The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes

by Dawn Schiller

Eventually, John broaches the subject of me moving in permanently. My apartment is in dire need of repairs and close to unrentable. The ravages of time and tenants have taken their toll on the old brown burlap walls, and I’m not there very much anymore. The decision is made without much concern or need for thought, and my clothes and a few of my favorite things are casually brought over one lazy weekend and set up in the spare bedroom.

  Aside from worrying about disrespecting Sharon, not once do I question the strangeness of my relationship with her and John. When John and I want to hang out together, we head to David and Karen’s (John can be counted on to hand down extras when he is in their lives), and when he wants to be intimate, well, that can happen anywhere. John and I still make weekend trips to the beach, mountains, and Palm Springs. Sharon usually declines our invitation but does go to the Saugus Swap Meet and flies to Vegas with us once, vowing afterward never to be in an airplane again.

  “Flying is not for people. It’s for birds,” she snaps. She is terrified of flying and takes some kind of pill to get through the flight.

  When in Vegas, we hit it big, the three of us. John plays poker machines and scores a royal flush in hearts. Drunk with laughter he peels off hundreds for us to play our own machines, and when that is gone he peels off more without flinching. Sharon and I mill around watching the gamblers and find a “hot” slot machine of our own, banking almost eight hundred dollars each. She puts the coins in, and I pull the lever. “We’ll split whatever we win,” she tells me. “If they ask you for ID, tell them you’re just watching.” I’m glad she is covering for me. Winning my own money is intoxicating, and I am on cloud nine.

  John checks us in at a small desert motel, where we share a room and splash in the pool. Sharon watches mostly, but with a lot of teasing, we do talk her into dipping her feet into the cool aqua water. I’m surprised when I see there is only one king-sized bed for the three of us to sleep on. John acts like it’s nothing. “It’s all they have,” he says, avoiding our eyes. Lying in the middle, he acts nonchalant and proper but reaches over to hold my hand after the lights are turned out. I sense Sharon tense up; she is not asleep.

  It is like living three different lives: the one with John and me; the one with Sharon and me; and the one with John, Sharon, and me. But I do question every day whether or not Sharon knows about us. Some days, I have no doubt that she is well aware of our relationship and simply has no desire to discuss it. But on other days, I am completely baffled and afraid to think about it. Even so, the three of us all seem content with what we have and unwilling to rock the boat.

  The holidays come again, and this time David, Karen, and Jamie are able to stop by for a few minutes on Thanksgiving Day. Karen is cooking this year, and they can’t stay long. “Just in case she burns the turkey,” Sharon whispers to me in the kitchen, “I want to make sure they don’t have to come back for anything.” She sends them home with as much food as they can carry away. They like Sharon.

  With a little more money in my pocket this year, I enjoy plotting with Sharon to buy gifts for John and vice versa. Among his other passions, John loves collecting cobalt blue glass, scrimshaw, and knives, while Sharon enjoys shells and dragons and mice. Proudly, I hit upon some beauties to add to their collections as gifts. After searching for hours in secondhand stores, I uncover a small antique cobalt vase delicately adorned with hand-painted white roses, and I bargain at the swap meet for a belt buckle that pulls out as a double-edged knife. These will be perfect for John. And I save for months to buy Sharon her favorite things, the best find an exotic seashell sold by a crusty old man who ships them all the way from Africa.

  John brings home a huge Douglas fir for us to decorate and, like a child, is caught occasionally shaking the packages and peeling back the paper. “Come on. I bet you can’t guess what you got,” he entices, and I join him. We know Sharon will scold us, but we do it anyway.

  Christmas Eve comes, and I run around energized and happy, waiting to give them the treasures I have found.

  John deliberately takes a long time getting ready, futzing in the garage and stopping in at other cottages around the courtyard to wish tenants a “Merry Christmas.” For some, he delivers fruitcake, chocolates, and bags of pot.

  “Come on, John,” I yell out the window impatiently. “The presents are waiting.”

  “Just a minute. Just a minute.” He chuckles.

  “Well, hurry up or we’ll hide your presents till next year,” I tease.

  John comes in at his own leisure anyway—he never likes being told what to do—and when he finally walks inside, he torturously takes his time settling down in front of his pile of presents. On cue, we tear into the multicolored wrappings, squealing and delighting between packages, and in a short time the frenzy is over. A few of my favorite fairy figures are among my stack of gifts, as well as anything Chihuahua, feathered, and my newest love, penguins. They are gifts chosen as carefully as the ones I have purchased for John and Sharon. I am happy.

  “Wait a minute. We’re not done.” Sharon gives John a nod.

  “Nope. Sure aren’t.” He grins and steps into the kitchen.

  “What are you two up to?”

  John sets a large, brown paper bag in front of me. “Open it,” he says smugly, leaning back in his chair. Striking a wooden match underneath his table, he brings the sparking flame up to light his cigarette, draws in a breath, and blows out the match.

  “Wait a minute. What is this?”

  “Just open it!” Sharon’s voice is mischievous.

  Very light, the bag is folded over several times and stapled all along the seam. Carefully, I unfasten it. Inside is a large ball of toilet paper. “Toilet paper!” I laugh and scrunch my nose. I begin to unwind it. I unravel…and unravel…and unravel until finally, after at least a roll and a half of paper, a large gold metal object plunks into my open hand.

  I gasp. “Oh my God! It’s a gold fairy!” I yell. She is spectacular. A large, golden art nouveau replica of the popular winged, long-haired, nude fairy so heavy the herringbone chain has to be linked from wing to wing. John places her around my neck and stands back admiringly.

  “Do you like it?” he asks, throwing Sharon a nod and me a look that says she approved of this gift.

  “I love it. Thank you,” I cry out loud, rolling my fingers over the sleek, slippery metal. “Thanks!”

  Full and satisfied with a great Christmas, we clean up and get ready for bed. “Do me one more favor,” John says as I pick up the last of the ribbon.

  “What?”

  “Go over to your room and get me Thor’s leash, would ya?” John points to the spare bedroom in the house.

  “Sure,” I tell him, thinking it odd that he needs it this late. On my night table rests Thor’s leash and a type of scroll with a large red bow attached. Gingerly I unroll the paper. It is a hand-drawn charcoal sketch of me in profile looking down lovingly at Thor in my lap. At the bottom are John’s flamboyant signature and name printed below. I smile warmly. Now, this is special. My heart warms like the sweet taste of chocolate melts in my mouth. I am loved! I stash the drawing in my closet. This holiday is much better than last year’s when we were all still so uncertain of each other. It is the best Christmas I have had in a long time, and I go to sleep that night wrapped under a warm blanket of childhood memories of a New Jersey summer evening…and fireflies.

  From here on we do predictable family things, and when my eighteenth birthday comes along I know John and Sharon will take me out to dinner and have gifts waiting for me: presents carefully wrapped in birthday paper, not Christmas paper! This is like my family now, I think, disjointed at best, but mine.

  Memories creep into my head. I think about Mom, Wayne, Terry, Dad, Pen Ci, and baby Jack. I wonder what their holidays are like. Do they think about me as well? I convince myself they do, even though I haven’t heard from them…this year.

  New Jersey—Me at 6 months sitting on the lap of Great Aunt Ella

  With my G
randma Cora at age 6 months in New Jersey. She passed away waiting for dad to come back from Asia.

  My mom, great-grandma, and Great Aunt Ella in the back of the house in New Jersey. You can see the branches of my favorite climbing tree.

  Opposite page bottom: With my father, brother, and sister at Asbury Park, NJ. This was one of the last times I spent with my father before he left for Vietnam.

  Me, my brother, and my sister took a portrait our first year in Carol City, FL. I was 8 years old, and just about to start the 3rd grade.

  My mom and dad in 1977. Dad went back and saw mom in Florida after he left me on my own at 16 in California.

  Above: Summer 1977 on a day back from Zuma Beach with John and his sister-in-law, Karen. This light blue Chevy had the plates WADD on the back. John’s infamous brown Samsonite is packed with his “goodies”.

  Left: David and Karen’s living room surrounded by temptation.

  Christmas, 1979. Visit from John’s mom & niece. John is strung-out on coke while putting on his good “show” face.

  John being escorted out of the courtroom, and later acquitted of murder.

  Early 1981. After I ran from John, before the Wonderland murders. I’m at mom’s with my brother in Oregon.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Evolution of a Fall–Cocaine

  Whistling down the courtyard, John breaks into song. “If you could read my mind, love, what a tale my thoughts could tell. Just like an old-time movie, ‘bout a ghost from a wishing well.” I look over and love him. He is singing our favorite Gordon Lightfoot tune, and when he sees me watching, he sings even louder.

  After the New Year we put the finishing touches on the spare bedroom, turning it into my own personal haven. John carries in the few heavy things left in my old apartment, singing brazenly like a little kid.

  Wow. He’s really happy I’m living here, I think, feeling the warm welcome.

  With Sharon’s help, the walls of my new room are decorated generously with my favorite pieces—items gifted to me by both of them in the last two years. I make a mental note of how the wheel of time has turned once again in John’s and my relationship: Now I am living under his roof.

  I help around the house, doing my share of the chores. Since I am eighteen now, Sharon suggests I take classes for my GED at the local adult school. “You’re smart enough, Dawn,” she lectures me. “It’ll be a breeze.”

  I do. In April of 1979, I anxiously open the results of my exam. Despite my doubts, and to my amazement, there is the diploma.

  “Didn’t I tell you you could do it?” Sharon applauds maternally.

  “Wow. Yeah, you did,” I tell her, feeling good about myself.

  My self-esteem rises when Sharon offers me more and more of the bookkeeping duties for the cottages and invites me to attend medical seminars with her for her two-year license renewal. We study together like coeds and both ace the finals. It seems that being eighteen is opening some doors for me and I feel stronger, full of hope.

  Since my move into the house, John and I goof around all the time, much to Sharon’s chagrin. He loves to flirt and tease me, often playing silly games of chase or covering my eyes and telling me to stop looking at him. “Those eyes! Stop!”

  Sometimes, too, he can be on the edge of annoying. Enough so that he provokes me to threaten him, “Quit it, John, or I’m gonna smack ya!”

  It amuses John to get my goat, so he eggs me on. “Promise?” But a tiny flame of caution burns deep beneath my consciousness, and never do I go too far again, as I had the day I threw the coffee at him.

  Sharon is like a parent trying to control her children. Admonishing us for our bad behavior, she covers her amusement with seriousness. She excuses herself when our playfulness gets too rambunctious and refuses to lower her dignity by joining in the banter. “I’m not a touchy, feely type of gal,” she throws back at us. “Grow up.” Or “Touch me and I’ll deck you.”

  I’m confused by Sharon sometimes. I know she and John are like brother and sister and she has little patience for most of the fun John likes to have, but there is a day that my understanding of them is tested. It is a piece of paper in Sharon’s long, sharp handwriting, left haphazardly on the counter by the television. “What does the mad rapist want for dinner tonight?”

  What? Rapist? What does she mean? There is no one around when I find the note. I hold it in my hand, emotionally stuck. I read it again and again. It’s like a brick wall I can’t climb over. This can’t be anything, I tell myself. I wouldn’t be here if they were together. This has to mean something else. I am worried, though. My thoughts spiral in bizarre twists.

  John appears, walking in his white-and-red-striped tube socks and robe from his back office, and sees me. Gently he takes the paper from my hand, folds it in two, and kisses me. “Get me a glass of milk, will ya, baby?”

  “Sure.” From the corner of my eye I see him crumple the page and toss it casually across the counter. Oh, it’s nothing important. Good. I fold this new nagging seed of uneasiness back into the recesses of my heart and get John his milk.

  There are no restrictions or rules in the house besides common courtesy, and there are no mysteries to me here, except for one—“Big Tom.” I don’t understand Big Tom. He has something to do with John’s arrest years ago in my birthplace, Point Pleasant, New Jersey. I have strict orders whenever he calls to “ask no questions and immediately hand the phone over to John.” If he isn’t there, I am instructed to get Sharon; she will know what to do. He seems to call every few weeks, cautious when I first answer, but friendlier after a while. As time goes by, he even adds a “How ya doing, Dawn?” when I pick up the phone, acting as if he knows me, familiar with my voice. But even with the friendliness, I abide by the rules and pass the calls along without question.

  It is an overwhelmingly hot day in July, and I can’t believe he has taken me to this place. Farmer John’s Slaughter House in downtown LA has a happy farm scene painted on the stucco wall surrounding it, and the stench of blood, urine, and fear hangs like an ominous cloud above. He tries to coax me inside, but I refuse. “It’s one thing looking for them in the desert and shops, but fresh heads! Ugh, John! Just hurry up!” I snap, annoyed at this not-so-brilliant idea to add to his skull collection.

  “Come on. Let’s get these in the house.” John hurries, sweat pouring from his brow.

  “I am not touching those,” I warn, holding back a gag. “John, this is disgusting!”

  He lugs them through the front door, and I follow with his briefcase and keys. Dropping the bags on the kitchen floor, he grabs the giant cooking pots from under the stained wood butcher block he found at a yard sale and fills them with water. I stand watching him, my hand over my mouth, a few steps back for distance from the gruesome unveiling. Plop—the pig is the first to go in. Mortified, I step back farther. Next comes the cow. I can take no more and walk away, leaving John to position the heads in the boiling pots of water.

  “I’ll just check the mail.” I excuse myself, relieved to get away from the kitchen. A pattering of little furry feet follows me to the front door. The dogs, panicked by the smell of blood, are sticking close to someone safe.

  On the porch under the mailbox sits a plain brown box. I bring it in. “John!”

  “Whaaaat?” he yells back, coming around the corner wiping his hands on a dish towel.

  “You got a package.” I set it on the table and back off, not wanting to get near his hands.

  Looking down at the label, John tears into the package. “Woooo-hoooo!” he cries. “She’s here!”

  “Who’s here? What is it?” Curiosity has gotten the best of me.

  “Louise!” he says, holding up a shining, creamy white human skull. “Ahhh! She’s perfect!” He turns her, admiring every angle.

  I gasp. “Where did you get that?”

  “Well, ha.” He tosses his head back and decides against a lie. “I told them I was a UCLA premed student studying anatomy, and they sent her to me.”r />
  The student part is bull, I tell myself. I think about his story for a moment, blink, and laugh too. I believe him, guessing it can make sense. “Good one,” I admit, extremely impressed. I reach over and kiss John’s beaming face. “This must be the day for skulls.”

  “Hey! Wake up, you lazy bum!” John calls through David and Karen’s window as we walk up to knock on their door.

  “Whaaa da ya waaaant?” David slurs.

  “Look at this baby.” John holds up the ivory orb.

  “Cool,” David says, blandly turning her in his hands. “What are you gonna do with that?”

  “Her name is Louise,” I jump in, “and we’re gonna mount her with the rest of the skulls, David. What do you think?” I’m bothered at his lack of enthusiasm for John’s prize.

  “Yeah, I gathered that. But, well…”

  John shoots back, “No, man, I’m gonna use her for when Dawn’s sleeping and I need to get off. Look at her, man. She’s a beaut!”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Okay, I see. I’m just not into that kind of thing, man. Sorry! But, ah…you know what kind of thing I’d rather be into…” David pauses for a minute, raising his eyebrows. “You know what I mean?”

  “And what do you mean, David?” John challenges, knowing exactly what he means. “You can’t even take half the shit I’m around on the set every day, man! John Holmes can get any kinda dope he wants.”

  “What! Bullshit! I can take anything you bring into this house and more, suckah!” he insists, calling the dare with a half grin on his face. Karen steps out of the kitchen holding a cup of coffee and smiling at where she knows the conversation is heading.

  “You’re on, asshole! Tomorrow night. Nine o’clock. Be here!” John points his finger at David’s face. He grabs Louise, then my hand, and we head home.