken, and in my heart my protective walls have been lowered. I begin to genuinely like him. I am seeing how naturally kind and funny he really is, and I completely and purposely reject the person I saw on the posters in Harriet’s closet. After all, he doesn’t seem like that kind of guy—from what I can tell.
The next week, the day after Labor Day, is the start of school. Early on the first day, a knock comes at the door. Sliding out from under the covers of the sofa bed, and wearing only a tank top and underwear, I sleepily answer. I see that it is John and, without thinking, open the door. “Yeah?” I say, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and pushing my long, dark hair away from my face.
John stands frozen, staring at me through the screen without a word.
“Yeah?” It takes a minute before I realize he can see my silhouette. When I do, I quickly step behind the door.
“You up?” John asks, slowly shaking his tangled curls. Then he snaps out of his daze. Nostrils flared, he looks at me hard. “Time for school,” he says and turns to walk away.
“Thanks,” I call out as he disappears, wondering why he seems abrupt and angry. Maybe he’s grumpy when he gets up, I think, blowing it off. But then I wonder, Why is he getting me up, anyway?
CHAPTER FIVE
California
School begins in early September of 1976 for Terry and me. This is my first year in high school. The tenth grade at Glendale High. Wow! I think, searching out the front office, registration papers in hand. The halls are crowded with
hundreds of students trying to find their classrooms. After registering, I roam the bustling corridors in search of my first period class. In my assigned room, I settle into a large, crowded group of many different-colored faces. There are all kinds of nationalities here. I’m happy to see that no one race outnumbers the other. When the teacher addresses us as sophomores, I get excited. I’m a sophomore, I think, then immediately stress. I hope I’ll fit in okay.
California public school schedules call for an early start and early finish. I walk home alone, holding my newly issued books. While passing some students hanging out at the snack shop, I assess the scene and sense with relief, They don’t look like gang members to me. They do have some nice cars, though. I keep a wary eye on them anyway.
It is a two-mile walk back to Harriet’s cottage. Dad dropped us off in the morning, showing us the best way back to Acacia. I take in all the landmarks as I turn from Verdugo Road to Adams, passing Maple and Garfield to finally turn onto Acacia Avenue, where the cottages are third from the corner. Turning in to the courtyard, I can hear Terry and a guy’s voice come through the open window of her cottage. How did she get home before me? I wonder. Terry started at a different school than I did this morning, Roosevelt Junior High, the ninth grade. Just as it had been in Carol City, the freshman year is held in junior high here.
I walk up to the steps and give a quick, sharp courtesy knock, open the door, and walk right in. “Hey, what are you…?” My voice trails off. John is sitting on the couch, looking up and smiling. It is just he and Terry in the living room, and the two of them suspiciously stop talking as soon as I enter. “Oh, hi.” I nod at John and give Terry a stare to demand to know whether she is hiding something.
“Well, I, uh, gotta go,” John says and hurriedly closes his briefcase. “You and Juan let me know…about what we talked about. I’ll be around. You in time for school this morning?” he asks me as he heads out.
The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes Page 10