In Pieces(7)

Fleet Folsom Field was another man in my family whom I never knew, since he died when I was two. I do have one tissue-paper memory of my father’s mother, whom I called Jen—even though her name was Jane. She and I are sitting together on Dick’s sepia-toned sofa and she’s reading the Little Golden Book of Disney’s Cinderella to me, carefully enunciating each word. I sit enthralled at her side, the skirt of my dress fanning out over the cushion as I noiselessly suck my thumb and gaze at the only bit of color in the room: the pages of Cinderella’s world. Every time Jen reaches the end, she gently asks if I’d like to hear it again and I nod my head, while trying not to lean on her unfamiliar shoulder. I remember I liked her and didn’t want her to stop, but though she lived until 1961, I don’t recall ever seeing her again. I never had a conversation with her, never learned anything about her, and it’s only now that I wish I had. Dick’s older sister, Betty, wrote to me through the years, letters that I kept but never read because I wasn’t interested, until this very moment. In one she writes that her mother desperately wanted to be a concert pianist and that Jen’s father, Betty’s grandfather, refused to allow it, claiming that displaying herself onstage was inappropriate behavior for a woman. I don’t know what kind of image I had of my grandmother Jen, but that was not it. Not of a young woman who had dedicated herself to a skill, who had become an accomplished pianist and was forbidden the opportunity to perform. Where did she put that longing? Where does anyone? Carl Jung wrote, “Nothing has a stronger influence psychologically on their environment and especially on their children than the unlived life of the parent.”

Next to the container of Aunt Betty’s letters I have a tattered suitcase of Dick’s that found its way to me after my father passed away in 1992. The small cardboard valise is old and almost as fragile as the memorabilia stuffed inside, a mishmash of things I’m examining for the first time. In it is a yearbook from the University of Pennsylvania, where he received a business degree, and inside the big padded book are pictures of him as a member of the baseball team, where his nickname was “the runt.” There are also some newspaper clippings reporting that he was a prominent member of the “Mask and Wig Club,” which put on an annual musical performed by men dressed as women. The crumbling articles and faded photos lead me to think that maybe you had to be there to get the whole—less than dazzling—concept. But I remember how Dick would boast about his time onstage, seeming to get a big kick out of it, then he’d pause and shrug, as if discarding the unimportant thought.

His sister Betty never shrugged away that thought. She was the only family member to remain on the East Coast, where she struggled to become a dancer, and when that didn’t happen, she taught dancing. The rest of the family treated her ambition as though it were a frivolous fancy, calling her passions “idiosyncrasies.” Eventually, Betty became an usher at the Lunt-Fontanne Theatre on Forty-Sixth Street in New York, where she spent most of her life. In her letters, which I’m only now appreciating, she sends me clippings and reviews, plus pages and pages describing the magic in her world of the theater, while she proudly led patrons to their seats with a flashlight in her hand.

My mother told me that Betty had been kind to her during my parents’ divorce when the rest of the Field family gave depositions or testimony—or whatever was required back then—all in an attempt to have my mother declared unfit, hoping to take her children away from her. That was all my mother ever told me about the divorce and I never asked for more or asked anyone else—meaning Dick. The court must have declared that the custody of the children should be shared in some capacity but how that sharing schedule was worked out and by whom, I really don’t know.


Dick always seemed nervous when Ricky and I first walked into his house for our required time, which initially was every weekend—though at four, I’m not sure I knew what a weekend was. The car ride was fine, but once we were settled inside the house it seemed as though my father didn’t know what to do with us, as though we were not young humans but another species; puppies or kittens that needed a little feeding, then could be left on their own. It’s not that my father didn’t try. I remember him doing a silly tap dance for us in the kitchen as he flipped our grilled cheese sandwiches in the skillet or telling us the same jokes over and over on the long car rides to and from his house after we moved from Joy’s. “Who flung gum in Grandpa’s whiskers?” he’d ask and pause, expecting us to laugh. I did, of course—even though how that was a joke, I’ll never know. Half the time Ricky didn’t seem to be listening, but I was and made sure to laugh in all the appropriate places. I always tried to deliver whatever unspoken need he had of me—his chosen one.

But once the little pets were fed and amused for a moment, my father would wander back into his life, totally ignoring our existence. And that was okay when Ricky and I were there together, but as we got older, Ricky would often be excused from his obligation, mainly because the women—our mother, grandmother, and especially Aunt Gladys—sympathized with him, muttering how difficult it must be for him to spend time with a father who didn’t care for him. Although I swear I never saw any evidence of my brother’s mistreatment by my father, and to this day, Rick doesn’t remember any. Believe me, Dick ignored us both equally.

I felt like the sacrificial lamb. I had to go no matter what—with my brother or without—and I hated it. I fought and whined or faked illness: anything to try to get out of the visit. Sometimes, but not often, my mother would cave to my desperation, reluctantly calling Dick to explain that I was sick and couldn’t come, but then the crushing weight of guilt made my freedom hardly worth it. So, I gritted my teeth and endured countless weekends with my father, totally forgotten and ignored. If I wanted to spend some “quality time” with him, I could sit on the sofa listening to Vin Scully announce the ball game on the radio. That would have been just fine with Dick, but I would’ve preferred to eat dirt. I’d sit in the room with him, not to be completely alone, and play with all the things he’d give me from his desk, organizing and reorganizing the pencils, paper clips, and sheets of stationery with his employer’s name, National Drug Co., printed on top. And that was great for a while, but I’ve got to tell you, if you’re four or five or even six, this solitary game of office runs thin. I felt so deeply lonely I was afraid.