Playground (8 page)

J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R

We’re a few feet from the glass cabinet filled with naked figurines

in sexual positions and I try to divert her attention away from it,

but it’s too late. She presses her face against the glass and peers in-

side. Her expression is one of sheer horror.

“What the hell is this?” she shrieks.

We’re dead. Game over. I can hear
Donkey Kong
fall down to

his cage as Mom drags us out of there in a hurry.

My mother files a court order restraining my father from taking us

to the Mansion. The court order states that Savannah and I are not

allowed anywhere near the property.

“Your father will be in serious violation of the law if he does

not comply with this.” Mom waves the piece of paper forcefully.

“We know how well your father listens, so I am warning you girls.

This is serious. I know you think I’m being mean, but I’m not. This

is for your own good, trust me. No female with any self-respect

goes up there.”

Savannah and I pretend to understand, but we don’t. We nod

in agreement and promise never to go up there again.

As expected, Dad ignores the court order, and rents a beach

house in Malibu so Mom won’t suspect where we sleep when it’s his

days and weekends with us. We spend most of our time racing back

and forth from Malibu to the Mansion. Dad is always in a rush.

Savannah and I continue to share room six at the Mansion.

Clothes are thrown everywhere. At night, Dad is busy playing Mo-

nopoly with the guys, while we order trays of food in bed, never

caring if we spill or get crumbs anywhere. The butlers deliver our

feast and clean the trays in the morning. We have pillow fights,

hang up on security, chew lots of bubble gum, and stay up late

watching the Playboy Channel, even though we know Mom will

kill us if she finds out.

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Playground

In the morning, Savannah and I race downstairs to help

the butlers pack our lunches. Excited about the vast selection, we

choose peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, fruit rolls, homemade

cookies, and bottles of Pepsi, along with copious amounts of gum-

balls.

Dad is usually too tired to drive us to school, so Hef ’s limo

drops us off while we blast Diana Ross, feeling like big-time movie

stars as we near the front of El Rodeo. The fun ends when we spot

all the nosy parents dropping their kids off. We make funny faces

at them through the tinted windows, knowing they will definitely

tell Mom if they see us. We duck, asking the driver to drop us off

down the block, and walk the rest of the way.

After school, Hef ’s driver picks us up because Dad is busy

playing backgammon. Back at the Mansion, the thought of doing

our homework never crosses our minds. It is not enforced or

talked about because here we are not children—we are treated as

adults. While most kids are in ballet, gymnastics, Girl Scouts, or

engaging in after-school activities, our main desire is to find out

who’s playing in Hef ’s pool. We don’t need to play with Barbie

dolls because there are live ones walking around everywhere.

We race up to our room, throw our books down, change into

swimsuits, and head down to the kitchen, grabbing handfuls of

cookies on our way out to the pool. Savannah and I wave to Dad

and the others as we climb the hidden staircase to the grassy land

above the waterfall and take turns jumping off.

This place has become our sacred retreat, our home away from

home, a magical passage into fantasyland where we can forget all

about our problems and become lost in our adventures.

Nights are far from quiet as my sister and I roam the halls of

the Mansion like Eloise at the Plaza, spying on everyone from be-

hind the wooden banister. Down below, strobe lights twirl; an-

other disco party is in full swing. Everyone looks so different at

night.

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J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R

They look like the people on
Dynasty:
glittering, untouchable,

heavily made-up, and perfectly at ease.

I recognize designer outfits from the pages of my mother’s

fashion magazines. A black Givenchy jersey gown drapes a petite

woman with brunette hair piled on top of her head. The dress falls

open to the small of her back, nearly exposing the crevice that lies

millimeters below.

My father and Tony Curtis schmooze bubblegum blondes and

big-hair brunettes. Vanna White, in a lavish sequin-encrusted Hal-

ston gown, is surrounded by a herd of men. She always radiates

warmth and a genuine smile. She is very approachable and

friendly to everyone.

Across the way, Hef and a small group of people come up the

stairs and go into his bedroom, closing the door behind them. I feel

slightly left out, but Savannah is content watching the beautiful peo-

ple and admiring the glamorous outfits the women wear: long fur

scarves, turquoise glitter, huge shoulder pads under ruffled silk

shirts, tight jeans, tall leather boots, spiked heels, and bright makeup.

By this time, Mom and Dad split custody over the summer, so dur-

ing Dad’s half, Savannah and I spend most of our time by Hef ’s

pool, lying on rafts, tossing beach balls, and jumping through gi-

gantic plastic tubes in the water. Savannah and I set up a small

Kool-Aid stand with little cups while the Playmates play topless

volleyball in the pool.

“What are you girls doing?” one of Hef ’s friends asks.

“Making Kool-Aid. Want some?”

“Why thank you, girls; how lovely of you. How are you both

today?” the nice white-haired man asks.

“Fine, thank you. How come we always see you reading so

much?” I ask, noticing a book in his hand.

“I’m a writer, so I enjoy experiencing the world even if I

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Playground

haven’t seen it all myself,” he explains as we peer at him quizzically.

“Imagine taking a vacation to an unknown place all in three hun-

dred small pages,” he chuckles, waving the book in his hand.

“We love vacations,” we tell him.

“The key is to never stop learning.” He smiles as he walks away.

“What kind of service is this?” Dad waves his arm, cigar in

hand, waiting for his Kool-Aid to be delivered. He wears a tight

Speedo and sits next to Hef, who’s in silk pajamas, smoking a pipe.

Savannah and I bring a cup of Kool-Aid to them.

“Thank you, my angels,” Hef smiles kindly.

“Thanks, girls.” Dad puffs on his cigar as proud smiles sweep

across our faces.

“Do refills come with these?” Dad asks.

“Of course, but only for a tip,” we say, smiling back.

“I taught my girls well,” Dad gloats as we race back to our

stand to make more Kool-Aid. After mixing up a fresh batch, we

see Dad lift his cup high into the air. We rush the pitcher back over

to him and refill his punch, pouring Dad’s glass first.

“Out of breath, kid?” Duke chuckles. “We might have to put

you on an exercise program. You can follow Hef ’s latest health

kick: three blondes, two brunettes, and one redhead.”

“Doctor’s orders!” Dad chortles.

We all laugh.

It’s morning, and Savannah and I are the first ones up.

We roll out of bed, open our door, and walk quietly down the

hallway. I notice new photographs of my father, Savannah, and me

along the wall. A warm sensation travels through me. This really is

like our home.

Clicking noises catch my attention so I tiptoe slowly toward the

sounds. Savannah follows carefully, putting her feet exactly where

mine were.

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J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R

Over the clicking we hear a man’s voice.

“That’s it, shake it out, move it all around,” he says.

Through the partially opened door we see a tan, thin blonde

lying on a bed while men in blue jeans and T-shirts move; light

stands in a circle around her.

She kneels on the bed, squeezing her breasts together, her

mouth slightly open.

The man holding the camera clicks every few seconds as bulbs

flash.

“You’re doing perfect. Give me that ‘Fuck me’ pose. Every man

in America is going to love you for this,” the photographer says.

Savannah is in awe at what she sees as a glamorous photo

shoot. Her eyes sparkle at the sight of the lucky blonde getting all

the attention.

The Playmate pulls her skimpy, black lace lingerie down with

one finger as I accidentally lose my grip on the door panel and

crash to the floor.

“Who’s that?” the photographer yells.

Jumping up, Savannah and I race down the hallway as one of

the men rushes out.

We take a sharp left down the back staircase and out the side

door and lean against the wall sighing heavily.

“Maybe I’ll be a model one day,” Savannah says with a dreamy

expression.

Not me, I think, worried that my sister wants the wrong kind

of attention.

As the summer continues, Dad’s mood swings begin to become er-

ratic. He is more abrupt and short with us than ever before. His tone

takes on a new meaning as it leaves us feeling stupid and worthless.

His temper flares from nowhere and we can’t figure out why. It

doesn’t seem to matter whether we misspell a word, forget to do

50

Playground

something, or don’t do something and say we did. We don’t know

why he gets so mad; we know he doesn’t mean it. He just can’t con-

trol his temper.

Savannah and I are jumping up and down on the bed, singing

along to Sugarhill Gang when Dad enters our room, his eyes zero-

ing in on the wet bathing suits and clothes littering the floor. The

record scratches to a screeching halt as our smiles fade to frowns.

“Who left this crap lying around?” he demands, sick and tired

of our sloppiness.

“We didn’t mean to leave it here,” I explain, defending us.

“Then why is it here?” he questions, his eyes making us feel

even more stupid.

“We must’ve forgotten it after we changed,” I mumble, watch-

ing as he paces, wiping his nose, furious as he cogitates about how

to deal with his idiot children.

“That’s right! You forgot. You two don’t have jack shit to do

around here! I gave you a very simple task! Maybe you can try

picking up your crap for a change!” he shouts.

Savannah and I glance at each other, frightened by his mean

tone.

“You girls have everything you could possibly want. Most kids