Delsohn Steve - John Wayne, my father

JOHN
WAYNE,

MY FATHER

JOHN
WAYNE,

Aissa Wayne

with

Steve Delsohn

Copyright 1998 by Aissa Wayne and Steve Delsohn

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any meansincluding photocopying and electronic reproductionwithout written permission from the publisher.

Published by Taylor Trade Publishing
An imprint of The Roman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.
4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200
Lanham, Maryland 20706

Distributed by National Book Network

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Wayne, Aissa.

John Wayne, my father / Aissa Wayne with Steve Delsohn.

p. cm.

Originally published: London: Robert Hale Limited, c1991.

Includes index.

ISBN 0-87833-959-0

ISBN: 978-0-87833-959-4

1. Wayne, John, 19071979. 2. Motion picture actors and
actressesUnited StatesBiography. I. Delsohn, Steve.

II. Title.

PN2287.W454W38 1998

791.43028'092dc21

[B] 9747322

CIP

Printed in the United States of America

TO MY MOTHER, PILAR WAYNE,
THE MOST GRACIOUS HUMAN BEING
I HAVE EVER ENCOUNTERED.

AISSA WAYNE

TO MY FATHER, NORMAN DELSOHN

STEVE DELSOHN

My thanks to my three beautiful childrenJennifer, Nicky and Anastasiafor their special love and also for once in a while tucking me in at night! Thanks to Mary St. John and Debbie Schweic-kert for reliving part of the past with me. Thanks to Lou Nelson, Frank Weimann, and David Rosenthal for their enthusiasm and support. And a special thanks to Steve Delsohn for being so extraordinarily sensitive and understanding.

Aissa Wayne

My thanks to Mary St. John, Pilar Wayne, and Debbie Doner for sharing their lives and insights; to Lou Nelson and Cheryl Booth for their energetic and expert contributions; to Frank Weimann for his unstinting belief in the book and in me; to Joni Evans for her support and generous spirit.

A special thanks goes to David Rosenthal, my kind and extraordinary editor.

Thanks to my wife, Mary Kay, the best friend Ive ever had and forever the love of my life.

Steve Delsohn

Between

Between

JOHN
WAYNE,

MY FATHER

I am staring up at him in the cool delicious darkness of a theater, my father etched sixty feet high on a white-silver screen. My girlfriend nudges me. I pass our candy without shifting my gaze from the screen. It is 1963, I am seven years old, and today is a rare occasion. Almost always I see my fathers movies at home, in our projection room, with my mom and dad and our new baby, Ethan, and sometimes my fathers movie star friends.

Unless I am with my parents, or at school, I do not leave the house much at all. We live in Encino, in the San Fernando Valley, and our white colonial house sits at the top of a steep mountain rise, high above five rolling acres, all enclosed by ten-foot walls. At the bottom of our twisting driveway is a camera, fixed on our tall electric gate. Though sometimes we call it the compound, our estate is lovely as well as confining, precisely what my parents desire. They are frightened I might get kidnapped, especially my mother, who comes from Peru, but knows about the evil that can descend on Hollywoods children.

Today I am free. It is Saturday, late afternoon, and I am sitting in a theater with my girlfriend and her mother, surrounded by anonymous people. Up on the screen my father makes a joke, not even a joke, just a stoic remark, but its in his familiar drawl and the smiling strangers around me murmur their approval. I feel a trace of pride and a pinch of resentment, that all these faceless people think my father is such a charming man.

The movie is over and Im glad. Its another Western, and Im a little sick of them. My eyes still set for blackness, on the street I am blinded by sunlight, and the sticky summer air curls my golden brown hair. On the ride home my girlfriend and her mother discuss my dad and the movie. They are animated, and I know by their glances they want me to join in, but I just dont. Like my father I am prone to silent moods. Politely saying good-bye, I watch their shrinking car leaving our driveway, wondering if I should have asked them in, to see my father, and if they are mad, and whether the whole ride home theyll talk behind my back. I am not all that paranoidI dont thinkbut sometimes I cant tell who likes me only for me.

He isnt home anyway. My dad is again working late this weekend, over the mountain pass in the peculiar place called Hollywood. Usually, when my father is in town, hes always home for dinner. The second he bursts in our front door, he always says, HELLO THE HOUSE! He booms it, and the air in our house crackles with his energy. Then I run down the stairs and jump off the last one, into my fathers outstretched arms. I am not as little as I once was, but it hasnt stopped our ritual. Weve been doing it for years, and no one else is invited.

Tonight my father misses dinner, and there is no hello the house. Tonight hes in my room before I can climb off my bed to greet him. Inside my bedroom, my father is a giant in a dollhouse. When he sits on my bed now, it sags and groans under his weight. I need to know why hes so late, want to tell him how striking he looked on the full-size screen, but I dont get the chancemy father wraps me in his arms and pulls me to his chest. I can smell his Camel cigarettes, his Neutrogena soap and Listerine. I start feeling edgy. My father always talks before he hugs.

When my dad releases me, he cups my chin in his hand. I am lost for a moment inside his ice-blue eyes. My father has the bluest, lightest eyes I have ever seen.

Aissa?

There is a tightness to his voice. Now I know something is wrong. All I say is, Yes, Daddy?

Aissa, when you get older, and realize Im not as strong as you think I am, will you still love me?

Yes, Daddy.

Always with my father, it is Yes, Daddy; by now I say it out of reflex. Really, though, I am puzzled. My father is the strongest man on earth. At seven years old I do not know everything, but this I know utterly and positively. I want to ask why hed say something so silly, but now he is looking outside my window and just that quickly I lose my nerve. Maybe my dad is only tired. Maybe his violent smokers cough will not let him think straight.

As he always does when he is in town, my father curls the bottom of my blanket under my feet and leans back in to kiss me goodnight. He holds me close again, then I shut my eyes and pretend to be sleepy. I peek at his broad back as he leaves, then lie unsettled in darkness for what seems like hours. The following morning, and for many days after, his strange words echo again and again through my mind.

Sipping bitter coffee in a chilled hotel room, I stare outside at a listless Western morning. It is June 11,1979, and the doctors say today will be the day. Today my father will die of cancer.