“Okay.” I run over to pick up a wandering Buttons and to herd John L toward the garage. I know it’s a big deal for her to trust anyone with her babies, and oddly I am glad to be of help.
John is gaping at me in disbelief. It seems Sharon approves of me. Why, I don’t know, but it makes me happy. John cares a lot for Sharon, and she likes me. John shakes the daze off and returns to his sanding. For a second, I wonder if that’s a smile underneath the mask.
“Come on. You ready?” John’s voice is hushed as he peeks into my bedroom. In his arms he carries a wicker laundry basket filled with old towels and a flashlight.
“Coming.” I tie the laces of my shoe, jump off the bed, throw my multicolored knit poncho over my turtleneck, and follow him outside. “Where’re we going?” I whisper. I’m used to John showing up at all hours wanting me to go on trips with him into Hollywood to pick up his messages or downtown Glendale to run an errand, but tonight I’m tired. It’s been a hard day with the patients at work.
“Shhh. Barstow. You can sleep in the van. You’ll see.”
Heading off into the night, we drive for hours. John has layered several blankets and pillows on the floor in the back, and the soft humming engine lulls me to sleep. The radio is playing an old Cat Stevens tune as I’m bounced awake in the back of the van. We must be on some kind of a dirt road. I grab the seat ahead of me and make my way up to the front with John.
“What’s this place? It looks creepy—out in the middle of nowhere and all.”
“You have to help me pick out a present for someone,” he says, smiling as he pulls the van into park.
“A present? For who?”
John looks at me as if I should have guessed. “Sharon. It’s her birthday tomorrow.”
“It is? I didn’t know. What are we picking out?”
“You’ll see.” We walk up the driveway to the door of a lonely ranch-style house at the outskirts of Barstow. John knocks.
The desert night is chilly in early June, and I shiver as we wait for someone to answer. Looking up, I admire how vastly the bright stars blanket the dark midnight blue sky. Where is the moon? I wonder.
“Coming!” a voice calls from inside. A rotund, bald-headed man appears. “Yeah?”
“Hi. I’m John. We’re here for the Boston bull puppies.” John uses his deep, businesslike voice.
“Hi. Right. You called. Right this way.” We follow him to a small, dark utility room, where he flips on the light switch. “Here they are. Take your pick.”
A dozen black-and-white, squished-nosed faces poke their heads up out of shreds of newspaper, whining. “I think they’re hungry.” John bends down to pet the circling crowd. “Which one do you like?” he asks me, laughing as they vie for his attention.
I bend to take a closer look. “I don’t know. Let me see.” I study the furry, bug-eyed group. “Oh, look at that one!” I squeal. “Look at his eyes and head. They’re huge!” Off in the corner is the tiniest puppy of the bunch struggling to get out of a fold in an old, torn blanket. The head is so much larger than the body, it’s comical. The puppy is always falling over on its face. I stretch out my hand and gently pick it up. “A girl. Look at those eyes!”
John tenderly takes her and holds her up to the light. He winks and clicks his gums from the side of his face, bringing her down for a closer look. Squirming desperately, the tiny dog obviously wants to sniff his face. Determined, she lands a paw on either side of his nose, clamps down, and licks. “Ha!” John laughs out loud, amused at her sweetness. “Sold!” Tenderly he puts her inside his jacket and pays the breeder in cash.
On the drive home I hold her protectively in my lap, keeping her warmly nestled in my poncho. “She’s gonna love her, John,” I say softly to them both. John reaches over and holds my hand. Everything feels right again.
When we arrive home, John is excited. He puts the sleeping bundle into the laundry basket, gives me a quick kiss at my door, and heads for his cottage. I stay put in the shadows of the garages and watch him place the basket at the front door, ring the bell, and run into the bushes. He waves in my direction for me to hide as well.
“Yes?” Sharon’s voice inquires from behind the screen. There is a moment of hesitation. “Oooooooh! Where did you come from? Awww, you poor little thing. Did someone leave you out here in the cold all by yourself? Let’s bring you in and get you warmed up.” She reaches down and, without looking around, brings the basket in.
John and I smile, entirely pleased with ourselves. He jumps back over to me and hugs me close, giving me a long, loving kiss. “Good night, baby,” he says sweetly, brushing his hand across my cheek.
“Good night.” Loneliness falls upon me as I watch his silhouette take long strides toward the house…Sharon…and her new gift. I am sad. I want to be a part of the birthday present surprise, more than just a spectator.
Work is exhausting and the two-mile walk up the hill and back makes it even more so. John gives me rides when he is home, and Sharon offers occasionally when he isn’t. John is gone about two to three evenings a week. I know it is for his movie work, and it makes me sick inside. I hate that he goes to be with other women, but I don’t say anything. I’m painfully aware that I’m younger and less experienced than the women on the film marquees, and I get scared that I can’t compare with them.
But John can tell it makes me sad. “It’s just a job, baby. It doesn’t mean anything. I love you. I’ll be home early.”
His work schedule does, however, gradually coincide with mine. He tells me it’s so we can spend more time together, and I believe him. On days when I pull a double shift, he comes to Royal Oaks to pick me up. “It’s too late at night to walk home,” he insists and shows up often wearing kneepads and smelling of varnish from working in the garage.
Days off are ours, and we do everything fun. John loves time at the beach, hiking the mountains of Malibu, working on refinishing projects, or collecting donations and selling bumper stickers for Greenpeace (save the whales and save the seals). But as usual, John always goes home for dinner. John arranges special surprise trips with me and Sharon to Disneyland and Knott’s Berry Farm. He and I love the roller coasters and stand in line to ride the big ones over and over as Sharon shops for boysenberry jam.
Slowly my apartment takes shape. Sharon’s gifts of curtains, clocks, color-coordinated towels, and patterned dishes are left at my door at intervals, surprising and delighting me. “Everyone has to have matching decorations too,” she laughs while taking me on a trip to Kmart to choose a kitchen motif. I’m a giddy kid and can’t stop laughing when I pick a yellow and brown mushroom theme for fun.
Sharon has taken a real interest in me, and I’m not always sure John likes it. I get the feeling that he is jealous sometimes, but of what, I don’t know.
I also don’t know if Sharon’s interest is completely her idea. “I don’t like you being alone when I’m gone,” John tells me. “Go see Sharon if you’re scared.”
But it is Sharon who starts inviting me over for dinner, instead of bringing meals to my door. Unsure at first, I feel strange at being her houseguest, and sit timidly on the couch. John L, Buttons, and the newest member of the family, Pokie—Sharon’s birthday present, Pocahontas’ Pixie Pride—maul me with sniffs and snorts.
“Don’t worry about them. They just want to see if you have anything good to eat.” Sharon loves to cook and treats me like family. She sets up TV trays for each of us with her usual delicious home-cooked meals. The days roll by, and life feels good in comparison to the uncertainty of my past. I am glad, although at times I feel old for my years.
On a breezy autumn day, I walk home from work exhausted. It is the end of a long, five-day workweek, and my legs and back ache from lifting patients. My body hurts with each step, and all I can think about is falling onto my couch and sleeping. Almost there. I turn onto Acacia and drag myself through the courtyard. John’s van is parked in his spot by the tree. He’s home early today. I was not expecting him
that evening. But my body needs to lie down, and I plug along down to the garages. John pops out from behind his van. “Here she is,” he shouts loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
“What’s going on?”
“Ta-da!” Sharon sings. Around the corner of the van she wheels a brand-new bright red ten-speed bicycle.
I blink, scared for a moment. Then, dumbfounded, I look back and forth at the bike, then John, then Sharon.
“Surprise! It’s for you, silly. Here! Take it!” Sharon rolls her eyes, exasperated, realizing I don’t get it.
“It is? Really? Oh, thank you.” I look at John for assurance. Smiling at me, he gives a slight nod of approval that says it’s okay. “Thank you.”
“Baby. Baby.” John strokes my hair from my brow. “Wake up.”
“John. What are you doing? What time is it?”
“Watching you sleep,” he whispers. “You’re so beautiful when you sleep.”
“Ummmmm.” I roll over and snuggle his waist.
“Hey. Wake up. You want to go to Vegas?”
“Humm? Vegas? What time did you get home last night? I waited up as long as I could. Sorry I fell asleep.”
“It’s okay, baby. I just got home. Had to work late. Listen, I got a Harley outside. Let’s go to Vegas for the weekend. You’re off work, right?”
“Yeah. Harley! Motorcycle? You’re kidding.”
He leads me out to the parking lot to show me a 1976 Hardtail. “It’s a beauty, isn’t it? Get your things together. Let’s go. I’ll let Sharon know we’re going.” John rushes off singing loudly with excitement.
The screen door bangs as Sharon comes out a few minutes later to look at John’s newly acquired machine. “You gotta be kidding. You’re gonna ride that…through the desert…in this heat? Well, it’s your funeral!” The three of us are lighthearted for a moment; then Sharon shakes her head and walks away.
John and I smile at each other. “Woo-hoo!” we yip. “Let’s go to Vegas!”
From her front porch, Sharon watches us mount the shiny chrome machine. She looks serious. “You better take some water with you,” she yells.
“We did,” I call back, waving good-bye.
David and Karen stand near the driveway watching us leave as well. “Meet us at the Aladdin,” John calls out over the popping engine. David nods and Karen smiles and gives us a thumbs-up.
The road is long and hot. Our smiles wear off about an hour after we leave; our muscles ache, and the heat is atrocious beating down on our black-helmeted heads. It isn’t long before I get weak and feel my fingers lose their grip from John’s leather sides. He feels my legs buckle and my body go limp. Placing his hand firmly on my leg, he squeezes and pulls off at the nearest stop, a desert coffeehouse with a shaded space to park, and helps me off the bike. Groping desperately at the straps of my helmet, I need air. My fingers numb, I can’t find the clasp and I begin to collapse. Instantly John scoops me in his arms, gently resting my body on his knee. Swiftly, he unleashes my helmet and douses the top of my head with water.
“It’s okay, baby. I got you. Just breathe; just breathe.” He caresses the water through my hair and dumps the rest over his head.
The sky is spinning, and the heat is suffocating. “John,” I pant, “I’m gonna get sick. I need to turn…”
“Here, here you go, baby.” He helps me roll over and places my head between my knees. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Against an old oak, I lose what little I have in my stomach.
John wets a bandana and wipes down my brow. “Better?” he asks after a few minutes.
“Yeah. I’m better. John?” I’ve been wondering if we should turn back. “What am I gonna do in Vegas? I’m only sixteen. I’ll get busted if I’m in the casino.”
“Ha! You don’t have to worry about that. You’re with me, babe. Now come on. If you’re feeling better, let’s get out of here.”
We drive on through the arid summer heat. The blazing lights of Las Vegas greet our tired bones, rejuvenating us. On the Vegas strip, we approach the wondrous, blinking Arabian lamp and Taj Mahal—style castle, the Aladdin hotel. Passersby smile and wave at us, the Harley-riding couple bellowing down the strip, and I sit a little taller and prouder in my seat.
“You okay?” John dismounts in the parking lot.
Delicately, I step off and grin. “No…I can’t feel my ass.”
“Ha. Me either.” Stiffly we walk hand in hand toward the hotel entrance. “Looks like we’ve been rode hard and put away wet,” he says, making fun of our bowlegged cowboy shuffle.
“Hold still. I can’t get it straight.” He playfully puts the last of the blue eye shadow on my lids.
“I’m trying. John, you sure this is gonna work? I’m nervous. I don’t want to get caught.” I squirm at the application of makeup. I never wear the stuff—John likes it better that way—and I feel stupid in the hideous mask of colors.
“Just stick close to me, baby. Nobody’s gonna say anything.” He takes one last look at his work. “Ha-ha! You look great! Mmm, mmm, mmm!” Kissing the top of my head, he hands me a pair of wooden platform shoes and a low-cut paisley popcorn blouse that he has borrowed from Karen. “Here. Put these on.”
David and Karen have driven John’s Chevy van to the Aladdin and met up with us soon after we arrived. The plan is to spend the night gambling and see the sights, then load the Harley in the back of the van and drive home the next day. Since John wants to keep me by his side, he will have to get me into the casinos where he likes to gamble. John is good at gambling. Poker is his game, but he’d play anything. David likes to tell the story of how John was discovered in the bathroom of a poker parlor in Gardena. His point for telling it is lost on me. I don’t care about that stuff.
Walking down the luxurious red carpet to the lobby of the hotel, I clutch John’s arm for balance. The platform shoes are large and awkward on my feet, and I’ve caught my balance on the wall twice already; I don’t want to fall.
John guides me through the casino and to the poker tables, beaming with pride at the stares of the crowd. He finds an open table, pulls up a couple chairs, and sits down next to me.
“Deal me in, boys,” John commands lightheartedly.
“And your partner?” the dealer asks, lifting a brow.
“No. Uh, this little lady here—she’s my good luck charm,” John tells the group half grinning; he pulls my chair in close to his and slides his arm around me in a showy manner. Large men in black cowboy hats, a man who looks like he has come off a yacht, and old fat men leer at me. I sit very still. Determined not to engage anyone’s eye contact, I stare at the table. The players nod in sly understanding, and the dealer distributes the cards.
“We won. We won.” John rubs it in every chance he gets on the drive home.
“Shut up.” David tries to sound like he is kidding, but he’s mad. David and Karen have lost the money they came with, and Karen is pouting in the back of the van. Lost as well is the money John doled out every time David came by the poker table to see how we were doing.
“With my good luck charm, I couldn’t lose, huh, baby?” John winks at me and smiles.
Modestly I look his way and blush. John is lucky, very lucky, I think, remembering his dramatic winning bets on the roulette wheel.
“I play aught—double aught on this one,” he told me, “and always, always, I play lucky number thirteen.” Thirteen won big for him. Every game he played, he won. We go home with what John came with and over a thousand dollars extra. John pulls the roll of cash from his pocket and peels off a few hundreds from the top. “Here, baby. Hang on to these.”
David stares for a minute and then sticks his hand out.
“What?” John snaps, annoyed at the gesture.
“Hey. Don’t I rank?” He sounds insulted.
John clenches his teeth and drives faster. His good mood quickly fades, and the air remains tense the rest of the long way home. When John gets mad he holds a grudge, and who knows ho
w long it will take him to get over it? Could be days. He resents that his mom pressures him to take care of his younger, epileptic brother. David is in his late twenties, old enough to take care of himself, but he still expects John to share almost everything, and that infuriates John.
Pulling into our parking space, John yanks the van into park, reaches into his pocket, and throws a couple one hundred-dollar bills at David. “Here,” he says angrily, then stomps away, leaving the motorcycle in the van.
I unload my things and head to my apartment. “Damn it, David. Now he’s mad!”
“Fuck you.” David slams the van door.
“They found the body of a young girl strangled to death in La Cresenta,” Sharon tells me, her brow deeply furrowed over her thick-rimmed glasses. “Can you come over?” It is Halloween in 1977, and I am sixteen years old. La Cresenta, just north of Glendale, is the town where Sharon works.
Sharon has come by to invite me for dinner and to see if I am okay. We aren’t sure if John will be home tonight, but she doesn’t want to be alone and I definitely don’t want to be in a solitary garage apartment by myself either. Daylight savings time has ended, and the clocks are turned back, bringing dark evenings along with the dark news of the murder.
We pick at our dinner, our nerves on edge, startled by any loud unfamiliar noises. Locking and double locking doors and windows, we venture outside together with flashlights and large, weaponlike key chains to let the dogs go pee. Without much conversation, we watch the evening movies, then listen again to the horrific headlines on the news. “The body of a sixteen-year-old girl…She is described as being about five feet, small, with long, reddish-brown hair.” We gape at each other, our jaws frozen wide open. That sounds like me. My stomach is turning. I feel as if a speeding truck has rushed past me, barely missing me, and I fall back onto the couch. It is late, and I need to go home but can’t manage to budge. Sharon doesn’t call it a night as usual. Instead, we decide it is safer being together. Soon, I can stay awake no longer and wearily fall asleep, my head draped uncomfortably over the armrest of the brown floral sofa.
The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes Page 19