Louis Spector

Chapter One

In mid-December 1971, a social worker named Mrs. Erickson drove my twin brother and me along the winding road of La Collina Drive in Beverly Hills, focused on one mission: finding us a home. At five, we’d already been through too many, but she swore this time was different.  “This is the one,” she said, she’d finally hit the jackpot. Her voice carried a promise and hope I didn’t share. 

La Collina Drive wasn’t grand—just cozy houses, some large, some small,  behind ivy-covered stone walls and lush foliage. Her station wagon drove over speed bumps, slightly slowing down at each one.  I sat alone in the far back, next to a milk crate with my name “Louis” taped on it—everything I owned stuffed inside. My twin brother Gary’s crate sat beside it, his name also taped and scrawled in marker.  Up front, he pressed his nose to the window, eyes wide with questions I didn’t ask anymore.

As we turned into the driveway, we passed a wide-open wrought-iron gate exhibiting many signs of warning: “No Trespassing,” “Electric Fence,” and “Beware of Killer Dogs.”  Two German Shepherds lunged, their chains snapping tight, drawing our attention away from the large house in front of us. I froze. Calmly, Mrs. Erickson smiled. “They can’t get us.”  I wasn’t so sure as I looked over at the mausoleum-like house looming ahead.

Unlike the other homes outlining La Collina, this house appeared to be a long-forgotten and abandoned mansion. The driveway was lined with broken stone slabs resembling headstones in a forgotten graveyard.  A few shutters around the house were broken and entwined with ivy, snaking through them. A stone fountain stood in the driveway; its tiers were covered in wilted weeds.

Mrs. Erickson parked near the front door. As she did, Gary bolted out to explore the bone-dried fountain, then jumped in, kicking the dead leaves that filled it. I stayed put, hoping the dogs wouldn’t notice me.

 Mrs. Erickson rang the doorbell above another sign: “Never Mind the Dogs, Beware of Owner.” No longer wanting to be alone in the station wagon, I joined my brother in kicking the dead leaves around in the fountain while Mrs. Erickson continued ringing the doorbell, disregarding the sign beneath it.  

Thinking perhaps a last-minute decision was made,  Mrs. Erickson called for us to get back in the car just as a brown Rolls-Royce pulled up next to the station wagon.   A tall, burly man with a no-nonsense demeanor stepped out, barely glancing our way as he approached the front gated door where Mrs. Erickson was standing. Moments later, the back door of the Rolls opened, and a petite woman with light-brown skin and black, 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 confusion with the question. 

A second man quickly stepped out from the Rolls—a short man wearing elevated boots that gave him a few extra inches. His face was pale, and his eyes piercing through tinted glasses. The moment he saw the bewilderment on his wife’s face, he shouted, “Merry Christmas!” while extending his arms in an exaggerated welcome gesture. It seemed 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 was referred to as George, unlocked the front gated door. As we stepped into the foyer, I saw the largest Christmas tree I had ever seen, which was forced to bend under the ceiling as if bowing to us. Perhaps the most enormous tree was ordered without thought of measurement. Around the tree were a few holiday decorations scattered about, but mostly, the foyer was a shrine dedicated to Phil Spector, a famous record producer, and Ronnie Spector, his wife, a renowned singer from The Ronettes.

On the wall opposite the entrance hung two large black-and-white portraits, one of Mr. Spector and the other his wife. Between them was an enormous, ornate vanity mirror. Atop a marble table just below the portraits were many framed photos, along with letters and newspaper articles, also framed. Among them was a bronze statue of a monkey perched atop a stack of books in deep thought while examining a human skull.  Near it, a picture of Mr. Spector sniffing something from a spoon, with the caption: “A little snow at Christmas time never hurt anyone.” It was a scene from Easy Rider where Mr. Spector portrayed a drug lord. The rumor was that they only wanted his brown Rolls-Royce, but to receive it, he requested a minor role in the movie.

Although there were two chairs in the foyer, we could not sit down as they had record albums intentionally displayed on them, such as “Let It Be, “Imagine” and a few Christmas albums, all produced by Phil Spector.

  Usually, my brother and I wouldn’t have stayed in the room, but since we didn’t know how to get to the backyard, assuming there was one, we had no choice but to remain in the foyer. 

Down the hallway, a lady in white led a toddler—Donte—by the hand, walking toward us. Once she got close enough, she let him go. Immediately, Donte, who resembled his mother, bit Gary on the leg, prompting Gary to push him away, which caused Donte to fall and start crying.

Mrs. Erickson rushed to Gary, examining his leg and then proclaiming it was just a minor flesh wound while the lady in white—the nanny— snatched Donte up into her arms. Mr. Spector waved it off by ordering George to take everyone to the kitchen for ice cream while he took Mrs. Erickson down the hall to another room to talk.  

I trailed behind, feet dragging down the long, arched hallway. I saw a tapestry stretching across the wall, alive with color, and wanted a better look. Donald Duck stood next to Goofy, and the Seven Dwarfs huddled close, along with many more familiar characters.  They were all glued to a TV screen in amazement and wonder as they watched Mickey Mouse emerge from it, sparkling with Tinker Bell’s dust, like he’d been wished real.  For a moment, I imagined myself there too—stepping out of some magic box into this house, welcomed, wanted. Not a foster kid dropped off with a name taped to a crate, but part of the picture, smiling with them.   

As I walked away from the tapestry, I noticed two black statues looming over me, scantily draped in gold and hollow-eyed, perched on pillars like guards. The hallway stretched empty ahead—no George, no Gary, no Mrs. Erickson, just me and the dogs’ distant barking. I hurried towards the only voices I heard coming from behind double doors, slightly ajar, and entered.

In the enormous living room, Mrs. Erickson and Mr. Spector sat in front of a large stone fireplace that was just as cold as the room itself. The drapes were sealed shut, preventing any sunlight from entering. The area around them was dimly lit, leaving me atop the staircase, half-hidden in the shadows, waiting for a chance to interrupt.

As I waited, I looked up to the ceiling, high above me.  It had thick wood beams that were the room’s length, with murals painted in sections between them.  The carpeted room had a variety of furniture, some with worn red velvet upholstery and some with gold trims. On my left, just below me, 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. 

Amazed by it, I watched the various fish swimming about, oblivious to the world around them. Trapped inside a dome, unaware of the Creature from the Black Lagoon lurking in the foliage as they swim around a sunken ship. Nearby, a deep-sea diver is searching for lost treasure.  Guarding it, a pirate long dead.  Where his heart once was, a sword stabbed clean through.  But still, he drank from his jug of whiskey with the aid of air bubbles that never ceased. 

Though I was not focused on the conversation between the two, I couldn’t help but overhear Mrs. Erickson saying, “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 stepped back into the hallway and shut the door behind me—straight into George. I looked up, my stomach clenched, expecting him to scold me, to tell Mrs. Erickson I had been snooping around. Instead, his deep voice rumbled, softer than expected. “Would you like some ice cream?”

The smile on my face was enough for George to escort me to the kitchen.

In the kitchen, Gary and Donte had already finished their bowls of ice cream. As I sat 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 a cherry. 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 for any child.  The writing desk had all the amenities one should have, but not necessarily what should be accessible to a child, such as scissors, sharp letter openers, heavy marble paperweights, a glass ashtray, and many magazines not meant for children.   

The room also included a bathroom and a closet, but the closet remained locked. Once, we were alone in the room, and after putting our things away, we attempted to leave to go outside and play, only to discover that the door was locked. Believing it was simply stuck, we tried again, but it yielded the same result. I was confused as to why we were locked in, as it was a situation we had never encountered before. With nothing to do, we started to search through all the drawers to see what we could find. Then we sat on the bed, wondering why the door remained locked and wondering if it was going to be unlocked anytime soon. 

Later in the evening, our door was once again opened. The nanny, who I was told to address as Mrs. Taylor, 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, Mrs. Taylor took us to Donte’s room.

His room was meant for a child, with stuffed animals, mobiles of birds hanging from the ceiling, and Disney characters mounted on the walls. A lavish and sophisticated musical carousel was atop an elegant dresser, serenading the room with Brahms’s Lullaby. Next to it, a pair of bronzed baby shoes, and next to that, a birth announcement that read: “PRESENTING THE SMASH HIT PRODUCTION OF DONTE PHILLIP SPECTOR,” which went into detail about his birth from Mrs. Spector, his mother.  But the truth was, he was adopted.  The birth announcement was meant to keep the secret hidden. To further ensure this, Mrs. Spector was persuaded to wear a pillow under her blouse whenever guests came over.

After Mrs. Taylor put Donte to bed, she took Gary and me to our room, prepared us for bed, and then locked our door for the night.

***

In the following days, things were removed from the room, such as the magazines, ashtray, and sharp objects, but the closet still remained locked.

Christmas Eve then arrived. Mr. Spector unlocked our door—though I was still unsure why it was locked at all—to make certain we were ready for Christmas. He licked his thumb, wiped my face, and brushed his hand through my hair. When done, he handed Gary and me a clip-on tie, helped Donte with a real one, and grinned.  “Ready to meet my friend Santa?”

Downstairs, a symphony of music vibrated through the halls—“Marshmallow World,” loud and vibrant.

Listening to it,  I could only imagine what a world like that would be like.   

The Christmas tree glowed, casting light on all the seasonal decorations.  Illuminated characters lined the walls. Mrs. Spector sat next to the tree, sipping wine and watching us. Presents were piled underneath with tags showing our names. Then, the library door burst open, causing the music to increase in sound as it overtook the whole foyer with the song “Here Comes Santa Claus.” 

Standing in the doorway stood Santa, bag slung over his shoulder, bellowing, “Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!” tossing each of us a gift with our name on it. As I caught Santa’s eye, I knew who was behind the fake beard and warm smile: George, but I kept it to myself as we tore into the gifts, paper flying everywhere, until I noticed next to my name on the tag, in big bold letters “FROM MOM and DAD.”   I stopped cold, tracing the words with my finger, then slipped it into my pocket. Maybe this could be home. I remember watching Mr. Spector standing nearby, taking pictures as if he wanted this moment to last forever, while his wife sat, continuing to drink her wine.

Afterward, locked in our room while in bed, I had a recurring dream. A road, a distant house, and Mom waving at me in the doorway.  Though her face was too distant to recognize, I knew it was her calling me back home. I ran, but she started to fade further into the distance; then, suddenly, I hit an invisible wall preventing me from getting to my mom.   I pounded it only to find myself in a station wagon, pounding on a window until it shattered under my hands. Suddenly, I fell into the abyss. I woke up gasping, my brother sleeping beside me. Usually, I’d run to a foster mom for comfort, but the door was locked, forcing me to ponder the dream. In doing so, I realized my mother wasn’t calling me closer.  She was waving goodbye.