| I gave the baby over to Zita and went into the dining room for my breakfast. It was a lovely room with walls covered in a silk of delicate grey and blue flowers. A grand old Country French buffet, filled with French Faience, ran along the largest wall. In the middle of the room was a long crude table with benches on the sides. At each end of the table were Louis XVI armchairs, upholstered in a rich yellow silk with white velvet stripes. This table, in its earlier day, seated twenty Augustinian monks quite comfortably. Now, it was perfect for me and my serving of rare steak. Often, during breakfast, I'd look out through the leaded windows, and pretend that the day was misty and that I was living in eighteenth century Paris or London. Life seemed so much more fanciful and quixotic back then . . . so much more, romantic. But, much to my dismay, I was smack in the glare of the twentieth century, trying to live a semi-normal, American cheese, life. True, Chuck and I rejected most bourgeois trappings, such as living with the Philistines in suburban banality, or practicing organized religion, supporting the war and drinking six o'clock cocktails. Like the French romantics, I lent myself to a "mystical religiosity." I was agnostic, yet I loved Christ; the man. He was, after all, the ultimate hippie. Screw the Pharisees and Sadducees! For me, it was Zen, Bob Dylan, and Jesus Christ! Of course, that was my own personal mind scramble. Chuck's spirituality was an enigma to me. That is, if he had spirituality. I never saw it. The closest he came to anything even remotely spiritual, was his uncanny resemblance to Christ. In fact, he began to capitalize on it, and that seemed to be enough for him. On stage, this phenomenon snowballed. People were catching on to the Christ thing and running with it by raising their arms in adulation, throwing crowns, and flowers on stage. What resulted from this was a peculiar backlash and I wondered if this was not part of Chuck’s sadness and deepening anger. How could he, feeling so empty inside, be so adored and worshiped by the madding crowds? Don't get me wrong, Chuck feigned martyrdom brilliantly; but also wore the mock crown of thorns that his fans tended to place on his head, like a king. Zita arrived with another cup of coffee, bringing me back to my current circumstances. Surprisingly, I had eaten my breakfast with gusto and felt fortified enough to enter the sunny breakfast room. I tried to use as many rooms as I could on a daily basis. It seemed the right thing to do, as I didn’t like being wasteful. This room was my headquarters, so to speak. With Shaunti in her highchair, and busy with her toys aplenty, I sorted out the daily mail, jiggled schedules, and handled the phones. After lighting up a Tareyton, my thoughts drifting out our leaded windows again. The din of the household activities was grating mercilessly on my nerves. Outside, there were two men working with a monster machine that was mixing cement for our new pool. Our two gardeners were fighting in Spanish, while their young assistant mowed the lawns using a power mower from hell. Inside, Zita was vacuuming the oriental carpets, while the dishwasher and washing machines hummed in unison. In the entry hall, a small crew was busy buffing the wooden floors to a high gloss. I, again, inhaled deeply on my cigarette and contemplatively blew out the smoke. This isn't a home, it's a bloody factory.
I watched the smoke swirl toward the ceiling, along with the reflections of my mind. Images of the war appeared, intermingling with visions of dead bodies, peace signs, burning flags, cops, and tear gas. Then, thoughts of fame, drugs, concerts, and groupies, rose around me. I thought of the troubled artists and those who loved them. Life, to me, seemed so mad cap. Who's to say? The romantic era after all, had its fair share of revolts, debauchery, lunacy, laudanum and licentious women; love of the extraordinary. And, of course, there were also the suffering artists and those who loved them. The Music scene and royalty headliners were creating a frenzied world, which up to this day has remained unparalleled. There was The Beatles, The Doors, The Jimi Hendrix Experience, Janis Joplin, Crosby Stills & Nash (and Young), Led Zeppelin, The Jefferson Airplane, Blood Sweat and Tears, Chicago, The Rolling Stones; the list seemed endless. Some artists were currently rising into the limelight. Some, their light was dimming and some would soon die. Music was raw, searching, pulsating and hugely perceptive. Huge rock concerts were nourishing the frustrated souls of our generation . . . a generation fed up with the Viet Nam War, social injustice and the staid establishment. Music was the liniment for our psyche, "turn on, tune in and drop out." Our artists held tremendous power . . . power of the gods. It blew my mind that Chuck, upstairs, was one of them. It was scary. On the outside looking in, one would say that I had the perfect life. People thought I had everything a woman could want. I had a handsome, famous husband that loved me, a beautiful baby, a fabulous home and an abundance of money. However, from the outside looking in, how could anyone know, I struggled daily with intense fear and an overwhelming sense of impending doom. I was never the paranoid type, but red flags were cropping up everywhere, in my life. Just at that point of deeper reflection, Zita whisked in for the baby, who was already asleep in my arms. She took her from me, none too soon, for a fine bought of hysteria was settling in. Soon would follow visions of huge fissures spreading throughout our ceilings, down the walls, and fanny out into a mass of tiny veins. Ultimately, those fissures and cracks would engulf the very foundation of our lives. I tried to talk with Chuck, about my fear and doubts, but he only dismissed me. "We have the best men in the business handling all of our affairs for god sake! Do you think they would let anything happen to us? It's just your Catholic guilt. You don’t know how to be happy. Live! Be happy! You know, Happy? You act like it’s a sin.” He refused to admit that he was developing a fine drug habit. He refused to acknowledge that he was edgy and fragile, and possibly unable to uphold the pressures of his celebrity, much less the enormous burden of the evil music business. However, in his dismissal of me, I took faith. I was relieved that he found me so foolish. For maybe he was right and I was wrong. But deep inside, I knew better. Was he capable of holding up this big life of ours? Was I? These were the questions that plagued me. I wanted to believe in him, but I just couldn't. Each day he grew worse. It all seem like a house of sticks, and the big bad wolf was about to go “Poof!” Everything was going to fall down. I could feel it. I didn't want the house. I didn't want the trappings. Not if it meant that Chuck was damaged by it all. But this was what he wanted. This was his dream. I tried to remember that day in September when I first met Chuck. It was early evening, and the air was alive from the first rain of autumn. Luscious, cool, drops fell and erased the oppressive heat of the long summer, filling the air with the hint that special things could come. My husband and my daughter were the absolute core of my universe. I wanted nothing more from this world, than, we remained safe and secure. But, for some cruel reason, it was all going to be taken away. I knew it.
Bad things were happening. Our lives were spinning out of control and it seemed that I was the only one who could see this. It seemed that I was the only one who could possibly save things, before it was too late. Of course, this was an illusion, but it was all that I had. Where to run? Perhaps, the past could bring some sense to the present. After all, doesn't childhood mold our being, or hold a key to definition? I wondered. Are we so easily molded and predestined even before we leave our family's nest? Personally I had always felt that childhood is possibly the most inept preparation for life. Maybe I had missed some important ingredient along the way. Looking into the past had always been a terrifying prospect. Simultaneously, it seemed that there was no where else to turn. Perhaps things not understood then, would be clearer now. I scolded myself for being so dramatic. Relax! Everything is fine. In the back of my mind, however, I knew that my feeling of doom would return, again and again. Something was warning me and it would not stop. |
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