Complete Unknown Read online

  Please do not ask me again.

  With warmest regards and kindest wishes,

  Ms. C.V. Weeks

  P.S. You are quite welcome for the autographed romances. I have loads of them here. I thought you might like the entire set. Sometimes, I wish I’d never written the damn things, as that’s what everyone expected me to write after that. I tried many times to write ‘seriously’ only not to be taken as such. It broke my heart, but I have a few manuscripts of my other, more literary novels I have written and will send them at your request.

  * * * * *

  May 29th

  Dearest Marabel,

  I have sent copies of the manuscripts with this letter. I hope you enjoy them and I sincerely request any criticism. Please be gentle and kind, which I know is your way. As I have said, I am an old woman but I can still get my feathers up. You must remember, we writers can be some of the most fragile creatures on earth. (Please note the sarcasm.)

  Again, your determination, while annoying, is beginning to enlighten me. Perhaps, I could recount a few things for you. Maybe I will. It might actually be good for me to remember. But, you must know, I am very thorough and will start from bottom to top.

  And you must promise to keep these things to yourself. I won’t have everyone in the whole world knowing my business. I don’t want that; that’s why I chose writing—or it chose me, as they sometimes say, I can’t remember which!—instead of acting, which Carmen loved so. She loved and craved the spotlight. I did not. I shied away from it as much as possible. Please remember, this is between us and no one else.

  Allow me some time in recounting all of this, which I still feel is a waste of time. It will bring back many painful memories for me. I will hurt over it. I will cry. It has been bottled up, and, yes, while it may be cathartic, I know it will still sting like a jellyfish.

  Again, I ask for complete trust regarding this matter. Please do not disappoint me by showing the memories of an old, foolish woman to your friends. I do not wish to be pitied and I do not wish to be admired. My only wish is to tell it to you and to you only. If you disregard my wishes, I will be crushed, dearest Marabel.

  Please keep this in mind.

  With warmest regards and kindest wishes,

  Ms. C.V. Weeks

  P.S. Glad to hear that your husband is back on his feet after that flu episode. Those things can get the best of us, especially in warm weather.

  * * * * *

  June 15th

  Dearest Marabel,

  I will begin now and recount for you what I know. I will begin where it all started. It all started with me, of course, and in order to understand the story, you might need to understand me a little, too, and, in order for you to understand me, it might be necessary to describe a few tales from my childhood.

  I had a wonderful childhood, that’s all I can say about it. Sometimes, yes, it was horrific, but for the most part, I lived a grand life.

  My parents, Daniel and Ingrid Weeks met at a barn dance. You probably don’t have that sort of thing these days, but back then, they were all the rage, as they say. It was about the only place where young people could meet and congregate, besides church, of course. (Please, pardon the pun!) Mostly, it was soda and peanuts but, sometimes, outside the barn, there would be corn liquor and such.

  My mother, Ingrid Shumaker, that’s her maiden name, came from a very poor family. Her only asset was her beauty. She was stunning. I have a few photos of her from that time and, yes, she was breathtakingly beautiful. Part Cherokee, she had long black hair and clear skin. Part Scots-Irish, she had beautiful blue eyes. (I’m not bragging, but people used to say my mother and I looked identical. I used to take this as an insult because from time to time, my mother would punish me for whatever I had done wrong and I would become angry at her and wonder how anyone could have a good opinion of her. Now, I know it was a compliment.)

  My mother had a most miserable childhood. She lost her mother very young and because she was the eldest child, she had to take care of her siblings. She didn’t get to go to school, but she once told me, “Caddy, what good would that have done? I didn’t even have any shoes to wear.”

  From what she told me, many children back then didn’t have shoes to wear. How lucky we are these days.

  My mother, while beautiful, was very undereducated and had a temper that would scare demons. She would often get what my father called “country mad.” She mostly got “country mad” at my father. She’d go into a fit of anger like you’ve never seen. She once took all of my father’s clothes outside and burned them! She never told me the reason but I suspect it had something to do with another woman. Yes, he was popular that way.

  My father… Well, I can’t say enough good things about him. I was, indeed, a daddy’s girl. I loved him more than anything. He taught me many things. He taught me how to shoot a gun—he’d always wanted a son, but ended up with two daughters instead. He taught me how to camp, how to cook over a fire, things like that. My father loved the outdoors, which my mother despised. So, he and I would go off camping and hunting and fishing. My mother and my little sister, Andrea, would stay at home most times. Neither one wanted to go with us. Both were much too prissy for the woods.

  But most importantly, my father loved to read. He was the one who opened that door up for me. He’d buy old used books, bring them home and we’d both devour them. Books like The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and The Canterbury Tales. Grand books. Have you ever read them? If not, you should.

  It is obvious why my father was attracted to my mother. For most people, it wasn’t so obvious why my mother was attracted to him. While he was not traditionally handsome, he was very charismatic, like what you see in the best politicians—God help us all! This is what attracted my mother to him. And, mind you, she could have had any man in the county that she wanted. But my father’s charms ultimately won her over. He was very slick and all the ladies loved him.

  However, the two of them were ill-suited. God love them, but they were. He was very laid back and she was very high-strung. She’d fly off the handle at the drop of the hat. He’d sit, watch her, and try not to smile.

  Of course, they loved each other. But they didn’t get married for love. They got married because of me. I came a little early, as they say. I was born six months to the day of their wedding and, no, I was not premature.

  They say I was a beautiful, fat baby. I do not know this for a fact. Most babies, well, they’re not very beautiful when they’re born, are they? My father thanked God for me and my mother wept. She loved me, but… Well, let’s just say, she was a young girl, almost seventeen years old, and she wasn’t exactly excited about caring for a newborn. My mother had always wanted more for her life. Perhaps that’s why she pushed my sister and I to excel as she did.

  “You will do it,” she’d tell us. That was her favorite saying. I began to hate when those four words would come out of her mouth.

  My father, while charming and affable, was a bit of a lay-about. He was lazy. There, I said it. He was lazy. He’d much rather be hunting or fishing instead of forging a living for his little family. He’d get a job, lose it, then there we’d be, having cornbread—and nothing else—for supper. My mother would fly off at him, call him every name in the book. Really, you can’t blame her. She was hungry and it tore her heart apart to see her children go hungry, too. He would just grin and say that things were going to work out. Of course, without actually doing anything, how could things have worked out? But that was my father in a nutshell.

  Back then, there was no welfare or whatever you call it. In those days, hungry stomachs were not in short supply. Everyone was hungry from time to time. That was just the way it was. Jobs were few and far between. Food was capital. We didn’t have all this nonsense that’s around today. There was no TV. There were no fast-food restaurants. Farms were not that efficient. There was a coal burning stove and a kettle filled with water on top of it. When the fire went out,
we went to bed. And in the winter, it was very cold.

  My mother, bless her heart, wanted to be somebody and she could have, with her looks and charm. Oh, yes, when she wanted, she could charm the pants off a snake. After a while, she got tired of my father’s shenanigans. She wanted a nice, big house. She wanted the best clothing for herself and for her children. What she wanted, my father couldn’t provide. While he took care to always look his best, he was poor and would always be.

  I’ll never forget this. One day, my father came home in a car. Not many people had cars back then. He said he’d borrowed it from a “friend” but, in fact, it had been stolen by someone else and had somehow ended up in his possession. Nevertheless, he took us for a drive. There wasn’t much asphalt around back then, especially not in our county, only old, muddy roads with mammoth ruts.

  We climbed in and took off. The car was jerky, but it was nice, with leather seats and what-have-you. My mother had dressed to the nines; she even had her hat on. They were so happy that day.

  “See, Daniel,” she said. “This is what I want. I want a car like this and a nice house and, maybe, even a maid.”

  He said, “I tell you, Ingrid, you will have it! I can feel my luck is changing.”

  Of course, it wasn’t but my mother smiled anyway. She was happy, at least for a moment. I knew, too, that everything was going to be just fine. However, it wasn’t, for within a minute, the car hit a slick place and went right into a ditch. We had to walk back to the house. My mother cussed him all the way there, too.

  That night, two policemen knocked on the door. My father opened it and gave my mother a look of pure despair. That look was combined with hopelessness. They were there to arrest him for stealing the car, though he insisted his friend had let him borrow it. (Just note that my father always had very shady friends.) Even so, he went to jail. I was about thirteen years old when this happened.

  And, while he was away, my mother found someone else.

  I don’t mean to say that she didn’t wait for him. She did. She waited as long as she could. But she was over him before he even went to jail so it wasn’t a surprise that about a year after he was taken away, she began to go out at night to the barn dances. She found many men who were willing to use her. But she wasn’t about to be used. She wasn’t that kind of woman. She might use you, but she’d be damned if you’d do the same to her.

  However, she didn’t find any prince charming. We didn’t have any money coming in, so she took a job at a little restaurant. She’d come home covered in grease but she’d have her pockets loaded with food.

  But then, one day, she came home a little late. One of my aunts, I believe it was Maureen, was staying with us then. She was young, about seventeen or so, and very fun. She’d crank up the radio and teach us dances. When Mother didn’t come, we got very worried. But Maureen made us go on to bed. Mother woke us at about four in the morning with wonderful news. She’d met a man, a very rich man. And he wanted to marry her.

  Needless to say, the news, while happy for her, was crushing to me and Andrea. I was about fourteen at the time and Andrea thirteen. We were still children and neither one of us liked the idea of someone taking our father’s place. But what we liked or disliked didn’t matter to my mother. She wasn’t about to sit around and wait for my father to get out of jail. And I knew, in my heart, that even if none of that had happened, she would have eventually left him. You can’t blame her, really.

  So, my mother had found a man to take care of her. His name was Randolph Peterson and he owned a coal company. He was old, in his fifties or so, and he liked, if not loved, my mother. He’d never married. He asked her for her hand.

  My mother was ecstatic. We’d have everything! Everything, that is, except my father. She soon divorced him and after a simple, civil ceremony, we moved into Randolph’s lavish house, just inside the city limits of our small town. Everything changed for us then. It was quite a whirlwind.

  After that, we never wanted for anything. Though I hated Randolph because I felt he’d taken the place of my father, I cannot say a bad word about him. I can’t pretend that he was this evil authoritative step-father figure in some tragic novel because he wasn’t. He was actually quite nice. He tried to befriend me and my sister. He told us he didn’t intend on taking the place of my father. He didn’t want to do that. He only wanted us to be friends.

  But I didn’t want to be his friend. I wanted my daddy back. Soon, he was out of jail, and I’d see him hanging around the driveway, looking for us. He even tried to kidnap us once! My mother nearly killed him over that. He was told to keep away and for a little while, he defied this. He’d come to our school. He’d take us for ice cream. My mother found out, though, and threatened to have him put back in jail. He left after that and I don’t know what happened to him. When I got older, I looked for him, but to no avail. He was gone.

  I missed him dreadfully and still do.

  I must stop for now, Marabel. This is making me very sad. I will write more later. I hope this has not bored you too terribly so.

  With warmest regards and kindest wishes,

  Ms. C.V. Weeks

  * * * * *

  June 19th

  Dearest Marabel,

  I thank you for all the kind words on my manuscripts and even more so for the kind words about the last letter. I am so happy you liked and enjoyed both. I certainly enjoyed writing them!

  So, let’s see. Am I correct in saying that we were at the part where my mother tried to make me into some sort of model or starlet? I think so.

  After she married Randolph, my mother was despised by most of the “elite,” or the self-proclaimed blue bloods, if that’s what you’d call those old cows, in our small town. She didn’t fit in. While she was very beautiful, she was a little coarse. She laughed too loudly, not that I think there is a damn thing wrong with that. But she didn’t know any type of etiquette. She sometimes licked her fingers after eating, if you know what I mean.

  But as time went on, my mother changed. She carried herself with more confidence, she learned good table manners and she spoke more softly. She was still our mother, but she was more refined. And she wanted us to be refined as well.

  After she married Randolph, we wore the finest clothing available in those days. My mother’s clothing was soon being tailor-made. They fit her like a glove, which old Randolph absolutely loved. He was a man, after all, and men love women who aren’t afraid to show off what they’ve got. My mother was never afraid, let me just say and she had quite a lot to show off.

  But, alas, my mother grew bored, as most women who marry older men for money usually do, and began to take lovers. Everyone knew, so the word did eventually get back to me and my sister. We discussed it many times and didn’t really know how to take it, to be quite honest. Old Randolph just looked the other way or just didn’t care. I don’t know which. We, my sister and I, think she started with this handsome man who were a few years younger than her and who did some odd jobs for Randolph occasionally. He was a fine looking man, too. Just right up any woman’s alley. Soon, she was ready to change lovers and she even had an affair with the mayor, so it is really no wonder that many of the women despised her. After she got Randolph, she acquired the confidence to always get what she wanted. She wouldn’t settle for anything else.

  This created a minor scandal and all the locals lapped it up. My sister and I were even kept from going to school because my mother thought someone might try to hurt us. This is when my mother decided we needed a change, a good change, in fact—her words.

  Before I go any further, let me preface this next part by saying my mother had, after I turned fifteen, began to send photos of me off to modeling agencies and whatnot in New York and places like that. I’ve always been short, so most of them replied in the negative, though they did have a few kind comments about my looks.

  My mother was furious about this, though. She thought I deserved a lucrative career as a model or some
other such nonsense. She probably thought this because I looked just like her.

  My sister, Andrea, however, though a very pretty girl, looked more like my father. While I was lucky enough to have his manner, my sister was less fortunate. She had my mother’s temperament, which made her rather unbearable sometimes. And she began to resent me because she thought Mother paid more attention to me and my “career” than her.

  Since the modeling wasn’t taking off for me the way she thought it should, my mother came up with another idea. So, soon after the “scandal” my mother told old Randolph, “I think I’d like to go out to Hollywood to see about getting Caddy into the movies.”

  He thought this was a good idea and didn’t hesitate to make all the arrangements for us to go. We’d go by car, he said, and he’d hire a driver. It would take right at a week to get out there, because he insisted we stop everyday at five to rest. My mother said we could take a train, mainly because we could get there days earlier, but Randolph wouldn’t hear of such “nonsense,” telling her there were all kinds of vagabonds and whatnot on those things. No, we would drive to California.

  Looking back, I don’t think my mother even asked him to go along.

  So, off we went, in the spring of 1950, I believe. I was about seventeen at the time. The drive was long, horrendous but other than that, doesn’t warrant much description.

  Soon enough, we pulled into Hollywood and my mother, oddly enough, rented a small apartment. I later found out that she’d told Randolph she wanted to move out there but he’d told her that he didn’t think it was a good idea. So, she secured the apartment on her own without his knowledge. In fact, she told him we’d only be out there a month or so. Poor man.