RAVISHED

BEAUTY IS ONLY SKIN DEEP

He shot himself in the head. That was the first thing I heard. I squirmed. Couldn’t imagine. Didn’t want to.

The New York Times and Hollywood Reporter had a different stories. One. An overdose . The other accidental? drowning in their pool. Either. His battered soul was freed.

Louie and I were buddies from the get go. We met in Hawthorne School , Beverly Hills. I was a very anxious little girl with a patch on my left crossed eye after a major operation to strengthen the right. Add frizzy auburn hair, freckles, stick thin legs and you had anything but a candidate for a cute kids contest.

I held my mother’s hand, walked into the large, unfamiliar room to find a warm smile from my very chubby teacher. Mrs. Wilber. She eased some of my fears . Not my mother’s finest feature.

Each of us arrived with a nap blanket. Boys . Blue. Girls Pink. Mine. YELLOW. The one who doesn’t fit. Unique. A misfit, Trouble maker. The family Eloise at the Plaza. I saw a little boy. He was sitting. Still. Hands at his side. An angel he must be. “Hi, I’m Jennifer”’ Soft voice “I’m Louie.” With that. We began.

He and I were Catholic’s in a predominately Jewish populated K-8th grade school. On their High holiday’s the school remained opened. Talk about benefits. A smattering of us were left to reek some mild havoc in the cavernous halls and empty playground.

Both of our families attended The Good Shepard Church on Little Santa Monica. My mother would troop in with her six daughters every Sunday for 9am Mass. Louie was always there. He and his famous father and lovely , petite French mother drew admiring looks despite a congregation of notably famous, they were, in my mind outstanding.

Louie and I were preparing for Holy Communion. Two 7 year old trouble makers not fearful and giggling at the evil Monsignor who instructed that we were children of Christ and had to make our first confessions.

Not a clue what to confess as I knelt in the dark . The Monsignor slid open the screen only making out his silhouette . I gathered courage. “Bless me father for I have sinned.” Then. I blurted “ I’ve committed adultery.”

Did he take it in stride? A man without a pinch of humor? Not a chance. He gave me the motherload of penance. Stations of The Cross and three rosaries. Having no idea what sin I committed I went home and asked my older sister’s. Hilarious . I, a 7 year old adulteress. Pretty nice ring to it.

The big day arrived. Boys in their white suits, girls visions in white dresses, patent shoes, rolled silk socks, gloves and veils. Brides and grooms of Jesus. Louie and I were paired to walk up the aisle. I pretended he was my groom. Indoctrination would never smell so sweet. Ever again.

We hung out at Hawthorne parties . My friends and I thought we were so cool. Smoking, mini skirts, deep erase on lips and making out . Louie and I never did. We were tethered by a curious restless spirit.

We lost touch in High School. I to Marymount, he Beverly High . We vanished in our separate worlds. Especially Louie.

I heard he was deep into LSD, uppers, downers and drinking heavily. My close friend suggested we speak with his father. I knew what I was up against.

His father was strict, cold, unforgiving with his son. Louie confided he had a three year old sister who died when he was five. The family never spoke of her. I believe he bore the brunt of the tragedy.

When his father opened their front door we asked to see Louie. I sensed reticence, anger and arrogance . Louie came down the stairs. Stoned.

I told him I’d like to take his son with me to The Manhattan Project . A youth addiction center established by Jennifer Jones who was married to Norton Simon at the time. “NO! Leave.” I didn’t know the word in French for denial, I did know Fuck You in three languages. I held my tongue.

I invited Louie later for dinner in our home. Despite knowing our family he sat in silence. Not one word . After dishes were cleared we went into the den. He agreed to go with me to a meeting. A first step. Or so I thought.

A Wednesday late afternoon. Huge old Pasadena mansion. Steep stairs to the entrance. He held my hand . Cavernous room. We sat on a wooden floor with legs crossed . The group began to ‘share.’ Drugs, heroin, arrests=the gamut. He didn’t share. Looked down or sideways at me. Tears fell. From his and mine.

After the ‘ meeting’ he asked to be dropped at Jacopo’s Pizzeria. Local hangout with easy access to payphone and swapping drugs. I drove away knowing he was hungry for a high, not a slice.

I rarely saw him after that day. Mine were numbered in LA . I fled East to NYC . Full-filling a childhood dream while his was ripened into a torrential nightmare.

I rarely return HOME. My body tenses upon landing at LAX and remains the same until takeoff. The year after I married. 1981. I walked down Rodeo Drive, glancing in boutiques, The Beverly Wilshire straight ahead, toward my father’s Film Production Office.( Presently Harry Winston Jewelry ) I looked across the street. A man in a trench coat down to his ankles. Hair below his shoulders. Barefooted. Filthy. I was used to the homeless on the streets of New York. Not here.

Curious? I jaywalked to see if he needed help while shoppers were sidestepping , making unkind remarks. I grew close. Very close. His eyes were dark and painfully vacant as he looked into mine. “ Jennifer.” LOUIE..

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