The gallery owner called for John and me and introduced John as “the admiral.” Red smiled. I moved to Red’s right, John to his left. The gallery owner placed the Freddy the Freeloader painting on an easel next to John and held the Clem Kadiddlehopper painting next to me. While we chatted with Red, Francine snapped two photos, a favor in return.
Suddenly, Red motioned the gallery owner to him and whispered in his ear. The security guards rushed over, assisted Red out of his chair, and walked him to the elevator. We were stunned.
“Red’s feeling a little jet-lagged,” the gallery owner announced. “Photo opportunities will continue tomorrow at the scheduled private reception for owners and collectors of Red’s paintings. He’ll also be signing the art. Thank you.”
The crowd began to thin out, but our party didn’t end. We had made dinner plans with Isaac, his roommate, and their girlfriends. Eight of us ate and drank our way through the evening. When it was time to pay the bill, Isaac’s credit card was declined, so John generously pulled out his wallet and presented our credit card. “It’s on us,” he said.
I slumped into the back of my large wooden chair.
At the reception the next afternoon, we met once more with Francine and Patrick and their daughter. It was Easter Sunday and I felt like one of the beautiful people. We walked around and saw our paintings hanging back in their original places as we passed by a long table filled with a delicious array of appetizers.
“It hurts my stomach to look at this food,” I said. We had just eaten brunch in the tropical gardens at the Kahala Hilton Hotel, down the road from where we were staying with Isaac. It was touted as an idyllic getaway for celebrities, and sure enough, we saw Jim Nabors and Karen Valentine.
We continued to meander through the gallery. There was a larger group in attendance today and a long line to meet Red Skelton. This time his wife, Lothian, sat in her chair at a discreet distance, her red hair pulled back. She had a white orchid lei around her neck that matched the one Red was wearing. Lothian occasionally lifted her head from her book and smiled at her husband’s antics and his laughter at himself. I sensed love shadowed by concern.
I have never been afraid of speaking up, but what possessed me to approach her and chat, I don’t know. We had a wonderful discussion. She shared personal stories of meeting Red and how she married him in 1976, even though he was much older, and became his third wife. I shared stories of the admiral and me and how we came to be in Hawaii. We were like old friends, chatting and laughing, having a grand old time.
When Francine, Patrick, and their daughter made it to the front of the line, I excused myself for photo duty. Francine flipped her picture over, and Red grabbed his fistful of pens and pencils. First he drew a little bear, and then he signed the painting. They left, smiling.
This time, instead of a picture, the next admirer handed Red a copy of his 1971 book
Gertrude & Heathcliffe.
Red signed the inside cover, then tousled up his long graying red hair and slipped into his Heathcliffe and Gertrude act, acting like two silly cross-eyed seagulls lisping one-liners. The crowd roared. The more pleased we were, the more animated he became. He was in his element, and loving it. Just like me. I was in the presence of a living legend, thanks to the admiral.
Red finished his impromptu act and went back to signing autographs. I realized John and I hadn’t gotten his autograph yet. I went off to find John, but before we could gather our paintings Red seemed ready to faint. Lothian jumped from her chair, and the security guards immediately helped him to the elevator. Within a minute, they were gone. Isaac read the disappointment on my face.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll set up a private signing at the Skeltons’ hotel tomorrow.”
“I guess it pays to be staying with a gallery associate.” I laughed.
As Isaac walked us toward the door, he showed us some of the latest Anthony Quinn sculptures. Before we left, we had agreed to add a $15,000 ebony woman to the Gemina lease. I didn’t even blink. I was caught up in a whole new world of make-believe, a world where money was no object.
The following morning on the veranda of the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, we met with Red and Lothian as if we were longtime friends. Isaac had brought our two oil paintings from the gallery. We got the signing out of the way, then sat and chatted informally. Red pulled a box out of his travel bag and showed us jewelry he had designed.
“You know, right before we came, we picked up Willie McCovey’s lease on his Mercedes 450SL,” John said.
Red and Lothian looked puzzled. My jaw sagged.
“Willie McCovey, the famous San Francisco Giants baseball player,” he added.
“Don’t follow the Giants,” Lothian said. “We’re fans of the Angels.”
“Oh, I have something for you two,” Red said. He dug around in his travel bag and pulled out a copy of
Gertrude & Heathcliffe.
He signed it “John and Barbara. My thanks
.
Red Skelton” and handed it to me. With both hands, I clutched it to my breast. “I will treasure this, always,” I said. And I still do.
Before we parted, Lothian and I shared our addresses. For a couple of years we exchanged a few letters and Christmas cards. Eventually, like many good things, it came to an end. But for now the friendship burned brightly, and I was floating on clouds.
Isaac, John, and I started to walk back the short distance to the Center Art Gallery when Isaac surprised us once more. “You’re invited to an Anthony Quinn reception at the end of May,” he said. “It’ll be at Marina del Rey in California. Would you like to meet him?”
“Anthony Quinn? Anthony Quinn?” I was still flying high, and Isaac offered another fabulous experience, another dream. But John had said something earlier that bothered me and I wouldn’t commit right then.
We left Isaac at the gallery and strolled back to our rental car. It was time to explore what had nagged at me for at least an hour. “John, what was this about the 450SL? I told you when you brought it home for me to see, we couldn’t afford it.”
“It was too good a deal to pass up,” John said. “Plus, the MAC44 plates come with it. McCovey’s jersey number was forty-four.”
“We can’t afford it. You’ll have to return it.” I struggled with my feelings and felt trapped by his cavalier financial attitude.
“See, you did it again,” he pouted. “You spoiled the surprise. I can’t do anything right. I can’t please you.”
He turned and strode off in the opposite direction, tall and erect, taking long strides as if he were still in the Navy. I ran to catch up with him and grabbed his arm. “John, let’s talk about this. Let’s lay out the dollars and cents before all of this gets out of hand.”
He stared at me, his eyes cold and menacing. Twinkling blue had turned steel gray. “Why? It’s the same old story. You don’t want me to have nice things. I need that car for business to impress my clients and keep up with my admiral status.” He turned and hobbled away from me.
I stood on the sidewalk, bewildered. We had just negotiated for three pieces of expensive art. Wasn’t that nice enough? Why did he always have to stick the knife in and twist it?
Stress exaggerated his limp. He looked pathetic going down the street. Sad tears begged to flow, but I wouldn’t let them. Not now. My heart overruled my head and my aching soul. I needed to catch up with John and tell him he could have his 450SL. We would find some way to make the payments. I had to ensure the success of his business ventures.
I also had to be sure John still loved me. My self-worth was at stake. At work it wasn’t lacking—I was recognized for my excellent job performance. But at home I morphed into a different person, dependent on trying to help John live his life instead of living my own. If John failed in his business escapades, I reasoned that it was a reflection on me, and I feared the humiliation of his impending failure. I felt guilty spending money on myself because John’s spending was out of control. In my perverted thinking I could be considered a success in my marriage only if I changed John and set him on a fiscally responsible path. Who else loved him enough to do the job? But the only way I could boost my domestic self-worth was to remain with John, and to remain with John I had to make sure he still loved me. I felt compelled to hold on to the relationship no matter how much it hurt.
I quickened my step to catch up with him.
NINE
The Blues
Five months later, on a crisp, clear fall afternoon, I maneuvered our sporty dark gray 450SL into the parking lot of the Oakland Airport Hilton. I was glad John hadn’t listened to me, even if it was a stretch to make the lease payments each month. Gobi liked it too, especially when we removed the hard top. He’d sit erect in the back and look regal as his ears flapped in the wind.
Gobi wasn’t with us today. This was not a fun trip, and the top was on. John sat in the passenger seat, wearing a white Stetson hat, his new trademark. “My Texas background,” he said when he came home with it one day. On his lap rested his Hartmann briefcase, the pricey leather-and-brown-tweed one he insisted he needed to support his image as a successful businessman. John had expensive taste. Unfortunately he didn’t have the salary to match it.
The mood was somber. John’s relationship with Gemina had deteriorated shortly after it began. His commission checks were either late or nonexistent, and they didn’t even cover his travel expenses. I couldn’t understand why he had so much difficulty collecting what was due him. Financial stress was now my constant companion.
We arrived fifteen minutes early. I turned off the ignition and looked at John. “Does Gemina realize how much trouble they caused us on our cruise to Alaska last month?” I said. John stared forward, and did not answer.
I was still bitter that their inability to provide prompt payment for services overshadowed our Alaska cruise, though it didn’t seem to bother John. He was Mr. Congeniality. Our shipmates laughed and cried as John spun his stories. We were popular aboard ship, and now I wished we were that popular with Gemina. “John, we have to get this sorted out,” I pleaded.
He turned to me, frowning. “I told you it’s not my fault. There’s internal fighting going on, some kind of in-house politics. Abigail was removed from the executive committee. I’m caught in the middle.”
It was never John’s fault. Not when he was arrested for grand theft. Not when he was let go by Vestico in March. Not ever, it seemed. “Let’s go,” John growled. “It’s four o’clock. Let me handle it with Abigail.”
Abigail Caruthers was a vice president of Gemina Corporation, a company started in 1978 by Jeremy Stewart, an outstandingly successful black entrepreneur. John, as a retired rear admiral, was tapped to help get contracts in the government arena, and for a while he served on Gemina’s board. That’s what he told me.
It was not unusual for either Jeremy or Abigail to stay overnight with us in Concord whenever they were in California. It was John’s way. “Treat ’em like friends,” he said more than once. Consequently, we opened our home to many business associates through the years.
I stepped out of the car and shivered. It wasn’t just the crisp air. I felt a premonition that sent chills through my body. We walked into the foyer. Abigail was waiting for us in the reception area. From the moment we settled into a small conference room I sensed trouble. She was not as friendly as the last time I saw her. “Let’s get right to the point,” she said, pulling out a copy of a letter from her briefcase and sliding it over to John. “You’ve become a legal liability,” she said, staring purposefully at him.
I was shocked. I leaned toward John and saw that the letter was addressed to Jeremy, from an attorney in Ridgecrest, California. It accused John of uttering false and defamatory statements, impugning his client in his trade, profession, or occupation. That didn’t sound like the John I knew, and I had never heard of the client. Yet John always told me everything, or so he said.
“I explained that to Jeremy,” John said. “It was a total misunderstanding.” He laughed and pushed the letter back to Abigail. She pushed it back and looked him directly in the eye.
“This is serious, John.”
“What’s serious, Abigail,” I interjected, “is that Gemina hasn’t paid John his commission, nor covered his expenses.” I was adamant. This was my agenda for the meeting. Abigail had a different agenda.
“Don’t pay attention to her,” John scoffed. “I told her it was probably connected to the infighting. I wrote Jeremy about that, too.”
Abigail rummaged around in her briefcase and extracted another piece of paper. “You mean
this
letter,” she said, waving it in the air, “with all its superfluous words that say nothing?” She read the following:
Forays in your own direction
I. Isolation of capability by overloading (Frequent Criticism)
II. Criticism without constructive suggestion
a.
Verbose planning on borrowed written authority
b.
Supercilious negation of capabilities
c.
Destructive spotlighting of error
A poet I’m not but: A pox on poisoned posturing pomposity, the poet who pondered his pocket as to what portion to pop for
the poker pot as he poo-pooed (sic) the policy of power versus poverty with a pox on pouring his possible portion.
She glared at John. “What the hell does it mean? Is this how you communicate with our customers?” Neither she nor I recognized at the time that these poorly connected words and thoughts, along with the logically inconsistent statements, were possible indications of a psychopath’s ramblings.
“Can’t Jeremy take a joke?” John laughed. “Besides, I can’t help it. It’s my doctorate training coming out; you know, my psychology degree. I’m trained to use supercilious words with inveterate pomposity.”