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

by Peter Chiaramonte

  “Of course, I wonder when this nightmare will end. My job keeps me busy throughout the day. But, in the evenings, I hide in my room and only peek out every once in a while. This is rough, Peter...the roughest yet. You can’t imagine. This evening, I turned on the radio to listen to whatever was on. It was ‘Here Comes the Sun’...I certainly hope so.”

  There were a few moments silence, during which I suspect we were both replaying The Beatles tune in our heads.

  Leslie said, “I know you must be wondering where the visiting forms are. Well, they are stuck at the bureau of identification. I think it’s taken longer than we expected on account of your being Canadian. By the end of the week, I’ll follow up to see what the hang up is. It’s a drag, I know.”

  “Well, that’s the first time I’ve ever felt sorry for being Canadian,” I confessed.

  “Looks like time’s up. Please take good care of yourself and write when you can...even if I don’t write you back right away. Let that be okay. Okay? (Kisses) I hope that you understand.”

  Several weeks passed without further word from Leslie. I thought she had promised to call me on November 27th, but, for some reason, that call never happened. Although, that same afternoon I received the following letter from Kathleen M. Anderson, the superintendent at CIW in Frontera.

  CALIFORNIA INSTITUTION FOR WOMEN

  16756 CHINO-CORONA ROAD

  FRONTERA, CALIFORNIA 91720

  November 24, 1978

  Peter Chiaramonte

  3070 Braemar Drive

  Santa Barbara, California 93109

  Dear Mr. Chiaramonte:

  Thank you for your interest and letter of inquiry, dated 11-18-78, in which you ask about your visiting privileges status regarding Leslie Van Houten, housed in PTU (W13378).

  I approved this request on 11-6-78. The Psychiatric Treatment Unit Program Administrator, Mr. Nelson informs me that Leslie intended to advise you of this approval before now.

  Sincerely yours,

  Kathleen M. Anderson,

  Superintendent

  When Leslie called a few days after that, I asked her to please explain the meaning of Anderson’s letter.

  I asked her, “Why the delay in my finding this out? I thought this was what we...both of us...really wanted?”

  Then, it hit me. I felt the impact before she even let go all the words.

  “It’s hard to say this to you, Peter, but I’ve made the decision... so here goes. I think it would be too hard for me to see you right now. That’s all. I hope you can accept this without going into any full-blown explanations.”

  Once I had time to think things over, I could see there was no choice but to respect her decision. In a way, I felt that Leslie was letting me off for bad behavior or for my own good as much as her own. If I were ever to stand a chance of remaining close, I’d have to prove to her and myself that I really wanted to accept her new terms. Though I tried not to dwell on being too broken up over the way things fell apart, I had a good psychonaut to help me work through some of the blind spots. It was sure to take me a while to let go of last longings for Leslie.

  The next morning, I had my first appointment with Dr. Samuel Correnti at his office on State Street near Mission. Dr. C. was a dark-haired, good-looking man I guessed to be in his forties. The first time we met, he wore a brown and black wool and suede sweater. I remember admiring the way he presented himself, and I noted how bright and bristling he was with self-confidence.

  We talked very little about the whole business with Leslie at first, even though that was what I was mostly thinking about. Instead, we spent most of the first week’s sessions discussing my family upbringing and where I grew up. Just before leaving, he asked me to please come prepared the next time with a written account of my dreams. He wasn’t precise about how much time, discipline and trust would be required for my ongoing treatment. For what exactly? He couldn’t say. Something about how a weak ego cannot, by will and faith alone, surmount the profoundest yearning nor end the deepest sorrows. That’s all I wrote in my journal.

  At our next meeting later that week, we talked some more about my family history. Still in the midst of his preliminary analysis, Dr. C. asked me, “What is the earliest childhood memory that you can recall?”

  It took me a long time to appreciate just how much each of our lives can be determined by so few early childhood experiences. Whatever the source of my conflicts, my inability to cope at the time may have cost me the love of my life. Then again, my time together with Leslie was so fated and brief that it may have been lost to begin with.

  Living in Santa Barbara soon brought about other interests for me to pursue. There were plenty of intellectual challenges, romantic chances and other distractions to deal with. Besides schoolwork, teaching, training and soaking in hot tubs—not to mention the hours I spent on the couch in Correnti’s office—I met a group of some very good hockey players at the Ice Patch that winter. That’s where I was first introduced to Monte Schulz, son of “Peanuts” cartoonist Charles M. Schulz, the only player in town I thought might be better than I was. Monte and I quickly became friends, both on and off the ice. His understated, yet innate athletic spirit, reminded me of the late and very great Buck Buchanan.

  During that first season playing in California, Monte and I put together a decent “all-star” team I liked to call “The Santa Barbarians.” We boasted veterans like Don Swann (another ex-pat from Toronto who worked at Delco), a few former Junior A players from Flin Flon, Manitoba, and “Boston” Dave Barlow. When Monte and I played away on the road, the guys in the vans would carry our sticks and equipment—on account of the fact we couldn’t fit our bags into Monte’s 308 GT4 Ferrari. Life was tough, and I don’t mean that as sarcasm either. It was during this time of rising dissimilarity that Leslie and I steadily lost touch with each other. I hope that you understand and might explain it to me someday.

  * * *

  On February 1st, 1979, the Los Angeles Times reported that Leslie Van Houten would have to wait another year before the community release board would reconsider her request for parole.

  Board chairperson, Ruth Rushen, was quoted as saying to Leslie, “We feel we must observe you longer before we can project your parole date.”

  Despite excellent reports from prison psychologists and prison staff, the board’s justification for denying her petition was that “Society has no defense…in this type of crime, except to isolate the offender.”

  Another issue Leslie’s parole board raised as an objection had to do with the types of men she’s been attracted to in the past.

  In response to that, Leslie was quoted as saying, “In thinking back, I almost think I had too much going for me. I started dating guys that weren’t equal to me...guys who were into their cars and not their books.”

  Upon hearing the panel’s decision, Stephen Kay remarked out of glee, “Miss Van Houten appeared visibly shaken.” And when asked about his personal feelings toward the board’s ruling, he added, “This is beyond my wildest dreams. I’m ecstatic! If she gets out by the turn of the century, she’ll be lucky.”

  Even while conceding that Leslie has been a model prisoner, during her entire incarceration, he insisted, “Society is happy she’s doing well in prison. That’s a good place for her to stay.”

  What a clear-cut incredible creep.

  When Leslie called on the phone a few weeks later, I asked her how she felt about the parole board’s decision.

  “Naturally, I’m disappointed,” she said, “But I feel good about the overall tone of the hearing.”

  Then, she asked, “Did I tell you that I’ll be moving soon? When I do, perhaps you’d like to come visit? The hours are better over in the other visiting room. Let me know, and I’ll tell you the hours when I move.”

  I changed the subject
. “And how are your college courses coming along? What are you taking?”

  I didn’t want to discuss any more about visiting her. I doubted either one of us wanted to open old wounds, however rationally or irrationally we associated these with one another. Parts of me hoped and feared that Leslie might need and want me as much as I needed and wanted her. Other parts were afraid that neither of us could ever feel the same way any longer. Somehow, I doubted Leslie held the same conflict.

  “I’m doing okay, I suppose. School was delayed on account of the moving. One cool thing is that I’m taking a philosophy course and a psychology course both at the same time. I keep trying to put them together. That’s natural, right? I’ve also started a writing course through correspondence with Antioch College. I’m really excited about that one. It’s going to be great.

  “In the philosophy class, I’m doing a presentation on behaviorism. Can you point me in the right direction? You know, give me the names of authors and references I can look up.”

  “Sure,” I said. “But aside from that...”

  “I know what you’re going to say. If you want to know the truth...once in a while, I do get terribly lonely. It’s great to see Mama, of course. She always has something nice to say or to ask about you. She really enjoys seeing you when you stay overnight in LA. I was happy to hear that you got that part-time job on the UCLA campus that you wanted.”

  I said, “I don’t get the chance to see your mom as often as I’d like when I’m there. How about you, Leslie? What else is news?”

  “I have to be honest. At times, my spirit sinks very low. I know this sounds stupid and sucky, but, in my lowest moments, I wish I wasn’t so tough and determined. It only adds weight.”

  I lied and said, “I know what you mean.”

  “Did I tell you I work in the hospital clinic now?” Leslie continued. “It’s a new experience for me. It’s nothing too heavy. I doubt I’d ever work for a hospital on the streets...I mean, when I get home. I don’t like using the phrase ‘on the streets,’ and I’m trying to break myself of the habit.”

  “What’s it like being back with the main population?” I wondered aloud.

  “Pretty awful. The people on this side of the compound are not nearly as kind and flowery as those in the psych unit. Here, they feed off each other like vultures. Pretty ‘tough cookies’...as they say. Speaking of which...it’s getting crazy right here in the hallway. I’ve got to go deal with this now. I’m having a rough time putting my attention to this. Sorry. I really enjoyed reading your letter. Write again when it suits you. And let me know when you feel that you’d like to visit.”

  * * *

  Throughout the rest of the year, the frequency of phone calls and exchange of letters fell off between us. In August 1979, just before her thirtieth birthday, Leslie sent me a brief update on the courses she was taking with Antioch College. There was no real mention of anything personal. We were back to where we started—as pen pals with fading returns. I thought I still wanted more than she was willing to give, or maybe I didn’t. No, I did. I most certainly did. (Listen to me. I was beginning to sound just like one of those terrible, senseless songs by Charlie Manson.)

  Although I continued to write one or two times after that, the last time we actually spoke was on January 17th, 1980. That was the same day Leslie had her hearing with the state board of prison terms. They again denied her release. It was also my twenty-ninth birthday.

  After an afternoon game at the Ice Patch, friends and teammates threw me a surprise party. Even Tricia Woodbridge and Martin Bijaux drove up from LA together with Martin’s girlfriend. They were to spend a few nights as my houseguests. There was this big barbeque with over thirty people—plus a memorable six-aside ball hockey game on my driveway. My side was losing 17-15 when we ran out of daylight. But it was great to see my hockey buddies having such a good time rapping with friends from UCSB and the confluent program—another two solitudes destined to meet.

  The old boys from Flin Flon got a huge bonfire blazing out in the fire pit we built near the Coulter pines and white fir trees that lined our neighbor’s fence. My friends from Amsterdam, Fried and Yvonne, led the gang ’round the inferno in a medley of songs by The Beatles and The Mamas and The Papas. Others were dancing and casting their shadows onto the stones, bushes, tree trunks and branches. Inside, a dozen people were drinking cheap wine and talking. Tricia and I wandered off outside together to make out by some rocks near a picnic bench on the cliff’s edge. The planets above were all whirling in orbit, and I felt the starlit seas curling and churning below. To me, the ocean looked like a sea of molten iron and lava. Yes, I was high as a kite.

  “You know, Peter,” Tricia said, “this whole time I’ve been meaning to ask you if you’re still in touch with Leslie Van Houten?”

  “Not much anymore,” I said, looking out toward the southeast horizon. “Out of sight and out of my mind. I guess that makes me a ‘blind idiot.’ Sometimes, I think I’ve forgotten about her completely. Then, all of a sudden, there she is in my thoughts and dreams.”

  “What does that tell you?”

  “Maybe something about how irresistible love can become absolutely impossible at times...but no less irrepressible. Confirmation that nothing ever works out, lawyers are mostly awful, unlawful cutthroats and thieves, and nobody gets me but me. How does that sound for being hard-done-by?” I asked, fumbling for comfort.

  I didn’t dare mention the guilt I felt for having treated the one I loved so badly.

  She said, “It sounds very sad, though nonetheless real and imaginative.”

  I kissed her passionately for that, out of instinct.

  It wasn’t that late yet. I’d already had one or two cups of the magic mushroom tea that Annamarit and Dulcie had brewed with honey and almonds. Everyone, including Trish and myself, was really starting to get off. You could tell. The whole building was as charged as can be. I saw Tricia’s hair turn to fire and her skin felt like electric-orange silken fabric. Her entire body was aglow, burning a hole in the room like the living room fireplace. I closed my eyes and the fires continued. I asked Trish to please play David Bowie’s song “Heroes” a second time. Then, when it was over, someone switched the tape to a song Neil Diamond wrote for the Monkees. That changed the pace of things—let me tell you. Tricia and everyone else in the room got up to twist and shout along with the Wrecking Crew. I just sat there and admired the panorama of fire, flesh and debris passing in view.

  The next thing I recall was Mark calling my name from the kitchen. There was a “collect call from Leslie.”

  “Sounds like a pretty nice party,” she said, over the music and noise in the background.

  “Yes. And it would be nicer still if you could be here in person.”

  There was a quiet break and then the crackle of static. A bad connection?

  “It’s been a long time, Leslie. How are you?”

  “I wanted to wish you a very ‘Happy Birthday.’ I’m glad I got through. It’s good to hear your voice. Though maybe I should let you go and have a good time if you’re busy...”

  “No, wait…I’ll ask them to turn down the music,” I started to say, pausing to find my way through all the ether.

  Seconds later, our connection was lost completely. Dead silence at her end. This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. No reason to panic. I don’t know how long I went on waiting for her to call back, but she never did. Not then or ever again.

  After hanging the receiver back on its cradle, I stepped outside to have another look ’round at the bonfire, just to make sure we weren’t burning the place down to ruins. It seemed to me as if I were staring the wrong way through a pair of trippy binoculars. I wandered all over the cliff side. Just then, I caught a flash of firelight reflecting off some shimmering object that lay beside the rocks on the ground.
It was my silver chain and medallion that Leslie had given me. I didn’t even realize it had come undone or that I had lost it. When I picked it up, I saw that the top face of the coin had sheared off from its base. And, although I searched for it all through the night and again when the sun was up, I never found it. Not then or ever again.

  Epilogue

  At Leslie’s parole hearing in 1980, Stephen Kay had told the board, “I’d feel better releasing a middle-aged, forty-year-old Leslie Van Houten than a thirty-year old Leslie Van Houten.” Kay also admitted, “I’ve always said Leslie was the smartest and maybe the most normal of them all.” He told the Los Angeles Times in 1980 that he didn’t think Leslie should be locked up forever, but added it was “too soon to release her now.” But later, frightened by the prospect of growing support for her release, Mr. Kay enlisted the family of the victims, led primarily by the family of Sharon Tate, to petition for keeping Leslie imprisoned indefinitely. Although Mr. Kay was once quoted as saying that, “She’s the only one I could ever see getting parole,” in 2002 he testified that parole for Leslie Van Houten at any time would be an error in judgment.

  Vincent Bugliosi originally predicted that being “the least committed to Manson,” Leslie would serve fifteen to twenty years. He admitted to Larry King, “I was impressed by her…She seems to be a model prisoner and everyone seems to say she is very remorseful for the murders.” He later told The National Enquirer, “I want Leslie Van Houten to remain in prison for the rest of her life.”