In Pieces(8)



When I got older, and I knew I was in for a quiet, mind-numbing few days, I’d bring Nancy Drew books and Little Lulu comics with me. Hell, I’d have brought War and Peace if I’d been a better reader. Once, when my father waited for me in his car, I asked my mother to hold a small red book titled One Hundred and One Famous Poems close to her heart for a few moments so that when I felt panicked with loneliness during the long days of being held prisoner, I could hug the book like a doll, and feel her essence—though trust me, hugging that book didn’t cut it either. I really didn’t understand why I was there. Dick never took me to the movies or the park, never played games. He hardly even talked to me. Not really. Except once I remember he walked in when I was sitting on the toilet and carefully instructed me that I must always wipe from the front to the back. I was mortified, but I did remember his words and oddly think about them, often.

One day, about a year or so after my mother had vacated the premises, I was sitting on the floor of my father’s house, in front of the big living room window, carefully cutting out the paper dolls I’d brought to help me endure my weekend. Ricky, who had once again been excused from duty, was waiting for me up the hill at Joy’s house. And as I sat there focused on my scissors—scraps of paper scattered on the faded rug—the boxwood shrubs in front of the house began to move, scratching against the glass panes. Suddenly, out popped my brother’s little round face, which he then smooshed against the window. I nearly jumped out of my skin. But when he signaled for me to come outside, I was up and out the door.

Huddled down in the cool damp dirt—a world of spiders and sow bugs—Ricky took my hand and whispered, “I’ve come to rescue you. Don’t make a sound.” Without giving it another thought, we crawled from our hideout under the bushes and ran hand in hand, dashing tree-to-tree. We were absolutely certain that our stealthy getaway had been masterfully executed, but most likely we were two kids, one five and the other seven, in plain sight the entire time had anyone bothered to look.

In 1951, many of the streets in Pasadena had deep, stone-lined gullies on either side, with short bridges connecting the street to the driveway of each house. Most of these gullies and bridges have disappeared over time, but fortunately, on the day of the great escape, North Marengo’s gullies were still intact, and that’s where we walked, hidden from the world all the way up to East Las Flores. It was probably only a mile—maybe not even that—but to me it seemed like a massive undertaking, like Lawrence of Arabia crossing the desert to the port of Aqaba.

The entire trek up the hill, my brother excitedly chattered about the huge fort he’d built for me in Joy’s backyard, how he’d planned a dinner for us and convinced our grandmother to build a fire in the outdoor grill that stood deep in the yard, adjacent to the big stone incinerator (where she burned her rubbish every Thursday). It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. We never worried that Dick might panic when he discovered I was gone or that we might be punished for our dangerous adventure, and if either of those things happened, I don’t remember.

What I do remember is finally dashing up the driveway to Joy’s backyard and standing there, horrified. It looked like the aftermath of a battle. Nothing was left of the fort but a tangle of robes still attached to the trees, blankets and quilts strewn across the grass, and clothespins scattered everywhere like shell casings. When Ricky saw his work of art, now torn to shreds, he sat down and started to cry. I was heartbroken, not for my lost gift but for my brother. Then from behind a row of hydrangea bushes came the triumphant giggles of the culprit, the little boy next door, taunting us as he witnessed our reaction. Like an attack dog, I dashed at him, flinging my whole body against the chain-link fence that stood between us as the boy backed up, stunned by my behavior. Ricky didn’t say a thing—also stunned by my behavior—and quietly walked into the house, refusing to speak, much less play with me, the rest of the day. I was his little sister, and he should have been the one to go after the creep for wrecking the fort, not me. But Rick never would have. Somewhere inside, I knew he couldn’t and I could.

The two escapees. Pretty sure that’s not what I was wearing.





When I said my father never took me anywhere, that wasn’t completely true. He took me to church on Sundays, and on Saturdays to the racetrack. I felt equally stupefied at both locations. At Sunday’s Catholic church service, I’d sit with my rosary in hand, feet dangling, unable to touch the ground, as I tried to entertain myself by wrapping the beads around my fingers. Dick sat with a solemn face, meeting my eyes only when he’d shoot me a mean look if I squirmed around trying to pull my dress down so my legs didn’t stick to the seat. I knew all the prayers and recited each one loudly at the proper time. Dick had taught them to me, but he never told me why I was saying them, never explained why I had to kneel until my knees were dented and bloodless, or why I had to hit myself in the heart asking for God’s forgiveness. What had I done? Except want out of this boring church, except wiggle around too much, except leave with my mother when she broke his heart.

When I was about eight, Dick moved from his house in Pasadena to one in nearby Arcadia, two blocks from the beautiful Santa Anita Park racetrack. On Saturdays, he’d take me with him to bet on the horses, which you’d think would have been great, except Dick never got anything but general admission tickets. If there was a seat somewhere, I never sat in it. We’d always stand in a herd of people near the rail, though I’m only guessing that we were near the rail because I never saw that either. Matter of fact, I never saw anything but a bunch of butts. I do remember my father trying to hold me up every now and then, but I’d feel his arms begin to tremble and very soon he’d put me down again. Plus, he didn’t seem to want to hold me, or to hug me, as if it made him uncomfortable to be close to my face. I’d spend most of the time standing at his side examining people’s back pockets or their shoes, but honestly, after fifteen or twenty minutes, tops, I was about ready to eat dirt again. So, I developed a game. Trying not to be stepped on, I’d scoot around and gather up the tickets that had accumulated on the ground, stuffing them into grocery bags I’d brought with me. When I got back to Dick’s house, I’d sit at the dining room table with the racing form and check, ticket by dirty ticket, to find hidden treasure, convinced that someone had accidentally discarded a winner. Needless to say, I never found one.

Sally Field's Books