The House on Olive Street

  “So, I went back to my mother’s house to guard her secrets, take care of her in her illness, and found this short-order cook who was the kind of person I deserved—a real nasty, disrespectful, insensitive brute. And I got pregnant. It turned out exactly as a lot of people would have predicted….”

  “Then the most unimaginable tragedy of all struck. You had a baby—a beautiful, strong, healthy baby….”

  There were a couple of times during that part of the story when Sable had to pause, collect herself and wipe the tears from her cheeks. When she looked at the tape before it aired, she was embarrassed by that—she had hoped that her voice would be clear and strong through the entire thing while she owned up to the past. It was good, however, that the emotion she had lost for twenty years was back with her now. It would have been difficult for people to relate to a woman who’d gone through so much pain without a tear to show for it.

  There were a few fundamental changes in her appearance, too, though not many people would really pick up on them. She was still chic; still attractive and fashionable. Her hair was now short and honey-brown, lighter than her original color. Her nails were manicured, but no more long, red, ceramic talons; she wore short-cropped nails with clear polish. She wore a mauve dress that brought the color out in her cheeks and eyes; she had always worn creams, blacks, whites, beiges before. For some reason she had stayed away from the colors of the rainbow in her earlier life. Whether she knew it or not, she looked healthier, more like the natural beauty she was than the created beauty she’d become.

  “I’ve seen a copy of the police report from that night,” Rachael said, “and I can certainly understand how painful the retelling of that ordeal must be for you. I can’t imagine…it goes beyond my comprehension what a mother might feel when she discovers her baby has been killed by the abuser in the family. But even worse than that, I think, is the fact that several tabloids alleged that there had been a party going on at the house, that you were involved in some big drinking and drugging binge and were neglecting the well-being of your child, when in fact you were at work that evening….”

  “Yes. I didn’t usually leave Tommy with my husband and mother. There was a woman down the street that took in children…I always made the excuse that it was better for Tommy to be around other children than to stay home with the adults. I suppose it’s incredible to people who didn’t grow up in that kind of atmosphere that I would ever leave my child with either of them, but they were functional alcoholics. They might not have been as sharp or quick as a nondrinking person, but they functioned normally most of the time. In fact, for a lot of alcoholics, they can’t function at all without a drink. When I went to work that day, no one at my house was falling-down drunk. I think my husband was working on his car and my mother was actually playing blocks on the floor with the baby. There weren’t any guests or—”

  “In fact, when all this happened, it was only your mother and your husband at home?”

  “That’s right. So the police told me.”

  “So, how does it make you feel to have this story aired or printed saying that you and your husband were having some big, dangerous bash with a baby in the house? There’s certainly plenty of evidence to the contrary. Did you think about suing any of the reporters or tabloids for printing something so erroneous when there is plenty of evidence that it’s untrue?”

  Sable took a deep breath, deciding which question to answer first. “I don’t think very many people who watch those tabloid shows or buy those rags understand how the law works. I know I didn’t. You don’t find out how helpless you are until it happens to you, even though I know it’s been explained by a number of stars-made-victims on your program and on other programs. The rule for these printed lies seems to be this—if you are an average citizen with no special notoriety of any kind and someone prints a terrible lie about you, the newspaper that printed it must prove it’s true. However, if you have some special notoriety—you’re an actor or politician or writer or talk show host—then you have to prove it’s not true. Of the many incredible stories printed about me, one mentioned that I was a teenage prostitute.” She laughed suddenly. “I was certainly too sexual for my age, but I wasn’t turning tricks. But how am I going to prove that I wasn’t something?

  “You know, when somebody who hates you lashes out at you, whether you think they’re justified or not, even if they’re cruel and heartless, somehow you can understand a little bit of it. They hate you, after all, so why should you have expected kindness or honesty? Do you know what I mean?”

  “I think so. I can tell you that it’s never easy for me when someone hates me, no matter what they think the reason is….”

  “But here were people who’d never met me, who’d jazzed up this already tragic story, to make me look as terrible as they possibly could, and for what? To sell papers? It takes a very long time for the shock of that alone to wear off. Why? What special power does that give a person…to create pain for someone they don’t even know?”

  “Well, everyone watching knows I’ve had more stories made up and printed about me than I can count,” Rachael said.

  “There’s something inherently evil about creating a painful lie for profit,” Sable said.

  “I can’t even comment on the pain of that, since I’m one of their favorite subjects. It’s bad enough when they find out some personal thing about you that you’re trying to work out for yourself so you can move on with your life, but when they invent horrific tales… There were times that hurt me so bad I thought I couldn’t breathe from the pain of it.”

  “And, of course, people think you can’t be hurt by lies because you have money and many admirers. You have famous friends, so how can horrible public vivisection hurt you?”

  “Or, how about when people you know and trusted decide to take advantage of you by selling some sleazy story to the tabloids…?”

  “Fortunately, I can’t relate to that,” Sable said. “Maybe I should say unfortunately. Because I kept myself so isolated and private, I had very few friends. The people who sold stories about me to the tabloids were people I don’t remember ever meeting! I was told some man was paid thousands of dollars for his account of this wild weekend of drugs and orgies, and God knows what all, that was supposed to have taken place on a yacht about ten years ago. I’ve never heard of the man. I’ve never heard of the yacht. It blows my mind.”

  “Did you, or did you have someone, check out the sources and facts on these stories? Try to do anything about them?”

  “I’ve done a lot of thinking about that. There are definitely a few things I can prove are untrue—the police report of the night Tommy died proves there was no party, for example. If I thought by suing them I could save one person from going through something like this, I’d be very eager to do something. Unfortunately, I don’t think it would matter. They’d just keep doing what they’re doing as long as people pay to read it. People buy those rags even knowing they’re only about five percent true. And the cost of waging war against them would create a greater financial burden for me than for them. They’d probably find a way to make money on the story. And I have better things to do with my time and my money.”

  “I know, I know…. Let’s move on past this tabloid subject if we can. I cringe every time I think I’m giving them more fuel for their fires. I know you’re anxious to get back to the original subject of what happens to young women in this country when they’re trapped in the welfare and foster care system, but we’re not going to be able to ignore your transformation—both intellectual, emotional, and the obvious, physical. We got the picture we’re about to show from a network affiliate, and even though you don’t have any idea where that picture came from, we do have your permission to show it. I want to make that clear to our audience and viewers.”

  “Yes. You can show it. You’re about the last person in America to get around to it.”

  “This is a picture of you when you were twelve or thirteen?”

  “I d
on’t remember when it was taken, so I’m guessing.”

  “Obviously, you’ve made some changes in your appearance.”

  “Improvements, I’d like to think.”

  “So that you wouldn’t be recognized by old friends and family members?”

  “No, there was hardly anyone to hide from. I was pretty intent on creating a whole new person. When I left Fresno—”

  “Let’s start there. After the death of your son, you left Fresno and headed south. Why Los Angeles, first of all?”

  “That’s exactly how much money I had when I went to the bus depot. I had to choose between Los Angeles and Redding, California. Since I had no idea what kind of work might be available in Redding, I chose the bigger, more anonymous city….”

  The show went well. Sable handled even embarrassing questions from the audience with candor and cool. There wasn’t any more in her past to own; nothing more to say. A very excited—and probably relieved—publisher tried to convince Sable to go on the talk show circuit and accept interviews with everyone and their brother, including the very shows that had trashed her. But she would not do it. She’d promised to come out of hiding, but she wasn’t going to create fame for herself out of this story. There was something greater at stake—a larger issue. Which was what she told Rachael Breeze when they had their first, nontelevised conversation.

  “I’m really not interested in cleaning up the stories, even though ninety percent of what they printed about me is total fabrication. What I am interested in doing is having a conversation about poor girls who the system has failed. There are a lot of young girls out there, right now, who aren’t going to become famous novelists or talk show hosts because the system keeps them oppressed for eighteen years and then cuts them loose to find their own oppression. They have a self-fulfilling prophecy to fail.”

  “Your story should serve as an inspiration to a lot of young—”

  “They need a lot more than inspiration, Rachael. Look, I’m afraid this can never be discussed on television, but I’ve contacted you because I plan to use you as my personal example. Since I can’t cover up the past anymore, since I have to open up about it now in order to move on, I’m going to let this disaster make a positive impact on my life. Very Rachael Breeze style. I’m going to find a way to help young women who come from the place I came from. Maybe only a few, but if I can reach even one—”

  “That’s the most wonderful thing I’ve heard this week! I know you’re going to have so much joy from that! But we should talk about your plans. We should—”

  “We should be very careful,” Sable said, cutting her off, “not to ever make it seem as though the actions of the tabloids—as unforgivably cruel as they can be—have created any positive outcome for anyone. They certainly never had any higher motives when they stripped me bare, so they’re not going to get any credit if I can turn a nightmare into a decent reawakening. I’d like to think I might have come to this point without having been publicly humiliated first.”

  “If you feel that strongly, we don’t have to discuss it on the air,” she replied. “But will you keep me informed about your plans to help young women? And let me know if there’s any way I can be involved?”

  “I am letting you know,” Sable replied. “When I’m brainstorming ideas of what I can do and how I can do it, I want your advice. And your support.”

  “You mean, you haven’t even driven by?” Beth asked Barbara Ann. “Not once?”

  “Nope,” she said. “I was afraid to. But I have to make a decision. We’re moving out of Gabby’s house in ten days. If I’m going back home, it has to be because I can live with what I’m walking into. Otherwise, I have to find a small apartment somewhere.”

  “Do you think it’s fair, Barbara Ann? Sneaking over there when you think no one will be home? Shouldn’t you call them, give them a chance to spruce it up a little bit?”

  “I think this is best,” she said.

  It was eleven in the morning. What she gathered from the boys was that everyone was working at least part-time. Billy and Joe were both working at the municipal golf course, starting at about 5:00 a.m. Thursday through Sunday, and not getting off until afternoon. Bobby was still working at the nursery, 11:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m., potting palms and selling posies, he said. Matt had his job with UPS, delivering packages. And, of course, Mike left at seven every morning.

  Eight weeks, she thought miserably as she drove toward her house. It was certainly enough time to figure out how to plug in a vacuum cleaner or operate a dishwasher. Mike had said they’d been working on it; she’d had a hint or two from the boys that they were attempting to do housework just from the questions they’d asked her. But even Barbara Ann hadn’t figured out how to make a house sparkle in eight weeks. It had taken her months, even years, to fine-tune her homemaking skills.

  A lot had happened to her in eight weeks. She’d lost twenty-five pounds for one thing; she hadn’t had much money to spend on clothes, but those few things she bought were size eights. It had been years since she’d had a size eight she could squeeze even one thigh into. Sable had opened up her suitcases and unloaded a lot of very nice, very expensive stuff on Barbara Ann; all she had to do to the pants and skirts was shorten them. Eight weeks of lettuce, diet sodas, chicken breasts and exercise with the Morning Show Lady had given her back her youthful figure. But she was not foolish enough to believe it had been willpower. It had been the summer at Gabby’s house, where she had people to talk to when she became frustrated. Where she had nurturers who genuinely cared about her feelings and understood her pain. She’d had her problems during the eight weeks, but she hadn’t fallen into the Milky Ways to hold back her fears and ease her pain because she had love and understanding.

  She had gotten the three-book contract in record time; the fastest response ever. And the special clause about not returning the advance money on a refused book unless it was sold to someone else. Her revised manuscript was approved and—something she’d never have thought of without Sable—she was going to spruce up that earlier refused book and use it as her tool for finding another publisher so that she wouldn’t be forever betting all her hard work on the quirky tastes of one editor. She’d added up the amount of money she would soon be receiving—twenty thousand dollars plus whatever came in on her next royalty statement. After she put money aside for taxes, she’d have twenty-six thousand dollars. Even if she had to move into an apartment and start paying her own expenses, she could afford Bobby’s trade school tuition plus a little money for Mike to make a healthy dent in some of the charge accounts.

  This time, though, she was going to be sure that a little something was getting saved for her retirement. She was done letting Mike’s retirement plan from the helicopter manufacturer be the only cushion they had for their old age.

  “Are you scared?” Beth asked her.

  Scared? She was terrified! What if it was worse? It well could be. After weeks of stealing matrimonial bliss in the backseat of the car, she longed to lie in bed beside her husband again. She ached to hear the sound of her sons shouting for her the moment they came in the door. She yearned for the thrill of their appreciation when she’d found the time to surprise them with some sweet dessert treat only Mom could make. The smell of their freshly laundered T-shirts as she folded them; the sound of their wild laughter; the shock of their crass, objectionable conversations that she wasn’t meant to hear.

  “I have to decide what I’m willing to live with,” Barbara Ann told Beth. “I mean, if the house is basically picked up, but still dirty, is that acceptable? That’s half the battle, really, if they’d just put away their stuff and pick up after themselves. I mean, I can clean. If I’m not fighting shoes, lawn mower motors, jeans, rags, shirts, pop cans, Doritos bags, I can dust, mop, vacuum….”

  “What if it’s tidy, but everything is crammed in closets and under beds?” Beth asked.

  “That’s how they usually clean—by trying their best to hide the clutter. That’s what I hav
e to be prepared for. So, do I go back there and attempt to teach them how to do it? Part of me thinks they’d be willing to learn now…but the other part of me wonders if they’re not pretty happy this way. At first they swore they were cleaning up the house and begged me to come home…but they haven’t even mentioned the house in weeks. I have a feeling they think they’ve cleaned it up, but they haven’t actually done it. So, do I want to move back there and fight that losing battle again?”

  “Well, do you?” Beth asked.

  “I don’t know,” she whined. “Oh God, I don’t know!”

  “Is that why I’m with you? As a witness? Or so someone can pick you up off the floor, pour you into your car and drive you home where it’s safe?”

  “As moral support,” she said.

  She drove right past her house.

  “Barbara Ann! Jeez, you missed it! Come on, it hasn’t been that long!”

  She slowed to a stop and backed up. She hadn’t driven past it because she’d been away so long. She’d just never realized until now that she navigated toward the messiest house on the block—the one with the brownest grass, the highest weeds, the most peeling paint and curling shingles, and the greatest number of vehicles in the driveway and on the street.

  She sat for a moment staring at it. She was speechless. The house was painted. It was the same color, but it was painted. There were no vehicles around. Flowers had been planted in the planter boxes under the front windows. Shrubs were planted along the drive. The grass was cut and it was green! “I can’t believe it,” she whispered in awe. This was far more than she had ever dreamed of.