Brando_ Songs My Mother Taught Me Part 1

Brando: songs my mother taught me.

by Marlon Brando with Robert Lindsey.

INTRODUCTION.

IN 1988, I received a telephone call from an old friend, the wife of a Hollywood actor and a gifted writer and actress. She asked me if she could give my private telephone number to one of her friends, but didn't explain who it was or why. A few moments later, my telephone rang again and I heard a familiar voice say slowly: "This is Marlon Brando."

It really wasn't necessary for him to identify himself. Like millions of people who had spent a sizable portion of their lives in a darkened motion picture theater, I recognized his voice. Like millions of other people during the past forty years, I had grown up with it.

He said he wanted me to write a book about a pa.s.sage in his life during which he believed someone had terribly wronged someone he loved.

A few days later I arrived at a locked gate beside Mulholland Drive in Beverly Hills. The gate swung open, and I followed a winding road lined with pepper trees, uncertain where I was going. Then something almost ghostly happened: it seemed that a part of the forest of bamboo next to me began to move. A gap appeared in this leafy tangle as an electric gate, camouflaged with dense foliage, suddenly swung open. It might have been a wall of granite peeling open in an Arabian Nights fantasy.

The gap in the forest widened, inviting me not only to Marlon Brando's home at the top of a mountain, but into his life. After my first visit, I returned many times to the house on Mulholland Drive and he and I became close friends. We are an odd couple: I am a journalist with an ordinary past who has been married to the same woman for over thirty years and who, while reporting from Los Angeles as a correspondent for The New York Times The New York Times, acquired a pa.s.sionate disdain for the shallow and self-centered egotism and puerility that afflicts most movie actors I had encountered; he is an unconventional and reclusive actor who, after nearly fifty years of public life, despises the press, has had hundreds of women in his life and told me that he hadn't "spent more than two minutes" with any one of them.

Within twenty minutes of our first meeting, he had my shoes off, my belt loosened and my fingers wired to an instrument that measured my galvanic skin response, all the while explaining that it was a technique he sometimes used to get a personality profile of people by asking questions and observing the reaction of the meter. I was more puzzled than jittery. At our first meeting, I discovered that he was the most curious man I had ever met and that he felt uncomfortable, possibly even embarra.s.sed, to be thought of as a movie star. The movies, he said, were the least important aspect of his life, a thought that he would repeat over and over. As a writer, I was accustomed to asking people questions, but he turned it around and bombarded me with endless questions about my family, my childhood, my marriage, my ideas. I felt as if I were being debriefed by a CIA interrogator. He was inquisitive about everything and informed about many topics-physics, Shakespeare, philosophy, chess, religion, music, chemistry, genetics, scatology, psychology, shoe making, or whatever else he might suggest we discuss.

To my surprise, I learned that we had much in common, and our friends.h.i.+p deepened. The one thing that he didn't like to talk about was show business. He never touched on the subject unless I brought it up. We talked for hours at a time-sometimes late into the night via long-distance telephone, other times sitting across from each other in the living room of his home overlooking the wide swath of the San Fernando Valley. Some of the conversations lasted until dawn and ended in his heated swimming pool or with the two of us amicably arguing about something in his superheated sauna.

I never wrote the book that was the topic of our first conversation. He began to change, and told me that he was beginning to see things in less polarized dimensions and that he no longer felt the need he once had to exact revenge on his enemies.

As curious as he was about me, he was remarkably candid about his own intimate thoughts, experiences and vulnerabilities, which initially made me suspicious, but I learned during the course of our friends.h.i.+p that it was genuine. At first he told me he intended never to write his autobiography: to make available his private musings to satisfy what he regarded as the public's prurient curiosity about a movie star, he said, would be cra.s.s and degrading. But over time, as he changed in other ways, his att.i.tude about recounting the story of his life s.h.i.+fted as well. He had persuaded himself, he told me, that there were "useful aspects in setting down the facts of my life," and he set about to write his autobiography for Random House. But after almost two years and little progress, he told me that he didn't have the emotional reserve to write a full-blown autobiography and asked me to help him. At first I declined. I said it was unwise for a journalist to deal professionally with a friend because it is impossible under such circ.u.mstances to maintain objectivity. But he promised to hide nothing, to be completely honest with me and to answer any questions I asked him about any topic I wanted except his marriages and his children-a promise he kept. I agreed to help him and began to make notes of our conversations, then to tape-record them. Our hours of talks stretched into days, then weeks. Inevitably, I told him, it would be necessary for him to talk about his experiences in films if he were going to tell the story of his life; he agreed, but with a reluctance that has never changed. He never relented, however, in his determination to say nothing about his children or his former wives, and he insisted that none of the other women in his life be identified in the book by their real names, except for a handful who are now dead. To do otherwise, he said, would be in bad taste.

Our conversations are the basis of this book, along with some of Marlon's own writings and meanderings he has committed to paper. I've taken the stories he told me, his writings, thoughts, reflections and experiences, and attempted to create from them a concise and accurate account of his life. Inevitably, in deciding on the structure of the book and selecting the words, events, metaphors and anecdotes in it, I have filtered the story of Marlon's life through the prism of my own perceptions, experiences and interests. When the preliminary draft of the ma.n.u.script was finished, he edited and revised it to confirm its accuracy and then added additional recollections, observations and insights. He also decided what would remain in the ma.n.u.script and what would be omitted.

ROBERT L LINDSEY.

1.

AS I STUMBLE BACK across the years of my life trying to recall what it was about, I find that nothing is really clear. I suppose the first memory I have was when I was too young to remember how young I was. I opened my eyes, looked around in the mouse-colored light and realized that Ermi was still asleep, so I dressed myself as best I could and went down the stairs, left foot first on each step. I had to scuff my way to the porch because I couldn't buckle my sandals. I sat on the one step in the sun at the dead end of Thirty-second Street and waited. It must have been spring because the big tree in front of the house was shedding pods with two wings like a dragonfly. On days when there wasn't any wind, they would spin around in the air as they drifted softly to the ground. across the years of my life trying to recall what it was about, I find that nothing is really clear. I suppose the first memory I have was when I was too young to remember how young I was. I opened my eyes, looked around in the mouse-colored light and realized that Ermi was still asleep, so I dressed myself as best I could and went down the stairs, left foot first on each step. I had to scuff my way to the porch because I couldn't buckle my sandals. I sat on the one step in the sun at the dead end of Thirty-second Street and waited. It must have been spring because the big tree in front of the house was shedding pods with two wings like a dragonfly. On days when there wasn't any wind, they would spin around in the air as they drifted softly to the ground.

I watched them float all the way down, sitting with my neck craned back until my mouth opened and holding out my hand just in case, but they never landed on it. When one hit the ground I'd look up again, my eyes darting, waiting for the next magical event, the sun warming the yellow hairs on my head.

Waiting like that for the next magic was as good a moment as any other that I can remember in the last sixty-five years.

As I sit at home now, winnowing the remembrances, they often come across my mind as unrelated images and feelings with smoky edges. I remember the sweet aroma of fresh-cut hay, the fragrance of burning leaves and the redolence of leaf dust as I scuffed through them. I remember the fragrance of the lilies of the valley in the garden where I often slept on the hot afternoons in Omaha, and I suppose the fragrance will always be with me. I don't think I'll ever forget the smell of lilacs or wild roses or the almost chic appearance of the trees in our neighborhood dressed in the silver lame of a spring ice storm. Or the unforgettable sound that grates on me even today, the squeak of midwestern snow beneath my boots when the temperature was fifteen below. Nor can I forget the smoky fragrance of toast and burning bacon with grits and eggs that drifted up the stairwell of our house on Sunday mornings.

We had an old-fas.h.i.+oned cast-iron wood-burning stove that always embarra.s.sed me. It was a wonderful stove, but in those days I was ashamed of it because it made me feel that we were poor. If I ever invited friends over and we pa.s.sed through the kitchen, I tried to engage them and lock their eyes on me so they wouldn't notice the stove.

When my mother drank, her breath had a sweetness that I lack the vocabulary to describe. It was a strange marriage, the sweetness of her breath and my hatred of her drinking. She was always sipping surrept.i.tiously from her bottle of Empirin, which she called "my change-of-life medicine." It was usually filled with gin. As I got older, occasionally I would find myself with a woman whose breath had that sweetness that still defies description. I was always s.e.xually aroused by the smell. As much as I hated it, it had an undeniable allure for me.

As her drinking increased, it became more and more difficult for my mother to disguise the fact that she was simply an off-the-shelf drunk. The anguish that her drinking produced was that she preferred getting drunk to caring for us.

My mother was always unconventional. Sometimes when it rained, she wore a shopping bag over her head with a little visor she had torn at the corners; it looked absurd, but she thought it was funny. I was embarra.s.sed by it, though if she did it today, I'd be gasping with laughter.

The memories of those times drift in and out of my mind like the hoboes who used to come and go near the railroad tracks not far from our house. It is surprising that those remembrances visit my mind and that most of the time, pain and shame are mercifully absent.

I have been told that I was born one hour before midnight, April 3, 1924, in the Omaha Maternity Hospital. It was a breech birth, but otherwise unremarkable. My family had lived for generations in Nebraska and was mostly of Irish ancestry. My mother, Dorothy Pennebaker Brando, was twenty-seven; my father, Marlon Brando, Sr., was twenty-nine. I rounded out the family and made it complete: my older sister, Jocelyn, was almost five when I was born, my sister Frances almost two. Each of us had nicknames: my mother's was Dodie, my father's, Bowie, although he was Pop to me and Poppa to my sisters, Jocelyn was Tiddy, Frances was Frannie and I was Bud.

Until I was seven, we lived in a big wood-s.h.i.+ngled house on a broad street in Omaha lined on both sides with houses much like our own, and with leafy elm trees that at the time seemed taller than anything that a young boy could imagine. Some of my memories of those days are pleasant. At first I was unaware of my mother's nipping from the bottle or the unhappiness of my father, who was also an alcoholic, which probably was the cause of his vanis.h.i.+ng so often, getting drunk himself and looking for hookers.

When I was very small, I remember carrying a tiny pillow around everywhere, a talisman of childhood. Hugging it, I went to sleep at odd times and odd places, and as I grew older, I even carried it when I started climbing trees and laying claim to empty lots in our neighborhood as my own private kingdom.

It's hard-probably impossible-to sort out the extent to which our experiences as children shape our outlook, behavior and personalities as adults, as opposed to the extent to which genetics are responsible. One has to be a genius to give a simple or absolute answer to anything in this world, and I don't know any tougher question than this one, although I suspect it's a subtle mixture of both. From my mother, I imagine I inherited my instinctual traits, which are fairly highly developed, as well as an affection for music. From my father, I probably acquired my strength of endurance, for he was truly a tough monkey. In later years, he reminded me of a British officer in the Bengal Lancers, perhaps a Victor McLaglen with more refinement. He was a traveling salesman who spent most of his time on the road selling calcium carbonate products-materials from the fossilized remains of ancient marine animals used in building, manufacturing and farming. It was an era when a traveling salesman slipped $5 to a bellboy, who would return with a pint of whiskey and a hooker. Then the house detective got a dollar so that the woman could stay in his room. My pop was such a man.

Most of my childhood memories of my father are of being ignored. I was his namesake, but nothing I did ever pleased or even interested him. He enjoyed telling me I couldn't do anything right. He had a habit of telling me I would never amount to anything. He was far more emotionally destructive than he realized. I was never rewarded by him with a comment, a look or a hug. He was a card-carrying p.r.i.c.k whose mother deserted him when he was four years old-just disappeared, ran off someplace-and he was shunted from one spinster aunt to another. I think he deeply resented women because of that experience. I loved him and hated him at the same time. He was a frightening, silent, brooding, angry, hard-drinking, rude man, a bully who loved to give orders and issue ultimatums-and he was just as tough as he talked. Perhaps that's why I've had a lifelong aversion to authority. He had reddish, sandy hair, was tall and handsome and had an overwhelming masculine presence. His blood consisted of compounds of alcohol, testosterone, adrenaline and anger. On the other hand, he could make any room fill with laughter. Women found him fetching, strong and handsome. And surprisingly, he had an extraordinary sense of the absurd.

But my father could also slip quickly into the role of a bar fighter. I imagine him as the fellow at the bar who, when you look over at him, says, "Who the f.u.c.k do you think you're looking at?" I remember a story-I don't remember who told it to me-that once he got drunk in San Francisco in a bar, and Sunday-punched his fighting partner out of the door and onto the trolley tracks, where they continued to exchange knuckle sandwiches until a streetcar nearly ran them over. I never actually saw him fight, but I remember him coming home with a s.h.i.+ner. He was a man whose emotional disorders took the form of pathological stinginess: he wouldn't spend a nickel if he didn't have to, and he socked away his cash like a miser. He insisted on controlling people, which-who knows?-may have something to do with why I've spent much of my life trying to control other people. Once I remember his putting his arm around my shoulder and playing with my earlobes at a movie, and there was always a perfunctory kiss when he returned from one of his trips, but such moments were exceptional. Perhaps he didn't know how, or was too proud or too frightened to do it. I don't remember him being affectionate with anybody except maybe our dogs.

After his mother disappeared, my father was brought up by his aunts, who were very Victorian in their outlook, and by my equally Victorian grandfather, whom we called Pa, an imposing man in celluloid collars who was stiff, frugal and cautious.

My father fell in love with my mother when they were in high school, I think because she was vivacious, funny and unconventional and enjoyed a good laugh like he did. He was a man who had known great pain and had never forgiven his mother for her desertion, and the residue of that anger had to be absorbed by my mother, by us three children and by whoever tried to stare him down at a bar.

Recently, Frannie sent me a letter in which she said that growing up in our family was "in a way like having four parents, or six, or eight. When Poppa wasn't beset by his inner irrational fears, he could be sweet and loving and considerate, amusing and amused, charming and sensitive, and then all this could be blotted out by black moods, thunderous silences, and anger that could burst out furiously over what seemed to us to be minor infractions. It was a lonely, friendless household. I don't think Poppa wanted to be such an abusive person, but he had no means to escape the consequences of the abuse and abandonment that he had suffered."

What was absent most conspicuously in our family was forgiveness. "I don't remember forgiveness," Frannie wrote. "No forgiveness! In our home, there was blame, shame, and punishment that very often had no relations.h.i.+p to the 'crime,' and I think the sense of burning injustice it left with all of us marked us deeply."

My mother was a delicate, funny woman who loved music and learning, but was not much more affectionate than my father. To this day, I don't understand the psychodynamics and pathology of her disorder or the forces that made her an alcoholic. Perhaps it was genetic, or perhaps alcohol was the anesthesia she required to numb the disappointments in her life. I always wondered about the reasons, but never learned the answer. She was seldom home when I was growing up, although I have a few good memories of lying in bed with her, with her light brown curls strewn over the pillows, while she read a book to me and we shared a bowl of crackers and milk. And occasionally we all stood around the piano and sang while she played, one of the few times I remember any sort of family activity.

My mother knew every song that was ever written, and for reasons that are unclear to me-perhaps because I wanted to please her-I memorized as many as I could. To this day, I remember the music and lyrics to thousands of songs my mother taught me. I have never been able to remember the number of my driver's license, and there have been times when I couldn't even remember my own telephone number, but when I hear a song, sometimes only once, I never forget the melody or the lyric. I am forever humming tunes in my head. I know African songs, Chinese songs, Tahitian songs, French songs, German songs and, of course, the songs my mother taught me. There is hardly a culture whose music I am not familiar with. Surprisingly, I can't remember a single song that was written after the seventies.

2.

SOME OF MY EARLIEST and best memories of childhood are of Ermi and of moonlight cascading through the window of my bedroom late at night. I was three or four when Ermi came to live with us in Omaha as my governess, and I see her as vividly now as I did then; she was eighteen years old, slightly crosseyed and had fine, silky dark hair. She was Danish, but a touch of Indonesian blood gave her skin a slightly dusky, smoky patina. Her laugh I will always remember. When she entered a room, I knew it without seeing or hearing her because she had a fragrant breath that was extraordinary. I don't know its chemical composition but her breath was sweet, like crushed and slightly fermented fruit. During the day, we played constantly. At night, we slept together. She was nude, and so was I, and it was a lovely experience. She was a deep sleeper, and I can visualize her now lying in our bed while the moonlight burst through my window and illuminated her skin with a soft, magical amber glow. I sat there looking at her body and fondling her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and arranged myself on her and crawled over her. She was all mine; she belonged to me and to me alone. Had she known of my blinding wors.h.i.+p of her, we would have married on the pinnacle of Magellan's cloud and then, bejeweled in our love, I would have taken her in my chariot made of flawless diamonds beyond the stars, beyond time, and farther than light to eternity. and best memories of childhood are of Ermi and of moonlight cascading through the window of my bedroom late at night. I was three or four when Ermi came to live with us in Omaha as my governess, and I see her as vividly now as I did then; she was eighteen years old, slightly crosseyed and had fine, silky dark hair. She was Danish, but a touch of Indonesian blood gave her skin a slightly dusky, smoky patina. Her laugh I will always remember. When she entered a room, I knew it without seeing or hearing her because she had a fragrant breath that was extraordinary. I don't know its chemical composition but her breath was sweet, like crushed and slightly fermented fruit. During the day, we played constantly. At night, we slept together. She was nude, and so was I, and it was a lovely experience. She was a deep sleeper, and I can visualize her now lying in our bed while the moonlight burst through my window and illuminated her skin with a soft, magical amber glow. I sat there looking at her body and fondling her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and arranged myself on her and crawled over her. She was all mine; she belonged to me and to me alone. Had she known of my blinding wors.h.i.+p of her, we would have married on the pinnacle of Magellan's cloud and then, bejeweled in our love, I would have taken her in my chariot made of flawless diamonds beyond the stars, beyond time, and farther than light to eternity.

Ermi had a boyfriend named Wally. When I was seven, I was playing by myself near a stream when I saw them kissing in a car. I was mystified, but had no idea of the disaster that this event foreshadowed. When Ermi left me not long after that to get married-not to Wally, but to a boy named Eric-I was devastated. She never told me she was going to leave or to be married. She merely said one day that she was leaving on a trip and would return soon. (In fact, she did return-twenty years later.) The night I realized Ermi was gone forever, I looked up and saw a b.u.t.termilk sky. There was a full moon behind the clouds and as it seemed to skip overhead across the saffron universe, I felt my dreams die. It had been weeks since she had gone. I'd waited and waited for her. But I finally knew that she wasn't coming back. I felt abandoned. My mother had long ago deserted me for her bottle; now Ermi was gone, too. That's why in life I would always find women who were going to desert me; I had to repeat the process. From that day forward, I became estranged from this world.

When I was six years old, we moved from Omaha to Evanston, Illinois, near Chicago, where my father established his own company, the Calcium Carbonate Corporation. I think I was probably ready for a change.

At Field Elementary School in Omaha, I'd been the only one in my cla.s.s to flunk kindergarten; I don't remember why. Perhaps it was because I was starting to resist authority. All I remember about kindergarten was that I was the bad boy of the cla.s.s and had to sit under the teacher's desk, where my primary activity was staring up her dress. I must have had dyslexia, although there wasn't a name for it then. Even now I often have to work carefully with words and numbers, one at a time, one sentence at a time, especially if I feel under stress, and I still can't dial a telephone correctly if I look at the numbers; I have to dial without looking at the keyboard as if I were touch-typing.

My mother's drinking got worse in Evanston. Sometimes alcohol sent her into a crying jag, but initially it usually made her happy, giddy and full of mirth, and she might sit down at the piano and sing to herself, and we often joined in. But she was seldom home. With Ermi gone, I was alone a lot, and it was shortly after this that I found myself behaving in odd ways. I was failing in school, I was truant, I became a vandal and trashed houses that were being renovated; I shot birds, burned insects, slashed tires and stole money. At the same time I began finding myself not wanting to go home, and spent most of my time at the house of Jimmy Ferguson, a cla.s.smate and longtime friend, or at the house of a Greek family who lived up the block and across the alley.

I also began to stammer, so noticeably that I was taken to Northwestern University for speech therapy, where I was treated unsuccessfully. With my BB gun, I accidentally shot a chauffeur, and I also shot the big bay window in our house and cracked it, which brought a ferocious reaction from my father. In one of the lighter moments that I remember, we had a woman helping us who was from Martinique, and in an effort to please my father, she emptied a carafe of water and filled it with gin. The next morning he sat down to breakfast, took several large gulps of it and went to the office half snockered.

Like all recollections, my memories of those times are colored by later events and distorted by the blurred prism through which my mind now chooses to examine my life. I have learned that it is easy to convince yourself that an event occurred a certain way when it did not-to think you know exactly what happened until someone tells you, "No, that never happened. You weren't even there." We all invent things in our minds and can be astounded to learn they really didn't happen the way that they are recalled. So as I reflect on my life in these pages, I advise the reader of my limitations and the fallibility of my brain.

I've often thought I would have been much better off if I had grown up in an orphanage. My parents seldom fought in front of us, but there was a constant, grinding, unseen miasma of anger. After we moved to Evanston, the tension and unspoken hostility became more acute. Why, I don't know, but I suspect my mother was growing more disillusioned and angry with my father's philandering, and he was growing more unhappy with her drinking.

3.

CAROL HICk.o.c.k HAD A curious malady that made her fall asleep suddenly. One moment she was awake, the next she was sound asleep even if she was standing up; then a minute or two later, her eyes blinked open slowly, she woke up and didn't realize she'd been asleep. When one of our teachers at Lincoln School told the cla.s.s about her problem and asked us to look out for her, I relished the a.s.signment. I wanted to care for her. Then I decided I was going to marry her. I occasionally walked her home from school, and soon I asked her for a date. I felt very sporty inviting her to Coolie's Restaurant for lunch, and then we went to see Boris Karloff in curious malady that made her fall asleep suddenly. One moment she was awake, the next she was sound asleep even if she was standing up; then a minute or two later, her eyes blinked open slowly, she woke up and didn't realize she'd been asleep. When one of our teachers at Lincoln School told the cla.s.s about her problem and asked us to look out for her, I relished the a.s.signment. I wanted to care for her. Then I decided I was going to marry her. I occasionally walked her home from school, and soon I asked her for a date. I felt very sporty inviting her to Coolie's Restaurant for lunch, and then we went to see Boris Karloff in The Mummy The Mummy. When the scary part of the movie came on, I told her that I had to go to the bathroom and left. The truth was, I was scared stiff. Instead of going to the bathroom, I went to the lobby and waited until the scary part was over, then returned to my seat. When the next scary scene came on, I disappeared again, then a third time. I don't know what Carol thought of my bathroom habits.

One afternoon I was visiting Carol and we were sitting on the sofa when she suddenly lost consciousness. I leaned over and kissed her-my first kiss. After she came to a minute later, I said, "How are you?" But I never mentioned my thievery. Maybe she was the girl I should have married. I don't know whatever happened to her.

There were only two black kids in Lincoln School, and they were both my friends, especially Asa Lee. I was at his house one day when he and his cousin and I decided to form a club. When it was time to elect the president, vice president and secretary, we had difficulty in deciding who was going to be president, and I said, "Well, that's simple: 'Eeny, meeny, miney, moe. Catch a n.i.g.g.e.r by the toe. If he hollers, let him go-eeny, meeny, miney, moe ...'" At that moment I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Asa's mother. She bent down and said, "Dahlin', we don't use that word in this house." I looked up with some surprise and I said, "What word?" She answered, "n.i.g.g.e.r." I said, "Oh." I had no idea what the word meant, but I could tell from Asa's expression that it was significant. Then she put a sweet gum ball in my mouth, patted my head affectionately and said, "You're a sweet thing." That was my first experience with a sense of race.

During my four years at Lincoln School, a few teachers liked me, but because I would not conform and was often rebellious, most had no hope for me. Among them was Miss Miles, whose name was appropriate because she was about six feet three inches tall and had the personality of a large granite obelisk.

After noticing that Asa and I spent a lot of time together, Miss Miles called us out of cla.s.s into the hallway one day and said, "All right, you two, tell me what's going on here."

I had no idea what she was talking about. I said, "Nothing is going on."

"Don't tell me that," she said. "How come you two are hanging around together?"

When I said we were in the same club, she asked, "What kind of club is it?"

When neither of us said anything, she grabbed me by one arm and shook me violently. I began crying and maybe Asa did, too.

"Now, you tell me the truth," she said. "What kind of club do you have?"

"It's our club," club," I said. "He's the president, and I'm the vice president." I said. "He's the president, and I'm the vice president."

I didn't mention that we had only one other member in the club, Asa's cousin.

Miss Miles said, "You better watch yourselves."

When I returned to the cla.s.s, I slumped to my desk, still crying. I felt humiliated and didn't know what was going on. I remember crying, then becoming aware that mucus was hanging from my nose when it landed on my desk. I pretended it was funny, causing the other kids to howl, but I felt humiliated and hid it as best I could.

In our family picture alb.u.m, there is a photograph of me with a few words scrawled on the back by one of my sisters: "Bud-and is he a grand boy! Sweet and funny, idealistic idealistic and oh, so young." Once Tiddy told me, "By the time you were seven or eight you were constantly bringing home starving animals, sick birds, people you thought were in some kind of distress, and if you had a choice, you'd pick the girl who was cross-eyed or the fattest one because n.o.body paid attention to her and you wanted her to feel good." and oh, so young." Once Tiddy told me, "By the time you were seven or eight you were constantly bringing home starving animals, sick birds, people you thought were in some kind of distress, and if you had a choice, you'd pick the girl who was cross-eyed or the fattest one because n.o.body paid attention to her and you wanted her to feel good."

I suppose it was true. I fas.h.i.+oned myself into the protector of weaker beings. I stopped shooting birds and became their guardians. I scolded friends who stepped on ants, telling them the ants had as much right to live as they did. While I was riding my bike near the beach in Evanston one day, I pa.s.sed a woman who was lying on the ground; it turned out she was falling-down drunk, but I thought she was just sick. I rode her home on my bicycle and told my parents, who were outside on the porch, that we should help her because she was sick. They were embarra.s.sed and uncomfortable, but they knew I was sincere and so they helped her. The memory of this incident suggests, I realized later, that early on I felt an obligation to help people who were less fortunate than me, or didn't have friends. But it wasn't only people to whom I felt an obligation. Curiously, after I moved to New York, whenever I saw a piece of paper on a sidewalk, I thought, If I don't pick it up, who will? So, I would bend over and put it in a trash basket.

When I was eleven, my parents separated, and my mother, my sisters and I went to live with my grandmother-the matriarch of the family, whom we called Bess or Nana-in California.

She was buxom and sharp-featured, with white hair, an aristocratic bearing and the look of a Gibson girl. Like my mother, she was also very much an individual and a renegade who refused to accept unblinkingly Victorian standards of behavior. Being Irish, she was witty and amusing. Humor, I suppose, is probably the hallmark of my family; if anything kept us sane, it was humor. We never knew what would come out of my grandmother's mouth. She had an enormous laugh and a sense of absurdity about human behavior, but there was also a serious side to her. She was a Christian Scientist pract.i.tioner, and a good one, I was told.

I attended the seventh and eighth grades at Julius C. Lathrop Junior High School in Santa Ana, a farming community in Orange County, south of Los Angeles. It was a period when my mother drank more than ever; she'd promise to stop, then disappear on another bender for four or five days-trying to love us, I suppose, when she was home, but rarely paying much attention to us. I probably didn't realize yet what an alcoholic was, but, like my sisters, I had to live with the effects of her disorder. My mother would get drunk on the sly, then try to hide it in cla.s.sic alcoholic fas.h.i.+on. For a time in Santa Ana, I had a fantasy that the important people in my life were all dead and were only pretending to be alive. I lay in bed for hours, sweating and looking up at the ceiling, convinced I was the only one in the world who was still alive. For a twelve-year-old-for anyone-it was frightening.

At home I was always on skinny rations when it came to praise. I never received accolades or adulation, not even encouragement. n.o.body ever thought I was good for anything except a few kindly teachers. One was my shop teacher at Julius C. Lathrop Junior High, a man whose name I've forgotten but whose words of encouragement affect me to this day. Once he gave me a piece of metal with the a.s.signment to make something with it. I pounded it on a forge into the shape of a screwdriver, put it in a box of wet sand to make a mold, melted some aluminum and poured it into the mold. I had made a screwdriver, and he praised me for it. For the first time in my life, I had done something of which I was proud.

I also discovered at Lathrop that I wasn't bad at sports; I won the school decathlon champions.h.i.+p and set a record by doing a thousand push-ups without stopping. I was still going when the coach stopped me. He said I had to stop because if I didn't, I might damage my heart.

Even now, I still get a thrill savoring these small successes so long ago.

After almost two years, my mother decided to reconcile with my father, and we moved to Libertyville, Illinois, a small town north of Chicago near Lake Michigan. Once again, we all looked forward to a fresh start.

Almost sixty years later, I can still feel the rhythm of the train that returned us to Illinois. While it rocked and swayed, I walked to a vestibule between two cars and felt the energy of the wheels rattling across the steel joints in the tracks. Spontaneously, I started banging on the doors and walls with my hands, grooving to the beat of the train as if it were a jazz quartet. After that, I was a changed boy: I wanted to be a drummer. Never again did I ride a train without getting the urge to pound my hands and fingers against something in accompaniment to the melody of the rails, and whenever I heard a train whistle in the middle of the night, I'd rise up on my elbows in bed and listen for the clack of wheels against rails and look out the window for a trail of steam. Long before I knew anything about the Doppler effect, I tried to figure out where a train was headed and how fast it was traveling by listening to the fading sound of its whistle and the steely song of its wheels. I really miss those old trains.

4.

WES MICKLER WAS BALANCED in his chair, leaning against the barn by the tack-room door when I rode up. I was riding Peavine Frenzy. She was lathered a bit and flaring her nostrils. in his chair, leaning against the barn by the tack-room door when I rode up. I was riding Peavine Frenzy. She was lathered a bit and flaring her nostrils.

"Was you runnin' runnin' that horse, Bud?" that horse, Bud?"

"Maybe a little."

"If you do that again I swear I'll knock a fart outta ya."

My face jerked while I tried to suppress my laughter.

"Can't you see that old horse is goin' lame?" Wes asked.

"I didn't notice it, Wes."

"Wut the h.e.l.l's amatter wichu?"

The way Wes said almost anything made me laugh.

He was part owner of a farm on Bradley Road, where my family rented a house five miles outside Libertyville, It wasn't a full-time farm anymore; it was more a horse ranch where people could keep their horses or rent them for a day. Wes's partner, Bill Booth, was the horse trader, always making deals and trucking horses to one place or another.

Wes loved horses, and even though my family owned Peavine, he made me feel she was his.

I pretended to adjust the stirrup on Peavine's far side so Wes couldn't see my face wrestling with a smile. He almost always broke me up. He said things he didn't intend to be funny, and the more serious he got, the more my throat tightened, fighting to suppress a laugh. I realize now it probably didn't mean a d.a.m.n to him whether I laughed or not, but at the time I thought it might make him angry, so I coughed and spit a lot trying to mask my laughter.

When I was cleaning the stall of a new boarding pony one day, Wes stood outside looking through the bars as the pony watched me. The pony didn't move, but he was flexing his nostrils and his ears were bent back. I reached out slowly to touch his nose and Wes said, "You better grab your nuts, kid. That d.a.m.n d.i.n.k can kick you frontways just as good as back."