It is the tail end of the sixties in Los Angeles, in that seemingly split second of time when all hell broke loose and the conformity of the ''Leave it to Beaver'' fifties would forever be shed. That's when Maureen Tadlock hit the streets, her mother divorced for the fourth time, with no rules or constraints, twelve years old saying she was fifteen, cruising the boulevards, dropping acid, in an endless carnival of parties and characters that were both innocent and outrageous. But as ''the Fates'' would have it the law would soon intervene and reset her course on an odyssey of greater meaning and further adventure while continuing to ride the wave of a cultural revolution. In her search for home, family and love in a world that from the beginning felt alien, Maureen Tadlock explores the borderlands of inner experience, creative expression and the transcendent, mythical meaning of her life as a young woman.

The Weakness of Gravity

AuthorHouse

Chapter One

Clusters of tiny butterflies flutter up from the shrubs as I brush by, running back and forth. The yellow blossomed shrubs fill the empty lot across the street, taller than me and prickly, but it's worth an occasional scratch to watch the butterflies jump into the sky. I can make them do that, jump into the sky, the big grey blue sky that quickly turns orange, the color of the butterflies. The same butterflies I catch in the morning on the flowering bushes in the front yard of our apartment building and carefully insert into little holes in the mail slots so later, while hiding in those bushes, I can watch the neighbors get a magical surprise when they go to get their mail and the butterflies fly out.

"Maureen," a voice calls out. And I stop abruptly. "Maureen, where are you?" I walk slowly through the prickly shrubs, ever so slowly, to peer through at the edge. It's Grandma across the street. I'm camouflaged so she doesn't see me. She looks up and down the street, calling my name. Ever so slowly I emerge, becoming visible. She still doesn't see me, and I hold my hand to my mouth and laugh. "There you are." She's startled. "What are doing over there?" She smiles, so I know she's not mad. "Come across now, look both ways. What in the hell are doing in that empty lot?" She holds out her hand, "It's nice out, let's take a little walk." I hear my aunt's laughter coming from our upstairs apartment window. A sound I know well. It makes me feel good.

As we walk up the sidewalk, we both look at the sky, a big orange ocean with streaks of pink and red. Grandma says something again about how nice it is out. I think about how grown ups always seem to talk about how nice it is out, like when my mom says "Why don't you go outside, it's nice out, why are you hanging around the house?" I can't figure it out. It's always nice out. But I don't ask Grandma about that, instead I tell her this is my favorite time of day. "What time of day is it?" she asks. I look up at her, sensing this is one of her quizzes. "This time of day, you know." "No I don't know. What time of day is it?" I think for a moment as we walk, looking around at the trees and the yards and the houses, the golden film that covers everything. "You know, when it's like toast out." Grandma laughs, she stops and laughs, her hand lets mine go, and she holds her stomach as she looks at me. "Like toast out?" I smile, even though I am not sure what's so funny.

I never stuttered with Grandma. But I never noticed that I never stuttered with her. Of course I didn't really talk that much when I was with her. There were usually other people around, and they had a lot to say to each other and didn't seem to notice I didn't talk. Every once in a while I'd hear my name and see them looking at me, and they'd ask me a question. Most of the time I wasn't sure what they wanted me to say, but I noticed they were all smiling so I smiled, and if my aunt was there, she'd laugh and they'd all laugh and eventually turn away to talk to each other. My face always felt hot afterwards, but at least I didn't have to talk. Sometimes, though, my mom or my stepfather would make me say something, usually when it was just them, and not a lot of other people around. They'd ask me a question over and over again, and my mom would get mad if I didn't say anything, so I'd try. But all I could get out was a few words or maybe a half sentence at most and then I'd keep repeating it over and over. Sometimes my stepfather, Stan, would say "Spit it out would ya?" He didn't seem mad, exactly, he'd just shake his head and walk away. If I stayed out of their way they didn't ask me questions, so I tried to do that.

The only other person I never stuttered with was my brother. Being with my brother wasn't like being with another person. He was always there. He had always been there, standing at my shoulder, sitting next to me on the couch or in the car, always there. We shared a bedroom where we played pretend with our stuffed animals, always ending up throwing them across the room at each other's beds. Gary was two years older than me. He was dark, and I was light. Sometimes people in our family called him my "half-brother," but I didn't know what that meant. He talked to them, in fact he talked a lot sometimes, which was good because then they didn't notice me. One time he asked me why I couldn't talk to other people like I talked to him. I don't think I had an answer, but then I don't think he was really looking for one.

When we first moved to the apartment on Hellman Avenue I was excited, one of the first times I remember being excited. It may have been the beginning of having consistent memories; before that I remember very little. There was a vague memory of a place before Hellman Avenue. I remember sitting on the couch, watching "Chucko the Birthday Clown" on TV with Gary, and there was something about the kitchen that seemed scary, something about the cupboards, and my mom being afraid. Maybe that's why this new place was so exciting, it looked new and bright. I was five years old. When we arrived, they told me where our room was, and I ran into it and right over to the window that looked out the back of the house. I saw the back stairs, the parking area and garage, and directly beyond that, the San Bernadino Freeway. The freeway was my backyard, a sea of fast moving vehicles, the sound of which was eternal. I registered this, even though I was only five, the sound will never stop, even when I'm sleeping. The constant zing, zing, zing of the cars will always be there.

The head of my bed rested under this window. And I did hear the zinging of cars all night. They didn't keep me awake because I slept very little anyway. I would lie awake night after night, watching the darkness blanket the room, my eyes darting to the possible monsters and demons taking shape. I listened intently to the subtle sounds of the apartment and watched the darkness until the slightest change began to occur, the slightest trace of light transforming everything bit by bit with an opaque grey. The sound of people sleeping, their deep breaths and some far off snoring bothered me much more than the zinging of the cars on the freeway, for that had become somehow soothing, the only awake life besides me.

In the very early morning, when it became light enough, and I felt it was safe to escape the prison of stillness, I would get up, get dressed silently and sneak out. The front of the apartment was very different from the back. Down the front stairs was a small lawn, the sidewalk, a patch of grass that ran parallel to the sidewalk where small lemon trees grew. Across the street was the park. Granada Park was not just a place with grass and trees and rose bushes. It wasn't just that there was a playground and pool and gym with a game room, and a baseball field. Granada Park was my gift of a universe. It was a place where I would discover and create worlds within worlds, imaginary places of safe solitude; tree branches from which to perch and watch over my kingdom, hills to fly down and ponds to reflect upon. It was my home, a home away from others. And at the end of the day I would reluctantly trek slowly back from my world to theirs.

THE OTHER

Was it a voice or just a presence- a presence that I never questioned and in fact took for granted would always be there? It always was there from before I was conscious of anything at all. I remember becoming conscious of it the first time. I was six or seven years old, standing in the garage, working on some kind of project I'd concocted that involved my brother's microscope. I was having a conversation with it, the it that was always with me, but that was other than me, the larger enveloping being that accompanied me and made everything okay, the one I trusted to show me the doors out and which gave me the courage to go through them, and that kept me breathing when it seemed important not to.

Either people were aliens or I was. I couldn't figure it out, but there was some big difference, something that made it hard, if not impossible, to enter their world. I did a lot of observing and wondering about it, in fact I made it a hobby to observe, often behind a blind of green leaves in some bush or tree. In the safety of my cave I could watch how they interacted. I watched intently the parents with their kids, the kids playing with each other, the couples kissing on blankets, I even watched people watching each other. Through it I would talk to the other, the one that was always with me, narrating the scenes, reporting my findings.

Occasionally I was startled by contact with someone, often it was another kid who happened by and caught me off guard. Speaking was not an option, so I'd sit, usually perched aloft a tree or a structure of some kind, staring down on them in silence. To my relief, they'd drift away after a while. On occasion though, there'd be kid or a group of kids who would take an uncomfortable interest in me and persist in trying to make contact, and I'd muster up my courage in order to utter the two words that would most likely send them on their way, "Go away!" I still remember their puzzled faces looking back at me, the furrowed brows and whispers as they disappeared up the sidewalk. I knew, on some level, even then, that I would eventually have to enter their world. And the art of camouflage I was perfecting would serve me well.

And the other? What of it? It would stay with me and continue to guide me, first to imaginary worlds that would provide refuge from the dark and unpredictable reality, then through the gauntlet of that reality armed with a thing called "personality," and on through the rest of the journey, a tenuous tightrope act, balancing connection and freedom. In the beginning it was just there, a part of me. Later people talked and taught me about someone called "God." I didn't readily connect the two, but at some point it occurred to me this enduring presence of other was possibly what they call God.

MOM

If I'm very quiet she won't know that I'm here, in my bedroom, in the middle of day, in my bedroom, on her day off. If I'm very quiet, she won't kick me out of the house because she says it's a beautiful day. She wants the house quiet. After she has spent the morning cleaning, not happy, cleaning, with a kerchief on her head, running the vacuum cleaner, she wants the house clean and quiet. She wants to lie on the couch, very still, and listen to the music with the lady singing. Opera, she calls it, with the lady singing really loud. I can't tell whether the lady is singing loud or if it's turned up loud, maybe both. Sometimes I tip toe out quietly so I can look around the corner into the living room and see her lying still and very straight on the couch, listening to the loud singing. She has her eyes closed. I wonder if she's dreaming, even though I don't think she is asleep. The singing sounds sad. I wonder if she is sad.

I don't look straight at her very much, not even to watch her like I watch other people. I'm afraid to look at her. Maybe it's because one time, when we were in her bedroom getting ready to go somewhere, she took off her top, and I was looking at her, and she said, "Turn around!" I might have stopped looking at her, then, looking straight at her. I look at her with the side of my eyes. That's what I do with most people. I have to know where everyone is all the time, but I don't want to look right at them.

One time I really did look at her, and it was like a dream. Before she married Stan, before moving to this apartment, it seems like a long time ago, there was another man. He was tall and thin and had blonde, curly hair. A fuzzy light came through windows and see-through curtains. The curtains blew in softly and there were ruffles on the little sofa where my mom and the man sat. My brother and I sat on the carpeted floor, on the top of two steps. "Isn't she beautiful," the man said, as he gazed at my mom, "Isn't your mother beautiful?" We all looked at her as the curtains blew softly through the fuzzy light, and she looked down at her lap. She had a half smile. I didn't really know what "beautiful" meant, but I glanced at my brother, and he was smiling and nodded his head yes, so I did too. My mom didn't say anything; she just looked down at her lap. I remember later when I saw "Snow White," she looked like my mom, and the wicked witch said she was beautiful and that's why she hated Snow White. I wondered if there was a witch who hated my mom because she was beautiful.

Mom didn't look at me or my brother very much. Maybe that's another reason I didn't look at her. She didn't really talk to us, either. Stan talked to us, and sometimes she'd tell him what to say to us, usually when she was mad. Sometimes she'd tell him to spank us. He always spanked us when she told him to, even though I could tell he didn't want to. He always said he was sorry afterward. Stan was kind of like the man on the little sofa, he looked at mom that same way. Mom laughed with Stan, especially when we first moved to the apartment. They used to make funny faces at each other and laugh. She also laughed sometimes when Auntie and Grandma and my cousins came over. But everyone else, especially Auntie, was so much louder that it was hard to hear mom. I used to listen for her voice because I didn't hear it very much. Whenever I had to ask her a question, like permission to do something, it took me a long time to get up the courage. Usually when I did she said no. Then one day my brother told me not to ask her permission, just to tell her I was going to do it. It worked, instead of saying no she'd say, "Alright go ahead."

I used to look through Mom's underwear drawer when she was out somewhere. Her underwear was silky and soft. I liked to look at her box of treasures, which was different from her jewelry box. It had some jewelry in it, but it had other things too, like a silver dollar and a blue ribbon and a ticket that said OPERA on it. There was also the necklace that I gave her when I saved up all the pennies and nickels I found and finally had a dollar and went to the little shop with Stan and bought it for her. It was a long clear gem that looked like a big diamond, and it hung on a silver chain. I thought it was a diamond even though my brother said it was just glass. My mom smiled a half smile when I gave it to her. She looked at it and ran the chain through her fingers. She looked at it with a half smile, but she didn't look at me.

THE WHOLE WORLD'S A STAGE

Lying very still with the covers pulled up just below my nose, my eyes dart side to side around the darkened room. I can feel the witches under my bed reaching up, their long fingers touching the ends of my hair hanging over the edge of the bed. It's extremely important that I not move an inch. My stillness and silence will keep them from being able to climb onto the bed. The blanket is my shield and my eyes protect me, my eyes and The Other. When the long night is broken by the first hints of day, I can begin to breathe. It won't be long before I can quietly make my exit.

Having tip toed out of my room and through the living room, I gently close the door. Down the front stairs and into the early morning remnants of the night, the birds are singing, the grass is wet, and I can see the trails of slime left by snails crisscrossing the lawn. No cars, no people, either in their yards or at the park. It's the perfect time to inhabit places I can't be in later because the people will be there. It is the time to make the big cement steps at the entrance of the park my stage, to put on my production of a Hollywood musical. I stand at the top of the steps and the orchestra starts, "Hollywood, that's where I want to be, Hollywood ..." and I begin my graceful descent, arms gently outstretched, my movements timed perfectly in sync with the other dancers, all of us in our feathered, sequined gowns. I do a solo number of course, this being the finale of the show. I can usually get the entire show in before too many cars begin to round the corner, interrupting the performance. Sometimes I ignore them for a time, because "the show must go on."

When people begin to make an appearance it's my cue to wrap it up and retreat back into the green camouflage of my personal jungle, where I can resume my observing. There is a particular tree, another great gift to me, a tall evergreen that looks impenetrable, but is a stairway with different levels to take safe shelter in and create my real "home." The highest level extends my view of the park. From there I can easily see my house and watch the comings and goings of my family. Sometimes I watch my brother. He always seems to have something to do and often he has his baseball glove and is with other kids. I can't figure out how he does that, plays with other kids, he makes it look so easy.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Weakness of Gravityby Maureen Tadlock Copyright © 2011 by Maureen Tadlock. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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