Waiting: One Wife's Year of the Vietnam War

Chapter 18

{Chapter 18} When the Tate murders story first broke, Susan was again mesmerized by current events that were far removed from her personal involvement. From the initial headlines that announced the multiple deaths of the pregnant actress, her friend Abigail Folger, and their male companions, she tracked the story with a detective’s zeal. I initially did not pay much attention to the articles about the gruesome crime scene except to be repulsed by the details and distressed about the unborn baby. The butchery and the blood-written messages on the wall frightened me, and I found myself hoping that the cause of the murders was somehow a personalized vendetta toward those particular people, not a random slaughter. The world was scary enough without crazed killers on the loose. Susan’s interest in the mystery made her preoccupation with Ted Kennedy ’s Chappaquiddick fiasco pale in comparison. She freely speculated with each news release that hit the wires and magazines. As she reiterated the location of the Tate-Polanski home based on a published map, I recalled the afternoon Connie and I had explored the canyons around Los Angeles. Before that time, I would have assumed it impossible for a house to be secluded in such a heavily populated area. Now I knew differently . As I looked at the map, which was not so different from the street vendors’ routes to the stars’ homes, the story moved a step closer to my soul as I wondered if the killers had been stalking the area two months before. We read all we could find and Susan, as she had been with the Kennedy story, was desperate enough for information to watch the TV news. We [136] chapter 18 discussed possibilities until each day’s reporting went flat and we waited for the next turn of events. “This is really sick, you, know,” I pointed out one night as we sat among clippings and dog-eared magazines. “What is?” Susan asked without looking up from the paper. “Our obsession with these gory killings.” She lowered the newsprint and said fatalistically, “Maybe. But it beats the hell out of worrying about Vietnam.” I had my second appointment at the Letterman OB Clinic, this time taking a book for my day in the musical chairs. I grimaced when I weighed in and prepared myself for another lecture. The doctor I drew this time either didn’t notice the scale reading or didn’t care, which left me feeling that I was getting away with something. He did, however, arch his young eyebrows over my folder and tell me that he, in contrast to the last doctor , considered me borderline anemic and that I should be seen every two weeks instead of monthly. When he closed the folder, I said, “I want to meet my husband for R&R in early October. Do you see any problem with my flying to Hawaii then?” “Well, I wouldn’t really advise it.” I countered, “But that’s not the question. Will it hurt the baby for me to fly to Hawaii in October?” He grumbled something about my discomfort but didn’t seem to think the baby would be in jeopardy. He added, “I hear flight attendants are trained in childbirth.” That was a sobering thought that I considered momentarily. But giving birth in a plane did not seem like something that would happen to me so I stepped light-heartedly out of the hospital and headed for the commissary to stock up on all the goodies the next obstetrician was likely to take away. Susan, having called in sick again, was home when I returned. “Is this the beginning of the end?” I teased. She couldn’t quit her job anytime too soon for me. “Probably. But you know, I just realized the other day that there is an insurance corporate office on the corner a block away from here. I’m going to apply.” August 1969 [137] She did and a week later was working within sight of our flat. The job allowed her to use her mind and it paid better, too. She came home, if not always in a chipper mood, at least in a more agreeable frame of mind. Within days, we had settled into a new routine. Susan dashed off to work each morning, and I ran my errands at the Presidio or puttered around the house between watching for the mail...