In Pieces(10)

One morning, she packed up Aunt Gladys’s car and drove us kids into the San Gabriel Mountains above Altadena where we found the perfect spot near a stream that we would forever call “our little place.” I can’t remember why that one day, that obscure spot, stayed in our minds, and my brother can’t figure it out either. But if I let my subconscious mind walk back there, I hear my mother laughing while we lie flat on our backs, looking up at the sky. She’s describing a magical, anything’s-possible world, seeing things in the masses of condensed water vapor that I couldn’t imagine. A world where everything has a hidden treasure in it, including Ricky and me. If we ever went back there again I don’t recall, but my brother and I never forgot “our little place.”

And when Baa would occasionally leave for an evening with this man or that, my grandmother would stand with her hand on the knob, preparing to close the front door behind them, sending off a less than friendly air as she loudly sucked her teeth. It was usually too late to build a fort, so when they were gone, Ricky would try to fill the void by listening to the radio—we didn’t have a television yet. We’d lie on the pallet Joy had made for us on the living room floor, a quilt and two pillows spread out in front of the big wooden box, waiting for the creepy voice announcing, “With the speed of light, a cloud of dust and a hearty ‘Hi-yo Silver.’” My brother stayed wide awake and fascinated while I, curled up next to him, fell asleep listening for the sound of my mother’s footsteps on the front porch. Always needing her.


Then Jocko appeared. I was only four and some-odd months at that point, so this shadowy memory may not be a true recollection, but the essence of it is: I see him entering Joy’s house for the first time, making the living room seem suddenly small as he ducks his head to pass through the front door. I hear my mother introduce him to my no-frills grandmother, and watch Joy as she stands in the corner, draping her hankie across her hiccupping giggle, peeking at him over the top like a harem dancer. When I look for my brother in my memory, I find him standing stiff and awkward, keeping his eyes on his feet, stuffing his hands deep in his pockets. And my mother is looking around at all of us, with her focus only on Jocko. Abruptly, giving a loud “ten-hut” laugh, he swoops down and gracefully snatches me off the floor, enfolding my body to his chest in one quick grab.

And shadowy or not, I know this part of the memory is true: When Jocko and I met it was face-to-face, nose-to-nose, high above everyone else in the room. I was looking down at my mother now, watching her, wanting her to take me away from him, to safely plant me on her hip. But I heard her wordless plea—even in my child’s mind—as clearly as if she’d spoken it out loud: Don’t disgrace me by pushing this man away, don’t be frightened.

I wanted to please her, above all else, so I remained tearlessly in his grasp, though clearly terrified. And slowly, I realized that everyone in the room was looking at me—or at least in my direction—making me feel I’d done something wonderful. Maybe to be comforted and admired, I had to be terrified as well, maybe that’s what I was supposed to learn. I watched my mother and this man beaming at each other, while I was caught in the middle. She wanted to show Jocko something appealing about herself, and I, her little girl, was it. Jocko wanted to show her something grand and manly about himself, and I, her little girl who appeared comfortable in his arms, was it. Tag—you’re it.

Early in 1952, my mother and Jocko were married in Mexico, and we became a family. My little sister was born six months later and only now have I done the math.


His name was Jacques O’Mahoney but everyone called him Jocko, and that’s what he was: a jock. Though he was born in 1919 in Chicago, Illinois—the only child of Ruth and Charles O’Mahoney—he actually grew up in Davenport, Iowa, and attended the University of Iowa, where he excelled at swimming and diving. It claims in one of his bios that he had hopes of becoming a doctor, but I never heard him talk about his lost dreams in the medical profession or saw any sign of a diploma, pre-med or pre-anything. I do know that in 1943, when he was twenty-four years old, he enlisted in the Marines, where he learned to fly the airplanes used on aircraft carriers and later became an instructor. But by the time he entered my life, he was no longer teaching men how to get planes off the deck of a carrier and back down again. His troops now consisted of two kids, Ricky and me—and later our little sister, who was born when I was five and a half. “I always wanted my own little princess,” I heard Jocko say after seeing his infant daughter for the first time. So that’s what he named her: Princess.

Baa and Jocko on The Range Rider set. Don’t know why he’s dressed like that.





Jocko looked to me like a cross between Errol Flynn and Randolph Scott, two of the actors he “doubled” during his career as a stuntman through the 1940s and into the ’50s. At that time, stunt work was very different than it is in today’s world of digital possibilities. Stunt people just did the “gags” without the aid of special effects cables or hidden padding, and with little or no safety net. And what “gear” they did use was rudimentary, like falling into a bunch of cardboard boxes instead of the modern, specially designed airbags. In those days, they simply fought the choreographed sword fight, ending with a bouncing roll down twenty-five brutally hard stone steps. Or they leaped—without cables or airbags—from balcony to balcony, thirty feet in the air, or jumped from the buckboard of a runaway stagecoach onto the nearest galloping horse of the rig, then vaulted to a lead horse, grabbing the reins and saving the day.