To a drama-whore like myself, uncertainty is a cocktail. If my life isnโt wrinkled with folds of conflict, I will invent them. These past recollections were the building blocks of my future; I lived on the edge with my father.
Ann, my therapist, asked me about my mother but there was so little to tell. She was restrained to her secrecy, some vow she gave my father, and the personal veil of repression that cloaked all of her past. I told Ann that I was adopted into my friendโs homes by their motherโs, the ones who had met mine.
My best friend Denise lived in Brentwood with her divorced mother and siblings. We hooked in the dark unfamiliar and confusing imbalance of a broken home life.
Her mother was suffering depression after a recent divorce and I was dangling from my fatherโs fingertips, helplessly.
After my mother died, Denise wouldnโt let a day go by without calling me. โAre you all right,โ sheโd say. She didnโt like my father, and her reasons were mature beyond her years, โHe frightens me.โ Denise wouldnโt spend the night at my house, but once, and she said that I could stay at hers anytime I needed to get away.
After school one afternoon we stopped in the Brentwood Pharmacy. Denise was looking at the book rack and I was following along.
โ Luellen, my mother told me your father is in a book, The
Green Felt Jungle. Itโs about gangsters. Wantโa see if they have it?โ
I agreed to look because Denise was interested, but it meant nothing to me.
Denise twirled the book rack around, and I stood behind her watching.
โThatโs the book! Let me look first and see what it says,โ Denise whispered. She tensed up; I could feel it in her arm, as I grasped her.
โOh, my God, there he is,โ she said, and we hunched together over the book and read the description of my father, โAllen Smiley, one of Ben Siegelโs closest pals in those days, was seated at the other end of the sofa when Siegel was murdered.โ Denise covered her mouth with her hand, and kept reading silently.
โWhat does that mean? Who is Ben Siegel?โ I asked.
โShush, not so loud. Iโm afraid to tell you this, Luellen. Itโs awful. โ
โWhatโs awful? Tell me.โ
โBugsy Siegel was a gangster. He was in the Mafia. He killed people. Your father was his associate.โ
โI donโt think I should see this,โ I said and started to leave the drugstore. Denise followed me out.โ
โ Why did Bugsy kill people?โ I asked.
โBecause thatโs what gangsters do. Luellen, you canโt tell your father you saw this book. Please donโt tell him I told you.โ
โWhy not?โ
โMy mother told me not to tell you. Swear to me you wonโt tell your father!โ
โI wonโt. Donโt tell anyone else about this Denise, all right?โ
โLuellen, have you met any of your fatherโs friends?โ
โ Yes, Iโve met them. I love his friends.โ
A short time after that I waited until my father left for the evening, and then I opened the door to his bedroom.
I walked around the bed to a get closer look at the photographs on the wall. It was the first time I could read the
inscription: To Al, my dear friend, Your pal, Ben.
I stared at his eyes, droopy heavy-lidded sexy, and a gleaming boyish smile. It was a different photograph, but it was the same man in the โGreen Felt Jungle.โ The photograph placed next to it, was of Harry Truman, with a similar inscription dated 1963. The disparity of Benjamin โBugsyโ Siegel alongside Harry Truman wouldnโt mean anything to me for another thirty years. At that moment I was driven with curiosity and anticipation of what Denise had told me.
I opened the top drawer of his dresser. It was fastidiously organized with compartment trays for rolls of coins, a jewelry tray of diamond cufflinks, rings and watches, and another tray of newspaper clippings. The next drawer was stacked with neatly folded shirts in tissue paper. Under that was a drawer with a lock on it.
โWhat are you doing in my bedroom?โ I slammed the drawer, muted by his stern expression. He pulled a key from his pocket, and locked the drawer.
โ HOW DARE YOU GO INTO MY THINGS! His hands shook, the veins in his neck inflamed.
โWhat is it youโre looking for? Luellen. Tell me, or else you will not step out of this apartment for a month. LUELLEN! Speak up! What are you looking for?โ
โ I was looking for pictures?โ I stammered.
โ What kind of pictures?โ
โ Photographs. OfโฆMommy.โ
โ Youโre lying to me! Donโt think you can fool me, you canโt. You want to see photographs, have a look at this one.โ Then he pointed to the picture of Ben Siegel. Every vein of his neck swelled. He reminded me of a snarling wolf about to rip my head off. I looked down at the ground, and held my breath.
โNow you listen to me and donโt forget this for the rest of your life. This is Benjamin Siegel! He was my dearest and closest friend. Youโre going to hear a lot of lies and hearsay about him. They call him โBugsy,โ but donโt let me ever catch you using that term. ” Iย have not forgotten.
SCREENPLAY:ย My Hoodlum Saint is the story of a woman whose survival is wedged between love and fear of her father. It exposes my struggle to survive adolescence while growing up in my father’s secret and terrifying world, where only family could be trusted.
For more information contact me: folliesls@aol.com
On Sunday afternoon, while I was sitting in the bridal room at Neiman Marcus, I was in a head on collision with the past and the present. I was not in the bridal room to buy a wedding dress; I was there to store my mink coat. While I waited for a sales clerk, I imagined myself in the chic trench coat with diamond buttons hanging from the rack. If I did have to choose a bridal gown, it would have to be something unconventional, like my mother chose. She wore navy blue taffeta to her wedding. If I did get married, I would have to save my coins for a long time to pay for the reception. Where would I get married? At one time, I dreamt of the Bel Air Hotel, but that was in the 1970s. With inflation, the wedding would cost no less than $100,000 today. By the time, I saved that much, I would be 100 years old! Besides the hotel is not the same. The last time I dropped by, I was chased out of the river walk for taking photographs of the swans. Just before my father took ill in 1982, he told me my wedding would be at the Flamingo in Las Vegas. I remember it, as if it was yesterday. We were walking together in Holmby Park, where he walked his five miles everyday. Very often, he stopped at the public phone booth and made a few calls. He whispered so I could not hear his conversation. I know now he was laying his bets for the day. I waited on the green lawn watching the older men and women playing Croquette. When my father returned from the phone booth, he looked perturbed. That meant he lost money on that dayโs sporting event. We walked a long time in heavy silence until he decided to break it.
โYou know, Iโm very proud of you.โ He said looking straight ahead.
โYou are?โ I was stunned.
โOf course I am! I hope you donโt think any different. I have not said it often, because Iโm coaching you all the time, so you will be independent, and know how to look after yourself, after Iโm gone. I donโt want you to fall into a rut with the wrong fellow, like so many women. It can ruin your whole life.โ
โBut I havenโt accomplished anything really great…. like you.โ
โWhat the hell are you talking about!โ he stopped in the middle of the path. โI made more mistakes than you ever could. Are you kidding sweetheart, I broke all the rules, and made some new ones, and Iโve paid. Like Iโve always said, you make your bed, and you lie in it. Iโm proud of the career you made in real estate, without any help from me. Now you have to concentrate on the right fellow. When you do get around to finding the right one, weโll have the wedding at the Flamingo.
โThe Flamingo? Do you still know people there?โ I asked timidly.
โOf course, I was a major stockholder … at one time.โ Then he cleared his throat, and I wondered if he was choking on the memories. โThatโs where Mommy and I had our wedding reception.โ I thought of the photographs of Mommy cutting the white cake. It was the first time he ever mentioned my wedding. It was the first time, he seemed to say, okay find a fellow, and Iโll let you go. I sensed his detachment from everything around us except for me.
โI would like that. How long has it been since you were there?โ
โI didnโt want to set foot in that place after Bennyโฆ (Benjamin Siegel) I didnโt care if the whole place burnt to the ground. Thereโs no reason why you canโt have your wedding there. I can still arrange a few things.โ
The vision of father, my future husband, and me was an aberration without incident or purpose at that age. However, he was dreaming that the day would come soon. When the sales clerk finally appeared, I was glazed over, in some marbled state of melancholy, clutching the mink coat on my lap. The mink is the oldest garment in my closet. My father gave it to me in 1978.
Itโs as if it happened yesterday. My father called one Saturday and asked me to meet him at Mannis Furs in Beverly Hills. When I arrived, my father was seated in a chair, facing a three-way mirror. Manny rushed over to greet me. โThis is my daughter, Luellen, โManny bowed and kissed my hand. In the other hand, he was holding a mink jacket. โTry it on for size,โ my father ordered. I hesitated, and looked at him for explanation. It never occurred to me I would be trying on mink coats. He was always asking me to meet him in shops, and restaurants. He held meetings wherever he knew people, so I assumed he had a meeting with Manny.
โGo onโtry it on. I didnโt say I was buying it, I just want to see what it looks like.โ Manny tucked me into the mink coat, and pulled the waist sash through. He stroked the fur up and down, and then I did the same. The coat was solid, like a cloth wall that buried my body in warmth. I stood before the mirror and watched the transformation.
โTurn around, โmy father ordered. I took a few steps in a half circle and slipped my hands into the pockets, and turned around slowly as Iโd seen my mother do. Suddenly his eyes welled up with tears and he took out his handkerchief.
โIf you dressed in a proper outfit and not those silly jeans all the time, you might look like something!โ he barked.
โWell I didnโt know Iโd be trying on minks today.โ
โWhat the hell did you think youโd be trying on, pianos? For crying out loud! โI donโt know what youโre thinking sometimes. Take it off.โ Manny untied the sash and took the coat. My father was in a mood, it was my fault again. I shouldnโt have worn jeans. Why did he start crying? Manny disappeared, and my father stood in front of the mirror to affirm his reflection. After he took off in his Cadillac, I stood in front of Mannyโs and looked at the mink coats. He never mentioned it again, but I knew the coat was going to show up one day. Six or seven months after that first meeting at Mannis, the mink appeared at Chanukah.
โDaddy, this is so extravagant, I wonโt have any where to wear it.โ
โOh yes you will! Just wait and see. If you quit going out with those misfits and find yourself a decent fella youโll have numerous occasions. Thatโs the reason why I gave it to you, so donโt misuse it!โ
When I left Neimanโs I was drenched in his memory. The mink coat has outlived all of my possessions. Every time I put it on, Iโm reminded of his wisdom. Itโs not the expense or signature status. When I put it on, I feel transformed. I discovered the bill of sale from Mannyโs, and the balance due, after my father died. I called Manny and asked him for more time, to pay it off. He told me to forget about it, my father had brought in so much business to the store.
Last year I called Manny to see if I could have the coat remade into a vest; as the sleeves were too short.ย ย ” It’ll cost you the same as the mink,”ย he told me.ย ย I had the holes repaired, and the coat glazed and will pack it in the suitcase for the trip to New York, now thrity two years later with a decent fella.
SOME children are silenced. The pretense is protection against people and events more powerful than them. As the daughter of Allen Smiley, associate and friend to Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel, I was raised in a family of secrets.
My father is not a household name like Siegel, partly because he wore a disguise, a veneer of respectability that fooled most.
It did not fool the government. My father came into the public eye the night of June 20, 1947, when Benjamin Siegel was murdered in his home in Beverly Hills. My dad was seated inches away from Siegel, on the sofa, and took three bullets through the sleeve of his jacket.
He was brought in as a suspect. His photograph was in all the newspapers. He was the only nonfamily member who had the guts to go to the funeral.
When I was exposed to the truth by way of a book, I kept the secret, too. I was 13. My parents divorced, and five years later, my mother died. In 1966, I went to live with my father in Hollywood.
I was forbidden to talk about our life: “Don’t discuss our family business with anyone, and listen very carefully to what I say from now on!”
But one night, he asked me to come into his room and he told me the story of the night Ben was murdered.
“When I was spared death, I made a vow to do everything in my power to reform, so that I could one day marry your mother.
“Ben was the best friend I ever had. You’re going to hear a lot of things about him in your life. Just remember what I am telling you; he’d take a bullet for a friend.”
After my father died, I remained silent, to avoid shame, embarrassment and questions. But 10 years later, in 1994, when I turned 40, I cracked the silence.
I read every book in print – and out of print – about the Mafia. Allen Smiley was in dozens. He was a Russian Jew, a criminal, Bugsy’s right-hand man, a dope peddler, pimp, a racetrack tout. I held close the memory of a benevolent father, wise counselor, and a man who worshipped me.
I made a Freedom of Information Act request and obtained his government files. The Immigration and Naturalization Service claimed he was one of the most dangerous criminals in the country. They said he was Benjamin Siegel’s assistant. They said he was poised to take over the rackets in Los Angeles. He didn’t; he sold out his interest in the Flamingo, and he went to Houston to strike oil.
I put the file away, and looked into the window of truth. How much more could I bear to hear?
Born in Kiev, Ukraine, my dad’s family immigrated to Canada. He stowed away to America at 16, and was eventually doggedly pursued for never having registered as an alien. He had multiple arrests – including one for bookmaking in 1944, and another for slicing off part of the actor John Hall’s nose in a fracas at Tommy Dorsey’s apartment.
He met my mother, Lucille Casey, at the Copacabana nightclub in 1943. She was onstage dancing (for $75 a week), and my father was in the audience, seated with Copa owner and mob boss Frank Costello.
“I took one look, and I knew it was her,” was all he had told me on many occasions.
On a trip to the Museum of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences in Los Angeles, I was handed a large perfectly pristine manila envelope, and a pair of latex gloves with which to handle the file.
Inside were black and white glossy MGM studio photographs, press releases, and biographies of my mother’s career in film, including roles in “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty,” “Ziegfeld Follies of 1946,” “Meet Me in St. Louis” and “Harvey Girls.” She was written up in the columns, where later my father was identified as a “sportsman.”
The woman who pressed my clothes, washed my hair, and made my tuna sandwiches was an actress dancing in Judy Garland musicals, while her own life was draped with film noir drama.
My father wooed her, and after an MGM producer gave her an audition, he helped arrange for her and her family to move to Beverly Hills, where she had steady film work for five years. He was busy helping Siegel expand the Western Front of the Costello crime family and opening the Flamingo casino in Las Vegas.
They were engaged in 1946.
Still, the blank pages of my mother’s life did not begin to fill in until I met R.J. Gray. He found me through my newspaper column, “Smiley’s Dice.”
One day last year, R.J. sent me a book, “Images of America: The Copacabana,” by Kristin Baggelaar. There was my mother, captioned a “Copa-beauty.”
Kristin organized a Copa reunion in New York last September. I went in place of my mother, but all day I felt as if she was seated next to me. I fell asleep that night staring out the hotel window, feeling a part of Manhattan history.
Now, the silence is over.
I don’t hesitate to answer questions about my family. I have photographs of Ben Siegel in my home in Santa Fe, NM, just as my father did. Every few months I get e-mails from distant friends, or people who knew my dad.
It seems there is no end to the stories surrounding Ben and Al. I am not looking for closure. I’ve become too attached to the story.
ย The throw of the dice this week falls on the sunrise of hardship, for all of us.
ย ย ย ย In my home there is one staircase window that faces east. Each morning before I descend the stairs I stop at the landing, to watch the day begin. The sun must rise above an assortment of tree limbs and trunks, and up over the mountains. By the time Iโve had my coffee, the sun has risen above these obstructions. I am now jerked awake, like a slight nudge a parent might give you, โCome on–wake up! You have school.โย ย
I begin writing, but that shameless sunlight in my eyes and the dance of the birds are tempting me to step outdoors.ย When you live in seasonal climate, summer days and nights lure you out of your wits; why stay inside when thereโs moonlight, a sage brush breeze, and merriment across the street.
The gradual awakening unfolds layers of thoughts, beginning with the anxiety of the times. The impending hardship of thousands, my friends, and neighbors, oozes out like a bad smell. Everyone seems to be slanting in new directions; some are going home where they came from, others take on another job, or moving out and leasing their homes.ย ย ย ย
ย
Some mornings I canโt even look at the newspaper. The headlines read like Sundayโs promotional movie advertisements: BANKRUPT, FORECLOSURE, and SUICIDE. The shocking prick of national disaster is a surgical awakening of a disease untreated.ย Thereโs no time to waste, no money to squander, it is a time of reduction and refusal.
ย ย ย As minor calamities knock on my door, and creditors calling from India, I turn my head to the sunlight and resume what I have to do, and that is write. If you know me, then you know Iโve vanished. Itโs the only way I can work, and Iโm standing on my head happy that I have the solitude to do it.ย
ย Last week while I was upstairs, prone on the sofa figuring out a transition between two scenes, someone knocked at the door. Then they fiercely rang the bell. Oh what it is now I thought.ย ย ย
ย ย ย ย โYes,โ I asked the man standing outside. He stared at me while twirling a toothpick in his mouth.
โAre you all right? Iโm from Safeguard Security we havenโt had any signal on your alarm.ย We came to check on you.โ
I stood there expressionless. I assured him I wasnโt held captive or about to throw myself out the window, but he didnโt seem convinced, he lingered and kept looking over my shoulder.ย I hastily sent him on his way, and returned to the desk.ย Iโd been rude; I didnโt even thank the guy.ย This is some kind of message, next time heโll slam the door in my face.ย ย ย ย ย ย
Later in the day, if I havenโt ventured outdoors yet, I take a walk around the Plaza, and muse over the herds of tourists. I look for revealing expressions and conversations.ย I didnโt see panic and anxiety, I observed relief. Couples shuffled together, maybe holding hands, dragging shopping bags, and aiming directionless for a new snapshot. They stand gaping at the churches and shoot photographs while standing in the middle of the street. Vacation is bliss in the middle of discontent.ย
When I return to my desk, it is time to print the days work. This is always a ritual of great expectation, filled with disappointments, surprise, and sometimes a whiff of elation.
ย By now the sun has made its journey to the other side of the house. The back porch is like starched light, it burns the eyes and flesh, the immediate effect is callous. Now is the time to slouch in the chair, close my eyes, and rewind a few scenes back.
Hardship is like the sun, unmerciful when it is met face to face, and transforming when we are protected. The sunlight is absorbed into our bodies; the effect is invigorating when taken in increments. The light changes the color of the world, we see things differently, and so it is with hardship, we feel intensely, our senses are sharpened, and we appreciate the treats more so than in times of prosperity.
It all translates into less spending and more creating.ย
While I lounge in this old house, one track of time keeps re-appearing. It was when my living space was limited to one tiny room, finances on a string as long as my finger and uncertainty a nightmare that turned into a lullaby. It is that time again; and what we all must do is keep the adventures above the circumstances. Any dice to throw:
The throw of the dice this week lands on an adventure with D.H. Lawrence.ย
Our affair began in the winter of 1970, when the film โWomen in Loveโ was released.ย
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โ Letโs go see this movie, Alan Bates is in it.โ Lizzie,ย ย and I were madly in love with Alan Bates.ย Neither one of us had read the book, or had much knowledge of D.H. It was a film that explored sexual relations that interested us, and it was filmed in England.ย Back in Junior High Lizzie sangย musical songsย while I taped her on a recorder.ย ย Now in High School, she was singing Hey Jude, and I wasย reading the words from theย record album. ย ย ย ย
I remember sitting in the balcony of the Beverly Wilshire Theater, leaning forward in my seatย as I longed, with adolescent fixation, to be inside the story. I wanted to live in a studio like Gudrenโs( the part played by Glenda Jackson) and toast my bread in front of fireplace and paint all day.ย Gudren was the artist terrified of being tamed.ย ย Her sister Ursula, who personifiedย Lawrenceโs wife Frieda, wished to make her life within a manโs.ย ย ย ย
ย โYour Gudren, and Iโm Ursula,”ย ย Lizzie claimed with clairvoyant assurance.ย ย
ย ”ย No, I’m not all Gudren.” I protested.
ย ” You are– you’ll see.”ย ย ย Withinย a year, Lizzieย would be in-love in London, creating a life around a man, and I would be an art student at Sonoma State College.ย ย
ย ย
But on that lazy matinee afternoon,ย we gasped, and squeezed each otherโs hands, during particular erotic scenes that shocked our sensibility. It was anย awakening, of the abstraction of relationships. Weโd discovered that friendships ย were not as they seemed, and that love did not always have a happy ending.ย ย It woke me to what possibilities lay ahead, and turned a defining fold in my growth.ย ย Would I end up like Gudren?ย At times the thought haunted me.
Over the last thirty years, I’ve ย watched the film every time it screened on television.ย It was the benchmark of my youth,ย ย ย just before I wandered off into relationships with artists and bohemian living.ย ย Several years ago Iย purchased a copy.ย I was convinced thereย was something I’d missed.ย ย
ย
Summer 2006 Taos, NM
ย I move to Taos and Rudy gives me โBirds, Beastโs & Flowersโ a collection of poems written by D.H. during his stay in Taos.ย ย I journey out to Del Monte Ranch where D.H. and Frieda lived on and off for several years.ย The ranch keepers took us on a private tour; oral and on foot.ย I yearned to learn more. ย Several days later I walked down the portal of Ranchos Plaza to see what new treasure books Robert had in his shop.ย
ย ย โWhat do you have by D.H. Robert?โย
ย ย โKangaroo, and Lorenzo in Search of The Sun,โ itโs a biography about DH.
ย ย โIโll take them.โย
They were placedย on the bookshelf in the bedroom and remained there unread. ย By now, ย Iโd seen the famous stained glass window D.H. ย painted in Mabel Dodgeโsย bathroom in Taos, and the sketchings on display at the La Fonda Hotel. ย Still, I had not read any of his novels.ย ย
Winterย 2008. Santa Fe.
The down blanket isย wrapped tightly around my shoulders on a snowy night.ย ย I take โLorenzo in Search of the Sunโ ย off the shelf and begin to read.ย The book begins with his adventure in Taormina.ย ย ย ย ย
ย ย ย ย โI am so thankful to be back in the South, beyond the Straits of Messina, in the shadow of Etna, and with Ionian Sea in front: the lovely, lovely dawn-sea where the sun does nothing but rise toward Greece.โ
ย Thisย first excerptย leads me to chiselย the cobwebs of memory to theย summer of 1972.ย Iย left my sister in Barcelona, with a Spanish- lover, andย took ย a solo journey to Sicily. I donโt recall what precipitated my quest;ย ย but the warnings and discouragement from myย sister, and fellow travelers didnโt obstruct my vision.ย I had to go to Sicily. It turned out to be the bittersweet part of my European summer.ย An ย Italian hotelier rescued me,ย and put me up for a few weeks in his Taormina hotel; like he did with all the lost American hippie girls.ย
Every night this winter, I huddled insideย andย read a few pages of the book, savoring themย as I would a chocolate souffle. Theseย descriptions of Italy, Mexico, and Taos infiltrated that clamping cold. ย ย D.H mentions theย Model T Lizzie in his chapters on the El Monte Ranch in ย Taos.ย ย I am reminded of my trip to the ranch.
This is an excerpt of the column I wrote about my visit to ranch in 2006. ย ย ย ย ย ย ย
D.H and his wife Frieda moved to the Ranch in 1924.ย ย Imagine that journey–there was no road to the Ranch, that came much later. They must have hiked up the hill or gone on horseback.ย The ranch includes a small barn, and two cabins; they chose the larger Homesteaderโs Cabin. It is so organic, as if spun together by weeds and timber chips, but actually is a mixture of pine logs, mud, straw and water.ย The Homesteader was a man named John Craig. He claimed this property in the 1880โs, and built the cabins with the surrounding Ponderosa pine.ย The pueblo Indians helped D.H restore the cabin and he moved in during the summer of 1924.ย
I thought about this man sitting under the majestic beauty of the pines, and writing all day long.ย The plateau of silence that envelopes this ranch is every writerโs dream.ย Here he wrote some of his Taos poetry, โBirds, Beastโs & Flowersโ he finished โSt. Mawr,โ a short novel, the novel โDavid,โ and parts of ย โThe Plumed Serpent.โย ย ย D.H didnโt know how to type;ย ย he left that task to Dorothy Brett, the artist that accompanied D.H and Frieda.ย D.H invited Dorothy and several other friends to join him in Taos after his first visit in early 1924.ย He was creating a Utopian society, he named Rananim.ย Brett was the only artist to accept the offer.
I took a few photographs and then we trotted back to the entrance. Just as we were getting into the Van, a car pulled up. A woman got out, and called out a hello from across the way.ย ย I yelled back that we were just leaving, and she yelled even louder, โI canโt hear you โ Iโm almost deaf.โย I got out of the car and went to meet her halfway.ย Immediately taken with her pioneering eyes, and up at dawnย spirit, I yelled to Rudyย to get out of the car.ย ย
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โ Iโm Mary and thatโs Al over there, we’re the caretakers.ย Alโs been here 50 years.โย ย I nodded to Al, standing a few feet behind her, watching us with a tinge of curiosity. I noticed his eyes, the color of faded denim, squirming with stories.ย I tried not to ask too many questions too quickly;ย Al was tired from a long journey so he took a seat on the porch.ย ย ย
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โ Open up the cabin for them Mary.โ He called out.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Mary nodded and led us up the path to the D.H. cabin.ย
Along the way, she talked about the ranch. There is a society named the Friendโs of D.H. Lawrence in Taos, and they want to build a big commercial visitor center on the ranch. Mary and Al think this is a bad idea, because the pines and silence are so happy, why mess up a beautiful memorial.ย If you saw the ranch, youโd agree that a visitor center will look like a spaceship in this territory of natural beauty.ย Mary opened the door to the cabin and showed us around. The first thing I noticed was the typewriter.ย
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โ Is that where he typed? โ (She gave me printed literature that fills in the information I know now.)
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โ Nope,– but thatโs the typewriter Dorothy typed on.โย The cabin is well maintained, simple and authentic.ย After we examined everything Mary led us back to Al. We gathered around the porch and Al talked about the road that he cleared to the ranch, the typewriter he dug out of the dump, and the time he drove out from Chicago in his Tin Lizzie.ย Rudy turned to the Model T in the parking lot.
ย ย ย ย ย ” You drove that out here?”ย ย He asked.ย
ย ย ย ย ย ” ย Naw, thatโs my brotherโs. Weโre going to get it workin’ย soon.ย Go on in and take a look.โย ย ย Rudy jogged overย and got inside.ย ย Iย took photographs of him, and Al watched.ย
ย ย ย ย ” That’s how D.H. and Frieda got around Taos, they’s was great cars.”ย ย
ย ย ย
ย Mary took me aside and told me that she was throwing a party for Alย in a few weeks,ย and that we’d be welcome. It would be Al’sย 90th birthday. I glanced over at him,ย petting his dog and looking very content.ย I didnโt think he heard us, but he did.ย โ Iโll be here until Iโm 100.โย ย We exchanged good wishes, and many waves before leaving that afternoon.ย ย
Wasย Alโs brotherย Gotzsche, who D.H. writes about andย who toured them aroundย in his Lizzie?ย ย ย Further in my reading,ย I discovered that Gudren, personified the author Katherine Mansfield.ย ย I became more keenly acquainted with Katherine ย in Saratoga Springs, when I attended a reading of her short stories at Yaddoย Arts Colony.ย
D.H. ย is a puzzle that continues to zigzag around myย “adventures in livingness.” ย He is also the author of that slogan.ย I found the sayingย in Anais Nin writings, but in fact I think its origin is with Lawrence.ย
At three in the morning the walls of reality merge with dreams, timelessness, restlessness, and an alertness of unspoken needs.
What I think of at three in the morning is never the same at ten oโ clock in the morning.ย The labyrinth of safety, colliding with the unknown, seems to be the most innocent of emotions. It is also a time that ย springs bright eyed realizations, recognitions, and a time when our mirrors move toward us.ย I see my looks fading. All I ever wanted was to see myself as pretty as my mother was.
The wind is sudden as it whips through the spruce tree outside my window.
I get up and wander downstairs, listening to the wood floors crackle at my footstep.ย I walk outdoors onto the back porch.ย The wind is like a mirror to me. This sound, so clear and unmixed in Santa Fe, ย brings me back to the years in Hollywood. The nights my father went out allowing me the freedom to explore outside. I would run down Doheny Drive to Santa Monica Boulevard and just keep running.ย It was on those windy Santa Ana nights that Iโd run the longest.
I was running because the need to express something was bulging through my body. ย ย Back then I didnโt keep a journal at home. My father had discovered it and then questioned me about everything Iโd written.
This night is like that, only I donโt feel like running, I am listening to the sound of the chime and the wind. I am thinking of the music of Charles Lloyd, and the shadows that look like people, and the clouds that appear to have message, ย and how everything is different when you are alone.
I dine without pause and usually finish before Iโve even wiped my mouth. I have extended conversations with the cats, Bugsy and Alice, ย and moments are elongated. ย I sit down at the counter and this wind and chime continues to circulate the house. It is an announcement- it is expectant of spring.ย I jotted down some notes and knew what I wished to write about today.
April is expectant- there is expectancy everywhere you look. The buds on the stark tree limbs are about to bloom, the birds have evacuated their nests and begin singing early in the morning, and insects eject themselves from their hidden corners. I donโt know what spring is like for a man, Iโve never asked any man, but I am going to tell you what spring is like for one woman. The essence of spring is sensuous, and for a woman it is an overture.
We strip down the layers of clothing; replacing socks with sandals, and sweaters with t-shirts. ย When I hear birds and watch them in the trees, I think of babies, and innocence. There are flowers about to shoot through the heavy clasp of winter dormancy, and when they do, the colors remind me to replace all the black pants and turtlenecks with pastel shades of peach and blue.
Image via Wikipedia
The sunlight radiates through my skin and warms every thing. My heart ย feels like it has been through a tune up.ย My body wants to dowse in sea ย water, and to eat less, and to run up canyon road, and listen to music, and dine al fresco, and get pedicures. Men, do notice your womanโs new pedicure, it will make her very happy.ย All of this preparation is to tune up the romantic notes,ย and to get YOUR ATTENTION. It is time to bring you out of the garage, or wherever you go in spring, and to notice that we are blooming. This is what I felt the night I heard the Charles Lloyd Quartet; ย I heard him blooming.
Surprise us with flowers, a new hat, or a picnic on the banks of the Rio Grande.ย Spring is time to redirect your attention to woman because we are at our best in spring.ย Our attention is on our surroundings; we will want to buy flowers, and baskets and new cushions for the patio furniture.ย ย We change our lipstick color, comb our hair different, and we look for new ways of expressing how good we feel.
Today I see cherry blossoms in my neighborsโ yard.ย They remind me of
a day in April at Golden Gate Park.ย Then I feel young again, like I was in the park that day, when I was in love with a man who would prove to be one of the great adventures of my life.
If you live in Santa Fe then you understand when I say-hurry up spring and start undressing.
โIs there any feeling in a woman stronger than curiosity? Fancy seeing, knowing, touching what one has dreamed about. What would a woman not do for that? Once a womanโs eager curiosity is aroused, she will be guilty of any folly, commit any imprudence, venture upon anything, and recoil from nothing.โ
The throw of the dice this week lands on adventures in waiting.ย
As children, our waiting depends on how long it takes Mom and Dad to finish what theyโre doing and pay attention to our needs.ย It takes hold of us, like a fever, and we resort to nudging them, whining, even sobbing, if we are made to wait longer than we expected. During the school year, I waited all semester for the summer.ย In Los Angeles that meant it was hot enough to go swimming in the ocean.
When I lived in Hollywood, I rode two buses, to get to Santa Monica.ย The second bus dropped me off on Ocean Avenue, above Santa Monica Beach.ย ย I ran down the ramp that connects to Pacific Coast Highway and headed north to Sorrento Beach,ย another long block away, and when I got there I stumbled in the sand in my tennis shoes trying to run,ย and find the place where my schoolmates clustered,ย in a caravan of towels, beach chairs, radios, and brown bag lunches. I couldnโt just run to the ocean, I had to sit and talk and have something cold to drink, and then ย I made myself wait until I couldnโt stand it any longer. I ran down to the shore, embraced the waves, tumbling inside their grasp until I lost my breath, and floated into abandonment.
After I moved to New Mexico, I stopped thinking about the ocean, I had to remove the memories from my thoughts, and so I could continue to experience this spark of New Mexico.ย The dry sage ocean of pink soil, and radiant blue sky that pinches your eyes when youโre driving,ย the sunlight, the warmth of a desert night, and the white snow on pink adobe rooftops.ย It had postcard perfection, even with fallen leaves spread like trash everywhere, and the dead plants in the garden.ย I tried not to think of the ocean, the look of the sea from watery suntanned eyelids, or from the bluff at Del Mar, or the splashing of waves around my shoulders as I tumbled beneath the surface.
I waited, like I did as a teenager, for that summer to come, so I could return to the sea.ย Last week,ย I stood at the waterโs edge in Del Mar,ย it was like summer without all the kids playing ball and screaming, running of the dogs, and lifeguards thrashing the beach in their jeeps shouting, no dogs off the leashes, no glassware,ย and no surfing today.ย They were missing in September, and so were the caravan of beach runners, families, radios, volleyball players, and lifeguards. In fact, I was the only one swimming, on that first day at the beach.
ย ย Before I went into the water, I reclined on a big black boulder and faced the sea, and let my eyes wander amongst the scenes of the beach on a Tuesday afternoon. In front of me was an older man with graying hair, in a Walmart beach chair reading. He must be retired, he looked perfected adapt to his spot about five feet from the shoreline.ย ย I thought about that Dennis Hopper commercial, about retirement, and how I still cannot come to grips with retirement, and spending my days on park benches or in cafes watching younger men and women live.
There was one swimmer, on a bogey board, he was far out, and floating along, and I wished Iโd brought mine with me, but it was in Dodger’s van, and the last time I used it was when I lived in Solana Beach.ย I also wished I had a new bathing suit, because the one I was wearing was ripped, and the neck straps were tied together in a knot so I could swim without losing my top.ย ย
The sun baked my body, and I let it without abatement, without shading my limbs or wearing a hat, just enough sunscreen to keep the rays from trotting over my skin. I closed my eyes and when I opened them,ย this is when the waiting business suddenly felt so important, so much so that I began to think about waiting as an aphrodisiac or something like a good cocktail that you have to make last for an hour, you wait for that moment that makes you feel immortal, childlike, and emancipated into softness.
I felt the beach flies, and the tang of salt water on my lips, and when the seagulls swarmed above the waterโs surface, like so many beads of a necklace, I thought, that this is about the most beautiful day I could have, and itโs all because I WAITED.ย I didnโt give up on the ocean, or my place in it, or believing that I would have my day in the sand, under a faded denim blue sky, with cotton ball clouds floating above me.ย I baked until the sweat drenched my pours, and then I raised myself up and walked slowly to the edge of the water. The flat surface made tiny breaks not enough to shatter my body warmth and I felt the first sting of the water on my feet, and then my knees. Submerged to celebrate this day, keep flopping backward on top of each wave as it crashed, and I did this for a dozen rounds, until I felt silly,ย weak, and dented with the surf,ย That waiting thing again, meant something that I should write about because all of us are waiting for the election, and the economy to recover, and our real estate to be worth something again, we are all waiting for this big change so we can feel secure and optimistic about the future.ย There is something useful about waiting, something predisposed, that gives us the support and substance we need. When the waiting is over, and we are all flush with optimism again, it will feel like the first time, it will overwhelm us with power and joy, like the ocean.
WHERE TO BEGIN THIS STORY OF A FATHER THAT I ONLY CAME TO UNDERSTAND BY READING HIS FBI FILES, BOOKS ABOUT MOB HISTORY WRITTEN BY LAW ENFORCEMENT AND COLLEGE PROFESSORS, AND DOCUMENTARIES PRODUCED BY FOES OF MY FATHER.ย
My last year with Dad was 1981. Naรฏve, and unconcerned with where I was headed, or how Iโd get there if I figured it out,ย I was spinning around in an executive chair; waiting for the big hand on the black and white office clock to set me free.ย Time didnโt pass; I hauled it over my head, in my bland windowless office, under florescent glare. I was trouble shooting for an ambitious group of USC guys as they gobbled up all of Los Angeles real estate. Without any real sense of survival or independence, my life was in the hands of my father.
โMeyerโs coming to see me; havenโt seen the little guy in twenty-five years.โ ย ย Dad said during a commercial break.
โMeyer Lansky?โ I asked as casually as heโd spoken.
โWho else?โ
โWhy did you two wait so long?โ
โItโs no concern of yours; heโs my friend, not yours.โ I was twenty-nine years old and still verbally handcuffed.
The three of us went out to dinner, and while the two of them spoke in clipped short wave syndicate code, I noticed that neither one of them looked at all happy.ย It was rare to catch my father in public with a friend, without raucous laughter, and storytelling.ย My attempt to revive the dinner conversation with my own humor,returned two sets of silent eyeball commands to resist speaking.
Several months later I received a call from Dad asking me to come over to his apartment, he had collapsed on the bathroom floor. ย When I arrived, he pleaded for me to stay close by.ย ย โIโll be all right in a few minutes; I just need to catch my breath. โย I sat outside the bathroom door biting my nails, and waited, like our dog Spice, for my orders. For the first time in my life, he was weaker than I, and my turmoil centered on that unfamiliar reversal of roles.
โDaddy, you should go to the hospital, Iโm calling the ambulance.โ
โNope, no ambulance, Iโm not going to the hospital, hang up the phone right now.โย I pried the bathroom door open, and crouched down on the floor to hold him in my arms. It was the first time Iโd held him like that, he felt so heavy and warm.ย ย When his eyes closed I called the ambulance and waited. ย Two attendants arrived, and immediately took his pulse. โWhy didnโt you call sooner, within minutes he would have died?โ
โ I couldnโt–you donโt understand, he wouldnโt let me. โ They grimaced at me, and removed him from my arms. ย Over the next few weeks I learned only that he had a failing liver. ย The mirage of doctors and nurses flowing in and out of his room, assured me that this was just a temporary set back. Soon he would be back at his favorite table at the Bistro Gardens, dining with young aspiring starlets.
When you love someone whose life is draining into illness, even their hollering and gripe is a relief.ย For the first time in my life, my father did not frighten me. I donโt know if it was because he was vulnerable, and dependent on me for comfort. But the feeling was ecstasy, the feeling of being inside his world, and not excluded.
โImagine sending nurses in my room at six in the morning. Boy did I give them hell. They wonโt soon forget the name Allen Smiley.ย Theyโre not treating me like a social service case. โ His voice came back and the salty blue color of his eyes. I took my father home, and sat on the crushed blue velvet sofa while he made his phone calls.
โ Say whatโs up buddy, what can I do for you?ย Iโm tougher than you think; my daughter and I are going for a walk later. What can I do for you?ย When are you going to Vegas? Yea, I see all right, donโt worry about a thing, no Iโll handle it, I insist now, donโt argue with a sick man, you rascal. Donโt send flowers yet, send champagne!โ
Within a few weeks, my father was back at his favorite table at the Bistro Gardens wearing tinted shades. Hisย passion for the company of females, was reciprocal, they loved him. He sent them flowers, and picked up their checks.ย He could wave his magic wand of favors at the studios, or for concert tickets, and the chips rolled. He kept up that pace for six months.
All my life he had made things happen for me, now it was my turn. I collected the telephone messages, walked the dog, and cleaned up the house. It was strange, to putter amongst my fatherโs things. I opened drawers cautiously, thinking he may have alarms on things.ย He had a pile of papers stacked on his desk, and unopened mail.ย His personal toiletries were still in immaculate order, his brushes, and collection of colognes. A heavy sadness, presided over the room.ย I noticed he was reading โHonor Thy Father.โ
During his sickness, he presented a man only slightly off balance. He continued to camouflage his liver failure, like heโd masked his identity all his life.ย I recognized the anguish in his eyes, but I had to pretend it wasnโt there.
My character changed overnight.ย I did not hesitate over minor decisions, cower if he yelled, or hide inside myself. Something in him was now part of me. We were fighting together. One afternoon we took a walk in Holmby Park.
โWhat matterโs in life is that you donโt allow people to walk over you, see. No one looks out for your best interest, except your old father. Youโll see, it wonโt be so easy without me.โ
โDaddy, donโt talk like that, come on.โ
โWhy not, Iโm telling you the way it is, what do you want, for me to lie to you? Everyone else will lie to you!ย Now, Iโve told you that Iโm donating my body to USC Medical center. I already have it arranged.โ
โDaddy, Iโm not listening. Donโt talk to me about that,โ tears welled.
โYou must listen little sweetheart. Thereโs no expense for you to be burdened with. I wish I put more away for you,ย but Iโve always told you, havenโt I….that I spent everything I made. I only hoped that things would have changed…. be that as it may, you wonโt have any expense.โ
Smileyโs Dice Adventures in livingness
The throw of the dice this week lands on the adventures in the making.ย How could I have known 15 years ago?
Back then I had but aย finger-bowl of resources, a blue chair, a desk, and a typewriter.ย Everyday I wrote into the flame of discovery looking for my mother.ย My notebooks were sketches of this woman I never knew.ย ย The absence of the most ordinary information, like where she grew up in Newark, what sort of neighborhood, what her father did for a living, what schools, she attended, and later on, what experiences she had modeling in New York. The closest I got was by reading John Robert Powers book about the modeling agency he started in 1923. ย ย He assigned unemployed Broadway talent to his agency to be photographed for corporate campaign advertising.ย According to John he was the innovator of the modeling agency concept- beautiful women and men will sell products to the public, the public never would have thought of buying.
I found her name in the index, Lucille Casey.ย She joined the agency when she was 16 years old.ย ย John groomed the models; and assigned disciplinary perfection in dialect, manners, appearance, character, and intellect.ย Powers Girls married anyone they wanted. ย They were invited to all the important society events, they were given card Blanche at the Stork Club, and the Morocco and they were transported to celebratory city functions. They met men of all means, character, and class.
After I read the book, I thought about what my father used to say, โ Your mother could have had any man in the world, but she picked me. Donโt you make the same mistake.โ
That is a complex summons for a teenage to understand.
I sat in the blue chair and waited for the flares of information to come down to earth.ย ย After two years, I had very little to build a full page.ย My motherโsย history was lost, her friends had vanished, or would not talk to me.ย She did not leave a diary. ย Her photo album as a model was all I had.ย What could I see in those eyes, and smile? Perfection.ย ย I gave up the search, and switched over to my father. The government documented his daily activities, and what they didnโt hear or see, was exploited in newspapers, documentaries, and books.
There was one woman who was alive, that knew intimate details of my mother, because I had met her, and she made it known to me she knew. That was Meyer Lanskyโs wife, who went by the name Teddy.ย Women have a distinctive look when they are withholding secrets.ย Teddy always had that look when she brought up my mother.ย I told her I was writing about my father and mother and she said, โLet them rest in peace.โย ย ย I didnโt take her advice.
LUELLEN SMILEY ADVENTURERS IN LIVINGNESS 