As I remember, Ricky sailed right into it, literally took off, and I was too confounded with the big red thing to even be jealous. Day after day, Jocko would run alongside my bike holding the back of the seat as I tried to pedal this huge vehicle. Then after the four-hundredth shove, with knees skinned and virginity compromised after slamming down on that damned “boy’s bar” again and again, I finally wobbled my way into the cycling world. I was actually doing it, truly under way and thrilled to feel Jocko’s pride in me. Although pedaling backward was not easy, so working the brakes was always a problem. I had to slow enough to put one foot down—the crossbar making it impossible for both feet—then hop along, tiptoeing to a stop. Eventually, with my heart slamming against my ribs as though it wanted out of my body, I could ride and I could stop… ish.
Shortly after completing the training sessions, after maneuvering through all obstacle courses, when Ricky and I had proven we could fly the craft off the ship, then land again safely, Jocko allowed us—even me—to ride our bikes to school, which was a few blocks away. Never in my life had I experienced a feeling like that, the freedom of sailing along under a canopy of eucalyptus trees while keeping the safety of my brother and his red bike from getting too far ahead. I felt so much love for my stepfather, the man who had cared enough to give me the gift of gliding, untethered.
And then on Sunday mornings, or any morning during the long months of summer, Jocko started calling me to his bedroom, the room he shared with my mother, who was downstairs cooking breakfast. We had moved again, leaving the tract homes of Van Nuys behind to enter the lush world of Encino and the house on Libbit Avenue. Definitely coming up in the world, the Libbit house had a pool, a paddle tennis court, and even a corral for horses, which Jocko promptly populated with a pinto and a huge roan—horses only he was allowed to go near. There was also an enormous garage, home to Baa’s old silver Ford and the white Cadillac convertible with red leather seats that had suddenly appeared in our lives.
Shortly after we expanded ourselves to fit into this grand space, my stepfather started sending for me, using my mother as the messenger. Princess in her shorty PJs and I in my ankle-length nightgown would be quietly playing in our room, frolicking in the delicious “let the day present itself” feeling of childhood, when Baa would poke her head in the door. “Sal?” she’d say, her face puffy with sleep. “Jocko needs you to walk on his back.” It never felt like a request, more like a summons and a great honor. I’d been singled out, the chosen one again.
I’d climb up the stairs, barely aware of the carpet under my feet or the flannel clinging to my legs, glance out the big window halfway up, then stop for a beat at the top of the landing—for what reason I didn’t know—and step into his room, their room. The bright day was visible through the windows and the glass-topped Dutch door, which opened out onto a balcony overlooking the backyard. But even though the bedroom was large, it always smelled musty—thick with sleep and privacy. Keeping my eyes down, I walked to the big bed where my mother’s husband lay facedown, naked and tangled in the sheets.
“Go, baby,” he’d crackle as he sensed me moving in. It was what we did. It was what I was good at—walking on his back—and surely it was what every little girl did, so the distinct “fingernails down the blackboard” feeling I had was to be ignored. It was what I did for him and I was good at it.
I walked on his back until he rolled over, commanding me to keep going. One foot in front of the other, up his chest I tiptoed, my nightgown hanging loose as his hands slid over my legs, then moved up. I’d turn my feet around, walking toward his stomach to be out of reach, and he’d whisper instructions, “Lower, lower.” My steps got tinier as he muttered, “Lower.” I walked on this much loved non-father of mine, carefully trying to avoid where he was aiming my feet, and looked up at the world outside, inhaled the comforting smell of bacon frying downstairs, and part of me wasn’t in the room anymore.
4
Libbit
NESTLED IN THE heart of Encino, surrounded by eucalyptus and sycamore trees, stood the rambling two-story Libbit house. Lime-green lawns stretched out on either side of the circular driveway, and running next to the horse corral, on the south side of the estate, was another driveway—a kind of service entrance off Noeline Avenue. I don’t need photos to uncover buried bits, not of the house or the grounds. I remember it all like an endless loop of film in my brain.
The minute we moved in, the enormous backyard was almost instantly transformed into Jocko’s playground and everywhere you looked was some kind of apparatus he’d either made or quickly acquired, equipment that eventually we were all expected to perform on. Standing next to the swimming pool was a crude split-level pinewood diving platform, about ten feet high on the upper level, maybe seven or eight on the lower. Several two-by-fours were nailed to the back of the wood framing, which were used as a ladder to climb to the shorter platform, where more two-by-fours would take you to the top. Underneath the platform, of course, was a whole lot of water, and needless to say, I didn’t know how to swim. If I hadn’t had access to a bicycle before I met Jocko, I sure as hell hadn’t had access to a swimming pool, unless you count the one at Joy’s house—which was plastic, barely inflated, and had a foot of bug-infested water. I did know how to float, however; I was really good at floating. While hopping around the shallow end of our new pool, I found that when Ricky pushed my head underwater—which he did again and again—if I went totally limp, playing dead, I would miraculously float to the top.
But knowing how to float and jumping from the high dive were two different things, and by the time I could safely dog-paddle myself around, that’s what my stepfather wanted me to do. Climb up and jump off; ready, set, GO. I stood there, rocking back and forth, my toes gripping the edge of the platform while I repeated Jocko’s instructions in my head over and over: legs together, toes pointed, hands at my sides, until finally I’d push off, pointing everything I could point, and jump in. But that wasn’t the end of it. After I could climb up and jump in without too much hesitation, pushing off with enough force to distance myself from the platform, out came the pool pole—a long aluminum stick with a net fastened to one end used to scoop leaves out of the water—now being used as a piece of training equipment. Jocko would hold the pole out in front of me while issuing new commands: Arms over your head, tight to your ears, legs straight, toes pointed. Push off hard and dive over the pole. “Go!”
But I couldn’t move. Not just because I was afraid of the smack in my face or the breath-grabbing sting on my stomach, even though that played a big part in it. It was that Jocko’s tone had changed. Nowhere in sight was the loving patience he had shown during our bicycle training days. Now he sounded mocking and condescending, as if my inability was purposely done to challenge him. Was he teaching me to dive or trying to make me cry? And if I fell on my face would he applaud my attempt or enjoy my pain?
A weekend in Palm Springs. Legs together, toes pointed, hands at my side.