The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes

by Dawn Schiller

  “You add Rooster Cogburn and The Good, the Bad and the Ugly and we agree,” John tells me. Then, stepping into his John Wayne character, he pulls two invisible six-shooters from his hips, shuffles his feet, and drawls his favorite cowboy saying from the side of his mouth: “Live fast, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse!”

  If it isn’t games or movies, we each work on individual projects at the house. Sharon demonstrates the basics of embroidery to me, and I love to sit on the couch for hours practicing with the colorful thread. On his favorite patch jacket, John lets me embroider a butterfly and a bluebird on each of the sleeves. Relaxed in her recliner, Sharon clips recipes from ladies’ magazines while John sculpts skillfully with clay in front of the television. He fashions beautiful busts of old, wrinkled, weathered fishermen so lifelike I swear they wink at me.

  Poor Pokie is forced to sit still on the couch for hours while he sculpts the wrinkles and delicate details of her brow and cheeks. Thor wants to play with her, but John pulls her back and commands her to stay. But the end result is stunning: a magnificent likeness of a Boston bull terrier’s head and neck. We encase the bust in glass to showcase it proudly on the mantel.

  Hitting the best restaurants in Glendale and the latest releases at the theaters gets to be a game: Star Wars at Grauman’s, Alien at the Cinerama Dome, and Close Encounters of the Third Kind at the Alex on Brand.

  Our weekends include trips to Saugus Swap Meets, where John and I seek out old jewelry for parts to create our own designs. Often, we get lucky and score old pieces with undetected authentic diamonds for a steal. We smelt down some of the gold we collect at a local jewelry maker’s in Glendale on Brand to make a beautiful belt buckle with an image of a mother whale and her nursing baby swimming beneath her. John chooses it as a symbol of our support for Greenpeace and our respect for nature.

  Our pride and joy is the completion of a huge gold dragonfly ring that stretches from knuckle to knuckle on John’s ring finger. Encrusted with twenty-two diamonds of all shapes and sizes, ones we collected from various sales, the ring is beautiful, extraordinary, and quite a sight. Since we’ve met, John has never worn a wedding ring, but he loves wearing his dragonfly in its place. It matches his personality, I think, and for moments when he’s flamboyant and wants to make an impression, it works. No matter what, John always makes an impression.

  As strange as it appears, I look up to Sharon. I’m growing up inside, maturing. I can sense an awareness blossoming in me. My desire for more knowledge increases and, like a thirsty sponge, I absorb whatever bits and pieces Sharon hands down. She savors answering my never-ending questions and in great detail describes intricate nursing techniques. Medicine is Sharon’s forte. Bones, blood, muscle, skin—there is nothing she doesn’t know about the body or, to me, about anything really. I become a certified nursing assistant through a program at Royal Oaks because I want to be like her, and Sharon’s tutoring helps me pass with straight A’s.

  “David and Karen don’t understand why we are friends,” I tell her. “You’re a mentor to me. Don’t they understand?”

  “They’re jealous. David doesn’t have a backbone; he’s worthless. He used to be in my good graces. Not anymore. Not after John and I supported him through high school and he returned the favor by bringing pot into my house. He’s a juvenile delinquent who refuses to grow up.” Her resentment for David is set in stone.

  Wow, I think. When Sharon doesn’t like you, she really doesn’t like you. I’m scared of her too. I don’t want to be, and I try not to think about it too much. I already know that if she did get mad at me, I would be very hurt, and I can’t stand the thought. I’m glad she likes me.

  Every Thursday evening, Sharon is on call for her employer, Dr. Nuttycomb. I love to listen attentively to the calm reasoning and detailed remedies she gives worried mothers over the phone. Seeing my keen interest, she actively includes me in patient relations, prompting me to give blood or talk to sick patients from her office for support. It is meaningful for me to be there for someone so terribly ill.

  One patient in particular is special. Gena is an eight-year-old suffering from something Sharon calls prehepatic portal hypertension. “In layman’s terms,” Sharon explains, “her veins in her liver, stomach, and esophagus are so enlarged that any bump or irritation causes severe life-threatening bleeding.” When John’s not around Sharon encourages me to reach out to Gena, and I talk to her occasionally on the phone about Girl Scouts, the Dukes of Hazard, or making crafts. Sweet and smart, she is easy to like and we become fast friends. Once a week I give a pint of blood specifically for Gena and with words and homemade gifts, she says thank you more than an eight-year-old should.

  On a particularly gloomy day, when the dark low clouds of Los Angeles mingle with fog, Sharon is home early. I sense something is terribly wrong; her mood is blue.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Gena’s critical. Her lungs collapsed, and they’re losing her fast.” We rush to the hospital to discover the worst. There is no hope; she is slipping away. Sharon and I take our turns with her in her room, holding her hand to say good-bye.

  “Gena?” I whisper calmly. “Do you know who this is?”

  She squeezes my hand.

  “Yeah. This is Dawn.” I wipe away a tear. “You’re doing a great job, sweetheart. Everything is okay. We all love you.”

  She squeezes my hand again really hard for a moment and then lets go. Her mom and dad have made a decision. It is time. Sharon pulls me aside to explain to me, step by step, what is about to happen. We are called in one final time to stand on either side of her small, tired body as the nurse delicately unplugs the life support and we watch little Gena pass away.

  “She had the best parents and a beautiful life ahead of her. Why her?” I cry with Sharon privately.

  “I know; I know. Life isn’t fair.” She takes her glasses off and wipes her eyes.

  “But, but she wanted to be a Girl Scout, Sharon! Why couldn’t she be a Girl Scout?” I don’t understand why Gena has been chosen to die. She had what I always craved: a loving family, willing to do anything to give her a bright future. She wasn’t from a broken home, like me; she was wanted and she wanted to live.

  Sharon and I accept one of Gena’s stuffed animals from the small mountain of gifts brought by well-wishers and weep in each other’s arms.

  The funeral is set three days later at Eternal Valley Memorial Park in the small desert town of Newhall. The chapel is full of friends and family. On the altar at the front of the church, among sprays of tea roses and baby’s breath, is the smallest, most delicate white coffin; it is almost doll-like.

  When it is time to proceed for the viewing, my steps drag.

  Gena’s mother approaches us from behind, looking bewildered and worn. “Sharon, Sharon, I’m so glad you came.” She leans on Sharon’s shoulder for a moment, then collapses into tears. Sharon holds the grieving mother compassionately for a long time, gently guiding her out of the chapel to the waiting procession.

  “I didn’t know there was a children’s section in cemeteries,” I observe through my tears, piercing the heavy silence on the drive home.

  “There is,” she sighs. “It’s a nice one too. It sits up high and green against the hillside—seems to look over the whole valley.”

  “Yeah. We can see her when we go to the swap meet now. We can wave and say hello.”

  “Yeah. She’ll be right there, won’t she?”

  I focus on Sharon’s face, her salt-and-pepper hair severely pulled back from her small, chiseled features. Her eyes are slightly red, but there is no expression on her face. I understand why John says no matter what, we respect Sharon. She is a lady worthy of that, and I feel glad that we have bonded. Then I think about John and me. Does she really know about us? How can she not know? Everyone else does. But she doesn’t act like it, and why doesn’t she care? Only an occasional mood swing ever gives me the slightest hint that she knows a thing.

  S
haron and I are sullen for over a week after Gena’s passing. John is sensitive to our feelings; he, too, is down in the dumps. We don’t feel like playing games or being creative; instead, Sharon passes out Valium and goes to bed early, leaving John and me to watch television by ourselves.

  John and I sit stiffly on the couch, his arm around me until I fall asleep with Thor and Pokie cuddled close. I’m not feeling very romantic these days, and John continues to understand. Instead, he wakes me and leads me to the spare bedroom, tucking me in with a kiss on the lips. Turning out the lights, he whispers, “Good night,” and shuffles off to his bed.

  In the mornings I run to my apartment to dress in my uniform, then hop on my bike and head for work. Pedaling home after a particularly exhausting day, I ride into the courtyard to find Sharon smoking a cigarette on her steps and letting the dogs out to do their business.

  “Hi.” I catch my breath. Thor has been at her house, and the dogs run up to greet me, jumping on my leg.

  “Hi.” Her cigarette dangles as usual. “How’s work?”

  I light one up too and sit down next to her. Taking a good, long drag, I launch into describing the antics of some of the funnier geriatric patients I have cared for that day.

  John opens the door behind us. “Coffee?”

  “Sure,” I reply.

  “You know I don’t drink coffee, John,” Sharon says icily.

  Uh-oh. Something’s going on.

  The screen door bangs repeatedly against its wooden frame. John disappears and returns a few seconds later, balancing cups of lukewarm coffee.

  “Thanks.” I scoot over a bit so he can sit between us.

  Sharon dismisses John like a child and keeps her attention on me. “So how is your new stroke patient?”

  John is bored and instantly fidgets. He wants my attention; I can tell. It’s been a while since we’ve been together. Little annoying tugs pull at the back of my neck. His hand is at my waist, his fingers pinching long strands of hair. I ignore them and swat the air behind me, but John snickers and keeps pulling. I try to swipe his hand away a few times more, but he persists. It hurts, and I’ve had enough. “Stop it, John!” As if he doesn’t hear me, he continues pulling, now a little harder. “John! Quit it!” I snap at him. I’ve never done that before.

  Sharon’s head whips around. “John!” she sounds exasperated. “Do you mind?”

  I smile a thank you at Sharon and roll my eyes. She has taken my side. John’s neck veins bulge; his face flushes as if he’s been dabbed pink with paint; his eyes harden. He does not approve, and the challenge is on. Again he childishly pulls at my hair, this time even harder—a yank.

  “Ouch, John. That hurts!” I grit my teeth and try hard to ignore his laughing. My coffee at my feet, I reach down and slip my thumb into the now-cool liquid. Do it, Dawn. It’s perfect, I think. Well…if he does it one more time I’ll…

  John pulls down hard again.

  Whooosh! The coffee flies midair and lands on the bull’s-eye of his taunting face.

  Stunned and motionless for several seconds, John sits there. His huge blue eyes grow dark, bulge out of his head.

  I can’t believe what I have done. Sharon belts out a mocking laugh. John looks humiliated, stung.

  Then Sharon sees his eyes. “Run!”

  Adrenaline surges. I jump to my feet and fly through the courtyard, John trailing inches behind. I hope this is a game. I panic. As I turn the corner in the front yard, his long legs catch up to me. A sudden searing force at my head stops me midair, pulls me hard to the ground. John is clutching a huge chunk of my hair. “Ouch!” I cry, shocked and in pain. He circles me like an animal surrounding his prey. Gasping for air, he points his finger and pants, “Don’t you ever, EVER, throw anything in my face again!”

  I stare at him, chin quivering, ready to cry. “But you…I didn’t mean to. You started it.” My mind races, my feelings ripped from my heart.

  He says nothing more, furiously storms to his house, and slams the door.

  My feelings punched and bruised, I get up, brush myself off, and walk, humbled, back over to Sharon on the steps. “I guess I need my dog,” I tell her, keeping my head down. I try not to cry.

  “I guess so.” Sharon tiptoes inside and retrieves a shaking Thor.

  “Good night.” I’m trembling, and I don’t want her to see me. I don’t want to get in trouble for that too. Sad and dejected, I walk to my lonely apartment. I feel kicked in the heart. What does this mean? Are we broken up? Does this mean I can’t come over anymore? I don’t know. I’m scared. This is our first fight.

  The van’s engine revs hard out in the parking lot; burning rubber chokes the sky. John peels out, screeching through smoke, leaving me alone for the next three days to agonize over what has happened.

  Every time I hear a car, I jump up to see if it is John. The first night he’s gone, he stays out late. He’s really mad, I worry. Sharon doesn’t go to work, and she doesn’t invite me over either. Did they fight too?

  I knock on the door after the second day.

  “I have the stomach flu. Diarrhea, cramps…you know. Not fun. I’m in bed, not going to work.” Sharon keeps behind the door in her grandma nightie, a well-worn soft flannel.

  Internally I am tortured. I hate the loneliness, the rejection of the cold shoulder treatment. I try to tell myself everything will be all right, he is only making a point, and this will soon blow over—but I’m having a hard time believing myself. From the garages I think I hear David’s and Karen’s voices as they talk to someone. It’s John. He’s hanging out with them again. But he still doesn’t come over. By the third day, I stop looking out of my window when I hear an engine, even if I know it’s John. I’m not gonna care anymore, I lie to myself, but I know I want him to come to me.

  At the end of the third day, it is late and I’m hanging on to thin hope that John will show up at my door.

  Then there is a knock. It’s Karen. “Hey! How ya doing?”

  “Fine. What’s up?” I’m suspicious. Karen rarely comes over.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while. Just came by to invite you for a cup of coffee.” She tilts her head, makes a silly grin.

  I give her a slanted look. She’s stoned, I think, and up to something. “Sure.” I am curious and lonely.

  I grab a robe. At the door to their cottage I can hear David talking to another man. It’s John. Relaxed in the bright orange beanbag chair, he has the corncob pipe smoking in his hand.

  “Hey. Look who’s here.” David’s eyes are red and glassy.

  “Hey.” I stand awkwardly at the door.

  “Come on in,” he says with a twang. “Sit down.”

  I walk across the room, past John, to the clearest spot on the bed and sit down. I avoid his eyes and he avoids mine, but I can feel him steal peeks in my direction. John passes the pipe to David, who takes a deep, long drag. Then, reaching over to Karen, he bends to give her a powerful shotgun. Karen rolls her eyes and, with a huge grin on her face, falls back near me on the bed. David, pleased with himself, turns toward me next, signaling my turn. He reaches down to give me the next blast from the pipe. From the corner of my eye, I see John tense up and shift his weight. He doesn’t like it, and David makes me feel uncomfortable too. Quickly I pull away, holding back a choke, then blow out a hazy stream of residue, surprising myself at how much I’ve taken. I close my eyes and prepare to feel the high.

  Like lightning, John jumps up, relieves David of the pipe, refills it, and shoots Karen a stream of smoke that engulfs her face. Coughing wildly, she falls back on the bed, banging her chest with her fist, unable to speak. She motions with her hands and says, “No more. You’re killing me.”

  John turns to me with an I’ll show you who can give a shotgun look, clamps the back of my head, and blows a giant cloud of smoke over my entire face. Rocking back on his heels, he grins. My chest hurts, the burning grows too strong, and I join Karen’s coughing frenzy because of the harshness of the weed. Grateful th
at the wall is behind me, I feel the echoing buzz rush in. My body is limp, and my eyes are mere slits.

  John smiles and reaches in close for a sensual kiss. “I missed you, baby.”

  His voice is soft in my ears. My mind hums as I breathe in smells of fresh pot and cigarettes.

  “I missed you too,” I murmur. The pot dries the words to my mouth like paper. He falls on top of me, his body just as disconnected as mine, and we begin to laugh. My body and senses move in slow motion. John and I roll awkwardly on the bed, bumping and banging into each other in an attempt to cuddle. Finally we give up.

  “Got any chocolate chip cookies?” John asks with a goofy smirk. Without waiting for an answer, he heads for the kitchen.

  John and I make up. After we’ve come down from our high a bit, he politely excuses us and guides me back to my apartment. Taking my hand, he pulls me into the bedroom. His arms are strong and tender. I fumble a lot because I’m still too high, but John doesn’t let on that he notices. We make love in a blur, and he falls asleep in my arms as if nothing ever happened. We haven’t done this in a while. It feels so good to be next to him again. I squeeze him tightly, letting my bare foot run down his long, muscular leg. We fit together just right. Just right, I muse. Content in the warm familiar smell that is John, I drift off.

  For the rest of the year our lives pass in the courtyard with a sense of normalcy, albeit a strange one. No more bodies are found in the neighborhood, and our intensely worn fear shifts to a subconscious hyperawareness. Occasionally we hear about a potential copycat killer, but that is considered typical for Southern California, I learn.

  Sharon and I have our jobs, and John has his. Rarely is John gone at night anymore, but when he is, Sharon and I make sure we are together for the evening. Many times, exhausted from work, I can’t keep my eyes open and I fall asleep on their couch. Sharon leaves me to rest, turns out the lights, and goes to bed.