Hypnotically, John reaches out and holds my hand. The reflections of dancing flames replace the blue that used to be his eyes, and his face shines with a soft, warm glow. He cocks his head for just a moment, turns, and leads me to the beach.
The tide is low, and the water is cool around my ankles as I play in the surf. Perched on a large boulder, John looks out over the horizon, deep in thought. The sun has set and the remains of light fade orange, yellow, and blue into the sky. A bright crescent moon hangs low above the inky water.
“It’s getting cold,” I finally tell him, timidly breaking his trance.
He finds my eyes and nods. Hand in hand, we amble toward the campsite. Abruptly John turns to face me and then sweetly, in a boyish tone, asks, “Would you make love to me tonight, Dawn?”
My heart stops; the ripples of the ocean stand still. The atmosphere is like the air before a lightning storm…wet, rich, charged. “Yes.” I hear my voice quiver like a shy and frightened kitten’s. He really likes me now. I hear a voice come from the back of my mind that comforts my insecurity.
Slowly he guides me into the van, lights a joint, and blows the smoke into my mouth. Shoving grocery bags and clothing aside, he unfolds a brightly colored Mexican blanket and lays me down against the scratchy weave. John takes charge, his nostrils flared like an animal’s, wild from scent. He slowly peels off my clothes—jacket, shirt, pants. I recoil a bit, afraid of his intensity. He stares at me, surprised, and then gently kisses my arms, my neck, my breasts. I am mesmerized as I watch him gasp and caress every exposure of my skin, as if he is unveiling something precious. I begin to feel exalted, safe, and warm. His breath is heavy, and I can hear an almost catlike whine from the back of his throat. He bolts upright, rips at the snaps of his light blue cowboy shirt, and strips off his pants. Kneeling over me, he is fully erect. I panic at his size and quickly look around for a way to escape. John coaxes my hand to reach out and touch him. Frightened, I follow his lead, awkward, and silently worry if I’m doing okay. He slips down to kiss me between my legs as I lie there unmoving, frozen, not understanding what he wants me to feel. When he lifts his head, he doesn’t look at me and rises up to cover me with the frightening hardness of his body. He is strong, and I can’t move from under him. A whimper escapes from somewhere inside me.
“Trust me,” he whispers hoarsely into my ear.
With a deep breath, I remain deathly still, pinned immobile underneath John’s strength. I close my eyes and silently let the terrible searing pain of finality wash over me with the crash of the ocean tide.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The World According to John
For three days, the window shades keep the lights out in Harriet’s living room. My head stays buried under the pillows to keep out even the glare of the shadows. Fiery images of my night with John burn in my mind, and the cold, silent ride home stings. Everything hurts, my body screams, and I can’t walk. I tell Dad that I have bad cramps and can’t go to school. Harriet gives me looks that say she knows better but, without any questions, she lets me keep the pullout couch open. I take painful steps to the bathroom every five minutes; I think I am going to die. Specks of blood and wrenching pain keep me doubled over and paralyzed. Something’s really wrong. I panic that I have seriously damaged something inside, but how can I go to anyone for help? I can’t…not after the beach.
Harriet answers when John knocks to wake me for school the next Monday. “She’s sick,” she tells him and sends him an icy glare. A pregnant silence and then his footsteps fading away are the only response I hear. I want to say something but can’t find the words. I’m not well, and I’m way too scared.
Thankfully, Harriet is compassionate and takes me to the local clinic for antibiotics. Slowly my body heals. The bleeding stops, and the pain subsides enough that I venture over to Terry’s again. Oh God. How embarrassing. I try to act nonchalant and ignore the nagging voice inside my head that shouts, Everyone knows!
“You okay?” Terry asks blandly. “Dad said you were sick.”
“Yeah. Cramps.” I cringe as I sit on the sofa. I had lost my virginity back in Carol City, at my girlfriend’s house one night when her father was gone. My sixteen-year-old boyfriend had seemed huge to my five-foot frame, but he was nothing compared to John. That was awkward kids’ stuff; this is undeniably real.
“John’s been worried.”
“Yeah. He has?”
“Yeah. He wants me to tell you he had to go to San Francisco for a couple days. He’ll be home tonight.”
“That’s nice.” I dully curl into a ball and shiver.
“Are you sure you’re okay? Here. Here’s a blanket.” Terry hands me an afghan and turns on the TV. We watch television numbly late into the evening until we hear voices at the door. John and Juan walk in together. Juan is still wearing his cook’s apron, and John wears his faded jeans and boots and his favorite hand-sewn patch jacket, a multicolored puzzle of patches collected from his different travels. He sewed each one on by hand and wears it only on special occasions. I know he has just gotten home from San Francisco.
“Thanks for the ride, man,” Juan blurts, running straight for the bathroom.
“Yeah, man, sure.” Seeing me on the couch, John says, “Hi. How ya doing?”
He props his briefcase up on the coffee table and sits down next to me, looking tired and unshaven. His arm stretches warmly out around my shoulder, and he hugs me close, kissing me on the cheek.
“Missed you,” he whispers into my ear.
Don’t grab me too hard, I think, my body tender. God, I hope Terry can’t tell anything. My body still hurts, and I am uncomfortable with our secret. I don’t really know how to act and, besides, I am annoyed that John has been away “working.”
John sits up and leans over to open his briefcase. “Here.” He tosses Terry handfuls of candy bars.
“Thanks!” she squeals, scrambling for the goods.
John reaches deeper into his case and hides something under his jacket.
“What’s that?” I tease, pretending to grab at his chest.
He plays along and pulls away. Then, head down, he whips a small teddy bear out from behind his back.
“Oh! It’s adorable. Thank you,” I squeal and hug the soft plush toy. For a second, the memory of Aunt Ella and fireflies wraps around me like a soft, warm blanket.
John turns his body away and bends over secretively. “What size ring do you wear?”
I feel a rush of excitement. “I don’t know. Why?”
“When is your birthday?”
“December 29. Why?”
“Let me see your hand.” John reaches over to take my hand into his lap, admires my long slender fingers, and slips a sparkly light blue stone ring on my right ring finger. “Perfect.” He holds my hand up in the light.
I am speechless. Tears well up, and it takes everything I have not to cry. “Th-th-thank you.” I’m still not sure if the ring is for me. I am more than overwhelmed. No one has ever given me jewelry before.
John brings me close to his side. I can smell his scent again, that familiar green apple blended with maybe a hint of dogwood blossoms of my past, and I feel like I belong. I snuggle into his chest, and a tear falls from behind the veil of my long dark hair onto his colorful jacket.
“Blue zircon and white gold. Do you like it?”
I nod and sniffle softly. “How did you know my birthstone? And how did you know what size I wear?”
John chuckles.
He does really like me, I think and remember the ride home from the beach when he was so silent and cold. This ring proves it.
We cuddle for a long time, gingerly, lying on the couch draped by each other’s arms and legs. It feels like a perfect fit. Cautiously, I sneak glances at Terry and Juan, checking their reaction to the closer intimacy between John and me. Blank looks that say no big deal and casual conversation help me feel comfortable lying so close to him.
“Ready?” John asks, yawning.
&
nbsp; “Sure.” I let him gently help me off the couch, my body still so very sore.
“Good night, you guys.”
At my front door, we hesitate. It is late and the streets are quiet. “How about a date this Saturday? To the beach?” His voice is low and sensuous.
“Okay.” I try to keep my voice in check; I don’t want to sound too childlike; I want to be sensual. I reach up to let him kiss me deeply over every inch of my mouth.
John’s breath is heavy; he steps back. “A date. A date. We have a date at eight,” he whispers, mimicking the song of the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. Then he kisses the ring he has placed on my hand, opens the door, and lets me in.
“Skulls. The human body is amazing,” John notes as we scour the desert floor for bony specimens. John collects skulls—all kinds of skulls. We are somewhere out in the desert. John kicks the dirt around the silvery sagebrush. “Be careful of rattlesnakes.”
Having grown up with my brother’s boa constrictors, I don’t mind snakes, but the poisonous parts make me nervous. “Here’s one,” I call, spying the white ring of an eye socket peeking out of the sand.
John runs over to see. Digging it out of the ground, he carefully holds the bleached bones up to the sun. “Jackrabbit. Nice one.” He gives me a peck on the cheek.
I beam at the compliment and hold out a paper bag for him to carefully wrap it in.
“I think we have enough. Let’s get outta here,” he says, giving me a squeeze. “It’s getting late.”
We head back to Glendale, lighthearted. I’m happier than I ever remember feeling. I am John’s girl, and he is my guy. We do everything together: mountains, desert, and John’s favorite—the beach. At least, when he isn’t working or I don’t have school. He treats me like a lady, praises and adores me. We laugh and giggle like kids, get silly, and smoke pot. With everything we do, we get along. I am in love, and I’m sure John is in love with me too.
John always tells me I am beautiful. I have never known how much I need to be told those words; it feels so good. He plans trips, and I’m glad to come along. His presence, words, and actions fill every lonely, dejected void I harbor inside, and my presence seems to make him glow. John loves to surprise me with those secret moments behind closed doors when he can arrange just the right time to make love. I don’t tell him that I’m scared when we’re together like that, and I get good at hiding the pain.
“Let’s go out of town this weekend,” John says. “Somewhere special. Umm, let’s see…maybe Palm Springs?”
“Really?”
“Just you and me, baby. Overnight. Nice hotel—Biltmore, maybe? I’ll take you on the tram and to my favorite Mexican restaurant.” He squeezes my hand and gives me a seductive up-and-down look.
“John, really? Uh, I mean yeah, I’d love to…But wait. What about my dad? Overnight without Terry and Juan. What do I tell him?”
“Can you tell him they’re going? He won’t check anyway. You know how he is.” John grips my hand convincingly tighter. I nod in agreement, but I’m nervous. “Okay. I will.”
I head to Terry’s when we get home and take a hard dive for her couch to kick back for a while. Terry flips through the afternoon shows, cursing and twisting the rabbit ears. We are soon hypnotized into an old rerun of I Love Lucy when we hear a loud bam, crash, thud!
“What’s that?” We race for the window. “It’s coming from John and Sharon’s.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Shhh! Oh my God, they’re fighting,” she rasps.
“Sharon! Sharon! Stop!” John is shouting, but the shattering of glass continues.
A pregnant silence, then a different sort of smashing, like wood and pottery and metal, comes in hard, quick frenzies until we hear Sharon’s voice scream, “John!E-nough!”
The breaking noises stop, and you could hear a feather fall. Terry and I crouch behind the window shade, straining for a glimpse of the wreckage.
Slam! The screen door smacks hard, splintering its wooden frame. Sharon, in her white nurse’s uniform, flings her purse over her shoulder and jangles a large ring of keys loudly in her hand. Marching down the courtyard, she storms into her Chevy Malibu and furiously speeds away.
The silence screams from their cottage. She knows about us! I panic. And she’s mad. Oh my God, is she going to the police? Is she going to kick us out? I am beginning to get hysterical. I know my age is a huge problem, and I’m afraid John will get in trouble. Everyone who knows about John and me wouldn’t say anything—and I figure most everyone knows. He doesn’t really hide his affections. According to John, Sharon doesn’t care who he is with because they live like brother and sister, but my being underage…that is a different story. Sharon works for a pediatrician! She takes care of children! She might report him if she is mad. My fears are spinning out of control, and I am visibly shaking.
Terry and I are still glued to the window, afraid of what John might do next. I hear nothing. All is quiet. For several minutes, both of us sit bug-eyed and motionless. Terry systematically bites her nails down to the quick of each finger until we again hear the sound of glass. But this time, it is the sweeping of it, the cleaning up. It is John. Solemnly he props the screen door open with a large plastic garbage can, quietly sweeps up the shattered glass, and gathers broken pieces of wood.
Cautiously, I walk out onto Terry’s porch to see if I can catch his eye, but he won’t look at anyone. I see his brother, David, standing outside smoking a cigarette and wearing a half smirk. Is he gloating? John keeps his head down, his face is red, and he is pouring sweat. He avoids looks from anyone who may have heard the argument. His long, hard sweeps are deliberate as he finishes the cleanup; then he disappears inside. He emerges with his briefcase and jean jacket in hand, storms to the van, and peels away to the gawks of more than half the tenants.
Oh God. What do I do? I throw myself onto Terry’s water bed and fling a quilt over my head. I want to disappear.
“Dawn. Dawn!” Terry shouts.
“Whaaatt?” I whimper, willing tears away.
“I can’t believe he left!”
“Yeah.” I feel numb.
That evening John hasn’t returned. He doesn’t wake me for school the next day. The police don’t come either, but I still believe we will surely be kicked out, and I know it will all be my fault. Sharon’s not going to put up with this. But nothing happens.
John comes home the next evening, and Sharon soon afterward. As mysteriously as the explosion appeared, it is gone. There is again a normalcy about their movements, almost as if nothing ever happened. No one asks and, taking their cue, everybody plays along.
“You up?” John asks softly as I answer the 7:00 a.m. knocking at my door.
“Hey. How’ve you been?”
“Hey. Yeah, I’m fine…and you?” He speaks gently, shyly.
“Fine,” I lie. I want him to reach out and hold me, tell me everything is all right.
“So, uh, you still up for Palm Springs this weekend?”
“Yeah.” I’m excited. I need him to know I missed him.
“Tell your dad we’re going tonight and will be back Sunday. Tell him Terry and Juan too. You know. Like we talked about.”
John opens the screen door. His thumb brushes across my lips. “Can’t wait to be with you,” he whispers in my ear. Then he kisses me warmly on the lips.
I want his kiss to linger.
“Gets hot here in the summertime. In the hundreds. But this is the time of year I like best.” John speaks with familiarity. It is January of 1977, and the weather is perfect: in the seventies.
The Palm Springs Biltmore Hotel is a 1950s deco-style building with a grand front lobby. Huge crystal chandeliers, elaborate Spanish tiles, and massive live palms greet us at the front desk. I have never seen anything so rich and luxurious. I marvel at the way the room speaks to me. The air is warm and smells of secrets, lace, and confidence. John signs us in as Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. The clerk doesn’t bother to check my ID even though I nervously fidget a
nd obviously try to avoid his gaze.
“Lots of movie stars have stayed here. Still do,” John whispers into my ear after thanking the clerk, and I fantasize that people are wondering if we are stars too.
He knows exactly where he is going. He’s been here before. How many times and who did he bring? Another girlfriend? I wonder. We wind through stone pathways and giant palm trees and come to a private bungalow with a secluded porch and hammock. The inside is regal with a California king and a giant sunk-in tiled hot tub in the floor of our bath.
“Like it, baby?” He comes up behind me and hugs me close.
“I love it, John. I can’t believe it. It’s beautiful!”
“No, you’re beautiful.”
“John. Stop,” I say timidly.
“No, you stop. Don’t you know how beautiful you are?”
“No, I’m not. Quit it.” I am blushing now.
John grabs my arms and flings me on the deep, soft mattress, holding me down. Playfully, I struggle to get free.
“Get over here. Yes, you are. Hold still. Hold still.” He brings his body fully onto mine and pins me down. “Stop,” he pleads sweetly. “Stop.”
I relax at the gentle command he has of my body, lie trustingly under his weight, my eyes inches from the blue of his.
“Listen to me.” He softly wipes strands of hair from my face. “Look at you. Look. Look at your face,” he whispers admiringly, tenderly outlining my features with his fingers. “The shape, those cheekbones—and your eyes, the green, blue…” He shakes his head. “…and their perfect almond shape.” His fingers lightly brush over my eyes, then stop. “You were my birthday present, you know? It was my birthday when I first met you.” John holds my gaze for what seems an eternity before he lightly places his lips on mine. “I love you,” he breathes, his mouth barely touching my skin. “You’re the best thing…” His voice trails off.
The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes Page 15
