He reached for Diana's arm, and began walking back to the steps that led to the elevators. In a tone that carried finality and total dismissal, without turning around, he said, "Goodbye, Kiyo." I turned toward Kiyo, confused, trying to comprehend what had just occurred in the past ninety seconds. She had tears in her eyes. I walked her over to a bar table, sat her down, ordered us each another drink, and, trying to be compassionate but failing utterly, said, "What the fuck was that all about? What the hell is going on, Kiyo?" I could detect both disgust and defeat in her reply: "Not here. Not now. Let's go home first."
I had never seen my father out of control and at a loss for words. That was a first. He had clearly been shaken just seeing Kiyo. After we got back to Laurel Canyon, I demanded some answers.
"You are still such a child, Steven," she began. "You know nothing of life or love or feelings. Yes, I knew your mother and father when I was young. I met your father for the first time at a bus bench in Hollywood. I was sitting there alone and he stopped his car, got out, and walked up to me. He was immaculately dressed in a brown suit, with a cashmere overcoat, the handsomest man I had ever seen. He handed me his business card and said, 'Excuse me, miss, but I am a physician and I am also a professional photographer. You are the most beautiful young lady I have ever seen. I would like to photograph you, and will of course pay you for your time.' His charm was irresistible. He gave me a ride home and we became friends. I was very young and impressionable and quickly developed a crush on your father back then. That's all."
Somehow, I didn't think that was all. I was determined to find out the truth. I was taking courses at Los Angeles City College three nights a week at that time, and the following night as usual left home, headed for my sociology class. But I didn't feel like going to class; I felt like having a drink. I pulled my car into the local tavern at the bottom of the canyon near Sunset Boulevard where I'd decided I'd drink instead of think that night. It took four double scotches before
I had the courage to drive back up the hill and get the rest of the story from Kiyo. I parked the car and took the hundred steps that led to our oversized front door three steps at a time. As I approached the door, I could see through the window that she had lit a fire in the fireplace.
My second glance froze me in place. I saw two figures lying in front of the fire. Kiyo was naked; her companion had his shirt off and was lying prone against her body, kissing her. I slipped my key into the door lock and entered as Kiyo grabbed for her robe on the couch. The young man grabbed for his shirt on the hearth. Kiyo stood up defiantly as she tied her robe. "It's not what you think. Tom is an actor. He has a love scene in a film. We were ..." Tom paled at the sight of the gun holstered on my left hip, clearly visible under my open sport coat. He stumbled for words: "It's true. I have this part. I have the script at home.... I can show you."
The young man standing in front of me with trembling hands as he tried to button his shirt was almost a mirror of myself in stature and age. I moved my hand toward my gun and I actually weighed the options in front of me. I wanted to draw and fire. I wanted to take every bit of the hatred that was coursing through me at that moment and force it through the nozzle of my off-duty revolver. Just the sight of his bare chest was compelling me to blow huge holes in it. But even filled with liquor, I knew he wasn't worth prison, and neither was she. I fought the urge.
"If you're not out of my house in five seconds," I said in a low growl that I'd never heard myself make before, "I will blow your fucking head off. And if you ever call or see my wife again, as God is my witness, I will kill you."
The young man bolted for the door and took the hundred steps down six at a time. My hatred now turned back full force to Kiyo. "You fucking bitch! How many others have you fucked behind my back? How many other cocks have you sucked while I was sitting in class at night? Tell me! Answer me!" Kiyo turned and walked toward the dining room. "You're so immature, Steven," she said. "You're not my husband — you're my child."
My hands were shaking as I fought to control the anger and hatred I felt for this woman. I knew I had to get out of the house and away before I lost control. My job had shown me what happened when men and women lost control, and I was now part of the job. I kept my weapon in its holster and walked out of the house.
The following afternoon, I had my partner return with me to the house and we parked the black-and-white in front of the steps. Moving day. I knew she was gone to teach piano. All I wanted from the house were a few personal papers and my clothes. Within an hour we had all of my personal effects loaded into the back of the car. I went to the study to look for my passport, birth certificate, and other personal papers. I riffled through her desk, but they were nowhere to be found, but there was a bank savings account with her name on it, "Kiyo Hodel."
I opened the passbook and stared at the balance: $4,500. Jesus Christ! Where did that money come from? I was proud of our joint savings account, into which we'd managed to stash $400, but this was like finding another set of business books. What was going on? The next folder I saw in her desk was labeled "Astrological Charts." I thought to myself, "Screw her, she's not keeping mine in here." I opened the folder and my chart was on top. I pulled it from the stack and looked at the second horoscope with its circle and symbols and read the name "Amilda Kiyoko Tachibana, born in Boston, Massachusetts, August 2, 1920." I stared at the year: "1920." That meant she wasn't thirty-three, as I believed, but forty-five! Could it be?
I dropped my partner off at Van Nuys police station, where I was then assigned, took the rest of the afternoon off, and drove to my mother's apartment in North Hollywood. I told her everything. After Mother got over the shock of seeing me, she sat in horror as I told her of my elopement and secret marriage to Kiyo, and of Kiyo's insistence and my sworn oath not to tell anyone, especially my family, of our marriage. I told Mother of our recent meeting with Father, and his strange reaction, and then my returning home unexpectedly two nights ago and finding Kiyo in the embrace of another man. Finally, I related the discovery of the chart showing her birth date was 1920. Was it true? Was she really forty-five? What did she know about Kiyo?
Mother sat in silence for several minutes, and then she cried as she told me the true story of Kiyo and my father. "I had no idea when
I said, 'Let's go to a party at Kiyo's house' that any of this could have happened. I can't believe it has." She lit a cigarette while she searched for the right words to continue her story:
"Yes, Kiyo is forty-five," she continued. "Your father brought her home one night after seeing her standing waiting for a bus or taxi, something like that. I'm not sure exactly how they met; it's been so long. She was a student at the Chouinard Art Institute, and the war was on. They were arresting all the Japanese off the streets and in their houses, and she lived with us on Valentine Street. She was very young and very beautiful, and he felt sorry for her, and was afraid she'd be interned like the others. Then she moved out and away and we lost track of her. After the war, we heard she had married, and she and her husband Brook used to come to the Franklin House to our parties. They later divorced, and she married again. Before that party I took you to, I hadn't seen her in years."