Buona Notte Margarita---- how Rita Hayworth's death signaled the end of my dad and me

I don't believe in coincidences because I prefer to call it kismet. How else do you explain me opening a box I very rarely get into and the first thing I pull out is a 26 year old letter I received from a nanny I once had that was dated with today's date August 20, in 1987? Things like that happen to me pretty often so I am inclined to think my guardian angels have a sense of humor.

This letter was written to me by a former nanny at my home in Bellevue, WA after I had returned from a tumultuous watershed year of living in Sacramento with my dad during my seventh grade school year 1987. My dad had hired a cadre of eccentric and arguably beyond the pale women to look after me and manage the household since he spent most of his time at work.  Olive the best and last in a line of dingbats was different from the others. The virtual circus act that I had been witness to in the year since I began the ill-fated journey from my mother's house in Bellevue to my dad's sparsely decorated mini-mansion in Fair Oaks, CA was looney enough to sound fictional. Beginning the previous summer when he hired Debbie, a 31 year old off-balance PTSD victim, I noticed something was awry immediately by the flimsy way she shook my hand while failing to make eye contact. I was flabbergasted by the way she screamed at her mother over late night conversations from the kitchen telephone. "I'm tired of pumping away and leading a shitty life," which she punctuated by slamming the receiver down. After she was given walking papers before she was out of the house, my dad hired Diana, a diva doyenne of dimly lit dives such as Bobby McGee's a local strip mall jazz joint for Sacramento swinging singles. Fancying herself a chanteuse and stage persona, she painted her face for the back row and subsequently left a smudge of her Mahogany foundation on everything she touched. Her scent was a mixture of stale Virgina Slims and Charlie perfume and her
natural hair style was kept secret under a phalanx of wigs with themes that ran the gamut from Tina Turner to Cleopatra. When her lot had run its course, my dad hired his 27 year old cousin with tot in tow. Mary Jo was the best thing that happened to me that year and I was heartbroken when the holidays were over and she was called back to Mountain View. That's when Olive entered the picture. She was a 58 year old born again Christian who was completely scandalized by the recent implosion of Jim Bakker's PTL ministry after his affair with Jessica Hahn brought down his televangelism empire.  Olive was the only one of the nannies not to live in the guest room since my dad had more than enough of his fill with live-in help when Diana left the suite looking as beraggled as she did in overhead lighting without makeup.
  Olive had come from working for Ernesto Gallo, one of the Gallo brother vintners that would become known as the dope pushers of the wine industry; makers of the misery market. She was a widow with two grown adopted children.  Her son Kent was traumatized at age eight when his father dropped dead during a game of cops and robbers they were playing together.  "Bang -bang, you're dead," said the child as he held up a pretend gun to his Dad, the robber. And he really was. "Daddy, wake up. Daddy," ... Olive recounted the scene on a regular basis as if in a desperate attempt to justify or understand the grief her son had continuously caused in her life since growing up with the guilt that he somehow caused the premature death of his favorite parent. Olive's first husband had been the love of her life which made her present situation all the more tragic. She was trapped in a borderline abusive relationship with a gruff, cigar-chomping, Scotch drinking SOB named John.

Gallo fortified wine that created skid row

Her favorite topic of conversation besides what Tammy Faye was going to do now that Jim was going away for embezzlement  was how well she was treated on Gallo's payroll. She said Mr. Gallo always made sure that her piece of meat was cut first before his wife's. I wouldn't believe it. My dad was supposedly the only person who was not pleased with her performance.
As soon as I was alone with her, I warned, "Don't get too comfortable. I'm not planning on staying but you can't say a word to my dad,"  It was only February and I still had to get through the rest of the school year before I could put this nightmare behind me and escape back to my mother's welcome arms. My dad and I barely spoke to each other as winter turned to spring and the change of season didn't do a thing to thaw our relationship. One of the last exchanges I had with him was as uncharacteristic as it would be memorable. I was sweeping out the garage on a Thursday in mid-May counting down the days until the weekend when my stepfather would be flying in to rent a Uhaul and drive me and my hoard back to WA. My dad opened the door from the house and barked some orders at me to complete a menial task and then paused and in a very tender and thoughtful tone said, "Oh, and Rita Hayworth died. I saved the article for you," as he disappeared behind the door.  Relaying that little bit of Hollywood gossip to me was his way of letting me know he had been listening, that despite our failed ability to connect or bond on a traditional testosterone tweaked father son thing, he was acknowledging my interests and in his own way, kind of validating me as a person. Tears sprang to my eyes as I cursed the timing. Too little...too late. The bloom had been off the rose for some time and it was time for me to go home.

August 20, 1987

Dear Tom,   I was very happy to hear from you. I know you were glad to be home . Yes, I am sure you are enjoying your nice queen size bed. Anything would have been an improvement from what you slept on at your dad's. I hope you never have to be as lonely as you were there again. As for me, nothing much exciting has happened. What is funny is that I'm working for a lady only about one mile from your dad's place. I work 7 hours a day and she pays me $1,000 a month. It's just a small home, but new and very nice, so I do have a very nice job now. Kent (Olive's son) is working in Fresno in construction an Renee (Olive's daughter) is getting married to the rock n' roll guy, but I do like him and tomorrow night I am going to see him perform in a club he is playing at in Sacramento. Nothing has changed between John and me. He is getting meaner and stranger as the days go on. I don't see much of him...maybe once every two weeks. I still keep very busy in my church and my friends. I have been feeling very good.

I'm glad the ship plaque I gave you looks good on your shelf. I figured it would and I knew you would enjoy that. You have some very special qualities quite rare for this day and age. You are very honest, deep thinking and deeply caring. Even though along your life, you may be hurt, still it's a much better way to be than being selfish and not caring. Guard your fine qualities and be proud of them and never allow anyone to rob them away from you.  Yes, Tom I do remember never knowing when your dad was going to pay me so I can understand the delay in your support money,... As easy as he got off with it, he should never be late. He's probably still hurt because your decided to leave him. I do believe he truly loves you and just didn't have good teaching growing up. Well  Tom, it's getting past my bedtime so I'll say goodbye for now. Write to me from time to time. I know you'll enjoy school now that you'll have something to come home to. Love Ollie