Brother & Sister Read online

  Looking back, I have to question whether there actually was a bunk bed. Without a four-inch-square black-and-white photograph proving its existence in either Randy’s or my scrapbook, I wonder if my story of those days is a tall tale pieced together in hopes of some sort of redemption from being the bossy sister. If only Mom or Dad had taken at least one little picture to prove Randy and I really had shared such a bed. There is no such evidence, but I believe we did. I believe there was a sacred sleeping place we shared, where the dreams it encouraged overshadowed the sobering realities ahead. I can’t help but think leaving our bunk bed behind to face the rigors of 440 Redfield Avenue cut short the potential for a deeper connection that might have developed as we grew older. It’s hard to know, but I am certain of this: my most intimate relationship with any male took place in a pint-sized room underneath a crescent-shaped ceiling, where once upon a time I slept in a secondhand bunk bed overlooking my delicate, blond-haired brother below.

  CHAPTER 2

  A TOKEN OF ABSENCE

  In a letter Mom typed and folded into an envelope that she placed in the Randy Scrapbook, she wrote:

  Our house on 440 Redfield Avenue, Highland Park is one of the handsomest in the Valley of Hermon. Jack planted a full grown apricot tree which he dug up and moved by himself. We also planted trees in the front yard for shade. Jack constructed a tire swing for the kids to play in. I honestly don’t know how he single-handedly moved a white clapboard three-bedroom bungalow to the vacant lot we now call home. Diane is a social person, always going up the hill to play with Nadine Foreman. Randy doesn’t want to leave the house too much. He won’t go outside unless Jack and I are working in the yard. He’s afraid of airplanes. We can’t tell whether it’s the sound or the sight. We’ve taken him to the airport a few times. He loves to watch them take off and land with no fear. He can’t stand it at home though. He won’t tell us why. There are times I don’t know how to handle Randy. He’s going through a phase that’s a real problem for me to know what to do. He won’t let me out of his sight. He seems to suffer intensely when Jack or I get angry with him. He pleads “Don’t be mad at me mom, Please.”

  A few months later, she wrote in her journal:

  Randy is just the kind of little boy I think all boys should be. He tries so hard to please Jack. His little temper explosions are very infrequent. He still gets worked up when his toys won’t behave right. But that is only impatience, and who isn’t guilty of being impatient now and then. He plays by himself in the house. We had quite a mother-son talk tonight in the bathroom, I in the tub he on the toilet, so eager and anxious about his birthday, naming all the things he wants. Today was especially nice for him. Grammy Keaton came and took him shopping for whatever he wanted. He chose a big airplane which he is very proud of. He can tell you all about every detail and even take you for a ride.

  I didn’t like the new house. It was too big, too dark, and kind of lonely with Randy and me no longer sharing our bunk bed. He didn’t seem to care one way or the other. As we gradually became more distant, I began to expand my opportunities. I took to kindergarten and the kids my age. Our First Methodist Junior Church Choir was fun. I got to sing hymns like “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine. Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.” Crabby old Ike, our next-door neighbor, was not fun. He constantly complained about us kids ruining his lawn. He hated the noise we made when Rilla Jean, a first-grader who lived down the block, played hopscotch with me on our concrete driveway.

  While Dad continued to work as a surveyor for the Department of Water and Power, he also took classes at USC to finish his engineering degree. What little time he had was focused on our holidays, particularly at the beach. Mom, suddenly pregnant with a new baby, was elected president of the PTA, joined the local ladies’ club, and continued her churchly duties.

  Robin was born in 1951. I thought for sure she must have been adopted, because she drove me nuts from the day she arrived. Dad seemed unusually taken with her pretty little face. I was jealous. When she was old enough to walk and talk, she’d snatch the French-fried potatoes off my favorite Swanson’s frozen dinner. She also stole my paper cutout “Betsy McCall Has a Merry Christmas” outfit, among other treasures.

  No matter what, Randy remained the center of Mom’s attention. She fretted over his decision-making ability, his lack of socialization, but most often his acute fear of the low-flying planes that streaked above our home on a daily basis. Despite these panic attacks, Randy developed a passion for the American Airlines DC-4 pressed-steel toy airplanes. None of which made any sense, considering how he continued to come running into the house screaming for Mom at the mere sound of a DC-6 flying overhead. I used to laugh at Randy’s skinny legs tripping over toys as he ran with his hands over his ears, shouting for Mom to “stop the planes.” What a baby. I would count to ten after hearing the screen door slam shut; that was the amount of time it took him to reach Mom and Dad’s bedroom, where he’d disappear under their bed.

  In 1953, Mom’s unexpected doppelgänger, little Dorrie, was born. A crybaby whose presence confirmed even less me-time with Mom, Dorrie was a pill. I’ll never understand why Mom seemed so happy hauling fat-faced Dorrie around as if she were an additional appendage, helping out with baby bottles, and all the ever-changing diapers. In my opinion, Dorrie was by far the most annoying baby ever. Poor Mom. She was strapped by Robin’s constant need for more toys, my jealousy, and Randy’s anxiety.

  Mom continued to drag us to church every weekend. No fan of God, Dad sided with us kids, for the first time. Randy dreaded getting into the Sunday-best suit Mom insisted he wear. In her journal she wrote:

  Randy won’t attend Sunday school unless I go and stay with him. He’s three and a half and I’m still waiting to see if he will outgrow his tendency to tag after me at all times. Even at home he is at my heels. It isn’t good for either of us. Last night he came into our bedroom and said “Mom, does God make the dark?” I answered yes. He said “Oh I see, so he pulls out the plug and then everything gets dark?” He’s too frightened. Even on hot nights he insists I put a blanket over him “To keep the dark out.”

  I didn’t blame Randy about the Sunday-morning ritual, which everyone hated except Mom. Hearing stories about Jesus, the son of God, flying into heaven made me wonder, where was the daughter of God? It didn’t seem fair. No daughter? One day, in the middle of Sunday school, Randy ran away. Dad and a panic-stricken Mom found him sitting on the curb of busy Sherman Way Boulevard. A few months later, a brand-new upright piano was bought, a soothing device to try to make Randy happy after too much turmoil. There, seated on the bench, little Randy listened to Mom play his favorite song, Al Jolson’s “Sonny Boy.”

  * * *

  —

  For several summers, we camped at Huntington Beach. Dad pitched our tent next to a veritable tepee city filled with other middle-class families. As soon as we stepped outside, the beach became our floor. I’d take Randy’s hand and race to the shoreline to make sand castles. Dad would secure our striped umbrella while Mom fried hamburgers on the gas burner.

  * * *

  —

  One memory, an idea I had, stands out: What if I was able to collect at least a couple dozen 7UP bottles and take them to the A&P grocery store, where a salesclerk would give me two cents per bottle? That way I could start saving money to buy a Mele Gold Brocade Covered Jewelry Box, including the real Gold Key. Offering to split the take, I enlisted Randy to come along and help. But he just lingered with an inexplicable grin on his face as I ransacked trash cans and searched the early-morning abandoned beach for green bottles. What was he thinking? Why didn’t he want things? I figured at some point I’d do an investigation into his reasoning. It never happened. None of my bossy ways were documented in Mom’s Randy Scrapbook, yet we did search for 7UP bottles near the old saltwater plunge in Huntington Beach. And I did walk away with six dollars
and fifty cents. I have to confess I didn’t share the money I made, but of course, Randy never asked.

  My happiest early memories of being Randy’s big sister were at the beach, in the waves, making sand castles and acting out fantasy stories based on The Wizard of Oz. Randy never took the lead role in any of our scenes, but I remember him taking it all very seriously. I also remember how much Randy loved our walks to the pier. Mom would carry a bag of bread crumbs as Dad held little Dorrie in his arms. Robin, Randy, and I fed the seagulls. Randy was enchanted by the big bird’s ability to catch bread in its mouth midair. He was convinced they did it in slow motion. With their big webbed feet and their giant-sized wings, seagulls were his idea of magic.

  The bonds we once shared in our bunk-bed days were thinning. But Randy stayed loyal to me. He didn’t, for example, rat me out on the day I pushed him off a dirt hill and onto an old sycamore log, where he broke his leg. He told Mom it was an accident. It was the same year I voted myself in as president of the Beaver’s Club, a secret society whose sole mission was the acquisition of pelts, particularly rabbit’s feet. I reminded myself that being self-elected to supervise its six members was a huge responsibility, so I informed Randy I’d chosen Rilla Jean Williams as vice-president, over him. After all, she had access to her grandfather’s seven rabbit’s-foot key chains. Randy didn’t seem to care. He agreed it was important to make Rilla Jean happy. What a pushover. It was just like the 7UP bottle money. He didn’t care. He just didn’t care.

  * * *

  —

  On a hazy summer day in 1956, Dad took a photograph of eight-year-old Randy, thirty-five-year-old Mom, and ten-year-old me at the Zzyzx desert resort, tucked away in San Bernardino County. In the foreground we form a triangle in the swimming pool. A wind barrier cuts the Soda Mountains in half. My body is turned away as I begin to lift myself out of the water. At the edge of the pool, Randy stands on tiptoes. He leans forward with his arms outstretched as he reaches for Mom, who’s wearing a fetching black swimsuit with a white bathing cap. As I study the four-by-four-inch black-and-white snapshot, I see Mom’s wide-open fingers waiting in anticipation. I also take note of Randy’s head. Was it always so large?

  A series of haphazard memories comes rushing in. Mom and her friend Willie Blandon, my Dad’s friend Bob’s wife, watching us kids play in the waves at Diver’s Cove Beach in Laguna. I remember overhearing them share a private conversation on the subject of giving birth. When Randy’s name came up, they used a series of unusual words to explain something I didn’t understand. “Forceps” was repeated several times. What did that mean? A few years later, we were eating lunch when Mom, once again with Willie, spoke of a friend who’d lost her first baby while giving birth. As they elaborated on the difficulty some infants have coming down the birth canal, Randy’s name was once again brought up, along with words like “cervix” and “forceps.” More puzzled than ever, I wondered what they meant.

  Twenty-five years later, lying on a couch and looking at my analyst Dr. Landau’s white plastered ceiling in New York City, I listened to her describe forceps as having the appearance of large salad spoons with pincers. Sometimes they were used to assist babies with heads too large for the mother’s pelvis as they came down the birth canal. If pulled too hard, some infants had lasting psychological issues. She described learning difficulties in children that could be traced back to birth patterns, which included issues relating to stress, decision making, and, for some, even the inability to initiate and complete projects. As she went on, I kept thinking of all the assumptions I’d made about Randy and his so-called Problems. Had he been the victim of a botched medical procedure pulling him into life? I never had the courage to question Mom. I never asked her if Randy’s had been a difficult birth. I never asked her what it was like for her to have a son like Randy. I must have been afraid of her responses. I didn’t want to know her sadness. I didn’t want to know anything about these parts of my mother’s life. Not only back then, but for a long time after. Now, as life would have it, I study her journals and scrapbooks, photographs and letters, still looking for clues.

  * * *

  —

  In the photograph of the three of us at the Zzyzx desert resort, I look at the distance between Randy’s outstretched arms and my mother’s waiting hands. When Dad clicked the camera before the instant Randy leapt, he must have been caught off guard by Mud’s beauty (Mud’s what he used to call Mom when he was smitten). Maybe he wanted to capture her allure forever and ever. Maybe Dad, like Randy, needed a mother to take care of him too. I doubt he could have foreseen the enormity of the challenges that were yet to come. Mom did, though. Mom knew.

  After she died in 2008, I became the family documentarian. Suddenly I was in possession of her thirty-two journals, fifteen family scrapbooks, twenty photo albums, hundreds of letters, plus Dad’s yearbook from USC, and his brochures for Hall and Foreman Inc. Later, when Randy could no longer take care of his things, I became the sole possessor of his two published poetry books, five hundred collages, fifty-four notebooks, and seventy random journals filled with his own brand of cartoons—including my brother’s entire collection of the intimate feelings, fantasies, and disappointments underlying the mystery of his life. I want to understand that mystery. Or at least try to understand the complexity of loving someone so different, so alone, and so hard to place. I wanted to write Randy’s story, and my story of being his sister, because there are so many people who live through the sorrow and pain of not knowing how to manage a family member who has a singularly unique view of life: a sibling who doesn’t fit in or follow the paths the rest of us take; who challenges and bewilders, upsets and dazzles us; who scares some of us away; but who still loves us, in his or her way.

  CHAPTER 3

  KING OF THE BACK FLIP

  At the end of 1956, all six Hall family members piled into the station wagon and hopped onto Interstate 5, leaving our turquoise-blue house behind. Dad had applied for and got the job of Assistant Director of Public Works in Santa Ana. It was a big step up, with a significantly larger salary. On our way to the brand-new four-bedroom tract house, Randy wanted to know how long it would take to get there. Mom replied, “Sooner than you think, honey, sooner than you think.” Dad chimed in with “It’s a thirty-mile drive.” That seemed like a long way to go for a new home. I was ten, Randy eight, Robin six, and Dorrie three.

  Our beige house at 905 North Wright Street seemed like an example of what magazines described then as middle-class modern living at its best. After our first few months, Mom wrote a letter, which I found in her Santa Ana family scrapbook:

  Not wanting to sound like a candidate for the great American family, I must say these are happy days for us here in Santa Ana. Of course, it’s all due to Jack. I can’t put into words what a good husband he is, but I’ll let it go at that. His work is very hard. He seems to like it though. It’s done much to improve him for the world of public relations. As first assistant city Engineer not only does he maintain roads, bridges, and buildings he also helps with management skills and budgetary requirements. He’s very busy taking management classes on Tuesday night, Toastmasters on Wednesday night and usually Friday for the engineer’s meeting. On Saturdays, he tries to go to Indian Scouts with Randy. Jack and I are surely blessed by God. We are so thankful. Our children are a great joy to us. Randy, with his depth of feeling and sensitivity which I constantly pray to God we don’t ruin. Someday in some way he’ll be able to give and let out this ability he has to sense beauty and fine things. But most important of all is Daddy, and husband Jack, who has an uncanny knowledge of what’s right and wrong. He is the main reason we are such a close family. Daddy is definitely the head and we all know it, and like it. I haven’t words to put down my feelings for Jack. He’s part of me, that’s all, and that’s the best part.

  In the new house we ate our meals at the beige tiled bar separating the kitchen from the dining room. M
om, seated on a stool near the stove, sat opposite the rest of us. Dad hunkered in near the window overlooking our neighbors Maxine and Joe’s identical home across the street. We kids didn’t have a designated spot. The Bastendorfs, our next-door neighbors to the right, had a jungle filled with desert plants for a lawn. We’d never seen anything like it. Laurel Bastendorf introduced Mom to the trendy 1950s-modern Sunset magazine. We were enthralled by her beatnik manner. Mr. Rohrs and his wife, our other neighbors, lived on the corner. Marie, their daughter, was painfully shy. We steered clear of Mr. Rohrs, who was a tough-minded high-school principal.

  Every night, after dinner, Randy begged Mom to let him watch The Bullwinkle Show. Each episode began with Rocky, a flying squirrel, soaring over a snow-covered mountain. His companion Bullwinkle, a lovable moose, was, in my opinion, an idiot. Randy would endlessly repeat their lame jokes. “How about this one, you guys? So Rocky looks at Bullwinkle and says, ‘If you want to inherit a fortune you have to spend a weekend at the Abominable Manor.’ Bullwinkle says, ‘That’s no problem. I’ve been living in an abominable manner all my life.’ ”

  Only Mom laughed, which of course encouraged Randy to try another. “Listen to this one, Dan.”

  “My name is not Dan,” I would tell him.

  “Okay, Dan. This is a good one. You’re going to like it. You know the evil Boris Badenov, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay. So Boris shakes his head at Natasha Fatale saying, ‘Ah, it’s good to be back on campus!’ She says, ‘Boris, you went to college? Where? Penn State?’ He shakes his head: ‘No, State Pen!!!’ Get it?”