Читать книгу Babylon Confidential - Claudia Christian - Страница 10

UNDER THE INFLUENCE

It was 1973. I was eight years old, and about to learn that fate can be a stone-cold bitch.

That was the year that Shell Oil ordered my dad to pack up our lives and move to Texas. I found myself in the sauna that is a humid Lone Star September with my parents, James and Hildegard, and my three older brothers, Patrick, Jimmy, and Vincent. In place of the beautiful autumn foliage that we’d left behind in Connecticut, Houston greeted us with shrubs, flatlands, and mosquitoes. None of us were happy about leaving our home back East. There was a palpable tension in the air. My mom had stopped eating and had lost thirty pounds; she’d had a premonition that something terrible was going to happen.

Less than six months later, we would return to Connecticut, having suffered a blow that would continue to impact us until it eventually destroyed our family.

Before the move to Houston, I grew up in Westport and Weston, Connecticut. That was where we were at our happiest. I would tag along when my brothers built snow forts and tree houses and was appointed the unofficial fourth boy, unless they needed someone to gross out. Then I would revert to being their little sister and be forced to watch while they fed live mice to their pet snakes.

Patrick, my oldest brother, wanted to be Hawkeye from The Last of the Mohicans. He beaded things and worked with suede. He used to find dead animals and skin them for his projects. He even made his own moccasins. In the past the Paugusset tribe occupied the land near where we lived, and Pat would lead us in the hunt for old flint arrowheads that were still scattered around the woods.

Some little girls fantasize about being princesses or models. When I read stories about the Pilgrims and their problems, I used to side with the Indians and hope that one day I’d be carried away by a chief to live with his tribe.

Patrick was suitably impressed when, at age five, I landed my first big role: playing Chief Massasoit in a school play. This was a revelatory experience for me. I had three rowdy brothers—I could barely get a word in edgewise—but when I stood on the stage, everyone was quiet, their attention completely focused on me. When I delivered my heartfelt Thanksgiving monologue, I saw adults in the audience listening intently with tears in their eyes, and it astonished me that I could affect them on that emotional level. After that experience, I was hooked. I auditioned for as many plays as I could. The desire to connect with others in that meaningful way, to bring people with me, out of their everyday lives and into another space as I perform, that’s exciting and powerful. It has sustained me in my career for over thirty years.

We were close to nature in Westport. The sea was nearby, and if I was good my mom used to let me camp out in the woods and eat Kentucky Fried Chicken with my girlfriends (that being the staple diet of woodland survivalists). Sometimes we’d even spend the night out there, unless someone started talking about murderers or ghosts, which would send us running back to the house, shrieking loudly enough to wake the dead.

So when my dad announced that Shell was transferring us to Houston, land of 64-ounce Slurpees and steaks the size of hubcaps, we were horrified. My brothers threatened to run away from home, I retreated sullenly into my books, and my parents’ arguments broke out into full-scale war. The word “divorce” was overheard on more than one occasion, leaving us kids huddled in the corners of the house, drawing straws to see who got to live where. My mom usually got her way, but this time the decision had been made by a higher power­—Shell Oil Company—and if my dad wanted to get ahead in his career, then he had to go where they sent him.

So my mom stopped eating and started crying all the time. She clung to us and kissed our heads as if we were all she had left. Her desire to stay was more than a fondness for Weston. She’d always had an amazing sixth sense. It wasn’t uncommon for her to tell one of us to get the phone before it rang or to dream about things that would come to pass. She was sure that some terrible storm was brewing and that we were sailing right into it. My dad didn’t want to hear about it; he just started packing.

My dad, Jim, was eighteen years old when he was stabbed, right in the heart. He was a student at the University of Southern California and used to drive around in a red Corvette Stingray. He’d been walking to Van De Camp’s drive-in with some friends when they got jumped by a Mexican gang. My dad was walking in front and got the worst of it. The gang leader’s wife had been cheating on him with some gringos; my dad and his friends were in the wrong place at the wrong time when the leader went looking for blood. When my dad reached the hospital, he became one of the first recipients of open-heart surgery. Back then they hadn’t invented the small, vertical chest incision, so they cut him in half and left him with a long scar that looked like a magician’s trick gone wrong.

The surgeons saved his life twice that day. The first time with the heart surgery—he appreciated that—but he was bitter about the second. Since he was laid up in the hospital, he couldn’t ship out to the Korean War with his buddies. None of them came back. Dad had been sent to military school from the age of five, and there was an expectation that he would follow in the footsteps of his father, Charlie, who’d received a Purple Heart and the French Croix De Guerre in World War I. He was hit by shrapnel in the left lung while leading a French-American force in the Meuse-Argonne offensive.

Charlie was a second-generation Irish immigrant, born in Boston to a well-to-do family. He was a real-estate tycoon, a respected surgeon, an all-round society type with one large skeleton in the closet.

He’d bought a large parcel of desert land in Palm Springs and fitted it out with a trailer. There were no neighbors, no passersby, no one to come between Grandpa Charlie and the trunk-load of whiskey that he would use to drink himself into oblivion. When he was done with his binge he’d dry out for a few days, head back home, and go on with life as usual until the trailer, like the nesting ground of a migratory bird, would irresistibly draw him back.

My mom, Hildegard, was, and still is, a stunningly beautiful woman. Born in Germany, she lived through World War II being evacuated from one small village to the next. She was five years old when Hitler passed through town in one of his flamboyant, goose-stepping parades. Pushing through the crowd to see what all the fuss was about, she found herself face-to-face with the man himself, who passed her a little swastika flag. She turned to run home and show her mother, but as she did she fell and the sharp end of the flag cut her chin open. She decided it was a bad omen and that Hitler was not to be trusted. To this day she still has what she calls her “Hitler scar.”

And, of course, she was right about Hitler. He led Germany to ruin as well as her family. They lost everything when the Nazis evacuated them and took over their home as a base camp.

As a little girl my mom sometimes had to steal cabbages so they had enough to eat, and most evenings found her walking the streets searching for her papa until she found him asleep in a bar or singing with his drinking buddies. Both wartime poverty and her father’s drinking were deeply humiliating for her.

When she was older, she was sponsored by a fiancé to come to America and work as a dental hygienist. That relationship fell through, and she ended up living with the owners of the Brown Derby, the famous Hollywood restaurant. She worked on Mae West’s teeth and dated William Frawley, who played Fred Mertz in I Love Lucy. She never sought out celebrities, but she was classy and extremely attractive and so naturally found herself moving in circles that attracted them.

Even in middle age, when a future governor of California tried to hit on her in their shared Germanic tongue, she gave him short shrift. It was at my birthday party, and she came over to ask me who he was.

“Mom, that’s the Terminator.”

“I don’t care who he is, he’s a very rude man. You should have heard him. He’s been living in America too long.”

When my mom’s friends tried to set her up with my father, she wasn’t interested and tried to push him onto another friend. But my dad can be determined when he sets his mind to something, and eventually he won her over with his Gregory Peck–style good looks and a ride in his Corvette Stingray.

My mom gave me the desire to improve my lot in life with style. She’s an incredibly hard worker and fast learner. She took an unfinished education and ended up the manager of Giorgio’s, one of the swankiest stores in Beverly Hills.

But back then, when my parents first got married, they were poor. My dad started at the bottom, working at a gas station, and slowly worked his way up the ladder at Shell one rung at a time.

I get my determination from my dad, my need to prove myself, to show the world that I can make it on my own without any handouts. But I’ve always been mindful of the toll that success took on both him and our family. He was always away, and when he was at home he was tense, high-strung, and not easy to be around. As a parent I guess you fall back on what you know, and he had been raised in a brutal military school and expected us to fall in line like those little Von Trapp kids in The Sound of Music. The problem was that we all had his stubborn streak, so conflict was inevitable.

When I say that my dad was stubborn and determined, I mean it. He had a hangover one morning when he was in his early forties, after a New Year’s party with his work buddies, and swore he’d never drink again. Alcohol was his father’s demon and he didn’t plan on making it his. To this day he still hasn’t touched a drop of the stuff.

Back in Houston it was still dark in the mornings when we’d jump on the bus that would take us to our new schools. We’d start sweating at nine in the morning and finish at sunset. The only place to swim was the bayou, which was teeming with venomous water moccasins. Swatting at mosquitoes, I used to watch the crawdads swarm all over the gutters. We used to jokingly call Houston “Satan’s shack.”

It was October 22, 1973, and two of my brothers had gotten into a fight with my dad about homework. Patrick was a rebellious fourteen and Jimmy was a year younger. My dad was always tightly wound at the end of the day and had no patience for kids who didn’t follow the rules in his house. A futile, frustrating argument broke out.

“We’re outa here!” Patrick said, slamming open the screen door and storming out of the house. From the table I watched him tie his blue bandana around his head and grab his bike from the lawn, Jimmy right on his heels.

“Where do you think you’re going?” our dad yelled.

Over his shoulder, Patrick shouted, “7-Eleven!”

My brothers raced off down the street. Jimmy pulled ahead, laughing, with Patrick rushing to catch up. They were neck-and-neck for a block or two, and then Jimmy took the lead again, younger by a year, but faster. At the intersection, he slowed for a split second, waiting for the light to turn green, then leaned down over his handlebars and barreled through.

Patrick pedaled hard to catch him and had nearly made up the lost ground as he raced across the intersection. Jimmy saw a glint of metal out of the corner of his eye and skidded to a stop, turning back in time to see the driver who had run the red light hit Patrick at full speed. Patrick rolled all the way over the car and slammed down hard on the pavement. By the time Jimmy got to his side, Pat lay crumpled on the ground.

Jimmy tried to get Pat to move off the road but he was unconscious, blood seeping out of his head. In Boy Scouts, Jimmy had learned that you’re not supposed to move someone who’s got a head injury, so he left him lying in the road and tried waving down another car to get help.

It was a quiet street in a residential neighborhood. Fading in and out of consciousness, Patrick was lying in the intersection next to two fallen bikes. He must’ve been easy to see.

At dinner that night, we’d all been doing Monty Python and Rich Little impersonations, when out of the blue Patrick said, “You know, if I ever get hit by a car, I won’t get hurt. I’m going to jump up quickly, then roll over the hood and down the back.”

We didn’t think much of it at the time; it’s the kind of thing boys say all the time. But when the bumper hit his bike, that’s exactly what he did. Patrick leapt up and rolled over the hood and down the back of the car. It left him with a broken leg and a head injury, but he was going to be alright.

Jumping up and rolling was a good plan. It would’ve worked, except the driver of the second car was drunk. He ran right over Patrick, killing him instantly.

Every detail of that day is burnt into my memory. The neighbors had volunteered to watch us when my parents were called to the scene. I was sitting in their hallway with Vince when these two kids came to the door. They didn’t realize that we were the siblings of the boy who was hit.

“Hey, we just saw an accident! A kid’s head got fuckin’ squashed like a melon!”

We were speechless, and the kids just kept going on and on like that until the adult nearest the door told them to get the hell out of there. Vince was the youngest brother, and I was the youngest child, so we used to fight all the time, but right then we found ourselves holding each other’s trembling hands. Then the door of the neighbors’ house opened again and my mom came stumbling toward us, clutching the bloody blue bandana left behind when the paramedics lifted Patrick’s body from the street. I saw in her face that what the kids said was true—Patrick was dead.

She took us back to our house. A few minutes later I saw my dad walking toward us, having just identified his dead son. He was halfway across the front lawn when he suddenly fell down on all fours and started throwing up in the grass. He stayed there, alternately retching and weeping. I don’t think he could get up. It was the first time in my life I’d seen him cry.

And then there was Jimmy. The memory of that day would come to cost him dearly. In the months that followed, Jimmy would wake up screaming every night. There are a thousand ways to blame yourself when something like that happens and he probably tried them all on for size. When he grew older he sought solace in drugs. Intensive psychotherapy and rehab brought him back from the edge. He’s been sober for many years, but Patrick’s death continues to haunt him to this day.

In the aftermath of Pat’s death, my parents couldn’t look at one another. We moved around the flat, alien wasteland of Houston in a daze. We’d only been there a few months, and we had no friends to comfort us, only the well-meaning strangers at church.

Our family never recovered.

It was the first time alcohol abuse had taken something beloved from me. It wouldn’t be the last.

On the Sunday after the funeral, my mother got us ready for church, but when we filed out into the living room, my dad was reading the paper, still in his bathrobe.

“God is a bastard,” he said. “I’ll never set foot in a church again.”

I completely agreed. Patrick’s death had taught me that when fate swings against you, the only person you can rely on is yourself.

After less than half a year in Houston, we packed our bags and prepared to move home to Connecticut, minus our brother. But before we left there was something I had to take care of.

Unlike my father, I had taken Holy Communion. As I understood it, I was married to Christ, so things were a bit more complicated for me; I was going to need a divorce. I went out into the woods alone, to a place my mom had shown me on one of our family walks through the Houston countryside. In the shade of a weeping willow there grew a rare lady’s slipper orchid. My mom had explained that I should always treat them gently, because they were endangered, to which my brothers had kindly added, “You could also be fined five hundred bucks or have your hand chopped off if they catch you messing with them!”

It was the closest thing I knew to a sacred place.

I took the tiny rosary I’d been given for my first communion and wrapped it in one of my favorite hankies—a little German number from my grandmother with “Edelweiss” embroidered on it—and buried it beside the orchid. Then I solemnly said the Lord’s Prayer and called the whole thing off with Jesus.

Maybe that explains why, years later, when I took up praying in earnest, God took a while to return my call. He was probably wary of being dumped again.