The Seven Acres residence is at the north end of the city, in the foothills. I obtained the address from directory assistance, and rather than giving Charles Riley the chance to say no, I decided to appear with no warning. I was apprehensive, and even as I drove to Pasadena in the car I’ve been renting—my own car appears to have been stolen from in front of the theater—I wasn’t sure if I’d reveal my connection to him. I had no way of anticipating how I would react—whether I would maintain possession of myself, or be so undone by the presence of this man that I would be incapable of normal social discourse. As it turned out, I had little reason to worry.
The first thing I noticed about Seven Acres was its geographical isolation. As I said, it stood in the foothills, with the San Gabriel Mountains looming behind it. When I approached, I saw that the entire property was bound by a black iron fence. At the parking kiosk, a young security guard inquired as to the purpose of my visit, and I indicated that I was visiting Charles Riley. He nodded and handed me a parking pass. “You’re aware of all the rules here, I take it.”
I did not know what he meant, but I nodded yes. Entering the grounds—I was still several hundred yards from the main building—I saw a group of people walking on the grass. They were moving haphazardly toward the edge of the grounds, and sometimes one of them would try to wander off until a woman, who was clearly the leader, touched him lightly and redirected him to the group. Then the smallest one turned her face to the sky and released a blood-curdling shriek. At this point, I looked away and saw another group of adults seated around a table. Two of them were playing a board game, and the others appeared to be watching. Then one of the players took a handful of pieces and stuffed them into his mouth, which caused his opponent to hit the board and upset the rest of the game. I wondered what kind of place I had come to, and as I got closer to the building, I saw the sign: Seven Acres Residential Facility: Assisted Living for the Mentally Retarded.
After I parked, I sat in my car for a moment. I had no idea my child was in a place like this. In the weeks since I had learned of his existence, I had envisioned all sorts of things. He would be in his early forties now—what was his profession? Maybe he was a lawyer or businessman, a physician or a stockbroker. Or maybe he had followed in his parents’ footsteps and worked in entertainment, as an executive or writer or agent. Certainly at his age he would have a wife and children. Certainly, then, I would finally have grandchildren.
But as I sat in my car and stared at the sign, my visions of Charles Riley were altered. Or rather, the vision completely dissolved, for I could not conceive of what a grown man’s life would be like in a place like the one I had come to.
I got out of the car and entered the building through a large glass double door. At the front desk, an overweight woman greeted me heartily.
“I am here to see Charles Riley,” I said.
She smiled. “Really? Well, that’s a surprise. Charlie doesn’t get any visitors, other than the student volunteers from Pasadena City College. How do you happen to know him?”
I cleared my throat and tried to keep my voice steady. “I’m a friend of the family, you might say.”
The woman, whose name tag read Norma, pushed a pen and paper toward me. It was a visitors’ sign-in sheet, and after a moment’s hesitation, I wrote down my real name and address.
“Are you a friend of his birth parents?” Norma asked. “They abandoned him, you know.”
I looked down at my hands, uncertain of what to say, but Norma didn’t notice my awkwardness.
She leaned toward me and said in a theatrical whisper, “They say his parents were movie stars, and that he was a love child. Do you know if it’s true? We’ve always wondered who his parents might be. I’ll bet his daddy was Antonio Moreno; he has the same good looks.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It was my wife who knew the details.”
Norma called for someone to take me back to see him. My escort, a young nurse named Miss Greer, was efficient and businesslike. As we made our way down the hallway, she explained the purpose of Seven Acres.
“What’s happened historically is that retarded adults have no real place to go. So we give them a place to live, and structured activities. Some of them are quite self-sufficient; a few even have jobs, doing things like being checkers at grocery stores.”
We walked by a middle-aged woman in a wheelchair whose eyes showed no comprehension of her surroundings. “Hello. Hello. Hello,” she said.
“Well, hello!” said Miss Greer. “How are you, Annie?”
The woman just grinned, and said even louder, “Hello! Hello! Hello!”
“Tell me,” I said, “how did Charles come to be in a place like this?”
Miss Greer sighed. “Well, often, when parents discover that their children are retarded, they don’t want them anymore. They grow up in orphanages—special orphanages for children who will never be adopted—and then when they’re eighteen, they’re sent here. Charlie’s a special case. His records indicate that his mother—a woman named Margaret Riley, although she went by something else—did all sorts of crazy things to induce a miscarriage. Someone beat her and kicked her in the stomach repeatedly. She drank heavily or maybe took opiates. This child wasn’t wanted, regardless of his mental state. In fact, her behavior during the pregnancy might have contributed to his condition.”
I didn’t
