The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes

by Dawn Schiller

  Florida. We are headed for Florida. Back to the East Coast and orange trees. “What do you want to see, baby? The Grand Canyon? Arizona?” Acting silly and goofy, John tries to get me to smile and relax.

  “Sure, John. Can we see the whole thing?” I ask, loosening up a little. I remember the short stop I took with my father on the way to California over five years ago.

  “Yeah, baby. Come on. Cheer up. We did it. It’s you and me again. Like we wanted.” He kisses my hand for reassurance.

  I warm up to John’s charm, as I always do, and we saunter through Arizona like common tourists. Walking arm in arm and acting like sweethearts again, we gawk with the crowds at the Grand Canyon, walk the edge of the Meteor Crater near Flagstaff, and feel the age of the earth in the Petrified Forest.

  We flit in and out of carefree moments, talking about the kind of home we would like to settle into and how long it might take for Sharon to meet up with us. We do it partially because it separates us from the severity of our situation, making it easier to cope, and partially because it reminds us that once upon a time we were happy.

  Time and distance are our friends these days. Once out of the Southwest, we hurry through Texas and Oklahoma, paranoid on a different level to be stopped in these fanatically religious states.

  Then we drift through Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama via rural highways. Spanish moss and mist in the evening hours make the scenery haunting. We hold hands and picture ourselves in Civil War garb rocking on the porch of an old plantation.

  We are in Alabama, off a weathered side road, when John becomes fidgety again. We are running out of money, and he is doing his best to not let me know how low our finances have become. Checking into another unassuming cheap motel, we look forward to finally arriving in Florida the next day. Without warning, John makes the decision to take a walk by himself just after dark and slips on a pair of dark leather gloves. “Keep an eye out the window for me, baby. And shut the lights out if you see someone coming.”

  It catches me off guard. “John…why?”

  “Now, baby. You know I’m doing this for us, right? I just need to make sure we have enough to make it to Florida. Now be a good girl.”

  John doesn’t give me a moment to argue, gingerly turning the doorknob so no one will hear. I jump up to be his lookout, as I’ve been told, hating John’s return to his old behavior. In a few minutes he returns, his jacket stuffed with the contents of a suitcase he has pillaged from the back of another parked car. He must have scoped out the car beforehand, I think, noting how fast and precise he has been. And with that thought, flashes come of some of the last motels we’ve stayed in. Was he stealing back then as well? It seems possible, but I quash the thought anyway.

  John pulls out some cash, loose change, and a watch, dumping them on the bed. Then, ever so gently, from under his arm he retrieves a .38 caliber pistol.

  I grab Thor and slip him under my sweater, squeezing him close to my chest as if to comfort a horrible ache in my soul. I keep an eye on John as he empties the chamber over the bed and counts the bullets. Now we really are armed like they think we are! I shudder at how the FBI made this deadly prediction.

  Collins Avenue runs the length of a small strip of land that separates North Miami from the Atlantic Ocean, and is the main road on my favorite beach, Haulover. We used to beg our mother to take us to Haulover Beach on weekends when we lived in Carol City. Then when we got older, we’d hang out there with our girlfriends. There is a single wooden pier jutting over the ocean with an ice cream shack and miles and miles of sun-filled sand, a getaway from the gang fights of our neighborhood streets. It is here that I think John and I might find refuge, if for no other reason than that I remembered feeling safe here years before.

  We enter the parking lot of the Fountainhead Hotel, a 1950s, two-story transition hotel that stretches from Collins Avenue to the beach. A life-size figure of a mermaid-haired female bust is bound to the bow of a ship. The Malibu, on its last leg, chugs and spits into an empty space in the lot.

  John’s long legs extend one by one, stiff and weary, as he leaves to check us in. I keep Thor out of sight.

  In a burst of laughter, John swaggers out of the lobby, flanked by a queen-sized redhead and a lanky, dark-haired man. “Hey, babe. This is Big Rosie and her husband, Tom. They run the place. They love Chihuahuas and wanna take a look at Thor.” He reaches in to pass Thor to Big Rosie by the scruff of his neck.

  “Hi there!” Big Rosie booms, holding out her hand to me. “You must be Dawn.”

  “Yeah. Hi! You like Chihuahuas?”

  “Oh God, yes. I was raised with ‘em. My parents just lost Tiny, a little fawn-colored one they’ve had since I was a kid. They’re devastated.”

  “I can imagine. I don’t know what I’d do without him. They’re the best dogs.”

  “Yeah. Tough little guys and loyal too. They’ll stand up to anything to protect ya.”

  “I know,” I say, remembering…

  Thor takes an immediate liking to Big Rosie, quivering as she coos his name and reaches out to steal a kiss. “Yeah, we don’t got a problem with small dogs like this here. We get all kinds of things; I just like to know about it first. Just make sure you take him out to pee, and everything will be fine.” She hands him back with a grin that matches her size.

  “Thanks.”

  “All right, we’ll let you two get settled in. Italian Joe serves dinner at the snack shop around five. He makes the best meatball subs on Collins Avenue. Don’t wanna miss it.” They head back into the front office, and I feel as if I’ve run into old friends.

  John is smiling from ear to ear. “Come on, baby. Let’s get unpacked.”

  The first week of rent, John pays with what little cash we have left. We’ll both have to look for work. Our registered identities are John and Dawn Evans, a newly married couple who have been sweethearts for years. Big Rosie is warm, loud, smart, and genuine. She has been running the Fountainhead for several years now and is proud of the fact that she can maintain a place that is affordable enough to help people get on their feet. It’s this line of thinking that causes her to take notice of our desperate financial situation. When John approaches her to do odd jobs for room rent, she’s already made a plan.

  “Well, my husband is actually the official handyman here, John, but he might need extra help with a few things. You’ll need to talk to him. Now, I could use someone to be my housekeeper. I’ve been doing it, but I can’t do everything. If Dawn’s interested, tell her to come see me.” John can’t wait to give me the news, and soon I’m employed full-time—housekeeping in trade for rent, including a few extra dollars under the table.

  We set up home in a fairly large room on the second floor near the back stairs, which lead to the enclosed pool and Italian Joe’s Snack Shop. On the other side of the pool fence is an enticing stretch of public beach, white sands rolling straight into the refreshing crystal turquoise of the Atlantic Ocean.

  It is nearing the end of a hot August, and it’s been almost six weeks since we left Los Angeles. I allow myself to fall into a safe intimacy with the humidity and the heat of southern Florida, where the people don’t seem to recognize John for his porn image. We are the nice, likeable couple in love, and it’s not long before we’re introduced to the other live-in residents at the Fountainhead. We often gather at Italian Joe’s Snack Shop at the pool for dinner, lingering evening meals where Joe dishes out special sausage dishes to the tenants for a deal. We eat with Louise, a stripper with a lisp who’s waiting for a divorce settlement, her five-year-old daughter, Heather, and Big Rosie and her husband. Armand, a dark-skinned Cuban male stripper, joins us on his nights off.

  We couldn’t have found a better place to hide out from the law. Accepted and liked, John and I fit in perfectly with the misfits in residence here and nobody asks any questions about a subject they aren’t willing to ask about directly. The blond regrowth of John’s hair is obvious but never mentioned. Big Rosie makes a side c
omment about how tough it is for an older man to keep looking good for his younger bride, and I figure she feels sorry for John for dyeing his hair to impress me.

  The weeks slip by with the comfortable feeling that we have blended into this place that feels a world apart from the chaos lurking on the outside. The worry that someone will find us to fulfill an underground contract diminishes.

  Many an evening John amuses the gang at Joe’s with his animated jokes and charm. They are impressed, and the attention feeds John’s ego. He is the star of the show, and I laugh along with our new neighbors. The people here have all the familiarity of the neighbors at the courtyard back in Glendale…before the drugs and the beatings.

  Like a firefly restlessly, rapidly moving, a touch of affection flitters back between John and me. He writes me love notes and poetry again and lingers with me on long, romantic strolls down the beach while Thor bounces near our heels. John dabbles in drawing again, often sitting in a chair by the pool sketching me intently as I talk to people at the snack shop or watch television in our room. Beautiful profiles and warm, tender moments with Thor flow onto his artist’s pad, and he signs each picture gallantly in his old, unique style. Here, it seems the world is allowing us to make a niche for ourselves again, a refuge from those who hunt us.

  I clean rooms once a week for the residents. After every overnight guest, I sneak spare towels from my maid’s cart to our new friends, which earns me extra tip money. I don’t mind working hard scrubbing bathtubs and sinks. It is trivial enough and keeps my mind from worrying.

  Big Rosie and Tom help us further by giving John as much side work as they can, and he stashes any extra money to buy me small gifts. The west side of Collins Avenue is filled with a mix of coffeehouses, shell and rock shops, and seedier non-ocean-view X-rated motels. Collins Avenue’s massive four-lane stretch is busy in the daytime and busier at night. John holds my hand to dodge traffic so we can wander the gem and rock shops to browse through piles of lapis lazuli, malachite, and quartz in search of just the right piece.

  “Oh! Look at this!” I hold up a bloodred necklace. “It’s beautiful, John!” Polished beads of garnet spread the light into an intricate, fractured spray of burgundy.

  “Here. Let’s try it on, baby.” He gingerly places them around my neck and steps back admiringly. “Oh! Nice. Here—for you!”

  “John. Really?” I gasp.

  “Your birthstone, Dawn. I have to. It’s the perfect piece!” He digs in his pocket to pay the storekeeper with every dime of the extra cash. “Nothing’s too good for my girl!” His nostrils flare with the fierce pride of ownership. But it is to be a false pride.

  Come October, John finds an outside job on the construction site of a large four-star hotel about a mile north on the beach. He gives his employer a fake name and makes up lies about losing his Social Security card. Hired as a minimum wage laborer, he begins every day early and ends late.

  Somehow, for the first month or so, he arranges to borrow money from fellow workers, weaving stories about paying them back as soon as management straightens out his paycheck. The guys figure he earns the money when he works with them; after all, he’s a nice guy, so they think he has to be good for it.

  John plays his bluff at the job like an addiction for as long as he can, banking on the odds that something else will come up in the meantime, before the obvious lie catches up to him. His mood is still happy and sweet, and he and I take it to mean that landing this job is a good omen.

  I feel as if our roles are on level ground with each other; it’s a place I’ve never experienced with John, and I find a sense of strength in it. He makes his own lunch the night before work. In the mornings he wakes himself, setting the alarm to wake me later. He kisses me good-bye tenderly every morning, as if it might be the last time, before walking out the door for work. At night when he returns more tired and drawn than usual, he keeps our dinner visits at Joe’s brief so we can cuddle in front of the television and fall asleep in each other’s arms.

  It is subtle at first, John’s mild detachment from meals and conversation. The change goes relatively unnoticed by everyone, except me. But his excuse of being too tired makes sense, diminishing my alarm. Like a slow-starting avalanche, his need for more privacy builds up to irritability and then sleepless nights. John is changing again.

  Is he beginning to crack from the pressure of being on the run? I guess it’s catching up to him. I hope no one will notice and try to cover for him when people notice he isn’t his friendly self. “He’s fine. He’s just tired. They’re working him too hard over there,” I tell Big Rosie and the gang. It doesn’t help that people are beginning to get suspicious of his stories at work too. John is running out of ideas, feeling trapped, and I think about the possibility of having to move somewhere else. I hate to lose the small corner of comfort we have etched out here.

  It is Big Rosie with her no messing around personality who approaches me to say that John might be on drugs. I don’t know when I suspected it; too many other excuses have clouded my vision.

  Big Rosie brings it out into the open with me. “He’s asking all kinds of questions about where you’ve been all day and if Tom and I have seen you with anyone else. He’s being weird. Then he acts like we’re lying!” She shakes her head, demonstrating that she doesn’t like this change one bit. “I’m worried about you both, Dawn. You don’t think he’s using anything, do you?”

  It can only be one thing, my gut screams. He must be doing drugs! Not a lot, ‘cause it’s not full-blown, I rationalize. He’s still managing. I can’t figure out where he’s getting the drugs, but I’m becoming scared. Just ride this through, Dawn. He won’t do anything here. Everybody knows us, and we see each other every day. I assess the situation around me in an unconscious act of self-preservation.

  Distance grows between us again. He doesn’t sleep at night but stays up listening to the noises outside our door. John is so paranoid that I find it hard to say or do anything right. The sound of walking on eggshells plays on repeat in my mind like the lyrics to an old song I know by heart.

  The other locals notice as well. I keep making excuses. “He’s worried about money. They’re having trouble with his paychecks.” Offering to help, Armand the male stripper pays me extra to clean his room an extra day a week, and Louise hires me to babysit her five-year-old till she gets home from her shift around two in the morning. It earns us extra money and affords me time away from John’s brooding, but it also allows him all the more reason to distrust me.

  November has begun, and John’s depressive mood swings are disturbingly obvious to everyone now. He stops speaking to most people, refuses to eat, and holes up in our room complaining about the jerks at work. He goes to work regardless of whether he has slept or eaten, and he returns home each night bleary-eyed and reclusive. Then, one evening near Thanksgiving, John snaps and breaks his promise—the one that means everything to me—and crosses that invisible line into insanity again…the likes of which I haven’t seen since before the murders.

  Slipping into our room after a night of babysitting, I turn to close the door quietly so I won’t wake him. Something’s not right, I think, noticing Thor isn’t dancing at the door to greet me. “John?” I call into the darkness.

  “Where have you been?” The terrible, low tone of his voice reaches ominously from behind the door.

  Startled, I jump. “Oh! John? Is that you?”

  “Who’ve you been fucking?”

  “What?”

  Quickly his hand lands over my mouth, and he shoves me up against the wall. “Don’t give me that shit, bitch. I know you’re out fucking someone!” he whispers harshly, his breath like fire in my ear.

  I don’t fight. I hold still. Disjointed emotions barrage my thoughts and, of all things, I irrationally panic that our new friends will hear us. Beneath his weight, I shake my head feverishly.

  John’s voice, thick and heavy, orders me to be quiet. Then with eerie, precise movements, he pulls m
y hands up and behind my back, rendering me paralyzed. No. Not again. My internal alarm clangs. Shattered images of my life here at the Fountainhead play behind my eyes squeezed shut and splinter at my feet, a useless pile of a thousand pieces.

  I can feel John’s rage grow from his body, and I snap into autopilot, shrinking into the size of a pea, smaller even, cutting off all external connections with my thoughts and feelings. I can’t let anything in. It’s the only safe place to go. John’s other palm, rough and calloused, clasps firmly over my mouth. The smell of concrete and sweat infuse my nostrils, and I want to vomit.

  He throws me to the bed. The sound of my clothes being torn from my body seems distant until I feel the breeze of John’s movements across my bare breasts. With his one free hand, he twists my legs into contorted mannequinlike poses and cruelly rapes me, ranting accusations of my cheating as he slams his power ruthlessly down.

  Afterward, I lie frozen, my insides lifeless as I shake, wrapped tightly in his steel-like grip long after he has finished. Racked with pain and desolate grief, I feel the tears pour silently down the side of my face and into a puddle on the stained bedspread. My soul, tortured and frail, howls in ghostly silence to anyone who cares. No! Why? He can’t be this person again! This can’t be happening! Every ounce of my being screams at my emotional crash into reality. Denial takes its time coming, arriving slowly with the sunrise, like a thin, worn blanket, allowing me to disappear into a shivering sleep.

  John doesn’t go to work the next day, and I don’t move from the bed. The phone incessantly rings and rings. My guess is it’s Big Rosie calling to find out why I haven’t shown up for work. Neither of us answers, and within the hour there comes a pounding at the door.

  “Answer it!” John hisses as he slips into the bathroom.