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.”