But Uncle Stewart did not strike out at him this time. Instead he turned and looked straight ahead through the windscreen, then inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and slowly let the air back out. His eyes remained closed for another few seconds until a smile crossed his face. His features softened and his expression turned coy, like somebody who has a secret. When he opened them, the anger was gone from his face. He regarded Sanford with bored amusement. When he spoke, his voice sounded so different that it reminded Sanford of a flirtatious teenaged girl. “Your mother told me how much trouble you are to her. Dreamer. Can’t pay attention. Don’t like to go to school. But that was back there, and you’re not back there any more. I’m the adult and you’re the kid. You do what you’re told. You don’t give me grief. This is how we get along. Together. In life. Correct?”
Sanford picked up his cue and tried to respond, but his throat caught. Nothing came out but air. He got the immediate sense that it would be a dangerous transgression of some kind for him to misspeak, even though he was not sure why. He tried a second time. “Yes.” This time the sound came out.
He was almost too late. Uncle Stewart’s eyes flashed with annoyance as if the familiar anger was about to return. But a moment later the relaxation came back over him. When he spoke, he was still using that odd girly voice. “So as I was about to say, about the values, is that you take all of the children of the world who have talent, humility, and brains, and you nurture them. You cherish them. You … well. Then you get rid of all the rest! And there you have the making of Utopia, buddy! Simple as pie.”
Uncle Stewart was looking at him as if he expected a response, but Sanford had nothing. The best he could do was to mutter: “Um, all right.”
His uncle gave him a strange smile. Like a nasty girl. Sanford had never seen him use it.
“You can say that again,” he said with a solemn nod. He put the car in gear and released the brake, then pulled onto the road and accelerated with a heavy foot. “All we need is the willpower to do it!”
“Do what?” Sanford asked, guessing that further questions were allowed.
“Get rid of all the rejects!” Stewart shouted over the growing headwind.
Sanford figured he should work at keeping the conversation going. Anything to keep him happy. “How does somebody do that?” It seemed as if he would somehow tread lighter with Uncle Stewart if he avoided asking how he would do it.
“How? What do you mean, ‘how’? Somebody needs to just stick out his chest and get the job done, that’s how!” He steered the car to avoid a dead skunk. “Woops! Get that smell on your tires, it’s there for miles. Anyway, Hollywood is pitching in with this, helping us to get rid of the rejects! And you have to admit, it’s brilliant. Really. Do you know how they do it? Say no.”
“No.”
“I’ll tell you. They do it by making ugly people sorry to be alive! Ha! And they accomplish that by showing the ugly people everything that they’re missing out on, just by being fat and twisted-up looking and generally inferior. And so when the ugly people see that, it depresses their spirits, naturally. And get this—it’s brilliant—that inhibits their urge to breed! American movies are going to make the whole world ten times smarter! Ingenious, no?”
“… I guess.”
“No, you don’t ‘guess.’ When you are dealing with a sure thing, there is no ‘guess’ involved.”
“Except the kids are here already. They’re going to be in this world as long as we will, right?”
Uncle Stewart regarded him with clear disappointment, then turned back to the road. He stared straight ahead and took another deep breath, slowly letting out a long exhale before he spoke. “There’s never a good man around when you need one.”
Sanford had no idea what to say to that, but he got lucky—Uncle Stewart appeared to be done for the time being. It looked like there might even be a little peaceful time before his energy built back up. In the meantime Sanford decided to avoid all unnecessary conversation. See if that might do any good.
Two
At the age of twenty, Gordon Stewart Northcott had the almost-handsome looks of a B-movie actor and enough verbal skill to be charming and persuasive when it suited him. And so whether or not he was skilled enough to play the piano in a major concert or up on the movie screen, he possessed the right personal appearance and gift of gab to walk onto any movie lot in Los Angeles and pick up a job. The movie business was already so well established that the name “Hollywood” was known around the world. Less than three years earlier, a real estate developer had erected giant capital letters that spelled out “HOLLYWOODLAND” across a hillside facing the city. (The sign was later changed to read just “HOLLYWOOD,” in 1949.) Each letter was covered with hundreds of light bulbs, visible at night for many miles and symbolizing the promise of the movie business itself.
The growing city was wide open with work opportunities. The entire region was riding a wave of social expansion as a tourist destination, and local labor unions were still weak. Stewart Northcott could have found good work if that had been his plan. His Canadian background would do nothing to hinder him from blending into general society. As for Sanford, a boy of thirteen could get into school with some casually faked papers, or earn decent wages if he could work like a man. Either one of them could have gotten a job on the gigantic construction force building the brand-new Los Angeles City Hall. It was to be a towering structure of white stone reaching high over the palm trees, an Aztec temple metamorphosed into a corporate tower, and it required workers of every skill level. All over the city, a healthy young guy needed nothing more than his own willingness to outwork the competition. Nobody needed to venture into the desert to raise chickens.
In spite of all the bustle, the overall level of social innocence remained high. Society may have been entertaining itself with moving images of light, but mass communication was still limited to the local newspaper and rare telephone calls. Most people had no understanding of the depths of depravity to which human nature can descend. There was no way to circulate the kind of information that would allow anyone to anticipate the twists of behavior that such dark places could produce—unless an individual shared those ruinous traits.
By the time Uncle Stewart and Sanford arrived at the home of his grandparents, 62-year-old George Northcott and his 54-year-old wife Louise, Sanford was hoping that a couple of new people would brighten up Uncle Stewart’s demeanor, which had steadily soured over the past few days. But from the moment they walked into the Northcott home, it was apparent that nothing would be brightened up on Sanford’s account. Nobody bothered with introductions.
Grandma Louise ignored Sanford altogether while she fell all over herself to greet her son when they walked in. “Stewart!” she cried out. Then she burst into tears and smothered Uncle Stewart in her arms, repeating “My precious boy, my precious boy” over and over. It caught Sanford completely off guard. He had forgotten how melodramatic she was. Loud, too, as if they were in a crowded room and she needed to be certain that everybody could hear.
She waited on her son hand and foot, taking his coat, his hat, smoothing his hair, straightening his collar. She assured him that his favorite tea was already brewing in the kitchen, passed him a bowl of his favorite hard candies, and continued to hover over him like a musty gray cloud. Sanford could not recall anybody over the age of three or four who got catered to in that fashion. Grandma’s tone of voice was familiar in a dreadful way, like the syrupy voice Uncle Stewart used with Sanford’s mother. Somehow her demeanor put the same tightness into the back of his spine that he got from watching his mother and Uncle Stewart together.
Her precious boy dismissed her and even made a display out of being annoyed by her attentions, although Sanford noticed that he did nothing to stop her. Grandma Louise continued to blandish loving affection on Uncle Stewart in spite of his indifferent responses. She ignored her husband altogether until it was time for Stewart to sit. Then she reached over
and casually pulled Grandpa George out of the best chair in the room and instructed her son to sit there. Uncle Stewart looked at his father and gave a mock-helpless shrug, then laughed out loud and sat down in the big chair. He leaned back and put up his feet before taunting his father with a sour smile.
It was plain to see that Louise was another billy club of a woman, possessed of a high degree of crude personal force. Though George Northcott gave the impression that he would not be beaten into silence as quite easily as Sanford’s father, it became clear within the first few minutes that this couple’s relationship worked in about the same way. Sanford’s eyes were already sharpened to that style of behavior by his life at home, and over the past several days his close-up observations of Uncle Stewart had freshened his sense for it.
Grandpa George seemed to be angry that his son had showed up with Sanford in tow. The wiry little man’s face was set so hard, it could have been chipped from a chunk of flint. He behaved the same way Sanford’s father did when he was unhappy: detached and glowering, parked under a dark cloud.
The hostile atmosphere hung in the air. Sanford made himself as small and quiet as he could. It was not enough. The attempt to conceal himself failed before the first half-hour passed, when Grandma Louise decided that she needed to walk in front of Sanford so closely that she stumbled over his feet—even though there was plenty of room for her to step around him. It seemed to Sanford that she had aimed right for him. When her foot clipped his, she quickly recovered her balance, but the damage had been done. She whirled to her son in anger.
“Stewart, what is the idea of bringing a clumsy oaf into our home?” she demanded, again sounding like a bad actress shouting her lines. She turned to Sanford. “Is this how you repay a lady’s hospitality? Trip her as she walks by?”
“I didn’t—” Sanford began.
“Shut up!” Uncle Stewart bellowed at him. “My mother will not be contradicted inside her own home! What’s the matter with you?”
“Jesus Christ,” muttered Grandpa George. He stomped off into the kitchen, rubbing both of his temples as if his head was hurting.
Grandma Louise wasn’t done. “I went down to the telephone office yesterday and called the telephone office all the way up to Saskatoon to talk to Winnie, because she wrote and arranged the call. So she told me all about you. What to expect and whatnot. Useless. And here is my boy, giving you another chance at life! Although I can’t think of any reason that he should.” She peered into Sanford’s eyes. “Can you think of any reason that he should?”
Sanford racked his brain. “We’re family.”
“You are not ‘family’ that anybody needs!” She yelled so loudly that her face went purple. “You are only here because Stewart needs help in getting this place started up and running. So now you listen to me: you are going to do all of the dirtiest work, because I want Stewart’s hands free of calluses for playing the piano. We will be delivering one out to the farm so that he can practice, and every time I come out there I am going to check his hands. If I find any calluses, if I find one callus, it will be your hide that pays.”
“I can’t stop him from doing anything.”
“You got that one right, pal,” Uncle Stewart chimed in.
“I don’t expect you to stop him. I expect you to make it unnecessary for him to do the work in the first place. I expect you to do the work before he even notices that it needs to be done! My husband and I put good money into buying this land. The farm needs to start paying off. And I mean quick.”
Sanford could think of no better response than to fix his gaze on the floor. That was all that ever worked, back at home. He had no idea what to make of the situation. An emotional firestorm had somehow flashed up over a simple stumble that had caused no harm. For one brief moment he wondered if he shouldn’t just go ahead and speak out, challenge both of them for blaming him.
The answer came when Uncle Stewart surprised him with a full arm roundhouse punch to the side of the head. Sanford flew sideways, hit the wall, and bounced onto the floor. The cold linoleum struck him like a giant hammer. His vision went white, and terror shot through him. His legs twitched several times, keeping him flat on the floor while his mind grasped for assurances. What just happened? What was it? An accident? A moment later, he was able to raise his head just enough to get a glimpse of Uncle Stewart standing over him with his fists balled up. No accident. No help coming.
Grandpa George called out from the kitchen that Stewart had better not break any of his furniture. Grandma Louise casually glanced down at Sanford, sneered, and looked away. He lay as still as he could while he tried to get his bearings. Waves of pain ran down his neck. The sensation of fear was worse than the throbbing in his head, but he had no idea of what to do to protect himself or of how to focus his outrage. How the hell was he supposed to have earned something like that? Oh, how he would have loved to pick up something, anything, and smash it right over his uncle’s head. If only he weren’t so small. He was still clearheaded enough to keep his gaze on the floor. They come down on you if you meet their eyes. Meanwhile he braced one hand against the floor to push himself back to his feet.
Uncle Stewart cuffed him flat to the linoleum again “for getting up without being told.” Grandma Louise guffawed at that. She truly seemed to have it in for him, as if he had made her mad as hell just by walking into the house. Uncle Stewart wrapped it up. “You know, if I were you, I’d get the hell out of here right now.”
Grandma Louise grabbed Sanford under the arm before he could respond and walked him out the back door of the modest house. She released him at the doorway with a shove toward the yard and left him there without mentioning when he could return. The screen door slammed shut behind him. It occurred to him then that his hope of seeing things improve after they arrived in Los Angeles had just hit a brick wall. Suddenly the idea of spending time in the Northcott place made him feel sick with anger. He paced around in the yard, trying to get a picture of what part of the city they were in. But there was a weird kind of dusty soot in the air and he couldn’t see more than a half mile or so in any direction. All that he could make out in the distance was an uncountable number of small single-story houses. They formed long rows on streets that blended seamlessly and disappeared into the haze.
“Without warning, Uncle Stewart leaned out the back door and called out to him, “Hey. Don’t leave the property.” Sanford jumped, startled, but didn’t respond quickly enough, so Uncle Stewart shouted it this time: “Don’t leave the sonofabitching property, Sanford! Are you deaf? Stay here in the yard.”
Sanford cleared his throat and responded, “All right,” and managed to do it without misspeaking this time. He threw a quick glance at Uncle Stewart, just to acknowledge him, not enough to present any sort of challenge. That seemed to work. Uncle Stewart went back inside. Sanford let out a deep breath that he didn’t realize he had been holding in. His legs felt wobbly. Once it became quiet out there, his fatigue descended on him. The entire journey seemed to weigh on his shoulders. He walked around the perimeter of the yard a few times, then sat down on the steps and leaned against the railing. His eyes grew heavy and he began to fall asleep. He jolted back upright, scolded himself for drifting off, leaned back, and drifted off again.
He was still there when Uncle Stewart eventually came outside once more. The sound of the door startled him awake, causing him to strike the back of his head on the iron railing. Uncle Stewart laughed and motioned for him to come back inside. He did it just as if nothing had happened between them. That in itself was nearly enough to knock Sanford down again, but whatever had caused that major outburst inside seemed to have passed. So now, apparently, it was time to forget it and probably wise not to bring it up.
He made it a practice to stay away from the three Northcotts as much as possible for the rest of their stay in Los Angeles. When he had to deal with them, he did whatever he was told without question. That was enough to keep himself safe most of the t
ime. Two tedious weeks passed in a cloud of tension. The challenge of avoiding the tempers in that place was constant, but Sanford was cut off from everybody else he knew. There was little to do but study the best ways to steer clear of the Northcotts. Especially Uncle Stewart, whose own parents seemed to fear him.
By the time the two weeks had passed, he was being completely ignored by Grandpa George and routinely head-slapped by Grandma Louise. He had been punched to the floor two more times by Uncle Stewart. And there was to be one more time toward the end.
The beatings from Uncle Stewart were instructive. After the first one, it occurred to Sanford that the act of knocking him flat was important to his uncle, as if the sight of a prostrate victim confirmed that his punishments were meeting their goals. So the next time Uncle Stewart invented a reason to attack, Sanford tried out his theory by hitting the ground right after the first blow, deliberately taking a fall even though he hadn’t been struck hard. He lay in a fetal position with one arm protectively curled across his face and waited.
That brought a pause in the attack. It was like magic … the next blow did not come! Instead, Uncle Stewart stood over him for a few more moments basking in his conquest, then abruptly spun around and walked away. Sanford cautiously got back to his feet, nurturing a small sense of victory. He had just confirmed that the one thing Uncle Stewart needed most during his fits of rage was the feeling that he had completely crushed his opposition. It was not enough for him just to win: he had to pulverize an opponent and see him helpless.
Having grown up in an explosive household with a father who was browbeaten into silence, his natural response to irrational violence was to placate the perpetrator and roll with the punches. His survival instinct performed whether or not his behavior would seem normal to an observer. What he had learned was that if he allowed Uncle Stewart to hurt him a little bit and then willingly humiliated himself before him, his uncle was less likely to hurt him any more after that. Sanford fell back into the special ability that had sustained him on the long, sour drive to California—he made himself nearly invisible. He retreated into the dime-store detective novels that he had tossed into his suitcase before they left Saskatoon, and remained careful to avoid any sudden movements at all while he was around the Northcott house.
The Road Out of Hell Page 3
