The Gingerbread House on LaCollina Drive

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE

GINGERBREAD HOUSE

ON

LA COLLINA DRIVE

 

 

My Life

Caged Behind

Phil Spector’s Wall of Sound

 

 

 

 

Louis Spector

  

 —Chapter 1—

A Pair of Twins for Christmas

 

The year was 1971, Los Angeles, California and Mrs. Erickson, a social worker for the county adoption agency, drove her station wagon in a state of euphoria. To her amazement, she was sure she had hit the jackpot.  She had been trying her luck for some time to secure a home for my twin brother and me.

Finding a home for one five-year-old foster child was difficult enough.  Finding one that would take two of them, especially when they were each burdened with an assortment of learning and behavioral issues, was a monumental challenge in itself.

I sat in the far back of the station wagon alone, next to what little items we owned that were stuffed into a plastic milk crate, with our names “Louis” and “Gary” taped to the side.  Gary sat in the front seat with Mrs. Erickson, gazing out the window as the car entered through a gate leading to a winding, narrow road named LaCollina Drive.

To ensure the success of a longer, or hopefully permanent, stay, Mrs. Erickson spent extra time on our presentation, haircut, pressed clothes, and a few new tips on how to behave.   I’m sure to her, the prospect seemed promising. After all, who rejects foster kids so close to Christmas?

Halfway up the road, we came to a chain-link fence covered in ivy with signs warning of trespassing, danger of electric fences, and killer dogs.  We followed it until we reached an iron gate that was left wide open, with additional warning signs that Mrs. Errickson drove past.  Upon our entrance into the driveway,  two ferocious German Shepherds started barking at us.  They were caged behind a fence and tied to a pole by a long, heavy chain. 

We parked in front of what looked like a long-forgotten mausoleum the size of a mansion. Ivy crawled up its thick walls, twisting through a balcony and broken shutters.  The driveway was made up of individual stone slabs, resembling tombstones in a crowded cemetery. Overlooking the driveway stood a tower and an overpass leading to another section of the enormous house that was obscured behind trees and wild shrubbery. In the center of the driveway was a large stone fountain with two tiers sprouting weeds.

Gary and I stayed behind as Mrs. Erickson parked her car and exited.   We were afraid that the two wild German shepherds might escape their cages and attack us. Mrs. Erickson then headed to the front door to ring the doorbell under yet another sign that read: “NEVER MIND THE DOGS. BEWARE OF OWNER.”

Moments later, Gary decided to risk leaving the car and dashed over to the fountain, climbed over, and jumped in. Eventually, I also took the risk, seeing that the dogs were still in their cages, continuously barking. Once I got to the fountain, I saw it was empty of water, so I climbed over, joined my brother, and began kicking the dead leaves scattered about.

Though we were expected at the house, no one was around to let us in, yet Mrs. Erickson continued ringing the doorbell, hoping that a last-minute decision hadn’t been made that would force her to drive us back to foster care. Then, a car pulled up. It was a brown Rolls-Royce and the fanciest car I had ever seen. Gary and I remained in the fountain as the driver’s side of the car opened, and out stepped a tall, burly man with a no-nonsense demeanor who made his way to the front door where Mrs. Erickson was standing. 

Then the back car door opened, and out stepped an attractive, petite lady with thick black hair, light-brown skin, and a perplexed look on her face after spotting us in the fountain. Before she could say anything, her husband emerged from the car. He was perhaps just as petite as she was, but his boots gave him a few more false inches, as did the thick wig atop his head. His skin was ghost-like in comparison to his wife’s. His eyes were hidden behind tinted shades, and his voice was high-pitched as he shouted, “Merry Christmas!” to the bafflement of everyone around, including his confused wife, who just stood staring at us. Unbeknownst to us, we were presented as gifts for Christmas in the hopes of saving an otherwise crumbling marriage.   

Mrs. Erickson gestured for us to get out of the fountain, and we obeyed.  As we jumped out, the man with the tinted shades approached us, licked the tip of his thumb, wiped away any dirt on my face, and brushed his fingers through my hair to remove any dead leaves. After doing so, he stepped back, looked me over, then did the same to my brother. He then turned to his wife and proudly said, “Are they not perfect?”

A moment later, we all gathered to where Mrs. Ericson was standing along with the burly man who instantly opened the first set of iron gates leading to a small entrance and a second set of iron gates, ones with glass panels mirrored on the outside.   Stepping inside the foyer,  my eyes lit up at the sight of the tallest Christmas tree I had ever seen.   The top was forced to bow downward under the high ceiling. Adorning the surrounding area were additional decorations of the holiday season, but the most prominent items displayed were comprised of a shrine dedicated to the man and lady of the house, who were introduced to us as Mr. and Mrs. Spector.

Directly ahead hung two black and white portraits.  One was of Mr. Spector and the other of his wife, with an ornate vanity mirror separating the two.  A black marble table, just below the portraits, clustered an array of additional photos, mostly of the Spectors, with a few together while other photos showcased people of various forms of notoriety.  Alongside the photos were framed articles and letters. In two corners of the room were two ornate chairs, which we could not sit on because the record albums were strategically propped, one being the Let It Be album by the Beatles and the other a Christmas album with Mr. Spector dressed up like Santa.    

My gaze was then immediately drawn to an intriguing little bronze statue.  It was a monkey perched atop a stack of books, intently studying a human skull.  His expression was one of deep contemplation as he scratched his head.  

Next to the striking bronze statue, there was a rather intriguing photograph of Mr. Spector caught in the act of sniffing something from a spoon. The caption beneath the photo casually stated, "A little snow at Christmas time never hurt anyone."  It was a scene from the movie Easy Rider, in which Phil Spector portrayed a notorious drug lord in the film, which starred Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper.  It was rumored that Mr. Spector was only cast for the role because of his brown Rolls-Royce, similar to an incident in Billy Wilder's movie Sunset Boulevard, a story that portrays the tragic downfall of a once celebrated movie star. 

Typically, I wouldn’t have stuck around to listen to the conversation between the adults, nor would I have cared to examine all the curiosities and pictures spread out over the tables, providing clues as to who the two people in the house were. I would have preferred being outside in the backyard playing with my brother, meeting other kids, or exploring the grounds as I had always done shortly after arriving at a new house and after being excused to do so. However, without knowing where the backyard was or if any other kids lived in this house—and with no sign of anyone willing to show me—I had no choice but to stay close by in the foyer to look around while they talked. 

The conversation was interrupted when a woman in a white uniform appeared in the hallway.  She was holding the hand of a small child no older than two, navigating her way towards us, then letting go of his hand as all observed the interactions between my brother, me, and the child.   

Mr. Spector introduced him to us as our new brother, Donte, who closely resembled his mother.    No sooner had he joined us; a problem arose between him and Gary.   After biting Gary on the leg,  he was pushed to the ground,  resulting in a tearful outburst.  

Jumping into action, the woman, who was the nanny, snatched up the child while Mrs. Erickson examined Gary’s leg, proclaiming it to be a minor flesh wound.

At that time, Mr. Spector suggested everyone go to the kitchen for a treat while he escorted Mrs. Erickson alone to another room down the hallway. Upon hearing the order,  George, the burly man who had opened the front door, escorted everyone else toward the kitchen.  

Following behind them, my eyes were immediately drawn to a fascinating tapestry hanging on the wall.  It depicted a group of beloved and familiar characters: Goofy, Donald Duck, Pinocchio, the seven dwarfs, Bambi, and others. They all stood together surrounding a TV set as Micky Mouse himself magically emerged from it with a bit of help from Tinker Bell’s wand.  

Just for a moment, I saw myself in the same scenario, showing up within a fantasy as I was brought to a family with open arms, thanks to Mrs. Erikson.   As I walked away from the tapestry, I realized I was alone in the hallway. Looking up, I saw two ominous statues atop pillars, black as night, scantly covered in gold, and with vacant eyes.  There was something unsettling about them.  It was then I decided I should find the others, but I had no idea which of the two doors at the end of the hallway they went through.  

Seeing the double doors that Mrs. Erickson, along with Mr. Spector, went through slightly ajar, I cautiously entered, assuming Mrs. Erickson could reunite me with the others.   As I stood atop the stairs, gazing down into the living room, I was struck by the enormous size of the space. The only source of light came from a floor lamp next to the two talking,  leaving me in the dark.   Though bright and sunny outside, heavy drapes allowed very little sunlight to seep through the three large French glass doors that led out to the terrace.

            Next to the two talking was an equally impressive fireplace made of stone, large enough to walk into and cold enough to consider it. The ceiling was a coffered ceiling, with thick wood beams extending from each side of the room to the other, with murals painted in each section. As for the furniture, some dated back to the early twenties, when the house was first constructed, with the old style of the French, some with floral motifs and figures, others with elegant red velvet upholstery, slightly tattered.   To the left of me, below the stairs, was a modern black grand piano with sheets of music scattered about on the top next to a metronome.  At the bottom of the steps, where my focus ended up, was a dome-shaped aquarium atop a pillar filled with various kinds of fish. Accompanying them, at the bottom was a deep-sea diver and a sunken ship along with the Creature from the Black Lagoon and the remains of a dead pirate protecting his gold, with a sword piercing through where his heart once was.  Yet he was still enjoying his jug of whisky aided by the constant flow of air bubbles.     

Though I was not paying attention to the conversation between the two, I overheard Mrs. Erickson clearly stating, “If there is a problem, I’ll take them away.” And though she said it only once, the words echoed in my head. Not sure what may classify as a “problem” had me worried that perhaps not going with the others to the kitchen, sneaking in rooms I shouldn’t be in, and eavesdropping on conversations were more than enough problems for me to get into and so I cautiously snuck back out, closing the door behind me.  As I quickly turned around, there stood George with his usual stern look.  Assuming he would march me back into the living room and tattle on me, ending any chance of remaining in the house, I surrendered into somber resignation, as if I knew what was in store, only to be pleasantly surprised when he reached over my head to make sure the door was securely shut before asking, “Would you like some ice cream?”  

Upon entering the kitchen, Gary and Donte had finished eating their treats. Seeing a spot at the table across from my brother, I sat down. As I did, another individual got up from his chair near the stove, opened a cupboard, grabbed a ceramic bowl, and placed it near me. He was a hefty man focused on one thing: preparing my treat. Grabbing from one of three refrigerators, he took out a tub of vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup, a can of whipped cream, and a jar of cherries and brought them to the table near me, but not before grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl on the table.  Topping it off with silver sugar pearls, he placed it in front of me, along with a large spoon, then returned back to his chair by the stove as I enthusiastically dug into my ice cream sundae.

 

Shortly after Mrs. Erickson left, we were shown our room. It was at the top of the stairs on the second floor. Because we were meant as a surprise, the room was in no way prepared for us. The furniture was no different from what was seen around the house: elegant and extravagant.  The fancy desk in the room was filled with various accessories: scissors, a letter opener, a stapler, a marble paperweight, and a heavy glass ashtray.

The room also had its own closet and bathroom, but the closet remained locked, leaving us nowhere to put our things as the only dresser in the room was occupied with someone else’s clothes.  So, we left our stuff in the crates we brought them in.  

In the last few homes, the moment we were settled in and our things put away, we would do one of three things: explore the house, mingle with the couple whose house it was, or hang around with the other kids, if any, who lived there. Disappointingly, that was not possible this time due to our bedroom being locked, preventing us from leaving the room.  

With nothing to do, we went through all the drawers, made some room in the dresser for our things by throwing what was in there on the floor, jumped on the double bed, and looked out the French window that had a panoramic view of Beverly Hills and the backyard below.

Later that evening, our door was opened by the nanny, who invited us downstairs for dinner, along with Donte. The same hefty man from earlier cooked and served our dinner, then, once again, made an enjoyable dessert. Before being brought back to our room, the nanny let us accompany her while she put Donte to bed. It was the first time I saw his room. 

It was obviously set up for a child, with its decorative furniture, stuffed animals, mobiles, and Disney characters mounted on the walls. As the nanny prepared Donte for bed, she turned on a rather elegant musical carousel that played Brahms’s Lullaby next to a pair of bronzed baby shoes on a wooden plaque that displayed a birth announcement with big, bold lettering: “PRESENTING THE SMASH HIT PRODUCTION OF DONTE PHILLIP SPECTOR.”

When the nanny was done and Donte was fast asleep, she took us to our room, got us ready for bed, and tucked us in before locking the door. That night, I awoke from a dream. It was one I often had, but that night, it felt different. It always started the same, looking down an empty road to a house in the distance. It wasn’t a large house, but rather a quaint and simple one. I do not know if it was a previous house I’ve been to or one I saw on TV. Either way, it was my home in the dream, and I was heading back. Only, it never got any closer to me than when it first appeared in the distance down the road. 

A moment later, a figure appeared standing in the doorway, waving at me. Though I could never make out the face, I knew it was my mother, and I was eager to return to her. Then, the dream shifted, and the house began disappearing as it increasingly got farther away.  I started running toward it but soon noticed under my feet that street lines were quickly zipping away from me. I was moving in the opposite direction of the house, getting further away from it along with my mom, who was still standing in the doorway and waving.

Frustrated, I begin pounding on an invisible wall, only to end up in the back section of a station wagon, pounding on the back window, with Mrs. Erickson driving in the front. Suddenly, the window shattered, and I began falling into an abyss with the street lines following me. I could hear Mrs. Erickson say, “If there is a problem, I’ll take them away.” at which time I awoke.

Normally, I would run to the adult’s room for some comfort, something I had done a few times at the previous houses after a bad dream, but because my door was locked, I ended up gazing out the window, trying to understand the dream, until finally, it dawned on me that my mother wasn’t greeting me or waving for my arrival; instead, she was waving goodbye. With that realization, my eyes swelled up.   

By the time Christmas arrived, a few days later, Gary and I had received a set of new clothes.  The dresser had also been emptied, giving us room for our new outfits. The desk was also cleared of its contents, including all the sharp objects and the glass ashtray.  The closet, however, remained locked. By early evening, music began to fill the house, echoing through the vents and vibrating up through the floor, rattling the windows. They were the familiar holiday songs amplified by a musical symphony of sound.

Gary and I were alone in the room until we heard the sound of someone unlocking the door. When it opened, the nanny stepped in, and with her was Donte.  She instructed us to put on our best clothes, the ones already laid out for us on our bed.  She then left, locking the door behind her, leaving Donte with us.  He was already dressed and eager to see Santa.  As for me, I didn’t know what to expect or what was waiting for us downstairs. After hearing the song “A Marshmallow World” echoing through the house, I was curious as to what exactly a marshmallow world would look like, and I assumed I would find out once our door was opened and free to go downstairs.

Eventually, our door was once again unlocked.  Mr. Spector entered, and in his hand, he held two clip-on ties. One he gave to Gary and the other to me. He also had one regular tie, which he tied around Donte while Gary helped me clip on mine.  When done with fastening the ties, Mr. Spector stepped back, licked the tip of his thumb then wiped away any dirt on our faces just as he did the first day we arrived.  He then brushed his fingers roughly through our hair, styling it until satisfied. Then he invited all three of us to go downstairs with him. 

Though Gary and I were eager to walk ahead, we anxiously followed behind until we reached the bottom of the steps, at which time, Mr. Spector stepped aside, allowing us to run freely towards the magnificent Christmas tree, where Ronnie was patiently waiting.   The hallway was dark,  illuminated only by a few small characters on the floor, creating a pathway to the foyer.  The tree, in its splendor, was covered in lights that were, at the time, flashing on and off, something we couldn’t fully appreciate during the day.  Because we were locked in our room during the night, we never saw the tree lit up, so it was a spectacular sight for us to watch.  

Piled under the tree were presents, each displaying name tags, but before we had a chance to open any of them,  music began to intensify as the library door behind us suddenly opened.  Standing in the door frame, with a bag of presents, was Santa Claus in a bright red suit with a pure white beard covering his face while shouting out, “HO! HO! HO! 

He then vigorously searched his bag for a present to pull out, shouting out the name on the tag.  When the bag was empty, Santa hung around long enough for Mr. Spector to take a few photos. Some with Santa alone, a few with us along with Santa, but none with Mr. or Mrs. Spector.  During the gathering around the tree for a photo, I recognized the face behind the thick, white beard to be no other than George, the no-nonsense, stern man, but for the first time, with a smile on his face. When there were no more presents to open, we returned to our rooms with our new toys and outfits. Later, Mr. Spector locked our doors, including Donte’s.   However, before going to bed, I took a tag from my pocket, one I snatched from one of my presents, and placed it on the nightstand beside my bed.  In big, bold letters, the tag read, “To Louis, from Mom and Dad,” that was enough for me to feel accepted into the family and be confirmed that I finally have a mother and a father.

Side Note: This is not the finished version, some changes will take place. 

 

BETWEEN THE HOURS OF FOUR AND FIVE

  

    Between four and five, the store of wonder is always open, and all are invited to enter. Though the hour of operation is relatively short, to some, it feels like a lifetime, while to others, not nearly long enough. 

Within the store, there is much to see and do, but because it is only open for a short time, it is impossible for anyone to see and do it all.  Unfortunately, there is a catch, you could only visit the store once in your lifetime, but what you do once inside is up to you.

Some spend unlimited money, others less, while others have no money to spend and instead browse around. There is one other catch; nothing leaves the store besides what you brought in.   The money you spend is merely for the enjoyment, opportunities, and pleasures others can only witness.

Though the store is only open for an hour, not all can stay the length of time but only a brief moment. Then there are those who are denied entrance altogether, not by the owner but rather by those who feel they don’t deserve entry for whatever reason. Perhaps it is felt that their entrance could take away from someone’s enjoyment, opportunities, and/or pleasure, so they are denied even to step foot into the store.

As for me, I am from a harsh yet wealthy family and was not allowed to touch or participate in anything, yet still, I was amazed and blessed with all that I saw.  Some of it was good, some not so much, but still, I wouldn’t change a thing.  

Shortly after I arrived at the store, I was separated from my family, and it was only then that I truly enjoyed my time there.

I am now halfway through the hour, and soon the store will close. There is still much to see, explore, and learn, and I’m excited to continue onward. It is now twilight, and some of my time is being spent looking over the things I have already seen and hoping there might be another store to visit once this one is closed.

The title is derived from the number of letters it takes to spell out LIFE (4) and DEATH (5) 

A PORTRAIT OF A STRANGER

     The portrait of myself is different from the one my family sees. I am a stranger to them, an anchor to cast out when needed, a scapegoat, a means to an end, or merely a means to justify an action.   I do not play a part in any of the roles they gave me, except within a delusional perspective, when there is a need to cast blame, create a diversion, an excuse, or when they need an advocate to support their point of view, regardless of whether I agree with it or not. 

    I did not know about my grandmother's death until a few weeks after it happened when I got a phone call from my aunt yelling at me for ransacking her house and taking money out of her bank. I also got a letter from my father threatening to sue me if I didn't return any of the gold albums, the ones he assumed I took, the ones rewarded to him.   I didn't worry about it as I had nothing to do with it, yet somehow my name was brought up.

    Then there were the articles against the family that, somehow, I was a part of, simply because it was signed "one of the twins" and riddled with misspelled words.

    One, in particular, showed up in The Enquirer, claiming that our sister is not our sister nor the true daughter of our father. My name was even mentioned in the article as if I agreed with that scenario. 

    I'm also considered bitter, angry, and jealous by one of my siblings though I believe it’s because it helps them feel justified in their actions to view me as not their sibling.

    The truth is, the only thing I've ever stolen was a 1970s toy Transformer at the age of 10, but seeing George (my dad's driver at the time) yell at my younger brother for stealing a pack of gum on the same night, I promised myself never to steal again, and I'm happy to say, I kept that promise.

    I also didn't write any articles on any web pages against my family when they first started showing up. When I did begin writing them many years later, however, I made sure to sign them as I didn't want anyone to be accused of having my opinion. 

    Nor did I know anything about The Enquirer article until my twin brother warned me a day before it was printed. I also can't entirely agree with it as I feel my sister is my sister regardless of her bloodline, plus I was adopted, so I would be the last to talk about "true" family members. 

    I am also not bitter, angry, or even jealous, perhaps a bit envious of all my siblings, but that's because I had always looked up to them while growing up, even my baby sister and her twin brother, but never jealous as I've always wished them the best in life. In fact, I've always supported my family, and I often allowed their schemes, the ones that included me, to play their part as I felt
if any family member wanted to know the truth, they would ask.   They never did; instead, they pretended that what they heard was valid because it fed into their agenda. Does it bother me? Not really. 

I don't play their games; I'm not good at them, nor would I want to be. I don't gaslight, manipulate or cast them out of my life. I live my life the best I can. For many years, I no longer looked for my dad's approval or acceptance or felt a need to make him proud of me. I've accepted who my siblings are and how they are, and whether I agree with their way of life, their actions, their beliefs, or personality is irrelevant; they are my siblings, and I love them, yet I am a stranger to them because they see me as they want to see me and not as I am.

I AM NOBODY, AND HAPPY TO BE SO

    There is Nothing extraordinary about me, nothing special, different, or unique. There is nothing you will find in me or discover about me that you may not find in someone else. I am me simply because I exist. I have many flaws, shortcomings, and tedious obstacles that I can never conquer, yet I wouldn't want to be anyone else. I like who I am, my flaws and all.    Sure, my father is famous, but countless people have famous fathers. Sure, I grew up in Beverly Hills, but numerous people live or have lived or someday will live in Beverly Hills.   Even my learning disability isn't unique, nor is

my shyness, lack of social skills, or insecurities. They are nothing that millions of other people don't have or suffer through. 

When people tell me, "you deserve greatness," "you're entitled to be happy,"  or "you'll be successful someday," I agree with them,  but only because I am being polite.   Otherwise, I believe I will get nothing more than what I am willing to work for or put in.

When my father died and left me nothing from his millions of dollars, I was not upset or bothered by it.   Of course, I was saddened to be cast out of his life, but not because of the wealth he didn't give me, but because of what he took from me, time spent with him.   I never felt entitled to anything he owned nor expected a penny from him; I had always expected precisely what I got because I knew enough about my father to expect nothing more.  

No, I am nobody genuinely extraordinary. I am just a simple man living the best I can while accepting my ordinary, mediocrity existence and happy to do so. I strive to always be better, to learn, and to improve myself simply because while I live, there will always be something to discover about myself and the world in which I live.  However, my goal in life is not to be better; it's just to be pleased with who I am on any given day at any given moment and know we all have building blocks to work with. The child I once was, is still the person I grew up to be- if that makes sense.  

The bottom line, life is what YOU make it; you should only have what you put into it. You should never rely on anyone to give you what you think you are owed; you should never feel so entitled to or deserving of anything.   You should also know that not all days are sunny, not all skies are clear, not all pathways lead to something grand, and not all love is forever, but that's the beauty of life. So I accept who I am, flaws and all, and I'll accept the rainy days still ahead.    

REINVENTING MYSELF FROM THE GROUND UP

 

The hard part about reinventing myself is getting rid of the clutter in my mind. The old habits that got me nowhere, the way of thinking that kept me from leaving my comfort zone, and the inner voices that constantly reminded me of all my limitations, a voice I swear is derived from my dead grandmother.

I’ve always tried to be the good guy and do the decent thing, but I’m finding out it was just another means of playing it safe, of not challenging the order, not going against the wave, and not causing any ripples in the water but we live in a world that was built on all those exact things.

Honestly, I do not know where to start except to go to the nearest bookstore and buy a few books on the subject, and I think an excellent book to start with, which I find appropriately titled, “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a “blank” as that is how I feel at this time. Perhaps, once I’m done with it, I’ll read “HOW TO WIN FRIENDS AND INFLUENCE PEOPLE” because, as of now, I’m not even my own friend. Even now, I’m allowing distractions and an easy escapes from me actually getting up and doing something about it. Sitting in front of a computer and writing about it sure helps, but I’m still just sitting in front of a computer without actually moving forward. So, now I’m thinking to myself; I should jump in the shower,  get dressed, and go to the goddamn bookstore…

THE GINGERBREAD HOUSE ON LaCOLLINA DRIVE

Painting by Louis Spector

 CHAPTER

ONE

 A PAIR OF TWINS

FOR CHRISTMAS

        From our social worker's point of view, my twin brother and I hit the jackpot. We were five years old, foster kids, and our social worker wanted to find us a home. But, unfortunately, we also had baggage and not just the regular kind you carry with you but internal baggage. I was considered brain-damaged, detached, and even simple-minded. When I spoke, it was incoherent considering I had a severe speech impairment, leaving my twin brother, Gary, having to translate for me. As for my twin brother, he was temperamental and argumentative, often challenging others in childish debates.

         On top of that, we were very hyperactive with behavioral challenges. That made it very difficult for Mrs. Erickson, the social worker, to place us in any family longer than a few months, if not weeks or even days. So, of course, when the opportunity arose just days before Christmas in the extravagant town of Beverly Hills, Mrs. Erickson snatched us up, threw us in her station wagon along with our few belongings, and drove off.  Perhaps we were not the best choice, but we were all that was available on such short notice.

        The prospect seemed promising; after all, who rejects kids so close to Christmas? With that in mind, she eagerly drove up the private road of LaCollina Drive, a narrow, winding road just on the outskirts of Beverly Hills, only slowing down for the speedbumps along the way. I sat in the far back of the station wagon, with my hair combed and face washed, gazing wide-eyed at the cozy, charming houses outlining the narrow road. Some were obscured behind bushes or walls covered in ivy, while others showcased their elegance and charm.   

        As I sat in the very back of the station wagon, Gary sat in front next to Mrs. Erickson, gazing out the window also wide-eyed with his hair combed and face washed.  Mrs. Erickson believed in first impressions.  

        Halfway up the road, we came across a chain-link fence covered in ivy, displaying signs warning of trespassing, electric fences, and guard dogs. We followed it up to a wrought-iron gate left wide open with the same warning signs regarding trespassing, electric fences, and guard dogs, who at the time were ferociously barking at us from behind their cages, still, Mrs. Erickson drove through. 

        Standing in front of us was an ominous-looking mansion resembling a mausoleum, an oversized, long-forgotten one as it stood there mottled by the years with ivy scaling its solid concrete walls while slithering through the broken shutters.

        

The Mansion on LaCollina Drive

Overlooking the driveway made of slabs resembling flat tombstones was a circular tower next to an overpass leading to another section of the house, an area obscured behind thick bushes and a cluster of trees.

        In the dead center of the driveway stood a circular stone fountain with dried foliage extending from its two tiers. Once parked, Mrs. Erickson stepped out, headed towards the front door, an iron gate, and pressed the doorbell under a sign that read, "NEVER MIND THE DOGS, BEWARE OF OWNER."

        My brother and I remained in the car, keeping the doors locked and windows tightly sealed. We were nervously concerned about the two German Shepherds continuously and viciously barking at us. And though they were also restrained to a pole within their cages, we hesitated to get out of the car, at least until Gary felt brave enough to do so. He quickly ran to the fountain, climbed over, and jumped in.   Eventually, I joined him only to discover the fountain bare of water, except for a small puddle perhaps left over from the rain; instead, dead leaves were scattered about, which I began to kick around once inside.

        Although we were expected at the house, no one was there to let us in. However, Mrs. Erickson continued ringing the doorbell while my brother and I played in the fountain.

        Moments later, a brown Rolls-Royce pulled into the driveway and parked near us. As the driver's side door opened, a tall, burly bearded man stepped out with a no-nonsense demeanor. He was casually dressed in a brown suit with no tie and quickly approached the front door where Mrs. Erickson was. Then, the car's back door opened, and an attractive young lady with a perplexed look after seeing us stepped out. She was petite with long thick black hair, light brown skin, and fashionably dressed. Upon seeing us, she quickly looked back toward her husband for an explanation just as he was exiting the car as to why two kids were playing around in the fountain.

        Her husband was a pale, scrawny little man dressed with a bit more flare. Though he was just as petite as his wife, his polished boots gave him an extra inch or two. In response to his wife, he swept his arms out as if making a presentation, then shouted, "Merry Christmas," to the bafflement of everyone around. In doing so, he revealed two-gun holsters under his jacket.

        Though it was unknown then, it turned out that my twin and I were an unexpected gift to his otherwise unsuspecting wife. 

        My brother and I quickly climbed out of the fountain to join everyone. As we did, the wife's husband approached us, promptly licked the tip of his thumb, and then began to wash away the dirt on our faces, then brushed his fingers through our hair, removing any dead leaves entangled within. Once done, he stood back, looked us over, then turned to his wife and, with a victorious grin, said, "are they not perfect?"

        Once in front of the gated door, the bearded man unlocked it; it led to another set of iron doors, ones with a glass mirrored panel. As we tightly assembled between the doors, he locked the first set, leaving us caged between the two doors until he unlocked the second set, leading into the house.  

        The area we walked into was the foyer, and in it was the tallest Christmas tree I had ever seen. Unfortunately, the enormous tree was forced to bow downwards under the high ceiling. Perhaps getting one's hands on the tallest tree was more crucial than considering if it would fit in the house. Plus, because of its size, only the bottom section of the tree was decorated with ornaments, leaving the top bare and dreary.

        Besides the tree and a few Christmas decorations, the foyer was mainly a shrine dedicated to the husband and his wife. Since no one attempted to leave the area,  we were compelled to fixate on the many black-and-white photos displayed on the marble surface of the tables, including the large ones hanging on the walls. But, of course, not all photos were of the two talking to Mrs. Erickson as some were of well-known people such as John Lennon,  the controversial comedian Lenny Bruce and the theoretical physicist Elbert Einstein,  with a quote, "imagination is more important than knowledge," and, for humor, he's sticking out his tongue.

         Among the pictures and photos were framed articles, framed letters, and record albums, many of which were produced by the man still wearing tinted shades and talking to Mrs. Erickson.   However, what caught my eye was a small bronze statue of a monkey. It was sitting on a stack of books, examining the human skull in his hand, and appearing somewhat perplexed. Near it was a picture of a man sniffing something from a spoon, with the caption, "A little snow at Christmas time never hurt anyone."  I later learned it was a snapshot from "Easy Rider," a movie starring Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper and where the man who has since been addressed as Mr. Spector played some kind of drug lord. It was also rumored that his cameo was contingent upon using his brown Rolls-Royce, which, at the time, was parked just outside.   

        Of course, the most prominent pictures in the foyer were the one of Mr. Spector and the other of his wife, Mrs. Spector. Coincidently, they were separated by a rather enormous, ornate vanity mirror hanging on the wall, an ironic premonition of things to come.

        Ordinarily, Gary and I would be outside in the backyard or in the front yard playing around while the grownups talked; however, with the front gated door locked and no one showing the way to the backyard, we were forced to stay stationary in the foyer gazing over all the vanity around us. To make it more strenuous, all the chairs in the lobby were monopolized by record albums, leaving no place to sit.  

        After a while, my attention was drawn down the hallway, where I saw a lady dressed all in white. She was accompanying a small child while making her way toward us.    When she reached us, Mr. Spector introduced his son, Donte, to Mrs. Erickson just before the lady in white left him with Gary and me, if just to observe his reaction toward us.   Right away, Donte bit Gary on the leg, and in retaliation, Gary pushed him away, causing him to fall to the ground and cry.

        Jumping into action, the nanny quickly snatched Donte up as Mrs. Erickson began to tend to Gary's injury, proclaiming it was only a flesh wound. 

        At the same time, Mr. Spector decided to conduct the conversation elsewhere. He then ordered the bearded man, whom he addressed as George, to take everyone to the kitchen for a treat while escorting Mrs. Erickson to another room down the hallway.   

        Mrs. Spector followed George, the nanny, and her son while Gary tagged along close by. As for me, I got distracted by a large tapestry hanging on the wall. It showcased many familiar characters such as Goofy, Donald Duck, Pinocchio, the seven dwarfs, and many others. Each gathered around a TV set, welcoming Micky Mouse as he magically emerged from it with help from Tinker Bell's wand.

        Perhaps my fixation with the image on the tapestry was seeing the facsimile in my situation, walking into what I perceived as a fairy tale, and being welcomed with open arms. 

        As I turned toward the end of the hallway, where everyone was heading, I realized I was alone, except for two ominous black statues on pillars staring down at me with vacant eyes. They were of ladies, scantily dressed in gold cloth, looking dreary and distant in thought as they balanced a basket atop their heads. Feeling uneasy with their stare, I decided to head towards the double doors near me, where I heard voices coming from. It was slightly ajar, so I opened it just enough to enter.   

        The room was a massive Living Room, which was dark and cold at the time. On the other end of where I stood was a large stone fireplace, which was large enough to walk into and cold enough to consider it. Near it was the only light source, a table lamp dimly lit. Besides the lamp, there was no other light source except for the sliver of sunlight seeping through the thick window drapes that were otherwise closed though it was a bright and sunny day. 

        Sitting on the sofa, next to the lamp, was Mrs. Erickson while Mr. Spector stood over her talking. Not wanting to disturb them, I remained silent in the shadows atop a stairway, un-disturbing the things around me as my eyes explored the entire room. It was a rather ostentatious room with murals painted on the ceiling, concrete walls with old oil paintings framed in gold, and periodical furniture, dating back to the 1920s when the massive house was first built. 

        At the bottom of the steps, on the left side, stood a grand black piano covered with many black and white photos of Mr. and Mrs. Spector. Next to them, a metronome and a world globe on an axle emitting a soft glow. Just below the steps and where my attention eventually rested was a dome-shaped aquarium atop a pillar. In it were various kinds of fish swimming about among the foliage. Accompanying them was a deep-sea diver, a sunken ship, and a man-like fish creature from the old black and white movie The Creature from the Black Lagoon.   There were also the remains of a pirate pierced by a sword where his heart had been once upon a time. And though he was long dead, he continued drinking from a jug of whiskey with the help of air bubbles racing to the surface while guarding a nearby chest full of treasure. 

        Though I wasn't paying attention to the conversation between Mrs. Erickson and Mr. Spector, I suddenly did become aware when I overheard Mrs. Erickson say, "If there is a problem, I'll take them away."  And though it was only said once, it echoed in my head.

        I was left to consider all the possibilities without clearly understanding what kind of "problem" she was referring to. Whatever it was, it caused me to rethink entering the Living Room instead of following the others to the kitchen, as I should have done.

        Perhaps, I thought I would be accused of eavesdropping on conversations I had no business listening to or lurking in rooms I had no business entering. So I began slowly exiting the room, leaving the door slightly ajar just as I found it, only to see George firmly standing over me, looking down, with the two foreboding statues behind him doing the same with their vacant dead eyes.

        In somber resignation, I bowed my head like the tall tree in the foyer and awaited my fate. I knew I would once again be in the back of the station wagon to be driven away like I had many times before. And all because, as I just learned, I was a "problem." 

        Instead of grabbing me by the arm and dragging me into the living room to expose my presence as expected, George reached over my head to tightly close the door behind me. Then asked if I would like some ice cream. My smile gave him my answer as he escorted me down the hall and through the door leading to the kitchen. 

        My brothers were just finishing eating their ice cream as I walked in. Seeing only one available place to sit at the table, I took it, sitting across from Gary. Next to him sat Donte, whose face was being wiped by the nanny while Mrs. Spector stood nearby.

        There was another person in the kitchen, a hefty man who, upon seeing me, jumped up from his chair and went right to work, grabbing a bowl from one of the cupboards and then placing it near me. He then opened one of three refrigerators, took out a tub of vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup, whip cream, and a banana, placed them next to the bowl, then went to work creating a scrumptious banana split.  

        When I thought he was done, he went to another refrigerator to grab a jar of cherries. Then took two items from the spice rack on the table and returned to work on the banana split by sprinkling candy confetti and sugar pearls, then topping it with a cherry. When done, he placed it before me to enjoy before returning to the chair, all without saying a word. 

        As I ate, Gary spoke to no one in particular, talking about places and people he had seen along with trivial information he eagerly wanted to share.   If anyone tuned into what he was saying, it would have been the nanny, as everyone else's attention seemed preoccupied.

 

        By the time I had finished eating, Mr. Spector had entered the kitchen. He was alone as Mrs. Erickson had already left. He also seemed anxious to show us to our room. It was located at the top of a flight of stairs with three landings, one of which had a large arched window overlooking the driveway.  

        Before Mrs. Erickson left, it appeared she brought in all our things and left them in the box on a bed for us to put away. The bedroom we were shown was significantly more extensive than any others we stayed in. In addition, the furniture was more elaborate, the kind you would not expect two five-year-old hyperactive children to have.   There was also a private bathroom, walk-in closet, and large French window overlooking the backyard while giving us a panoramic view of Beverly Hills and the Sierra Towers just down the street on Doheny Road.

        Evidently, the room was not set up for us; after all, we were meant to be a surprise, so had any alterations been made to the bedroom, Mrs. Spector might not have been as shocked upon seeing us earlier. Leaving us with a desk filled with all the amenities, such as scissors, a sharp letter opener, a stapler, a box full of staples, glass paperweights, and a marble ashtray. Plus, the drawers were filled with tacks, fountain pens, bottled glass inkwells, stationary paper, and documents.    In addition, the one and only dresser in the room was filled to capacity, meaning we had nowhere to put our few belongings until Mr. Spector decided to empty one of the drawers and throw all its contents in the closet, as well as the few questionable items on the desk, then locking it up and keeping the key, thus leaving us without a closet to use.

        Ordinarily, after putting our things away, Gary and I would venture outside and play, explore the grounds, or meet other kids playing on the street. But, unfortunately, and unexpectedly, as Mr. Spector left, he locked the door behind him, leaving Gary and me looking at each other, wondering if we were actually locked in.   We were. So, with nothing to do, we decided to jump up and down on the canopied bed.

 

…

        It wasn't until later in the evening that our door was finally unlocked. At that time, we were escorted downstairs for an early dinner, then back to our room to be locked up for the rest of the night. 

        Whenever we were out of our rooms, the nanny chaperoned us. We hadn't stepped out in the backyard or even seen it, except when looking out from our window. We didn't see much of Mr. Spector or his wife; only the nanny and the cook were the two people we spent time with, and our new baby brother, Donte.  

        Sometimes I accompanied the nanny as she attended to Donte in his room, mostly because he had more things to play with. His room was a corner room with two French widows, one overlooking the driveway and the other a swimming pool. His room was larger than ours, with a dressing room and shared bathroom, and was ideally suited for a child his age. Stuffed animals were scattered on the floor, Disney characters mounted on the wall, bird mobiles hung from the ceiling, and a musical carousel played Brahms's Lullaby whenever the nanny turned it on. There was also a pair of cast iron baby shoes and a photo of Donte on the dresser, next to a card announcing his birth. It read in big, bold lettering, "PRESENTING THE SMASH HIT PRODUCTION OF DONTE PHILLIP SPECTOR." It was broken into three acts, starting with ACT-ONE: An ambiguous and premature birth. ACT-TWO: Baby fine, parents thrilled. Ending with ACT-THREE: Baby going home, a happy ending. It was considered a Veronica and Phil Spector Production. It was a sure thing that Donte was their child, whereas I could have been taken away any day, especially if there was a problem, or so I felt.   

        Although Gary had no problems drifting off to sleep, I often stayed awake thinking. Life was like a puzzle to me, one with many missing pieces, and trying to make sense of it, kept me up through the night, reliving events like a broken record, and repeating in my head was Mrs. Erickson's voice stating what she said a few days ago, "If there is a problem, I'll take them away."   Before hearing her say that I had never considered that perhaps I was a problem. But then, I started to think about all the previous homes I've stayed at and what might have caused my departure after a month, a week, or even a few days. I was sure one of them was due to being accused of accidentally killing a duckling. I wasn't even aware of it until I lifted my foot and saw its body smash into the mud below me. Then, shocked by the discovery, I crouched closer to get a better look and, perhaps, revive it. But, instead, as I watched all the other ducklings trample over it, I became saddened; after all, they were a family, yet they had no regard for the one lifeless in the mud. It indirectly revealed a dark truth: nothing last forever, not even family, something a foster child eventually discovers, and what I realized that day. I was four at the time. 

        Of course, I wasn't accused of accidentally killing the duckling just by observing it; it was when I smashed my foot back down, hoping to hide it. I had just heard the back sliding door open, and not wanting to be blamed for killing the duckling, I acted quickly by standing up and pounding my foot back down over it, unintentionally crushing it even more. It was that action the potential parents saw as they looked down at me in utter shock. Perhaps, if I didn't mumble my words, I would have said something in my defense. But, instead, I remained silent. Gary and I were taken away a few hours later, unaware of the reason, but thinking about it while locked up in my room, I was sure the incident with the duckling had something to do with it. 

        And I wasn't just thinking about all the reasons that could have led to my departure but also some of the places we stayed in. Though I might not have liked all of them, I certainly was beginning to wish I was back in any of them, even the one where we slept in the garage. It was set up with rags covering all the oil stains on the cold concrete floor and rugs scattered about, giving us something warm to walk on. All the tools were locked away, and a homemade wooden bunk bed was built for us to sleep in, plus a single shelf for our things to be stored away on. I'm sure we were not the only foster kids who slept there, but at the time, we were. Cold, windy nights were the worst as I lay awake listening to the howling wind blowing through the cracks in the walls, the trees scraping the roof, and the pitter patterns of the creatures snooping around. Yet, I craved to be back there because whenever I felt scared, I simply got out of bed, went to the lady of the house, curled up, and slept with her.    

        When I eventually fell asleep, I had the same dream I had for the past few months. It always started the same, me walking on a pathway towards a house in the distance. Outside of it, my mother. She was waving at me, and though I could never make out her face, something told me it was her. 

        And though I would pick up the pace, I was not getting any closer. So, I started to run, but I still got no closer as Mom continued to wave. Then, looking down, I saw street lines zipping by. They were moving away from me. I was going backward, away from the house and away from Mom. Suddenly I found myself in a familiar car, a station wagon, sitting in the far back, looking out the window towards the house, which was nowhere to be seen. Out of panic, I pound on the back window until it shatters, causing me to fall into an abyss with street lines zipping by until I awaken and find myself back in my room next to Gary, with my door still locked. 

        As I sat up in bed, a thought occurred to me that I had not considered before. Perhaps Mom was not welcoming me back home but instead waving goodbye. That thought saddened me as I went back to sleep. 

 

…

 

        The night Christmas arrived; the nanny laid out clothes for us to change into. It had been almost a week since we arrived and we were given new clothes within that time, all identical. It was a typical tradition for twins to look and dress alike, and we were not the exception to the practice. So, we put on our new identical clothes and awaited Christmas.  

        Moments later, our door was unlocked by the nanny, but only for Donte to enter before it was locked up again. He was also dressed for the occasion, with a similar outfit as ours, just in a different color. Because I didn't have many opportunities to bond with Donte, I mostly clung to Gary for direction, instructions, or comfort. I got the sense, however, that Donte saw us as intruders. Perhaps, he was still confused about our presents; after all, one day, he was an only child, and the next, he had two older brothers interfering with his daily routine. I assume he resented us initially, but it's hard to say as he was only two years old.

        Suddenly, music was heard blasting through the vents, vibrating the windows and floor underneath our feet. It was a symphony of sounds filling the house. Though they were familiar Christmas songs, they had an added upbeat sound. "Frosty the Snowman," "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," and "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" never sounded so exuberant. But "It's a Marshmallow World" provoked my curiosity as I wondered exactly what a marshmallow world would look like. I couldn't wait for our door to open and find out.

        The next time our door was opened, Mr. Spector entered. In his hand, he had two clip-on ties and a regular one. The clip-on ones were given to Gary and me while Mr. Spector worked on tying the traditional one through the caller of Donte's shirt.    When we were all ready and with much anticipation, Mr. Spector, as he did on the first day, licked the tip of his thumb and wiped away any smudges on our faces, then brushed his fingers through our hair to comb it, a gesture I was starting to enjoy.

        He then stated that Santa Claus was waiting for us downstairs. With that, he opened the door all the way, thus allowing us to run off to trample over each other down the stairs, with Gary and I far ahead of Donte.   

        When we got to the Christmas tree blinking with lights, I saw Mrs. Spector sitting down, awaiting our arrival but no Santa. Underneath the tree were many presents making me believe that, perhaps, we missed him. However, before we even had a chance to open one, the music became more intense as the door leading to the library opened. Standing in the doorway was Santa Claus holding onto a bag and shouting out, "HO, HO, HO."

        He then shouted out our names, one at a time. "Louis, Santa has a gift for you," he would announce as he scrambled through the bag before pulling out a wrapped gift with my name on it, then handing it to me. He would do the same for Gary and Donte, and it went on a few more times before his bag was empty. There were some presents for the Spectors and one for George, which Santa kept. He then hung around for a few personal photos with us before leaving through the library doors and disappearing.  

        When the music died and the house again silent, we were escorted back to our rooms and locked in for the night. However, we had so many more items to play with that it was a while before Gary and I went to bed. When we did and before changing into my pajamas, I took from my pocket a tag that I had shoved in it just moments earlier. I placed it on my nightstand and drifted off to sleep. All that was written on it, in big, bold lettering, was "TO LOUIS, FROM MOM AND DAD."  It was the most cherished gift I got that night.