No Journey's End: My Tragic Romance with Ex-Manson Girl, Leslie Van Houten

by Peter Chiaramonte

  I walked back to where I parked my mom’s Camaro RS in the visitors’ lot. The engine was cold, so I let it idle with the auto-choke on. While she warmed up in the meantime, I pulled out a small bag of weed I had stashed in the glove box and rolled a couple of joints on my lap. Just as I was about to light up the first one, there was a rap on the driver’s side. I rolled down the window and Mrs. Minter asked me if I would like to come back inside to meet Mr. Budd after all. They must have been desperate.

  Maybe I should have waited until after I’d had the chance to smoke both of those joints before I signed anything morally binding. But, by 1:15 p.m., I had a contract. I’d agreed to teach from January to the end of June—for a total of less than eight thousand dollars. I acted pleased. However, my decision was clouded with doubts. Mr. Budd told me I’d be replacing some fellow named Lilly but neglected to say what happened to him or why he was gone. No matter now. I knew I’d struck a deal with the devil, but a gentleman’s word is his bond. When I told Leslie about this new twist of fate the next night over the phone, she agreed it wasn’t an ideal situation. All other moral and bad-faith deliberations aside, the cold hard fact of the matter was that we needed the dosh.

  As 1977 was coming to an end and the New Year upon us, I read more about the confluent education program at UC Santa Barbara and thought how I might go about changing the world for the better. I went searching the stacks for copies of George I. Brown’s Human Teaching for Human Learning and The Live Classroom. I photocopied my notes, mailed them to Leslie with a copy of Brown’s introductory pages and asked what she thought.

  George Isaac Brown was a professor of education at University of California at Santa Barbara. He earned his PhD from Harvard, where he also had taught before moving to California. He and his wife Judith studied with the re-founder of Gestalt therapy, F.S. ‘Fritz’ Perls at the Esalen Institute in Big Sur. As for his Gestalt theory of confluent education, what struck me first was how constructively Brown and his colleagues wrote about all the current confusion, suspicion and despair in education as well as the sometimes-innocent expectations of academic cultures in general. I liked their critique of the state of the art of the entire discipline. They were attempting to do something more positive.

  In my next letter to Leslie, I wrote to tell her about confluent education—or as much as I understood it so far. That was one way of processing my notes on affect and cognition in tandem. I also enclosed a few more pages from Joseph Jastrow’s Freud: His Dream and Sex Theories (1932) and an essay from the most recent San Francisco Gestalt Institute Conference (1976). The piece I found most intriguing was a speech Ram Dass gave about love and death—two of my favorite topics. Here’s what Leslie had to say after she read my notes on these subjects:

  HELLO MY LOVE:

  NO LETTER ALL WEEK AND I DON’T MIND SAYING THAT I AM HURTIN’. I CAN HARDLY WAIT TO CALL YOU. I miss you. Had another dream last night. We made love and it was really fine. I dreamt we got married and had twin girls with lots of curly hair just like yours. We were married by a guy who looked like Geppetto (from Pinocchio), who worked in an old clock shop. I couldn’t believe I dreamed that so fine and so true.

  Then all of a sudden the kids were grown up and you were playin’ football. I wandered on to the field in a daze to watch the game close up. But I got confused and ended up in the middle of the game myself. Kinda spacey. It was rough and I got really scared and kind of froze. Then you saw me and dropped the ball—or whatever else you were doing—and came to help me get off the field to where I belonged. It was an action dream. Freud said every dream is a wish. I think we should teach our children that dreams don’t just happen out of the blue, but are stories we act out in our sleep, because they have something important to tell us. It’s like a hidden part that needs to be heard, isn’t that what you believe?

  I dreamed all last night of you and you were teasing me. We had a lot of fun. We were alive and we made love again. Then you said something in the dream that you said in your last letter. That you’re ‘tired of waiting.’ So am I. All we can really do is keep our fingers crossed and hope really hard that our dream will come true. So tell me a story about the snow in the forests and what I need to do to stay warm in the winter. I have a few ideas of my own (wink, wink).

  I’ve been thinking about what it will be like living up there in Canada. How I’ll probably freeze to death. I’d get off the plane to rush into your arms and freeze on the way with my arms outstretched and my lips puckered up. You’d have to carry me home to the family like that. My teeth chattering so badly I won’t be able to speak for several hours.

  # #

  I got your pants—they came with the backlog of letters. The officer is going to try to see if I can try them on…they fit! Perfect! How fine they feel. How did you know? You pay attention to details, don’t you? You judge my body better looking at me in a grey ol’ jail dress than other women are able to do. What I dig is how fine they feel. Super soft—so just by putting them on I can leave these hard times, steel bars, and bad vibes behind for a little while. I try to ignore them, but there comes a time when you can’t turn away and still have a conscience. I’ll just be extra glad when this whole prison scene is finally over. I’m also getting a little uptight about Friday. I don’t think it’ll happen. But at least we’ll have tried. I’m writing a personal letter asking Judge Ringer for a reduction in bail, and telling him why I believe I deserve one. I’ll show it to Max before I mail it, of course.

  # #

  Hi Honey,

  Linda is supposed to be here. Her BMW keeps breaking down. She’s going to start teaching self-defense to her students because they found the 11th victim of the Hillside Strangler. Some maniac running loose in LA. It’s scary all right—and I don’t know any of that kind of stuff—will you teach me how to defend myself? I never really learned how.

  It doesn’t appear Linda has made it, so I will make my desk on the bed and begin to answer some more of your letters. I got the one that was all cut up like William Burroughs. I’m sorry Linda didn’t come tonight. She always sends you her love. I found out she did an interesting thing. Jude told me Linda called her and laid out her various feelings. They communicate better now. I feel she did it because it’s so much easier to deal with other things if there aren’t personal, emotional differences getting in the way. I’m glad she did that. I know her guard won’t be let down. She’s extremely loyal. I find myself appreciating Linda more and more. For her sincerity, loyalty, directness and other things. She really digs you and me too. So that’s extra special—she gets it! Unfortunately, not everyone does…you know who…

  # #

  I may get my mail now. Fingers crossed. Lots of letters from others, but not one single letter from you! But I did get a sweet card from Pat Krenwinkel’s dad. He’s a really super guy and he told me to tell you that we must be like two fried eggs and keep our sunny sides up ;-). You’ll dig him. Well, I’ll go to bed now. Please let me dream—always and only of you. Leslie-Lou

  # #

  Hi Sweets—

  I’ve been so depressed. Really down under in a very deep, dark, heavy hollow. I feel like a tired, kicked and beat up old dog. I’ve been in this dinky cell for almost a year now. I hate it. But those are my full blues. I want so much for you to hold me. Rock me in your arms. I can’t figure out why you aren’t here. I have nothing to do. I am bored out of my mind and extremely impatient.

  Also I’ve been thinking about what you said about keeping our relationship in a ‘private compartment.’ Not isolated. Just private, except for those we know we can trust. And our children will be strong because of it too. Family loyalty will be our first priority. I was thinking of the Christian Science lady. Did I tell you the talk that we had? She went on about how when two people are bound by true love and commitment—no one should even try coming between them. I knew she was referring to Pete trying to get in
our way.

  Honey, I want to get old with you so you can hold my weathered hand in yours, and we can watch the sunrise and set together. Is this too much to ask for? Hold me close and kiss me tender. And tell me what our lives will be like when we are in our sixties, watching coals glow in the fire.

  # #

  LATER—You wanted to know what I thought about “Two for the Road,” with Audrey Hepburn. Well, it’s about two people—it’s their journey together. He is busy at first being a loner. He doesn’t want any distractions like falling in love. She is a free spirit, but troubled. She senses the potential—both for glory and ruin. She realizes before he does that with individual success comes the distance. She doesn’t dig that whole scene. Can’t wear the success mask or take it too seriously. Realizes what they lost when they gained recognition. He was not being true to himself and that not only alarmed her but also it hurt her. But she toughed it out. I really dug it. The old MG and all the changes they each had to go through. Hopes and fears. They lace in and out. It was simple yet was able to say an awful lot. And I like what you said about the narrative structure—how the story is one continuous road trip from Calais to the Rivera. It starts with them in the present—then flashes back and forth from scenes from the past to scenes of the present. That was so cool. I love Audrey Hepburn and when I was young used to wish I were either she or Natalie Wood. And no, you do not miss me more than I miss you! Although I do concede it’s harder for you to get over (get it?)

  # #

  The cellblock is getting really ugly tonight, so please forgive my scattered thoughts. Lots of pent up, angry, aggressive energy sitting inside these young punks. They let it out by picking on small, weaker, defenseless people. Making fun of physical imperfections. It is cruel and this upsets me. This just isn’t right.

  # #

  Mom and everyone here send their love. I am going to try and mail this and hope it gets on its way soon. Oh good! A Carol King song just came on and I’m singing along. “All I want is a quiet place to live—.”

  I will sing songs to you just as soon and as often as possible. Must warn you though, once in a while I sing way off key. Sometimes, without knowing the words, you wouldn’t recognize the song that I’m singing. I’m super-sleepy tonight. Night Night honey—only two more days left until I can call you again. I’ll put the request in first thing tomorrow. I love you.

  Yer Baby,

  Leslie-Lou

  p.s. Please don’t forget me, Peter. You know it would truly break my heart.

  # #

  These letters of Leslie’s, like all the others, were stamped front and back and on several pages at random: INSPECTED BY THE LOS ANGELES COUNTY JAIL. How reassuring, I thought once again as always, not! Then, I began a lengthy response to her letters—all the time purposely singing the praises of California girls and every town but LA.

  * * *

  Leslie called me on Christmas Day. She was still very concerned about the deputies inspecting our mail and recording our calls.

  “I just don’t get it,” she said. “I’ve written to you so many times. So I don’t understand your not receiving them.”

  She was frustrated by the delays and so was I.

  I asked her, “Do you think maybe all that talk about spending winter in Canada made its way back to the judge?”

  “No, let’s not start acting paranoid. Who knows? It could be anything. Maybe it was because I went in wearing your blue jeans? They really fit nice by the way. I thought about you the whole time I was wearing them.”

  “Did Mr. Kay add his usual gentlemanly charm to the proceedings?” I asked.

  “Kay was his usual ignorant-arrogant self. He said I’d told a psych once that when I got out, I’d move to another state and change my name. This was before I met you. And, at that point, the judge interrupted him. He said he felt certain I was speaking of eventual release, not jumping bail. Then Judge Ringer asked Kay if he’d had the notoriety I had, wouldn’t he want to try to lead as normal a life as possible? Kay couldn’t answer, because he’d have to be honest. He came back with some fast lines, way off-topic, so he wouldn’t look like an ass.”

  “He’ll never pull that off,” I mumbled.

  “Okay. And then the judge denied me anyway. He said he just wouldn’t take the chance. I feel shattered. It felt like we were so close this time, it was bound to happen. I guess I was wrong, again.”

  “Hey, come on, Leslie.” That was to be expected. But they can’t keep you shut in forever. You’re close to the end, you’ll see.”

  “What do they think I’m going to do when I get out? Plot a revolution?” Leslie laughed. “Really…Judy and Max are probably coming this evening. Jude may have found some new hopefuls to put up my bail. The search continues. We’re not giving up.”

  There were voices in the background.

  Then Leslie said, “Hey sorry, honey. We gotta go. Time to say goodbye. Please say you still love me.”

  “You still love me.”

  “No, silly. You know what I mean. I’m going to have Jude call you...”

  Suddenly she was cut off in mid-sentence. That was the first time I could remember that ever happening. I guessed what it meant was to remind us that Leslie was still inside a prison and with her a part of my freedom was lost.

  On Tuesday, December 27th, 1977, I spent the first part of the day wandering around downtown Toronto. I was thinking of giving Gabrielle a call to see if she wanted to meet me. But then, quite by chance, I ran into Andy Higgins and Linda Hall in Yorkville, and we walked over to Allan Gardens to meet up with two more friends of theirs inside the warm greenhouse. I’ve forgotten the names of the husband and wife—a couple of chiropractors—who lived nearby on Winchester Avenue in Cabbagetown. We had lunch, got high and listened to music. Some neighbors and friends came in after lunch and it turned into a small, spontaneous party. Someone offered me vodka punch, but I stuck with tequila and pot from Jamaica. Andy and Linda invited me to dinner, but I begged off and walked to the Sherbourne Street subway station alone. I headed east to Kennedy Road, transferred north on a bus to Sheppard Avenue and walked the rest of the way to my mother’s house in Agincourt.

  As soon as I stepped inside the front door, my Mom—who was absolutely beaming—handed me the phone.

  “It’s Mrs. Van Houten.”

  After I said hello, Jane said she had someone there who wanted to speak with me.

  “Did you know,” was the first thing Leslie said, “tomorrow is the anniversary of the first letter you ever wrote to me...wishing me luck and hoping we would meet someday when I got out? Well, can you believe it? I’m out!”

  I did believe it, but couldn’t speak right away on account of the shock.

  “How soon can you come down? You still want to, don’t you?”

  “What do you think?” I said. “Congratulations! Leslie, I’m so happy for you and the whole family.”

  I was still reeling, breathless and stunned.

  She sighed, “I still don’t believe it. I have to keep pinching myself.”

  I said, “I’ll book my tickets as soon as I can and call you right back. I have to teach all of next week, but I’ll check how much time I can get off and call you tomorrow. Will you be at your Mom’s?”

  “No, I’ll be staying at Linda’s, far from the press and the weirdoes.”

  “I’ll be there just as soon as I can,” I said with conviction.

  Leslie purred, “Yes? Now that’s a promise.”

  “Les, remember what we talked about. Please don’t leave me now and run off with the first other fine scoundrel you meet.”

  “Stop it. That will never happen. Come here soon, and you’ll see you’re my only man now and forever. You should know that by now.”

  The plans we made the next day were for me to fl
y to Los Angeles on the fifth and return on the eighth to Toronto—three days and nights wasn’t a lot. Though my selfishness demanded I have her all to myself, conscience dictated Leslie would need lots of free time on her own to adjust to the light of day without my casting shadows.

  Air Canada Flight #793 left Toronto at 7:00 p.m. on Thursday night. At the airport, I picked up a copy of last week’s Los Angeles Times (dated December 28th, 1977) at a newsstand. The headline read: “Leslie Van Houten Freed From Jail on $200,000 Bail.” I self-consciously gazed around to see if there was anyone looking over my shoulder. After small children, their guardians and people needing assistance, I was the first eager passenger to board the aircraft. The L-1011 flew non-stop and landed in LA just after 9:00 p.m. (Pacific Time). Like everyone else, I was in a rush to get off and be embraced by a loved one. Only, unlike some of the others, there was no one to greet poor old me, so I wandered around like a dog lost on moving day.

  About fifteen agonizing minutes had passed before I spotted Leslie’s big smile and long arms waving from across the arrivals’ lounge. By then, I’d almost stopped breathing. I rushed through the crowd like a fullback in sight of the end zone and picked Leslie up two feet off the ground in my arms. The first kiss was just a peck on the lips, but the second kiss lasted much longer. When I opened my eyes, I’d already forgotten where on earth I actually was for a moment.