“Uh, yeah. I was. Thanks.” I watch his tall figure rapidly exit.
“Good. See ya.” Instantly he is gone.
“What is that about?” I ask Terry. “Something fishy’s going on.”
“He wants to know if Juan and I want to see some of the California sights. Maybe go camping this weekend at some beach. Like Malibu or something.”
“Well, are you?”
“Don’t know. Gotta ask Juan when he gets home from work.” She doesn’t sound very enthusiastic.
“I want to go too.” I find myself a little hurt that he didn’t ask me.
“Oh, I’m sure you can go,” Terry says with thick sarcasm.
“What do you mean by that?”
“He’s over here a lot, Dawn, and he is always asking about you.”
“No, he’s not! Like…what does he say?” I’m completely blushing now and terribly curious about their secret dialogue.
“Everything! ‘Where is Dawn?’ ‘When did she get home?’ Why, just now he asked me if you got to school on time this morning.” She rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, I know. He did come over and wake me up this morning,” I admit shyly. “Do you think he worries about us, Terry?”
“I think he kind of feels a little like a father to us. I mean, he always asks me if you and I have eaten, he gives us jobs all the time, and he constantly brings me frozen Snickers bars. He calls them ‘Terry food.’ I get so embarrassed when he says that!” She blushes, her green eyes and freckles standing out against her red skin.
“But he knows how much you love them, Terry.” I laugh. “You’d kill for a frozen Snickers bar, and he knows it. I think that’s sweet.”
“I would not!” she insists and playfully tries to act indignant. “Well, maybe just a little.”
I hang out until Juan comes home from work. Wearing his white cook’s hat and apron, he looks greasy and tired. When he takes his hat off, his Afro is cocked to one side like a Dr. Seuss character’s, making Terry and me giggle. Juan raises his finger in an effort to scold us for poking fun at him, but he loses track of the thought as his drooping eyes zero in on the water bed. He flops down hard and immediately sends a loud, fake snore into the air.
“Hey, wake up!” Terry slaps him on the ass. Juan ignores her and snores even louder into the blankets.
“I said wake up, damn it! Where’s my dinner?” she demands, standing up and acting like she’s going to sit on him.
“Okay, okay! I’m up! I’m up!” He rolls to the edge of the bed just out of reach of Terry’s quick hand. “Over there, by the door.” He points to the sagging white hamburger bag slumped on the floor.
Terry and I race for the food and frantically pull out the cold, soggy burgers and fries. “Eww,” we complain. I see there is only enough for the two of them and decide it is time to give Terry and Juan their privacy and go check in at Harriet’s.
“I’ll see you guys in the morning. Let me know what Juan says about the beach, okay?” Without looking back, I smile to myself at the thought of sightseeing in our new home—California. I know Juan will agree to getting out and having some fun, and now as I enter the doorway to Harriet’s, I take a deep breath and look forward to the days ahead.
Like clockwork, John is at my door bright and early to wake me for school. This time I know the knock is John’s, and I stand modestly behind the door. We exchange brief hellos, and when he walks away, there is more of a friendly feeling between us.
Dad drives us to school again but informs us this is the last time; we will have to walk from now on; he just doesn’t feel well enough to be getting up and driving every morning.
“It’s okay, Dad. It’s cool,” Terry and I assure him. We are already tiptoeing around him, trying not to impose, and this is just another brick in the wall between us. We take it in stride. We know Dad will get better. It will just take time.
Class is as crowded as it was the day before, and I recognize no one. It’s early, I tell myself, and I try to fit in the best I can. I smile at some of the students who look as lost as I feel, but I get a cold response and decide to back off. I can already see some cliques form between kids who obviously know each other from the year before. They are almost all blonde, tan, and beautiful. These must be the jocks, I deduce, feeling a twinge of sadness when I remember how I tried out to be a cheerleader back in Carol City, before the gang fights got out of hand. That didn’t last long. Well, I guess it’s too late to get into that. The cold looks from the students still sting. I must not have the right look. So forget ‘em! I fling my head and put on my best tough armor as I pass students by, not allowing anyone a chance to smile.
After school, I head straight to Terry’s. She is in the kitchen standing in front of the open refrigerator door. I sneak up behind her. “Whatcha got there? More ‘Terry food'?”
“Ahh!” she screams, turns, and punches my arm. “Don’t do that!”
“Aha! You’re eating a Snickers. I knew it!”
“So…? And, yes, John was here and, yes, he brought more ‘Terry food.’ Jealous?”
“Not of that!” I try to coax her out of the kitchen, run to the living room, and leap on the water bed. Waves of water trapped under plastic roll me from side to side. I giggle and begin to tease, “Terry, where are you?” Quiet. “Terry!” Still no answer. “Okay, fine, I’m leaving.”
“No, no, wait.” Her words are muffled by a mouthful of peanuts and chocolate. “I’m coming. I was just starving, Dawn. I haven’t eaten all day.” She plops on the water bed with me, licking the chocolate from her fingers. “Dad wouldn’t answer the door today. I tried to knock. A bunch of times.”
“Why is he being like that?” I ask, suddenly solemn. “You think it’s ‘cause he don’t feel good?”
“Maybe. That’s part of it, but he told me that since I was with Juan he considers me on my own, and I need to take care of myself or let Juan take care of me.” She shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t like asking him for anything, Dawn. I only ask if I’m really desperate…and then mostly I feel too shy to even ask at all.”
We sit together in silence for a while, not really knowing what to think or say about Dad. “I just try to stay out of his way anymore too, Ter.”
“At least John brings me something to eat, even if it is candy and he calls it ‘Terry food.'” We laugh and tease-punch each other’s arms, quickly trading physical pain for the tearing ache in our hearts.
My mind switches gears. John, I remember, feeling my stomach tighten. He’s always around, isn’t he? I don’t want Terry to see the confusion inside me, to sense anything deeper than a casual observance. “Yeah, he seems like a nice guy.”
Her strong gaze catches my eye. “Oh, yeah. He wants to know if we want to go shooting in the mountains tomorrow after school.”
“Shooting! Who? Us? Guns? I don’t want to shoot anything!”
“That’s what I told him. He said target shooting, not shooting anything live.”
“Oh.” I mull it over for a minute. “Well, I do want to see the California mountains. We never saw any mountains in Florida; only hills. But I don’t know if I want to shoot, Terry. I’m kinda scared. What about sightseeing this weekend? What did Juan say?”
“Oh, the beach is still on for this weekend.” Terry half mumbles under her breath. “You couldn’t stop Juan from going if you tried.” She pauses. “I don’t know, Dawn. Do you really want to go into the mountains with this guy and his guns?”
“I think he’s okay, Terry. He’s been real nice to us since we’ve been here, and everyone knows there’s safety in numbers, right?” I don’t want to blow things out of proportion. Besides, I want to go, even if shooting scares me…and, well, I like being around John.
“Yeah. I guess. Juan can come with us too, for protection.” She rolls her eyes.
The next day I can hardly wait for school to get out. I keep my nose in my books and manage to robotically make it to my classes without any major problems, except checking the c
lock every five minutes. Knock it off, Dawn, I keep telling myself. Calm down. There’s nothing to get excited about. When the final bell rings, I race to gather up my things and head home double time. Hot and sweaty, I arrive at the cottages, my long hair clinging to my face, arms, and back. Terry and Juan look at their watches and shake their heads.
“What? Aren’t we still going to the mountains?” I ask, trying to catch my breath.
Juan smirks and turns away.
“Why? You worried about something, Dawn?” Terry teases.
“Well, am I too late?”
“Yeah, yeah, we’re still going. Calm down.” Juan sees I’m about to panic.
Right then John bursts into the room. He is dressed in his usual blue jeans, jean jacket, and Frye boots. Over his shoulder is a large, heavy duffel bag that he immediately lowers to the floor. Crouching down on one knee he unzips the bag and pulls out one of many rifles: a sleek, handsome, light brown .22 caliber with a small scope. Carefully, raising the barrel up to the ceiling, he cocks back the cartridge with one swift, smooth move to make sure the chamber is clear. He lifts the .22 up to his eye after deliberately aiming it down and away, and squints as he looks through the scope to check the hairline sights. “Looks good.” His nostrils flare and his veins bulge with every movement. Fresh out of a steamy shower, he smells clean, like fruit shampoo, and his hair is wet and combed back on the side. I am fascinated by the beginnings of a thin, light moustache on his upper lip as I watch his precise and agile movements with the rifle.
“You look good,” he comments, glancing up at me. He nods his head toward my clothes and flashes a huge blushing grin.
“Who? Me?” I stammer, stepping back, startled as all eyes stare in my direction. I glance down at myself and notice, embarrassed. My light, thin gauze shirt is soaked through with sweat, and several damp strands of my long hair are wrapped around my braless chest. My face burns, skin deep red. I rush to hug myself tightly and run for cover in the kitchen amidst waves of shrieking laughter. Grabbing the knob to the back door, I shout, “I’ll be right back!” and dash to Harriet’s for a change of clothes.
Climbing the Los Padres mountains in Ventura County from Newhall, we drive slowly off the 5 Freeway, up a windy dirt road that seems endless with drying shrubs. Red hills marbled in beige-and-white limestone swirls roll like the rough seas on either side of the bumpy path. John insists that I sit in the passenger seat next to him while Juan and Terry sit on the floor of the van. White knuckles cling onto the back of my seat. In a cloud of orange dust, we come to a stop. John briskly puts the van into park, jumps out, and walks straight for a bullet-riddled tree. Scanning the area, he rips off the old tattered targets from the center of its trunk and calls out to Juan to bring him the duffel bag.
“Coming, man.” Juan is eager to please, but flashes an oh shit look when he lifts the heavy bag.
With long strides, John crosses through the grass to rescue Juan. “Just the targets and staple gun, man,” he says, amused at how easily Juan has become fatigued.
“Oh, oh, yeah, man,” Juan replies. Sweat already drips from his brow.
John and Juan staple a fresh target to the tree and dash back to where Terry and I stand waiting. Out of the duffel bag John pulls two long, thin .22 caliber rifles, carefully pointing the barrels toward the sky. He loads the first one and checks the sight. John makes eye contact with each of us, thinks for a moment, then hands the gun over to Juan, who takes it readily.
I throw him a hard, distrustful stare. “Be careful, Juan.”
Juan blows me off and strokes the long handle of the rifle recklessly. “Watch out, Juan!” Terry and I shout. John’s head snaps up, and he immediately grabs the rifle out of his hands.
“Always, always, point the barrel of a gun up and away from anyone! Always!” John is severe; his expression twists on the brink of anger. “That means never point a gun at anyone…unless you plan to pull the trigger!”
Juan’s head hangs low; his shoulders slump at the scolding. “Okay, man,” he sighs. His cockiness fades as he timidly takes the rifle back, holding it up and away.
John eyes him hard, then walks over and finds a spot about fifty feet away. Juan follows. The rifle stock against his cheek, John takes aim and fires the weapon in rapid succession until the bullets are spent. Once again John orders Juan to keep his gun down and heads over to pull his target from the tree. I can see his smile shine from a distance. His chest is swollen, and his eyes twinkle with pride as he stomps back through the brush to show us his talent. Every shot hit the inner dark ring, and too many to count shredded the small black center into pulp.
“Wow!” We are all impressed. Juan is next. Nervously, he takes his stance and aims. When he retrieves his target, a blank target in hand, we all break out laughing, even Juan.
It is now Terry’s and my turn. John calls us over and shows us how to hold the long skinny rifle, aim through the scope, and fire.
Terry instantly takes comfortable hold of the awkwardness of the weapon and steadily fires, every shot reaching somewhere on the paper target. This time John is impressed and playfully steps out of Terry’s way, pretending to be frightened of her courage, strength, and skill.
“Quit it,” Terry jokes, half smiling at the compliment, but still shy with the non-girlishness of her nature.
John calls me next. Hesitantly, I step over the dry sticks and leaves and take the rifle from his outstretched hands. He stands with his arms around me, holding each of my hands in the proper position, one on the barrel, the other with my finger lightly on the trigger. His hair, long since dried, is damp again with perspiration, a few curls falling randomly over the blue of his eyes. I can smell the earthiness of his skin engulfing me like a rich, soft blanket. My body shakes, and my balance is unsteady. He senses my fear and my unwillingness to let go of his grip and leans his body hard against me, supporting me like a strong oak. Gently he places his head on my shoulder and presses his face into mine; his finger curls over my shaky hand, easing down on the trigger. The gun jerks upward; then, quickly, John brings it back into range and fires off the remaining shots.
I am shaking, the ringing of the shots echoing in my ears. Relieved to be done, I let John take my hand and walk me over to the tree to check the target.
“Whoa!” he shouts. “She did it!”
Stunned, I stare at three small holes on the outer edges of the target, and then I smile.
John yanks the target off the tree and, like a proud father, walks me back to Terry and Juan, his arm around me warm. I am proud too, but not for my shooting skills. I feel a strange comfortable sensation present in me. Like a missing piece to the puzzle of me has been fit into place—a small piece, but the right piece. It feels good.
The three of them take a few more turns with the gun as I graciously decline any further shooting. John doesn’t push it. I feel he understands how afraid I am of it. Instead, he shows me how to load the rifles properly.
The sun is setting, and the sky is turning its evening colors, signaling that it is almost time to go. But John is reluctant to stop. At the last minute he dives into the canvas duffel bag and pulls out two dull gray pistol cases. The first one, he explains, is a Ruger .357 caliber handgun. “There is only one reason for the existence of this gun,” John tells us with gravity, “and that is to kill.”
Ugh, I think with disgust as a chill runs down my spine. I don’t even want to touch the thing.
“And this is a genuine Colt .45,” he continues, putting on a phony, thick Western accent. This is a prettier gun than the cold menacing steel of the .357 with a smooth, glossy white handle that is polished to look like ivory. He loads both pistols, sets the .357 aside, and without inviting anyone else to shoot, grabs a pair of earplugs from the dashboard, walks to the target, and takes aim. Loud, rapid explosions pierce the air as he empties the gun into the bullet-riddled tree and returns for the Ruger. As adrenaline courses through him, his nostrils flare and his brow furrows. He spreads his l
egs and, with both arms extended, takes aim toward the tree, firing once again.
Earsplitting bangs blare repeatedly from the blue fire barrel end of the gun. I grab my ears, bury my head in my arms to block out the deafening noise. Sharp, crashing walls of sound ricochet through the dry desert air, numbing my head. Finally I look up. John walks back, his jaw clenched and pulsing as he carries the remaining shreds of the paper target.
“Damn!” Juan shouts.
The image of the vicious damage from the two powerful pistols rips and cracks every cell of my being. I have nothing to say.
John packs our things, and we follow his lead to quietly get ready to leave before our daylight is lost.
I am relieved to be almost finished with the shooting part of this excursion. My heartbeat slowly returns to normal. I settle back into the passenger seat of the van, comfortable with the hum of the engine as it slips into gear, and I admire the scenery of the mountain pass in the darkening dusk. Bouncing along the eroded dirt road, John comes to a sudden stop.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Juan asks, popping his head up from behind John’s seat.
“Shhh. Just a minute,” John whispers, quietly reaching for one of the .22 rifles. Juan sees him fumble and quickly reaches to help. “See that bird?”
“What bird?”
“Over there? On that branch?” Carefully he raises the barrel of the rifle—cold metal taps the glass of the half-opened window—and aims at a large oak’s knotted limb.
“That tiny, little bird—way over there—on that big tree? Quit joking.” I see nothing, a small speck if anything.
“Yup. Watch me shoot it from over here.” His head lowers close to the sights.
“No, you’re not. No, please don’t, John. That’s not funny. Jooohhhn!”
Blam! One piercing shot fires from the rifle.
In horror I watch as a small shape falls lifelessly through the branches to the ground. I scream, mortified and in shock. He killed it. A small, harmless creature. “No, no, no,” I cry hysterically. I refuse to believe what he has done. Like a sharp slap when you least expect it, the tears sting my face and won’t stop. “You weren’t supposed to do that,” I sob. “I didn’t think you would do that!”
The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes Page 11