THE
GINGERBREAD
HOUSE
ON
LA
COLLINA DRIVE
My Life
Caged
Behind
Phil
Spector’s Wall of Sound
Louis
Spector
Chapter 1
In
mid-December 1971, Mrs. Erickson, a social worker in her late forties, drove up
the winding road of LaCollina Drive in Beverly Hills, focusing on one thing: securing
a home for my brother and me. We were five-year-old foster twins with learning
and behavioral challenges. Even though we'd been bounced from place to place
for the past year or so, Mrs. Erickson believed this time would be different.
She thought she had finally hit the jackpot.
I sat alone in the far back of the
station wagon, next to a plastic milk crate with my name taped to the side—"Louis."
Another
crate sat beside it with “Gary” scrawled on it in the same blocky letters. The
crates held everything we owned, but I wasn’t thinking about what was inside.
My eyes were drawn to the world outside, to the large houses that outlined
LaCollina Drive. Gary sat up front,
next to Mrs. Erickson, staring out the window just like me, but with many
questions and a voice full of curiosity.
He was the brave one, always ready to face whatever came next.
Mrs. Erickson had made sure we looked
our best—freshly
trimmed hair, clothes neatly pressed, everything just so. Before we arrived,
she gave us last-minute reminders. “ Remember,
be on your best behavior,” she
said, her voice carrying a hope I didn’t quite share. I had heard those words
before, in front of other houses, with other families. Still, there was something different about
the way she spoke this time like she really believed in what was about to
happen; after all, who would reject two kids so close to Christmas?
As we turned into the driveway, past
the wrought-iron gate left wide open, we spotted many signs warning us: “No
Trespassing,” “Electric Fence,” and “Beware of Killer Dogs.” I could hear the barking before we even
passed the iron gate. Once we drove in, two massive German Shepherds lunged at
their chains, their snarls cutting through the cold air. For a moment, I held
my breath, watching them thrash against their cages, but Mrs. Erickson just
smiled and said, “Don’t worry, they can’t get us.” I tried to believe her, though the house
looming ahead didn’t feel like the kind of place where you didn’t worry.
The mansion looked like an abandoned
mausoleum, long forgotten as it looked tired and worn by years of neglect. Ivy
snaked its way up the thick Spanish styal stucco walls, wrapping itself through
the broken shutters and onto the balcony.
A fountain sat in the center of the driveway, but it was dry, weeds
sprouting from its two tiers. Mrs. Erikson got out of the car, telling us to
stay put while she rang the doorbell under a sign that read “Never Mind the
Dogs, Beware of Owner.” I was happy
to stay where I was—away from the barking dogs, away from the
strange house.
But Gary couldn’t sit still. Moments after Mrs. Erickson stepped away, he
darted towards the fountain. I watched him climb in, kicking at the dead leaves
that had gathered in the basin. Not
wanting to be left alone, I eventually joined him in kicking the dead leaves
around.
Though expected, no one seemed to be
around to let us in. Hoping a last-minute decision hadn’t been made, Mrs. Erickson continued ringing the doorbell. Then,
through the wrought-iron gate, a brown Rolls-Royce drove in, parking next to
the fountain. A tall, burly man with a
no-nonsense demeanor stepped out, barely glancing our way as he approached the
front gated door where Mrs. Ericson was standing. Moments later, the back door of the Rolls
opened, and a petite woman with dark, thick hair emerged, her eyes immediately
locking onto us.
“Who are those boys, and why are they
in the fountain?” she asked, bewildered.
“They’re the twins,” Mrs.
Erickson explained, trying to hide her anxiety.
A second man stepped out from the Rolls—a
short man wearing elevated boots, giving him a few extra inches and a wig that
looked more like a helmet than an actual wig. His face was pale, and his eyes
were concealed behind tinted glasses. The moment he saw the bewilderment on his
wife’s face, he shouted, “Marry Christmas!”
while extending his arms in an exaggerated welcome gesture. It seems we were that year's Christmas gift.
Gary and I scrambled out of the
fountain as the man approached. He licked his thumb to wipe away the dirt from
my face. He then brushed his fingers through my hair, removing dead leaves. He
did the same for Gary, then turned to his wife and said proudly, “Are they not
perfect?” She just stood there, not sure what to say.
The burly man, who Mr. Spector called
George, unlocked the front gated door, and we entered the foyer, dominated by
an enormous Christmas tree forced to bow under the weight of the high ceiling. The area we were in had a few holiday
decorations scattered about, but mostly, it was a shrine dedicated to the
couple we had just met: Mr. and Mrs. Spector.
Two large black-and-white portraits of
the Spector hung on the wall like they were the king and queen of the castle;
the portraits were separated by an ornate vanity mirror that hung between them.
Below them was a marble table cluttered with photos, framed letters, newspaper
articles, and a peculiar small bronze statue of a monkey sitting atop a stack
of books. It was scratching his head
while examining a human skull. Next to it was a photo of Mr. Spector sniffing
something from a spoon, with the caption: “A little snow at Christmas time
never hurt anyone.”
The photo was from Easy Rider, a movie in
which Mr. Spector played a drug lord. It starred Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper,
and it was rumored that they only wanted to use Mr. Spector’s brown
Rolls-Royce, similar to what happened to Norman Desmond in the movie Sunset
Boulevard. However, Mr. Spector wouldn’t allow them to use it unless they gave
him a part in the film. The scene he was in had him in that car, sniffing
cocaine and selling drugs to the two actors.
With no place to sit, as the only two
chairs in the foyer displayed record albums, everyone just stood around,
talking. Among the albums were “Let It
Be, by the Beatles, “Imagine” by John Lennon, and a few Christmas albums, all
produced by Mr. Spector.
Usually, neither my brother nor I would have hung around, but because we
had no idea where the backyard was or if there was one, we had no other choice
but to stay close by with the adults.
Then, a woman in a white uniform
appeared down the hallway, leading a toddler by the hand. She was the nanny and
had released the toddler near us to observe our interaction while introducing
us to him. “These two boys are going to be your brother.”
We were told the child's name was
Donte, who resembled Mrs. Spector. However, as Gary crouched down to introduce
himself, Donte bit him on the leg. In response, Gary shoved him, causing Donte
to collapse in tears.
Mrs. Erickson rushed to Gary, quickly
examining his leg and then proclaiming it was a minor flesh wound. The lady in white then snatched up Donte as
Mr. Spector waved it off by ordering George to take everyone to the kitchen for
ice cream. In the meantime, he took Mrs. Erickson down the hall to another
room.
George led us down a long, arched hallway,
but as everyone continued on, I stopped at a large tapestry—taken
in by its many characters: Goofy, Donald Duck, the Seven Dwarfs, and many more,
all gathered around a television. Their focus was not so much on the television
as on what was emerging from it, with a little help from Tinker Bell’s magical
wand. It was Micky Mouse, who appeared
excited to be among the others. For a
moment, I imagined myself in the same situation, magically showing up in a
family's home and being welcomed with open arms, but the fantasy faded when I
realized I was all alone in the hallway with two large ominous black statues
towering over me atop pillars, with empty eyes and scantly dressed in gold.
Feeling
uneasy and unsure where George and the others went or where the kitchen was, I
headed to the pair of slightly ajar doors that I saw Mrs. Erickson and Mr.
Specter go through.
The room was dimly lit, as no sunlight
could get through the closed drapes that counseled the glass doors leading out
to a terrace. The two were talking at
the far end of the room, in front of a large stone fireplace that had absorbed
the room’s chill.
I stood atop the staircase in the
shadows, gazing around the enormous room in wonder. The ceiling, high above me, had thick wood
beams the lengths of the room, with murals painted in sections between them. The red velvet upholstery on the furniture was
old and worn, as was the light gray carpeted floor. Below the steps, on my
left, was a black grand piano with music sheets scattered atop, but what caught
my eye was the dome-shaped aquarium positioned on a pillar at the bottom of the
steps.
As I stood, waiting for an opportunity
to speak, I watched the various fish swimming about the aquarium, accompanied
by a deep-sea diver, a sunken ship, and the Creature from the Black
Lagoon. There was also a pirate who had
been long dead, with a sword piercing through where his heart once was. Despite his fate, he was still drinking from
a jug of whiskey, of course, with the aid of air bubbles.
Though I was not focused on the
conversation between the two on the other end,
I couldn’t help but overhear Mrs. Erickson when she stated, “If there’s
a problem, I’ll take them away.” Though
she said it once, it echoed in my head as it became clear that I could be gone
before the end of the week or even the day, which wouldn’t be the first
time.
I quietly stepped back into the
hallway, closing the door behind me, only to be met by George, who towered over
me. Though I assumed he would tattle on
me and march me back into the room, much to my surprise, he asked, in a deep
voice, “Would you like some ice cream?”
In the kitchen, Gary and Donte had already
finished their bowls of ice cream. As I took a seat across from Gary, a hefty
man got up from where he was sitting and started preparing my treat: a banana
split topped with sugar pearls, candy confetti, and cherries. After he placed
it in front of me, he retreated to his chair.
With a smile, I ate the most scrumptious dessert I had ever had.
After
Mrs. Erickson left, Mr. Spector and his wife showed us to our room at the top
of the stairs. Considering we were meant to be a surprise, the room was not set
up for us, let alone a child. The
writing desk had all the amenities one should have, but not nessasarly what
should be accessible to a child, such as scissors, sharp letter openers, heavy
marble paperweights, and a glass ashtray. Many magazines were also placed atop
a coffee table, not appropriate for the children.
The room
also had its own bathroom and closet, but the closet remained locked. Once we were alone in our room, and after
putting our things away, we tried to leave to go outside and play, only to discover the door locked. Confused, we attempted to open it again, but
with no luck, so we started going through all the furniture in the room as if
we were on a treasure hunt, though we were not looking for anything, just
feeding our curiosity.
Later in
the evening, our door was once again opened. The nanny entered and invited us downstairs
for dinner, along with Donte. Neither of
the parents joined us. When we were
done, we were escorted back upstairs, but instead of going to our room, the
nanny, whose I was told to call Mrs. Taylor, took us to Donte’s room.
His room was designed for a child, with
its many adorned stuffed animals, a hanging mobile of birds in flight, and
Disney characters mounted on the baby blue walls. A lavish and sophisticated musical carousel
that serenaded the room with Brahms’s Lullaby was positioned atop his fancy dresser.
Next to the elegant piece, a pair of
bronzed baby shoes proudly showcase Donte’s birth announcement, which reads: “PRESENTING
THE SMASH HIT PRODUCTION OF DONTE PHILLIP SPECTOR.”
It wasn’t known at the time, but Donte
had also been adopted. However, the birth announcement was sure to keep that
information a secret. I even read somewhere, years later, that Mrs. Spector had
often worn a pillow under her blouse whenever guests came by to visit. It was
at Mr. Spector’s request, as he wanted everyone to believe she was pregnant. Once
Donte arrived at the house, those birth announcements were passed around to
friends, completing the deception.
After Mrs. Taylor put Donte to bed, she took us to our room, prepared us for bed,
and locked the door before leaving.
Over the next few days, we received new
clothes, and everything on and inside the desk cleared out, including all the
magazines. However, the closet remained locked.
Most of our time was spent at the house, in either Donte’s room or ours,
with Mrs. Taylor reading stories to us or supervising us. In that time, we became used to being locked
up.
Then, on Christmas Eve, dressed in our
new clothes, we were told Santa Clause was downstairs, but first, Mr. Spector
wanted to make sure we were appropriately dressed, and so once again, he licked
his thumb to wipe away any dirt from my face then brushed his fingers through
my long hair styling it as he pleased.
When he felt we were ready, he handed Gary and me a clip-on tie to
fasten to our shirts while helping Donte with his regular tie. Then said, “Are the three of you ready to
meet my friend Santa?”
As we left our room to go downstairs,
the house was suddenly filled with music echoing through the vents, vibrating
the windows and doors. The songs were familiar seasonal songs but with an
orchestrated symphony of sound. The one that intrigued me the most was
Marshmallow World. I couldn’t imagine what a world like that would be, but I was
excited to find out.
Since I had never been downstairs after
dark, I had never seen it illuminated by the Christmas tree or the many
characters outlining the hallway greeting us. For a moment, I believed in magic
and that perhaps Tinker Bell was real. Sitting next to the tapestry of the
magical moment was Mrs. Spector, waiting for us while drinking a glass of red
wine.
Under the tree, we found presents with
tags displaying our names. As we knelt to open them, a door behind us swung
open, and in walked Santa Claus, with a
thunderous sound of music flowing from the room he came from. Recognizing the eyes behind the fake white
beard, I realized Santa was George, dressed in a red suit, shouting, “Ho! Ho!
Ho!” with a bag full of more presents hanging over his shoulder.
Though the gifts were wonderful, what
moved me most were the tags that read: From Mom and Dad, as I was
officially acknowledged as a part of the family, a permanent fixture in the
Spector’s home.
Later
that night, as I lay in bed, I stared at one of the gift tags on my nightstand.
It was small, flimsy really, but in my hands, it felt heavy with meaning.
"From Mom and Dad," it read. For a long time, I turned the tag over
and over, tracing the words with my fingers. Could that really be true? Was I
theirs now?
Gary was
sound asleep beside me, but I couldn’t close my eyes. Instead, I got up quietly
and went over to the large French window. I opened it just a crack, feeling the
cool air against my face. The world outside seemed so far away, the lights of
the other houses blinking in the distance like stars. They were families—real
families. Was I finally part of one too?
I wanted
to believe it, with every part of me. The presents, the tree, the music—it was
more than I’d ever imagined. But somewhere, deep down, something felt off. A
part of me couldn’t shake the unease of the locked doors or the way Mrs.
Spector had looked at us when we first arrived, like we were part of something
she hadn’t planned for. I wanted so badly to belong, to be part of their world.
In my
dream that night, I was walking down a road toward a house in the distance. A
woman stood at the front door, waving. I thought I knew her—maybe she was my
mother. I started to run, but the house never seemed to get closer, and no
matter how fast I went, I couldn’t reach her. Then, I was in the back of the
station wagon again being driven by Mrs. Erickson, the house and the waving
woman fading from view. I pounded on the back window, shouting for Mrs. Erickson to stop
the car, until the glass shattered, and I was falling into darkness.
I woke
up with my heart racing. The room was silent, the only light coming from the
moon through the window. I stood up again, staring out at the distant houses,
and something clicked inside me. In the dream, the woman hadn’t been waving me
toward her. She had been waving goodbye.
I wasn’t
sure what that meant, but for now, I had a home. I had a mother and father. And
for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe it might be true.
Side Note: This is not the finished version, some changes will take place.
