The Misbegotten

By Ann Vachon

Already a successful actor in Ney York in 1946, Raul is about to direct Eugene ONeills Moon for the Misbegotten. He starts by writing his own memoir since ONeill wrote many of his plays that way. His wife, Margaret, thinks it's a great idea shell learn all about his life in Mexico and California. But many

• Language: English
• Publisher: WordHouse Book Publishing
• Release date: Nov 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781685470449

Ann Vachon

Already a successful actor in New York in 1946, Raul is about to direct Eugene O'Neill's Moon for the Misbegotten. He starts by writing his own memoir, since ONeill wrote many of his plays that way. His wife, Margaret, thinks it's a great idea - she'll learn all about his life in Mexico and California. But many of the memories Raul dredges up are impossible for him to write. There are too many secrets he doesnt want anyone, especially his wife, to know. At first Raul is thrilled when ONeill gets involved in the plays production until he jeopardizes its success by taking over the casting, and then abruptly disappears. The wealthy investors backing the play decide it should open out of town, threatening Rauls dream of a New York triumph. Meanwhile, Margaret, deeply invested in her marriage but not as passive as she seems, quietly pursues her own dreams.

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−Maureen Brady, author of Getaway, Ginger’s Fire, Folly, and Give Me Your Good Ear.

To James Payton, who believed I could.

Chapter One

RAUL STARTS HIS MEMOIR

When he tried to remember his happy childhood it simply couldn’t be found. There is a brief moment of splashing in a pool of water, in the sun-dappled courtyard of his family’s home, his mother’s smile with the sunlight shining bright on her teeth, her dark hair hanging loose – she hadn’t put it up yet – but when he tried to fix her in his mind she’s gone, completely gone, and all he could picture is his abuela , looking stern and disapproving. This is not A buelita , whose broad lap he would climb up on so she could stroke his earlobes and tickle his tummy and sing him sweet songs. He can’t really picture her at all anymore, Abuelita Diaz , who stayed behind in Merida, and who he never saw again after he was six years old. Abuela Morales had come with them to California and lived with them until she died. She had never learned to speak English, and finally wouldn’t even speak at all, staying in the small back room behind the kitchen, praying perhaps, or maybe casting spells. Papa would go to her room every day when he came home, with a fresh glass of Limónada, to tell her about his day, and to listen to her worries.

Raul had decided to write about his life, to explore himself in the same deep way he had learned to do with the various stage roles he’d played. He was about to undertake his first major directing opportunity, Moon for the Misbegotten by Eugene O’Neill, and somehow thought this would be a useful exercise. Every critic had called O’Neill’s writing autobiographical, and they believed he’d dealt with his fury at his father’s drunken domination in this play. At any rate, Raul would try – there was nothing to lose.

When Raul thought about his own father, which he usually avoided doing, he felt a mixture of nauseating anger, guilt and deep regret. He hoped that writing about this, confronting his anger, would give him insights he could use with the play. The writing would resemble the preparation he’d done as an actor, but this time he would need to understand the motivations of the entire cast. Rehearsals for the play were scheduled to start in six weeks – would he be ready?

I was born in 1910, in Merida, Mexico. My father was a fine musician and my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. I was my Mama’s oldest, but Papa had two other boys whose mother had died. Javier and Pedro were much older than me. I was named Raul Federico Morales Diaz, and am told I was a sunny little boy with smiles for everyone.

But all he really remembered was being afraid. Afraid when his brothers decided to play with him, because he always ended crying. They would make fun of him when he dropped the ball, and they ran so fast that he couldn’t keep up. They smacked his head when he couldn’t answer their questions. They always pretended they wanted to play, and smiled, and it made him think this time would be different. And when he was finally convinced, and laughing and feeling good, something bad would happen. They might say Look Raul, up in that tree! and while he was looking, grab his coloring book and toss it in the fountain. Or they’d say Here Raul, catch! and suddenly throw something at his chest and knock him down. Or they’d ask What does your Mama do when she wakes up in the morning? And Raul would say she gets out of bed. And then what? Gets dressed. And then what? Brushes her hair. And then what? He knew they wanted him to say that she went to the toilet and pissed, but he couldn’t say that. So they would laugh and shout "Then what? Then what? Don’t you know, you Mariquita? When he started to cry they would stop, and then they would tell him to stop crying or they would get in trouble. They never got in trouble, but still they said he had to stop crying, and he never could. And that’s when they’d say, If you don’t stop crying, Mariquita, we’re going to cut off your pito!" and they’d show him the folding knives they had in their pockets because they were old enough.

How old was he then? It seemed to go on forever, but when they moved to California they lost interest in him. Any how the house was too small; there were always grown-ups in the room, and they weren’t supposed to make any noise when they played. Papa would be copying music scores, and Mama would be mending, or letting down hems. Abuela would say a rosary, and his little sisters would put their doll babies to sleep among the couch cushions.

He thought he should write more about Mexico; that’s where his story really began. Everything he wanted to say was about being there first, and happy, and then coming here and not knowing how to be an American. Not wanting to be an Americano. But wanting to fit in, to be just like everyone else.

In Merida we had a beautiful large Casa, with a walled garden and a fountain that we called ‘el unital.’ There were flowering shrubs and intoxicating smells…

He could almost smell them, right there in the New York apartment, with the windows closed tight against the November chill.

…and birds, flying around with shrieks and songs. Our house had many rooms, and Mama never had to cook because there were other people to do that, so she could play with me all the time.

And then his Mama went away, and he cried and cried, and when she came back there was a baby girl they said was his sister, and she was named Natalia. That happened many times. Mama would go away, and when she came back there’d be a new baby. Only sometimes they said that the baby had died. Javier and Pedro told him that the babies came out of her peepee hole and that Papa pissed on her at night to make it happen. But Raul didn’t believe them.

My little sisters Natalia and Rosalynda and my baby brother Ricardo were all born in Mexico.

The writing was going slowly. Raul wondered whether it was worth the effort. Why torture himself with these memories? Maybe a memoir wasn’t such a great idea, after all. It began as a way to confront some personal issues and to prepare on directing the play. He knew that he was censoring himself, and this was probably because his wife Margaret would want to read it. He had never told her much about these early memories but knew they were probably important to explore.

Also, one evening months ago they’d had dinner with Margaret’s friend Pauline, who was a magazine editor. She had suggested that his life would make a great story. She’d hinted that she would love to work on it with him. He’d forgotten all about that conversation until he started researching Eugene O’Neill. Now he determined he would continue the effort, however painful it might be.

When I was five the revolution began, and life became terrifying. Bandits would come to the door, and if Papa were there he would shout at them to go away, and slam the door, and Mama would weep and beg him to be careful. Once Papa was away, and she wouldn’t answer the door but they shouted that they would break the door and shoot us all unless she opened up. And so she let them in. They ate a lot of food, and then asked Mama to let them stay the night. When Papa came home he was furious, and he went into the bedroom where they were sleeping and demanded they leave. I could hear him shouting, but then everything got very quiet …

He didn’t really know what happened that night. Those men had guns. Of course they weren’t really bandits – that’s just what the grown-ups called them. Banditos. They were really revolucianarios, and Papa was the enemy because he had a big house and a lot of food. But no guns. Now he wonders what they did to his mother before Papa came home. Or after. He huddled under the covers and let his guardian angel cover him with his huge white feathery wings, so everything would be all right. Early in the morning he heard the banditos leave, and his mother was sobbing, and his father – maybe he was crying, too. He doesn’t know. He can’t remember.

Chapter Two

MARGARET

She came quietly into the room and saw that her husband had fallen asleep at his desk. She touched his hair gently and invited him to come to bed. Somehow she sensed that he had been thinking about his mother again. S he’d never met her because she had died when Raul was sixteen, leaving him shattered and abandoned. Sometimes she felt jealous of the passionate adoration he felt for his Mamacita . But she also knew the deep respect he had for her was grounded in that love, and he would never hurt her because he believed so deeply that a man who hurt a woman, whether physically or emotionally, was crude and despicable. Tonight they couldn’t have a conversation – Raul was clearly exhausted. But she was pleased that he was writing and wanted to support this new project. It might even help quiet some of his demons. Of course she wished he would talk with her. She was beginning to realize how alone she was in this marriage that she had so longed for, even initiated.

When she woke up the next morning a little after 7:00 the bedroom was chilly – the super started up the furnace around 6:00, and it always took a while for the radiators in their fifth floor apartment to warm the place. Raul was gone. He was already back at his desk writing. She brought him coffee and a bowl of oatmeal with cream.

Is it a play?

I don’t think so, darling, He said. I might be writing that memoir Pauline suggested.

Wonderful! Now maybe I’ll get to learn some of the things you never talk about.

Don’t I always answer your questions?

Yes, in as few words as possible! she snapped. Then she felt embarrassed.

It was true, though; their intimacy had certain very definite limitations, the main one being any open discussion about his childhood or family. She knew how wonderful (and beautiful and loving) his mother had been, and that his father had been an ‘honorable man’ but also a taskmaster. And she certainly knew Raul had disappointed his father when he came to New York, planning to find work as a professional musician but turned instead to theater, and became an actor. But he was a wonderful actor and had gotten plenty of work. His family had to be proud of him, and now he had a chance to direct an O’Neill play for the Theater Guild, which meant his career was taking off in yet another direction. He was back at his desk already, writing in longhand on a yellow pad. She hoped he would let her type the manuscript.

Chapter Three

RAUL WRITES OF CALIFORNIA

My father felt that Merida was not a safe place for his family anymore, so we moved to California when I was five.

Of course it wasn’t that simple. But he wanted his story to be a good read. He didn’t want it to get bogged down with the crowded trains creeping towards the US border, the awful scenes they witnessed, his baby sister’s fever on the train, the problems at the border crossing which he only sensed because of his parents’ stiff postures and profound silence. Then once in the US, getting to California was not easy. They stayed with friends of his father in Arizona, the whole family except for his abuela sleeping in one bedroom, his parents in the bed and all the kids on the floor. Papa bought a used DeSoto sedan. It didn’t have any rust, and the ceiling and walls and upholstery were all covered with soft beige plush fabric, but it had a sour smell that wouldn’t go away. Papa was the only one in the family who could drive. They were very crowded in the car, with Mama, Papa, Abuela, Natalia, Rosalinda, Ricardo and me. It was best when they drove at night when it was cool, but then there wasn’t any place to stay during the day. It took them three days to travel from Arizona to Los Angeles. Jaime and Pedro came by a long-distance bus.

My father was a classical musician, and he had been advised that the best place in the States to continue his career would be Hollywood, which was part of Los Angeles.

They had no idea how huge Los Angeles would be, or that just because the city had a Spanish name they would not be understood there. In fact they ended up living very far from Hollywood, in a section called Echo Park (or El Sereno) with many other Mexican families. They had enough money to live in a better neighborhood, so they always thought this would be temporary, until Papa got a job.

We were prosperous in Mexico; in the States we were considered peasants. That was very difficult for Papa, who had always considered himself a gentleman, an intellectual and an artist. Mama was not as concerned, except that she saw how deeply it affected Papa. We found a house to rent. It was modest, and the six children shared two bedrooms, while my parents slept in the living room and Abuela had a small room behind the kitchen, which was meant to be a pantry. Papa could play almost any instrument, and he was also a conductor, but he wasn’t able to find work as a musician right away. He did some score copying at home. His first job was as a security guard at a railroad depot, where he worked from midnight until nine in the morning. I knew he felt diminished by all these changes – I could see it in his face, and his posture. But at home he remained a powerful force. He insisted that we speak only Castilian Spanish, never mix Spanish and English, be respectful to our elders, work diligently on our homework, sit and stand straight, converse intelligently at the dinner table and practice our instruments. He had taught each of us a musical instrument; mine was the cello. The rule was to always have respect for our origins, our ancestors and ourselves.

He detested his father’s tyranny. It wasn’t only his children that he made toe the line. Mama would also be strongly rebuked for any lapses. If she sighed as she carried the food to the table, or gathered up one more load of laundry, he would proclaim This is no way to let your family see you. Her eyes would fill with tears, which would infuriate him all the more. He wanted her to always look cheerful, whether she felt that way or not. Sometimes when she was putting them to bed at night and they were alone, he would ask why she was sad, and she would say Your Papa works so hard, and he loves us all so much, so be good, Raul, and make him proud of you. And he always promised her that he would. But it was hard.

I practiced the cello diligently. The Bach suites were an amazing flying-carpet, carrying me far away from California, our crowded house and my stumbling efforts to speak Yankee English. I became quite competent and was asked to perform at our school and in local recitals. More than my brothers and sisters, who also studied music, I seemed headed for a musical career. That made Papa proud of me, even though if I practiced when he was at home he would cringe at the sounds I made, and he always had corrections and advice to give.

And then there was English. I was seven when we arrived in Los Angeles. Mama had taught me to read before I turned five, but of course that was in Spanish. When I went to school they put me in second grade because I was seven, but I couldn’t read any English at all because I couldn’t even speak or understand it. I remember our first reading session, when I tried to sound out the syllables, and the other kids all laughed at me. That was terrible. I knew I couldn’t be a crybaby, but it was really hard not to cry. That day I promised myself that someday I would be able to speak this terrible language better than any of them, and that I would become famous, and they would all be glad they had once known me.

His teachers encouraged him to become a prize student. He worked hard, was respectful and helpful, cleaned the blackboards, learned to write a flowing cursive, helped tutor other Mexican children in English grammar, did all of his homework, and practiced cello for three hours every day. He helped Mama take care of his younger brothers and sisters – gave the boys their baths every Saturday night, and combed and braided his two little sisters’ hair each morning before school. It seemed there was always a new baby in the house, waking and crying in the night, and Mama was always tired. Was he trying too hard to be good? Is that why he needed to finally rebel?

Raul had been writing for three hours the night before, and two more hours today. He had some appointments to keep, but he didn’t want to lose the momentum. Should he ask Margaret to type up these pages? She was always there for him, managing his career, his schedule, his publicity, his appointments. And yet he felt reluctant about letting her read the manuscript. How much had he actually revealed already? He knew he shouldn’t censor this for her eyes.

These thoughts made him uncomfortable. He always tried to be completely honest with his wife, carefully defining the limits of his interest in a carnal relationship and at the same time committing to utter faithfulness. This memoir would not speak of his past peccadilloes (which Margaret already knew about anyway) and certainly not his recent ‘dalliance’ with Mark, the young actor he had been seeing too much of. He grew damp under the arms, just thinking about these complications, and he knew this was not going to be easy.

Margaret! he called. I have a lunch appointment with Bruce today. Do you want to tackle my manuscript while I’m gone?

Of course I do.

Chapter Four

MARGARET

She’d tried to sound more casual than she felt. She had been afraid s he’d be left out of his latest project. Being the wife of Raul Morales was definitely an unusual role. No man could be more gallantly romantic. He was always sensitive to her needs, and particularly attentive when she had her occasional down periods. She