Home Sweet Home

By Yves Zoe Trieste

As a little girl, Yves Zoe Trieste’s first experiences were magical, opulent, and dazzling - living in one of Japan’s protected and exclusive enclaves reserved for Foreign Diplomats and their families. The change was sudden when the family boarded one of the last evacuation flights before the nuclear end of World War II. Returning to the United States, she becomes sucked into a quagmire of an unhappy marriage to an absent husband, divorce and custody of two boys and a girl, devastating dark family secrets, multigenerational sexual assault and incest, sex, drugs, rock and roll escapism, vapid partying, survival of eviscerating collisions, financial insecurity, unrelenting trauma, familiar plotting, shunning, greed, betrayal, and disinheritance.

“Many dreams can be nightmares, too, so terrible are dark and forbidden secrets. Nightmares. Creepy. Frighting. Just like those crows that sit in those craggy trees, around our house, waiting, just waiting, claws gripped, ready to swoop down and scratch our eyes out. We all know, don’t we, that life is not a smooth ride with its’ twists and turns and strangles. We could get up and walk out when the curtain falls if it were a theater play. But not life. We have to stay until the end. There is no way out. And then what? And then what?” - Yves Zoe Trieste

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: Oct 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781489731593

Yves Zoe Trieste

To my dearest friends, I painted with oils the cover image for “Home Sweet Home” 50 years ago. I am 85. I am not the only one sorrowful and fearful. Your heart holds much more. But you are not alone. Never again. Because now, we have each other. Love forever. - Yves Zoe Trieste

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Copyright © 2020 Yves Zoe Trieste.

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Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-4897-3157-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-3158-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-3159-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020920263

LifeRich Publishing rev. date: 02/22/2022

CONTENTS

Preface

Home Sweet Home

Chapter 1     The Beginning

Chapter 2     The Orient

Chapter 3     Astrid

Chapter 4     Tristan

Chapter 5     Kane

Chapter 6     Yves

Chapter 7     Dad

Chapter 8     Grandmama

Chapter 9     Gramps

Chapter 10   The Labyrinth

Chapter 11   The Will

Chapter 12   The Depositions

Chapter 13   The Trial

Chapter 14   The Denial

Chapter 15   The Epilogue

PREFACE

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and every episode are a product of my imagination. And that is exactly why I am excited to write about what’s in my dream, what’s in my head. And why I can’t wait to get it on paper to share it with you, the reader. All these characters involved are wholly imaginary. All the backdrops, the scenery, the places are as unreal as a theater’s stage setting. A make-believe story in a make-believe world with a divine perception that allows me to go back in time and space granting me the power to see inside the minds of those around me, eaves dropping on their internal dialog, their dreams, dreads and motivations. That’s my gift to you, my most precious reader.

But. many dreams can be nightmares too. Creepy. Frightening. Just like those crows that sit in those craggy trees on the front and back cover, waiting, just waiting, claws gripped, ready to swoop down and scratch your eyes out. So horrid that I need someone, like you, to stand beside me when I try to tell you things that are dark and forbidden. We all know, don’t we, that life is not a smooth ride with its’ twists and turns and strangles. If it were a theater play, when the curtain falls, we can just get up and walk out. But not life. We have to stay until the end. No way out. And then what? And then what?

THESE ARE THE BRAVE PLAYERS IN THIS STORY

Let me introduce you to them so you will get to know them. The ones on the billboard. The ones up in lights. The important actors and actresses in this world of fantasy and illusion.

LEADING ROLES

Yves is the mom.

Neil is the step-dad.

Kane is the oldest child.

Tristan is the middle child.

Astrid is the youngest child.

SUPPORTING ROLES

Dad is Kane, Tristan and Astrid’s dad.

Papa is Yves’ dad.

Lily is Yves’ mom.

Gramps is dads’ dad.

Grandmama is dads’ mom.

Dr Ellison is Astrid’s psychiatrist.

THEN THERE ARE THOSE THAT YOU CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT

Tom Smith, the editorial assistant.

So be with me.

A moment here.

A moment there.

But if at this very second, you pause and lay my book on your lap, and your mind starts to travel far away and reflect on the novel of your life, well, maybe that’s what this book is really about.

You.

HOME SWEET HOME

YVES ZOE TRIESTE

The merry-go-round

and it goes on and on and

never stops on the dark side of the moon.

The losers

in this land of wandering

lost and found

alone and scared.

Who’s to say what lonely is

Who’s to say when hearts break

Will we make it?

Save our saddened souls

the sorrow of our souls

our forever damaged souls

still wandering and still lost.

I just can’t stop crying.

This is dedicated to you,

My precious petals, Tristan and Astrid.

CHAPTER ONE

THE BEGINNING

AIMED

Taut. Dart sharp. On the very ledge overlooking life. Rotating. Searching. For what? Aaaah, there. Listen up; cup your hand around your ear and point to the front. There it is, the target. Hardly audible. A feeling, chillingly thrilling, muffled and marching to another frequency, reaching you. Aiming slowly and cautiously, but aiming just the same, still guarded, hesitant. But too late, dialed in to dead center, this projectile is already set, dependable as always, lathered with the ointment on the tip. Reach back, steady arm, ultimate strength, tighter and tighter, the determined gaze, can’t lose sight for one minute. Hold in place. Don’t move, eyes on the spot. All power, pull back, back more, back even more and then. And then. And then…Let it fly…Quiet and alone, arching as it readies its descent. Unraveled. Undeterred. It hits. Bull’s eye.

CHAPTER TWO

THE ORIENT

EAST OF THE SUN

The sun stutters. The camera shutters. Under what looks to be a cloudy sky. What on earth inspired Connie to put that ebony and gold tip holder between her ‘Clara Bow’ bright red lipstick and pearly white teeth, askance her arms, start to shimmy, her anchored tilted bonnet, a crisscross flap clipped to a diamond clasp secured directly above her eyes; her beaming smile always stopped short by her deep dimples. Standing on the thin slatted wood floor next to the stairs that by holding on to the hand rail will take you to the top floor of this ship and imbued with some delicious ice-cold champagne, Connie is starting to shake it up on May 31,1929.

There is a breeze blowing Connie’s and all the rest of ‘the skirts’ silken pleats. Connie isn’t the only one loosened up by the live band on board. There’s Laurie starting to cut a rug. Even Juan, barely balancing his and her drinks, starts a slight shuffle. But, unbiased, I have to say this, there is no one that even comes close to Lily (my mother); a low belted flapper dress covered with an organdy long sleeved frock embossed with a delicate pale green design, an alligator clutch matching the dark heels on her cream-colored shoes, double strands of fresh water pearls around her petite neck, a pale pink cloche with a paler satin ribbon shading her right eye, her rippling brown ‘bob’, the rage, but only made for natural beauties. Yes, Papa (my father) scored. Peg, behind her, the only one without a hat, with a curly ‘bob’ that actually doesn’t look that good, but never you mind, the only one that is easily becoming Lily’s competitor; the one that every woman spots within the second hand scan of the room, close friends all their long lives but uneasy, just the same. Laurie has a scarf that is blowing in the breeze. Warm enough today for all these sleeveless dresses. Except for Lily. She always did something just a hair off. Even the way she stands; hyper-extended knees together, light stockings, that unassuming pose. Was she always in the front line, the first one out of the gate? Did they write ‘five foot two, eyes of blue’ just for her? Or was it the way she tilted her head; those enhanced eyebrows and discerning gaze, her perfect nose, the hesitant smile. Or was it hesitancy itself? Was that the look?

Later, throw crinkled wrinkled pants and jacket on the bed, stretch your neck to untie, toss on the heap those damp socks, soaked underwear, everything. Ah, cool water; scrub off the humidity, the sweat, the rivulets, the tropics; step on the tile, no need to dry, a new replacement of perspiration already performing. The amah has already scooped up the old and laid out the new, a fresh change; white linen pants, white linen jacket, white high collared dress shirt, another tie that separates you from all the other ties. Where are your horn-rimmed glasses? Your ‘Panama’ hat? If you sit on the edge of the bed to put on your shoes, your pants will get the first crease. No worry; they will match your jacket as soon as you bend your elbow. In fact, when you walk into the second of three parties this day, everyone, although dressed choirboy white, will really be a crumpled-up mess. But no matter, this is ‘the look’ that movies are made of; leisure and pleasure, memorized lines trying to make it past the cigarette hanging on that lower lip, smoke filled mysterious rooms, swank women with their long ‘mother of pearl’ holders curled inside bony fingers tipped with sharpened lacquered nails; how bold, how exciting, wish we all could be like that.

Those who at this moment, the very moment you are bending down to tie your polished left shoe, are untying and throwing their aprons on the kitchen chair by the door, grabbing their coats, racing off so as not to be late, quick to get a ticket, good seat this time, great, to the cinema around the corner, the ‘Bijou’ on the Avenue, USA, to see the exact scene that you unknowingly are staring in. ‘Wouldn’t the folks back home just die if they could see us looking exactly like those matinee machismos in lands they only can dream of?’ Papa, you are so full of adventure. So full of yourself. Of life. The world had not shrunk. Yet.

WEST OF THE MOON

This tiny band of Americans who later, still together, moved to neighboring houses which overlooked, from their enclaves, not brick and mortar but paper mache roofs, layered, all the way down to the edge of Tokyo Bay. But here you are at the precipice of perpetual youth and Marie, opening her home to you all; cricket on the lawns, bridge parties, polo, special horses for each one, Lily’s ‘Morning Star’, brunches, and lunches and dinner parties. Picnics with a wind up victrola squeezed between sandwiches scratching out favorite tunes. Everyone has a favorite tune, don’t they? And back in your bedroom, your personal amah, not the house hold one or the kitchen one, is washing, pressing, gently laying out your next transformation on your bed, so proud of her handiwork, so proud to be working for an American, readying your next step back into your world of glitter. Before you start to wilt.

But hold on, don’t skip ahead of yourself. Flip back a few pages. It’s the same ship, by the same set of stairs, remember? Same handrail leading up to the top deck. So, what is this day? Would it be when Lily first arrived? She does look radiant with the perennial skirt, pleated only in front, the silk stockings with a sheen, the ‘Mary Jane’ high heels, a man’s coat lightly draped over her shoulders, so it must be chilly, and that great straw hat, huge brim on the left, larger than the right, swooping down with a flair, the designer’s best, one of a kind, with a red rose and a navy ribbon, putting most of her face in shadow, except for that iridescent smile. At one point, they all stand for a formal portrait, same familiar faces from our May get-together, but this time, looking strangely more serious, except for Lily, who can’t seem to stop smiling. Someone is holding a bouquet that drapes to the floor, covered with light pink peonies and orchids. Could this be their wedding? No matter that the best man, Ed, who has his arm around Lily, is too casual in his camel coat and white pants. Papa, you must be taking the photo because Lily is beaming at someone out of sight. Everyone is present and, in their places, the men in white but the girls are all in different, yet stunning, gowns. It is. It has to be the wedding, itself. I’m starting to hear the orchestra in the ballroom, not the wedding march, but close enough, beckoning all who yearn to dance close, coifed and perfumed, cheeks touching such a handsome man, tall so that he bends a little, arm around such a slim waist, skirt twirling or is it the floor, head spinning or is it the room, arms swirling or is it the ceiling fans. Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me again and again. Don’t stop. Don’t let this beautiful night, stars overhead, this beautiful life, ever stop. Ever.

Wait up, here’s yet another party. No one dancing yet, drained from this tropical exhausting heat. Streamers chandeliered from the ceiling, chairs and palms and fans blowing cool air gently over these twenty guests gathered at this oblong table, rounded at the end where Lily and Papa have slightly turned their wicker chairs to be caught by the camera. Black bow ties, white dinner jackets and elegant evening gowns, napkins on laps, waiting for dinner? Dessert? This is an entirely new bunch; some would make it back to the States, like the Admiral and his wife, like Charles and Mildred, escaping the preparation of concentration camps that were encircling this tiny group of Americans, closing the circle smaller and smaller until they were squeezed and then, finally, snuffed out. But now the evening is young and new, ‘like us’, the orchestra starting up, champagne and gimlets and sherry, hard liquor for the men, lots of new dances to try out, lots of more parties to go to. ‘What a life. How lucky we all are. Look at us on the far side of the earth, on the west side of the moon. The earth is round so we can’t fall off. We can never fall off no matter how hard we try.’

HIROSHIMA

War, war and more war. Never. Never again. His top brass horrified at the repeated rejections of their brilliant strategies recognized this one as the fatal one. With myopic vision and his complex uniqueness, he overrode them and signed with his usual aplomb and even a flourish, their death sentences and the loss of the war. Their advice that very day, ‘Don’t let them off the beach. Push them back to the sea from whence they came’. That simple. But just not simple enough for them coming to do the job. But just not simple enough for the continual slaughtering of them, our Allied soldiers, their heavy equipment pulling some of them down and drowning them, even before their first chance on the battlefield, even before they could storm Normandy Beach in France. And still, even a long way from Germany and Hitler. And even a longer way from teenagers who see only the fifteen-minute newsreel of a make-believe war at the movie theater; more interested in holding hands and waiting for the features to end; keener to show off their new hot rod at the drive-in around the corner. Then packed in with all the others, each one all bright shiny metal, beautiful glossy colors in coded competition; if you didn’t make it here, you didn’t make it anywhere; windows cranked, trays clipped on, don’t ruin the paint especially on the dreamiest car with the dreamiest girl sitting right here. Next to you.

But here this street is wide; office buildings and telephone poles, no Model T’s, just carts across the street and three bicycles propped up against the cornered cherry blossom tree planted right into the sidewalk like all the others that line up as far as your eyes can see. The ground is slick and wet and shiny. Awnings hang just below the upturn of the ruby red roofs. Lamp posts and signs and people walking everywhere except in the middle exclusively for carts and bicycles. It’s such a regular scene. It could be reserved Kansas. Except that these people are wearing kimono. Except that while they are strolling, ‘Enola Gay’ is on its way. Today. Propellers doing their normal job, nothing new here, except that this time ‘Little Boy’ is in its belly strapped securely in and will stay that way until those doors open wide and release what it came to do which none of the strollers can see through their colorful umbrellas as they amble along, no hurry, some even with babies tied to their backs, to do the real thing. The real thing.

‘Enola Gay’. Monday, 8:15am. August 6, 1945. The Boeing B-29 Super Fortress, is carrying the uranium-fueled atomic bomb ‘Little Boy’ named by the mother of Paul Tibbets, the aircraft commander and pilot on this quiet day and seared in his brain this never forgotten drone. The ‘nose art’ distinguished this bomber as the one that launched the first US attack against Japan from Tinian, one of the three prime islands of the Marianas, dropping its payload five miles west of its planned target (Saipan Island in the Saipan Channel), half of the population of Hiroshima 70,000 souls obliterated.

NAGASAKI

Three days later here are two Geisha outside that very fashionable department store, you know the one, catching the covetous gaze of two ordinary women with their heads tilted together, their hair piled up but never achieving high style, glancing slyly but never a direct stare, how rude, at these two exquisite creatures. The way they stand. Posing really. One using her closed parasol to balance herself and the other opening hers so delicately as if she was performing when instead it’s only for these two country women who are stealing glances at the show. ‘We saw Geisha today’, they will brag to their families over dinner. ‘They were that close’. But here those lovely creatures are at this very moment looking at the kimono on the manikins when theirs are but to die for; handmade silks in heavenly shades; the powder pinks of sunsets; delicate robin egg blues; the softness mints of green; the alabaster of their beautiful faces; the lemony light shining like a halo around them. And their jet-black hair with gold encrusted combs and bejeweled clips holding all the sophisticated twists and turns that took hours to produce, not by them but by their ‘dresser’. Everyone in Japan wants to see Geisha, just once, before they die. Before they die.

‘Fat Man’. Thursday, August 9, 1945. Three days later after broadcasting a warning of further attacks directly to the Japanese Government and receiving nothing but dead silence, President Truman ordered the second plutonium-implosion atomic bomb to be deployed into service by an Army Air force B-29 bomber called ‘Bock’s Car’, flown by Charles (Chuck) Sweeney, aircraft commander. It was named after Frederick C. Bock who today was the aircraft commander flying ‘The Great Artiste’ and along with ‘The Stink’ became one of the three that were to rendezvous over the Pacific Ocean and then head to the target. Circling 30,000 feet above an increasing and dangerous cloud level that threatened them to abort a ‘visible drop’ mission and depending only on the use of unpracticed radar and the plane’s weaponry and not being able to wait an additional fifteen minutes, the two headed on without ‘The Stink’. Heightened Japanese anti-aircraft climbing to intercept them and the increasing dense cloud cover diverted Sweeney from the primary target of Kokura. Over the Eyra Kami Valley with not a moment to lose and taking advantage of a small opening in the clouds, 21 kilo tons of TNT was unloaded, exploding 43 seconds later, 1 1/2 miles NW of the aim point, 650 ft. above the ground incinerating 60% of the population, the secondary target. 80,000 were devastated from the initial explosion. Nagasaki.

TOKYO

Tokyo was scheduled next but Nagasaki ended the war. Japan surrendered six days later on August 14, 1945. Everyone agreed. Everyone signed. All done. No more. Never again. Victory in Europe. Victory over Japan. Payback for Pearl Harbor. Payback for all those inebriated, doped up, patriotic Kamikazes. There they are, the two combatants, Emperor Hirohito and President Harry S. Truman, the deed completed, dust off thy hands, pens put away, time to toast with the most expensive sake at this royal banquet; one participant masking the smugness of the win, the other courteous but dishonored just the same. Then that never to be forgotten day. Soldiers and sailors and crowds and crowds of people shouting and yelling and cheering for this glorious day, so thankful it was them and not us, never to be repeated again after such a good job well done. Peering through the heavy black wrought iron that bordered the immense mowed green lawn and way back there, polished white, can you see it? ‘Our House’. Looking amazingly quiet and powerful on this day. And proud.

THEY GOT OUT

Kicking. Actually, kicking this high. Squeals and screams. Hey, here’s another new fresh pile, never kicked before, pristine, to dishevel into the air with our brand-new yellow galoshes, toes pointed, our perfected ‘grand battements’ disrupting this picture-perfect postcard of the East Coast in the Fall. All the gutters, until out of sight, orange and umber and burgundy leaves, just waiting for us to disorganize everything. Giggles as we fall down on a heap. Why isn’t everyone doing this? Under the barren trees that, like the emperor who has no clothes, just spindly arms and knobby wrists and long needled fingers, is just too high to reach down and grab us, so no worry.

Washington D.C. There was not a more important place to be at this historical time. Papa’s accelerated promotion in ‘charge of espionage’ after his schizophrenic sojourn in Japan, secretly in the know then about the impending ‘storm’, the coded reports and the catalyst time to ‘get out’. And so, they did. Lily with three years old Yves and baby Marta made the last ‘free’ ship and Papa the last two engine airplane just as the overhead gates came crashing to the ground, locked, barbed wired with no way out for those party goers. Remember them?

They heeded not the warnings to ‘pass go’. To safety. To that statue. So here we are looking at all these brick houses, steep steps and steeper lawns only manicured for show. So here we are driving down the back alley, parking our two door Pontiac in the one car garage, treading through the metal gate down the path to the back stairs on to the porch with big Bertha, our maid, always there, always ready to open the door and invite us into her domain, always ready to give us a treat and then finally after her last dish is done and everything is set up for the next day even before the first bird chirps, she retires to her cozy small bedroom in the basement. Important dinners here, important guests, intense conversations, even invitations to the White House. Lily in pastel peach, ankles demurely covered, and Papa in his white dress Army uniform with stars lined up on the shoulder and ribbons lined up on the chest. The framed Legion of Merit on the wall in the hall across from the coat closet, in the shadows, dark and loyal, guarding those special secrets. Quiet, unimposing, safe, hidden. As they slip out, a quick reverent glance to be sure it’s there. It is.

So humid outside but we, the first and second conspirators, the chefs, are straightening up our make-believe kitchen. Just love being in this kitchen as the rain pours around this screened-in porch, around the refrigerator, the cake baking in the oven, our dolls upright in their high chairs with their legs sticking straight out. Poor Evie and to think she is a sister of ours, her trusted ones, altering her permanently and posing as ‘Super-Cut’ employees so that when all is said and done and not looking at all like baby Evie, we end our spa treatment with one lone spindly curl down her back. What did she know, hanging desperately on to her playpen avoiding the abrupt plop down that shocked her entire system every time? Bless her heart. She had even agreed to be our studio audience that day, albeit one, but what did she know? How could we have done such a dastardly thing to her, first ruining her adorable looks for months and last but not least, the punishment that we had not bothered to focus on in the slightest that would be facing us. Then there was grandmother, always in the master bedroom, across the upstairs hall that she shared with grandfather, in her rocking chair by the window. The same rainstorm gently patterning the pane with changeless designs as she stares saying her rosary for the thousandth time, her ticket to heaven guaranteed and her seat reserved. This home so home. This family so perfect.

Then finally back to California. Is that when ‘it’ started? While you were president of your company, taking the train with an hour of time every day just doing nothing but passing your life away. I mean, remember where you were. Remember the excitement of the Orient, even the exhilaration of war time and now here you are on the same track, over every morning and back every night, droning on and on, even nodding off. So monotonous. Keep staring at the same scene morning after morning, year after year. While you made a telescope and studied astronomy. While you translated your cherished first edition manuscripts from Japanese, French, Russian, Italian, your pre-porn choices, always titillating, except that only you, the language man, knew what the next printed word would disclose. While you studied bookbinding and bound your own books, downing the narrow steps into our basement after dinner as the house settled, with all your tables and slabs of marble and sheets of hand printed-paper. So much time to think and read and plan and wait. For an opportunity. The right one at the right time. The right child or the right moment? Which will be the chosen honoree? I have no place to look for you. You don’t fit under parent or pedophile. Pull up my chair close to the card table again so my back doesn’t keep hurting. Shuffling and turning and rounding up these cut out cardboards in a pile. Thumbing through this massive mess of disjointed pieces. I have the border done but I just can’t for the life of me find the next piece that fits. I cannot find the piece that fits. It just doesn’t fit. I don’t know how to make it fit. Why can’t it fit? Don’t panic. Just don’t panic. Relax. Breathe. It’s all right. Someday it will all come together. Someday it will all fit.

START WHEN

Every morning he wrapped around our favorite corner house for that train. Never late, always on time. Him and his briefcase, his suit, his tie, his hat. The den he just left was rimmed with windows opened wide in the summer to whiff the scent of the rose gardens below. The ceiling in the den. High gloss. Chinese red which mirrored your reflections as you walked below to sit on the couch brought from the Orient and upholstered in that exquisite foreign brocade. This room reeked of antiquity, class, mystery, riches and carved cedar chests. The East, so far away, was so hard to leave. So very hard. Crowded by rickshaws and scrambling people, bronzed and bent over and struggling to survive, swathed in sarongs, well, rags actually. So elegant, arm in arm, his white pressed suit, her cloche, her tight skirt showing just her ankle, her spit curl. Why leave? Why would you ever leave, pretending not to notice all the adulation as you strolled down this crowded road, vendors selling, vendors cooking, vendors looking. Why would you ever leave? Two words: Pearl Harbor.

But they didn’t just leave. They got out. They made it to this room full of freshly cut roses and soft classical music setting the scene. They made it to the blush pink living room swirling with deep reds and indigos of the wall-to-wall Persian carpet. His mahogany desk with the dark leather inserts. Polished. All the stunning lamps. Always on. His first cup of coffee. The kind you percolated so you had to wait for that first sip through that first cube of sugar. The pipe and the sophisticated way that he held it, tapped it, laid it down, so him, the smoke curling up to the red ceiling, so continental, the aroma, nothing at all like a cigarette, so elegant. So elegant the way that it curled up to the mirrored ceiling finding its way along the planks and then back down stealthily into his mouth and into his lungs and finally finding the perfect place to hang out. No rush. Plenty of time. Can wait an entire lifetime. Short or long. Who cares, really? Finally gasping for that minimal bit of air to fill those lungs that had already been inhabited. Waiting. For what? Even he, who knew everything, didn’t know what he was waiting for. But he was there, just the same. And on time.

Then the last to the second stop, 5 p.m. and the long hill to climb home. Such a strange ending each day for the elite president and CEO of his company, sometimes cutting through the alley, missing our favorite corner house, oh well. Put down the briefcase, ‘old fashions’ ready to toast and twirl and clink