Episode Four

Sophomore Year, First Semester (1963)

I’m home. Back for the summer from boarding school. Back in the bedroom I had shared with my brothers. Back home where everything should feel comforting and familiar. But it doesn’t. I feel like an outsider here, as if they’d stuck me in the spare room that no one ever uses. It doesn’t occur to me to clean, to rid the entire room of the layer of dust that has accumulated. I wipe down only with the areas that affect me—the bed closest to the bathroom and a small section of closet that isn’t being used as storage.

I sit on the edge of the bed, my unpacked duffel on the floor by my feet, remembering what I was feeling on the day I left. That seems so long ago. Now, I smoke. Now, I know what it’s like to have sex with a man. Do I wish none of that had happened? Maybe, I don’t know. I cringe when I think of all the ways I let Claude touch me, only to have him terrify me the way Daddy does. I take a long shower just to feel clean. Still, when I think about what we did and pretend it was with some other man, a better man, it makes me feel good. I realize that if I’m ever going to have more encounters like that, it probably won’t be around here. I glance around at the unmade beds and dust-laden curtains and realize that this isn’t my home anymore. I don’t feel like reclaiming this room. Why should I? I’m only visiting.

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All the attention of the family has been focused on one thing—Dick is getting married. I hear bits and pieces of the upheaval that’s been challenging the bride and groom—namely that Dick has chosen a non-Catholic to marry and that Daddy, who has never shown any signs of being a good Catholic, has been making a number of demands. Daddy wants a big wedding in the Catholic Church in Riverdale, but that’s not where we’re heading today.

We’re gathering at The First Baptist Church of Sanger—Bonnie’s church. This is the first wedding I’ve ever attended, let alone participated in. Since I was still at school during the rehearsal, I watch the other ushers closely and do what they do. I make it through without any blunders. I cry when I see how happy Dick is, how devoted to Bonnie he is, how a bond had grown while I was away allowing a drunk use my body. I wish I could take another shower.

At the reception, my brother Billy, with a few drinks under his belt is boasting to Auntie Helen that he intends to marry Leslie, the bridesmaid, who he met for the first time at the rehearsal yesterday. Though she’s way out of his league, I’m amused by his optimism. Dick and Bonnie are much more suited for one another. They’re in love and she is strong-willed enough to have gotten her way with Daddy. Dick will need someone like her if he ever hopes to take over the ranch from Daddy.

Billy and Leslie are way different. She’s well-bred, the country club type. I don’t know if they have cotillions in Fresno, but if they do, Leslie would fit right in. Billy’s more of the playboy type—tall, swaggering, slicked back dark hair with a curl dangling down his forehead, trying to look like Elvis and doing a excellent job of it. He always has a new girlfriend. They’re all beautiful and they’re all wild. Leslie’s not that way. She’s electric. She’s kind and engaging. She called me sweetie and told me how happy she was to meet me and asked me all about school. She’s a complete stranger, yet she’s my favorite person in the room. Well, she and Auntie Helen.

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Dick and Bonnie move to Shaver Lake after the wedding while he continues on with the forest service. Daddy wants him on the farm, but that isn’t really working out. So they live in a small trailer near the lake. Mom and Kathi and I visit one Saturday and Bonnie prepares dinner. She serves chicken and the most god-awful dumplings I’ve ever tried to chew. They’re hard and black in the center. She finds out a little too late that she should have followed the high altitude instructions on the Bisquick box. Dick points out that everything else is wonderful and I get a glimpse of how their love and support works. I’ve never seen that before, certainly not with Mom and Daddy.

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I inherit many of my responsibilities around the ranch this summer because Dick isn’t here. One day, I’m on the tractor pulling a harrow, a wide piece of farm equipment used to break up the large clumps of clay in a freshly disked field. I’m heading west to the back twenty near Conejo Avenue, when, from behind me, I hear a scream. I turn around to see a very pregnant woman lying at the side of the road. She’s part of a work crew weeding the adjacent field of sugar beets. I hadn’t seen her before the screams. I jump down to see if I can help when the woman begins cursing me in Spanish. I don’t speak much Spanish, but I certainly know all these words. I can’t see any cuts or bruises so I don’t know what to think. Other workers gather around her, speaking in Spanish, pointing at me and the road and the harrow, as if describing the horrifying assault that I had unleashed upon the innocent bystander. As the crowd grows larger I feel my physical body grow smaller, their eyes glaring, their voices harsh.

When someone who speaks English arrives, I learn that she is saying that I hit her with the corner of the harrow and that she’s afraid she’ll lose the baby. I feel horrible seeing her lying on the ground writhing in pain. Still, I see no bruises, no blood, no signs of any impact, but as they gather around her, I begin to fear for my safety. When my father arrives he sends me walking back to the house, telling me that I can no longer drive until this gets straightened out.

Two days later my father’s served with papers, claiming damages of $5,000.00. He presents the legal papers to me at dinner asking me how I thought he could possibly pay this without pulling me out of school. For almost two weeks, my fate was unknown. I’m faced with the very real possibility of never seeing Bellarmine again. I love boarding school. I can breathe there—deep full joyful breaths. What could I do to make this go away? What else? I pray…..like I’ve never prayed before!

A brief investigation by a lawyer friend of my dad finds three previous claims against other farmers by the same pregnant woman. It appears that she has established a rather lucrative practice of being hit by farm equipment. We also learn that there is no baby and there never was. When my dad’s lawyer threatens her lawyer with disbarment, he drops the lawsuit. She flees back to Mexico rather than face multiple fraud charges from my dad and the other farmers. This all eventually leads to my exoneration as a good driver.

I’m happy when the summer ends and I’m packing my bags once again for Bellarmine.

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In September of 1963, I begin my sophomore year. I return once again to Kostka Hall, but this time with a slight twist. On either end of this three story structure, nestled across from the back stairwells, are small rooms that only house one set of bunks. These are assigned to sophomores based on some kind of perceived compatibility. Eric Head is my new roommate. Yes, the same Eric who the previous year had joined me on my walks to see Sara and Nancy! Someone must have noticed that we had taken a liking to one another.

I find Eric to be a most fascinating fellow. He paints, both in pastels and acrylics, a material I had never seen before. He’s active in the theater guild on campus and speaks very proper English and some French, completely incongruous with his upbringing in the logging town of Hyampom, tucked deep in the Trinity Alps of northern California. Eric looks very collegiate to me, a round, silky-skinned face, light brown hair with a simple part on the left side, and dimples that deepen as his smile broadens. He has a very dry wit, quite sophisticated for a fifteen-year-old, and a warm infectious laugh.

We often make fun of our parents when talking about incidents from the summer. Whenever he does his father trying to make a point, he’ll raise one eyebrow so high, it almost meets up with his hairline. He’ll speak in such a low severe tone as to demand that all should pay attention, much different from Eric’s own soft-spoken way. He should be an actor, since he can become someone else at a moment’s notice.

We are glad to be roommates, not in a buddy way, more like brothers who look out for one another. Best of all, I trust him. Our first conversations are reminiscences of our times with Nancy and Sara, poking fun at the entire scenario of the young boys with their mature women. We muse at how childish we had been, way back six months earlier when we were both mere freshmen, and how much more mature we are now, now that we’re sophomores, no longer frosh—the lowest of the low. Eric has the ability to make me giggle, to the point of having to cover my own mouth to keep my high pitched outbursts from echoing down the corridor. He responds with a rat-a-tat-tat laugh of his own.

My first day back I sign up for the kitchen crew again. I’m disappointed to discover that Nancy’s not coming there. The following day I go to her apartment, but she and Sara had both moved. I’m tempted to call Claude, but choose not to. When I mention this to Eric, he quizzes me on why I wouldn't call him. Eric already knew that Sara had a brother named Claude, but he’s completely unaware of my relationship with him.

After much thought, I finally decide to tell him a little about what happened. His eyes get big and round, as he hangs on every word I say. I want to walk the line, perhaps paint a picture where I come off as the innocent victim in the story, but Eric thinks it all very intriguing and I soon garner great pleasure in sharing every sordid detail. I am, initially, hesitant to tell him too much about myself, fearing his judgment, but his response totally surprises me. He sees me as daring and adventurous. Man, I just keep liking this guy more and more as the weeks roll by. We settle into a comfortable routine, always sharing our day’s experiences each night after lights out. It’s a nice way to end each day. The comfort I derive from my friendship with Eric makes the weeks seem to fly by.

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The longest stretch being away from my family happens every year from opening day to the Thanksgiving break, usually eleven or twelve weeks. I normally take the Greyhound bus from school to home and back whenever there’s a big holiday break. Occasionally, when there are enough riders, they run an express bus straight through from San Jose to Fresno. Otherwise, it’s a series of short jaunts from small town to small town, turning a two hour trip into four and a half.

It’s Friday morning. I’m up and packed by 7:00 for the 4:00 bus ride home this afternoon. Since it’s the weekend before Thanksgiving, I’m certain I can catch an express bus that’ll get me home before dark. I’m in Spanish class when we hear the crackle of the loudspeaker.

“This is vice-principal Costa. It is my duty to inform you that the president of the United States, John F. Kennedy, our beloved Catholic leader, has been shot. There is no word on his condition, but I ask that we all pray for his recovery. I will let you know when I learn more.”

The silence is deafening. Mr. Rodriguez leads us in prayer and then has us read to ourselves for the rest of the period. At the bell, we change classes in almost total silence.

Two hours go by. Then, in English Lit, the loudspeaker crackles again, followed by a long silence. Father Costa is the toughest Jesuit on campus. He is the disciplinarian. When we all hear his voice quiver, we know what he is about to say.

“This is Father Costa. I’m sorry to inform you that President Kennedy was pronounced dead in Dallas a few moments ago. School will be suspended for the rest of the day. Your Thanksgiving break begins now.”

Every person in the class sits completely still, with eyes darting about the room, not knowing what to focus on. We all begin to weep when we hear that possibly the most beloved United States president ever is dead. We can all leave, but most of us just sit at our desks, unable to comprehend something this horrific.

This is one of those times when I really want to be with my family. Thank God they’re only a few hours away by bus. But when I get back to Kostka Hall, a crowd has gathered at the front steps around Father McConville.

“All students who commute from their homes along the San Francisco peninsula need to be on the 4:30 train as the trains are about to shut down for the weekend. If any boarders are planning to take Greyhound, you will have to make other plans as all scheduled busses have been canceled.”

My friend Mikey, who lives in San Mateo, asks me what I’m going to do. I tell him I have no idea. He tells me not to worry and invites me to his house for the weekend. I call my mom and she says I should go.

It’s a struggle getting on the 4:30 train. It’s jammed with people pressed against one another. But with all these people, all you hear is the shuffling of feet and an occasional “pardon me”.

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Mikey’s mom picks us up at the train station in San Mateo. She tells me that she’s talked with my mom, and that I can stay through the weekend. Monday is declared a national day of mourning, so, on Tuesday, I’ll be able to take the bus home to Fresno.

The next day, after Mikey’s mom fixes us breakfast, Mikey and I walk over to the Hillsdale Mall, only to find it completely disserted. I’ve never seen a shopping center devoid of people on a Saturday afternoon. We return to his house and spend the entire weekend in front of the TV watching one sad or shocking event after another: the assassination footage, Johnson taking the oath of office, the arrest of Lee Harvey Oswald, the sketchy info about the accused, the graphic footage of the murder of Lee Harvey Oswald, the body of JFK being flown back to Washington with Jackie next to him. When the body of John F. Kennedy lay in state in the capitol rotunda, one can’t help but notice that the casket is closed. We realize, then, that our president probably never had a chance of surviving. The grainy footage is shot from such a distance we can only see him slump and Jackie cover him.

It’s the most violence we have ever seen on TV. Shows like Father Knows Best and Ozzie and Harriet always have happy endings. And even on Gunsmoke only the bad guys ever get shot. To see such violence done to a man so beloved, a man who looked so good on TV that it won him the election, an entire nation feels like someone has reached in and torn out each of our hearts. This makes for a somber weekend with some very sweet people, all of us numb from the complete unbelievability of it all. It feels like life will never be the same. The flowers won’t be as fragrant. Food won’t taste as good. And our laughter will never be as deep.

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Thanksgiving is quieter than usual this year. The best part is that the whole family’s here, with a new appreciation for being together. Dick and Bonnie spent the summer in a trailer up at Shaver Lake, while Dick finished his last stint for the forest service. They just recently moved into what used to be called ‘the boys’ room’ in our house. It isn’t perfect for the newlyweds, but Dick’s finally back on the ranch for good.

We rarely take family photos, but on this occasion, Bonnie takes the one and only picture of the Schultz Family. Being together, this Thanksgiving in particular, provides us the kind of healing we all so desperately need. It really feels like a family, each of us wanting to know what all the others have been doing. Our family is spreading out, and this pulls us all back in for a few glorious days. My father is sober the entire week. My mom and Bonnie cook like they’ve never cooked before, and, for the first time, together. It looks a lot like those perfect TV families we all watch on TV, but never quite relate to, certainly not from personal experience. In many ways, it’s our best Thanksgiving so far!

The following Sunday, I’m back on the bus, on my way back to my ‘other’ home in San Jose. I always love school during this time of year. After a week’s vacation, I go back for three weeks and, then, we have another ten days off. I wish the whole school year could be like this.

It’s good to be home for Christmas vacation. Thanksgiving had been especially bonding for the Schultz family and, although it’s only been four weeks, I really missed them. I imagine myself to be pretty tough by now. After all, this is my second year in boarding school. I know how to take care of myself. I’m practically a ‘man of the world’. But after eating my mom’s homemade enchiladas again, I realize that, at this stage of my life, I’m happy to be a ‘boy of the world’.

One of the first items on my Christmas vacation agenda is to get my driver’s permit. I’ve been driving around the ranch for a couple of years, and except for that one incident, I have a perfect record. I sometimes drive around the farm in my dad’s pick-up, but mostly on the tractor, either hauling a load of aluminum siphons to the next crop on the irrigation schedule or pulling an empty cotton trailer into place to receive the billowy white avalanche as it tumbles from the jaws of the giant red cage high atop our latest acquisition, the automatic cotton picker. That, I can’t drive. Daddy says that it’s very technological and too complicated for me to use. It is an awesome machine.

I can’t help but think back, just a decade, when our cotton fields were still picked by hand. A busload of Braceros, highly skilled farm workers from Mexico, would descend upon a cotton field, each man or woman shouldering a canvas bag, three feet across and twelve feet long, with ties to close the hole at one end and a long torso strap at the other. They would drag the long bags down each row, moving quickly from plant to plant, freeing each fluffy bowl from its jagged bur, enduring hundreds of tiny cuts as they stuffed bag after bag, stripping plant after plant, filling trailer after trailer throughout the long twelve hour work days.

My father would pull the snow capped trailer to the Raisin City Co-op Cotton Gin. I’d pull the next trailer up and so it went, turning the vast white waves of cotton into brown fields of brittle twigs and crumpled dried leaves. By the end of picking season, usually early November, even a stranger to the area could easily find any cotton gin, simply by driving down any of the many gray dusty roads flanked on either side by the white web of errant cotton, blown from the trailers never to reach its final destination. The whiter the shoulders of the road got, the closer you were to the gin.

I have much to learn about driving in the real world. Yes, I can drive, but I keep forgetting to signal before turning. One seldom finds the need to signal while driving on a dirt road surrounded by alfalfa fields. Besides, tractors don’t even have turn signals.

I practice parallel parking between two 55 gallon oil drums. I drive to the back of the ranch, coming to a full stop whenever the crop I’m passing changes. I look both ways and continue on, like I’m driving through a residential district in Fresno.

I also take a keen interest in washing my father’s pick-up and my mom’s Rambler, thinking I look more like a dutiful son than, perhaps, a scheming opportunist. I get my permit the day after Christmas with the naïve notion that I’ll be able to borrow one vehicle or the other to drive into Fresno by myself. That doesn’t happen. I’m mostly relegated to driving my mother to Grandmere’s home in Reedley or to Montgomery Ward in Fresno. It’s good practice, and I look forward to Easter vacation, when I’ll be sixteen and old enough to get my license.