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.
It was two weeks after my thirty-eighth birthday in November of 1984. I had long since quit trying to please my father—mostly because I avoided him—and had successfully tucked the thought of him into an unused corner of my brain. Occasionally he’d call to ask how I was doing and whenever I heard his voice on the other end of the phone, I’d grit my teeth, bracing myself as if preparing to give blood. He’d immediately segue into asking who I was dating and did we want to meet at his club for a round of golf, finally offering to teach me to play. The only time I’d try to conjure up his image was when a writer from Ladies’ Home Journal or some such magazine would ask about my parents in an attempt to create a profile on me. Most of their inquiries about my childhood I’d dance around, telling only an edge of the truth, but when they asked about Dick, my answer was always the same: I didn’t really know my father. On that November day, now with two children of my own and about to enter into my second marriage, I received a manila envelope addressed to me in my father’s instantly recognizable handwriting. I didn’t read what it contained. I couldn’t face it. I put it away, but I didn’t throw it away.
The thought of that small manila envelope, stacked in a plastic shoe box with notes and letters I’ve kept over the years, has floated to the top of my memory—belly up—many times. But only now, as I dig to uncover all the pieces of some lifelong puzzle, do I feel brave enough to read his words.
Inside the envelope are two folded documents and a note from my father, written on two small sheets of lined notebook paper dated November 12, 1984. I read that first. It’s curt and angry.
Unfortunately I picked up this month’s McCall’s Magazine and read about your happy life and successful career. As usual I was depicted as the man who divorced your mother when you were three years old. This time, however, I was categorized along with some of your past boyfriends as missing something you desired in a man. For your reference, I am sending copies of a letter to you and Rick written in 1951 after your mother had left.
Even now I feel a stab of—what? Guilt? Sadness? Fear? I can feel my father’s anger, the jolt that I’ve disappointed him. I set the small note aside without finishing it and pick up another of the envelope’s contents. It’s a copy of the legal document stating that on January 23, 1953, the Superior Court of the State of California for the County of Los Angeles, after the required one-year waiting period had elapsed, decreed that the divorce was finalized. Margaret Field and Richard Field were no longer married.