The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom; prisons are built with stones of law, brothels with bricks of religion.
—William Blake, “Proverbs of Hell,” from the poem “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell”
I left at night. Nothing’s finer than a good long overnight cross-country ramble to clear the mind. An evening departure means less traffic, slack trooper enforcement, higher speeds, better time. Plus you can get good reception of the all-night nationwide truckers’ radio show on KVOO out of Tulsa, and for variety you can pick up the Mexican stations out of Juarez.
A thermos of strong black coffee, a pocketful of speed and weed, and eight hours of white lines and starry night were just what I needed to contemplate what lay in store for me.
I reviewed what I knew so far. After hanging up with Betty, I had dialed directory assistance in Hampton, Virginia, requesting residential numbers for any and all Culkins.
“I have no listings, sir,” the operator said. Undeterred, I asked her to check for Culkin in the business listings.
“I do have two: Culkin Memorial Hospital and the Culkin Branch of the Hampton Public Library, sir. Would you like those numbers?”
Hey, now! Whoa! A hospital and a library? These Culkins must be robber barons. Or sweepstakes winners.
“No thanks. But could you check for Culkin in Newport News, Norfolk, and Portsmouth?”
“One moment, sir. I find no residential or commercial listings for Culkin in any of those metro areas, sir.”
I thought about just driving to Hampton and going to the hospital and the library and asking around about the family whose name graced their fine institutions. Surely some blue-haired librarian, filled with civic pride at the opportunity to share her knowledge of local history, would be delighted to tell me about the pillars of her community and what became of the Culkin clan. But I recalled Dr. Cohen’s words from freshman year in Boulder a decade ago and decided a more focused, less impulsive investigation might be better.
I called directory assistance in Richmond. No Culkins. Then I tried Washington, D.C., and Baltimore. Pay dirt! In Baltimore, there was a listing for a Willard Culkin. When he answered the phone, it was clear from the timbre of his voice that he was up in age. I explained that my name, too, is Culkin, and as an amateur genealogist, I was working on my family tree, and my research had led me to a connection to the Hampton, Virginia, branch. Might you be familiar with them, Mr. Willard?
“Oh, yeah! You’re not a Culkin if you haven’t tried to find a link to the Hampton clan! That’s the rich side of the family! But unfortunately, I’m not a part of it.”
“Well, I kinda figured there had to be some wealth there, because of the hospital and the library. But I’m not after money, just information. I just want to fill out all the branches on my tree. It surprised me that the operator said there were no listings for any Culkins in the Hampton area. Do you know what became of them?”
“Well, as I say, that branch is pretty distant from my own, and it’s been a number of years since I did my own research, but I do recall that the Culkin who donated the hospital and the library, the old man who made the original fortune—of course he’s long since passed now—I think he made it in oil and commodities, back in the twenties and thirties. And in his later life he was a U.S. congressman, I believe, or maybe it was just the Virginia statehouse. I’m not sure, it’s been so long. I’m an old man, you know. But I seem to recall his oldest son took over the family concerns and runs an oil outfit in Texas somewheres. The only first name I can remember is William, because it’s similar to my own, and that was the politician’s. Beyond that, I’m afraid I’m of little use to you, young man. Don’t recall any others, or any locations, either. You might try Dallas, though, for William’s son. If it’s oil, in Texas, I believe I’d start with Dallas.”
I had thanked ol’ Willard Culkin for his help and expressed a sincere hope that we’d meet some day, then found a listing for Culkin Oil in Dallas; the adrenaline boosters fired anew.
A receptionist put me through to Ben Culkin, president of Culkin Oil, but only after I identified myself as Russell Culkin, from Colorado Springs, calling on a personal family matter.
Ben seemed like an affable if inquisitive fellow. When I went through the family tree spiel that had worked so well with ol’ Willard in Baltimore, I could hear him warming to me and was encouraged.
“I’m a bit of a genealogy buff myself, Russell, and I gotta say I’ve never heard of any Colorado Culkins. This is intriguing! Hold on a second, do you mind?”
I could hear a rustling of papers in the background, and my encouragement morphed into panic.
“You there? Good. I’ve pulled out some of my charts here, and I’m trying to see how we might be related. What were your father’s and grandfather’s names on the Culkin side?”
Shit! I hadn’t thought this through. I couldn’t hem and haw; any delay at all, and he’d figure I was just bluffing, a fortune-hunting con artist.
“Stanley Byron Culkin, Junior and Senior,” I replied, without hesitation. I just used what I knew: my Johnson family names.
“Stanley Junior and Senior, you say? Hmmm. Where were they born?”
“Well, my father was born in Oklahoma City, and his father was born in Mountain View, Arkansas.” It was so much easier just to use the truth than to try to think up something on the fly.
“Oklahoma and Arkansas!” Ben exclaimed. “And all these years I thought I was the only one to ever leave the eastern seaboard! So much for my rugged pioneer pretensions! How old are you, Russell? And do you know your dad’s and granddad’s birthdays? I’m penciling in a new branch on my chart as we speak.”
“Well, I’m twenty-eight, and my dad was born in 1919, but I don’t have my chart with me right now, and I can’t recall my grandfather’s birthday. But let’s see, he died in ’73 at the age of eighty-one, so the year, at least, would be—”
“Eighteen ninety-two,” Ben offered. “What line of work were they in, Russell?”
“My granddad was with the Frisco Railroad, in some management capacity. And Dad’s a chemical engineer, been with Monsanto for almost forty years now. President of Monsanto International Engineering—oversees all the stuff they do outside the U.S.”
“Fascinating!” Ben said. I could hear more papers rattling. I had to turn this conversation around, and fast.
“But Ben, tell me about your side. You were originally from Hampton, Virginia, am I right? You’re the son of . . . let’s see, was it William? I spoke with a Willard Culkin, in Baltimore, who told me a little about the Hampton side, your family.”
“That’s right. Yeah, I see Willard here on my chart. I think he would be a second or third cousin once removed of my dad’s.”
“Okay, so we’re on the same page, it sounds like. But Willard’s kinda old and couldn’t recall much more than William’s name and that he had a son in the oil business, which brought me to you. I just took a shot and called Dallas directory assistance and got Culkin Oil. So tell me a little about your family. Do you have any siblings, Ben?”
“I have an older brother, yes, Will Junior, who lives in Miami. He’s in the music business, an entertainer. And two sisters, Kathy, who’s married and lives in Vermont, and Judith [jackpot!], who recently moved here to Dallas, as a matter of fact. Wanted to be closer to family after her divorce [another lucky break: no pesky husband to muck things up!]. And my wife and I have a son and two daughters.”
I was electrified. My hands trembled. Adrenaline rushed through my veins. My breathing came quick and shallow, and I could feel my own heart beating. I struggled to keep the excitement out of my voice, to sound more clerical than inquisitive, like the next questions were just mundane follow-up details. I must, at all costs, keep him from thinking I was zeroing in on Judith, or he’d circle the wagons and I’d be left, once again, outside the circle.
“And, let’s see now . . . how old are you, Ben? Forty-nine, you say? And your brother, Will Junior? Okay, fifty-one, right, you said he’s the oldest . . . and sister Kathy in Vermont? Forty-five, okay, and how about the other one, was it Judith? Um-hmm, forty-seven [bingo], okay. And, oh, by the way, did she take back her maiden name after the divorce, or . . . just for my notes, y’know, for the chart?”
“Understood. Actually she never let go of the family name. Did one a’ those fancy hyphenated names. Probably an early sign that the marriage was doomed,” he said with a laugh. “But I think she’s dropped the hyphen part now and gone back to just plain ole Judy Culkin.”
I stopped listening as Ben rambled on about his kids. It was all I could do not to just hang up on him and head for Dallas. Somehow, I managed to gracefully conclude the conversation. Ben and I expressed our earnest hopes that “we Culkins” could get together some day to compare notes in greater detail. I assured him that he’d be hearing more from me real soon.
I immediately redialed Dallas information and got Judy Culkin’s phone number and address. I couldn’t believe it. This was way better than the Dead C Scrolls. This was the goddamn holy grail!
To keep my promise to Betty—and more likely because I really just desperately needed to tell somebody who could fully appreciate the impact all this was having on me—I called a couple folks from Adoptees In Search with the news.
After all the congratulations and the way-to-gos, they told me that the consensus is that the telephone is the best way to make initial contact, based on much hard experience. A letter could be accidentally opened by a spouse who’s completely ignorant of his wife’s firstborn. And of course, you can’t just knock on the door and introduce yourself—there’s no telling what might be on the other side! It could be like a bombshell for both of you. No, the best way is with a discreet inquiry by phone, usually best done at midday, when everybody’s off to school or work. This way, both of you can absorb it all gradually, and nobody’s rushed or crowded or threatened. She can consider if, and when and where, a face-to-face meeting might be arranged, usually in a safe public place like a shopping mall or a restaurant. After all, she has no idea if you’ve turned out to be a serial rapist, and it allows her to preserve confidentiality, to protect her family from her past, if she feels that’s necessary.
As for the benefits to me of this approach, it gives me time to ease into the reunion or even to decide not to proceed if I get a bad feeling from the telephone conversation. (I couldn’t imagine anybody coming this far and then stopping for a “bad feeling.”) Sometimes the mother will sort of leech onto the child, they explained, to expiate long-buried guilt or to exploit for financial support, or respond in less predictable, even worse ways, to a myriad of psychological and emotional impulses, depending on past and present particulars. I acted like I was giving thoughtful consideration to the Search folks’ cautions. Yeah, that makes sense, I said. I hadn’t thought of that, I said. Of course, I can see how that’s important, I said. I indicated I’d follow their counsel and take the cautious, considerate, safe approach.
But I had no intention of giving Judy Culkin any opportunity to decline or stall a face-to-face meeting. What if she just hangs up on me? What if she says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, you have the wrong person, and do not contact me again!”?
No. Better not even give her the option. I mainly want to just lay eyes on her, once, if only for a moment before she slams the door in my face. I want to see that flicker of recognition I’ve been looking for in all those honky-tonks for all those years. I want to see if she looks like me, or I look like her. I want to meet my blood, in the flesh, if only for an instant.
So I’m cruising at 80 across the wide open Oklahoma Panhandle on a moonlit southbound two-lane. I figure to be in Dallas, parked on Judy Culkin’s street, in time to observe her leaving for work in the morning.
“Can I help you?”
She peers at me cautiously, the door opening only as wide as the security chain allows. I look intently at the inch-wide slice of Judy Culkin, my biological mother. No flicker of recognition in the one eye studying me through the cracked door. No, it’s more like a flicker of suspicion, or even fear. I try to calm her with a warm smile.
“Yes, ma’am. Are you Judith Culkin? Judith Anise Culkin?”
“Who’s asking?” The open space between the door and the jamb narrows slightly, as does her one eye, looking me up and down through the vertical slit.
“Oh I’m sorry, ma’am. Shoulda introduced myself. I’m Russell Culkin. I think we might be related.”
Her lips part slightly, her brow furrows, but she makes no reply.
After what seems like a long silence, she says, “I’ve never heard of any Russell Culkin. This must be some kinda mistake.”
Yep that’s me, Ma. You nailed it: Russell Culkin, Mistake. I clear my throat, take a half-step back, hoping to seem less threatening. “But you are Judy Culkin, right?”
“Good. I don’t really expect you to know me. We’ve never met. I mean, wull, I guess we did actually meet, once, briefly, but it’s been a long time, and I looked a lot different then.”
Earlier that morning, I had observed Judy from a half block away. It was about 7:30 a.m., and she had appeared to be dressed for work. She and two male teenagers carrying book bags (half brothers to me?) had piled into the family van and driven right past me. Nobody else—no new boyfriend, ex-husband, or other kids—had left the house, and nobody had returned. After an hour or so of surveillance, I surmised that the place was unoccupied and checked into a nearby Motel 6. I called Nancy to assure her I’d arrived in Dallas safely around sunup and had found Judy’s place with no problems.
“I couldn’t get too good a look at her, or the boys,” I said. “The house is more modest than I expected for somebody who’s rich.”
“Just ’cause she comes from money doesn’t mean she has any,” Nancy said, astutely. Then she made me promise to try to get some rest before just showing up and knocking on her door in a sleep-deprived frenzy.
But after gazing at the ceiling for an hour, I abandoned my effort to sleep. Who was I kidding? My mind raced through every scenario I could imagine, and the permutations were endless. I showered, shaved, put on a fresh pair of slacks, a clean white button-down shirt, and a navy blazer (deciding a tie was too formal for the occasion). Took a half tab of white cross just to keep my eyes open till lunchtime, then went to a Waffle House for a fresh hot refill of the thermos. For good measure, I choked down the All Star breakfast—two over easy, hash browns, bacon and sausage, toast, and the obligatory waffle—just to take the edge off (despite an utter absence of appetite). When the liquor stores opened at 10, I laid in a fifth of Jim Beam and iced down a case of longneck Buds in my motel bathtub (for later, whatever the outcome), then returned to my post a half block from Judy’s house, to sip black coffee and smoke Camels while waiting and hoping she might come home for lunch, alone. It could be my only chance to snag her without the boys around.
And then I had gotten lucky, yet again.
Now there’s another awkward silence as Judy considers my mysterious last words (about our first encounter, long ago) and I search for my next words.
She cocks her head for a moment, then shakes it.
“No, I’m certain we’ve never met. But you say you’re a Culkin?”
She unhooks the security chain and opens the door a little wider, though still not enough to indicate welcome, much less an invitation to enter. But she eases into a friendly banter.
“There aren’t too many of us, you know, especially out here in the Wild West. I’ve only been here in Texas for a few months now, myself . . .”
“Well, not to be presumptuous, ma’am, but I’m pretty certain we have met. It’s just been a long time ago—like twenty-eight years.” I study her eyes closely, for the flicker.
But all I see is confusion. Then she throws caution to the wind, opens the door all the way, takes a step out and looks beyond and around me with an uneasy smile. It’s my first full, close-up look at her. She’s attractive, in a cute, mid-to-late-forties kinda way. Trim figure, nice teeth, full breasted—I’ve always sorta fancied older women.
I catch myself with a start: Yikes, Johnson, you sick fuck! She’s your mother, for Christ’s sake!
“Is this some kinda Candid Camera stunt?” She’s looking around for Allen Funt and his crew. “I mean, how old are you, anyway? Where could we possibly have met twenty-eight years ago? I woulda been just a teenager, and you . . . ?”
She really bears little if any resemblance to me. She has stubby fingers like me, and her coloring is similar, but otherwise, I just don’t see it. Neither, apparently, does she.
“Well, it was kind of a unique circumstance. I don’t actually remember anything more than the date, to tell the truth, and that’s only because people have told me. I’m hoping maybe you’ll remember more about it than I do. Does January 26, 1952, ring any bells?”
And there it is: the flicker.
She takes a stagger-step backward. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out. She quits looking for the cameras in the background and fixes her gaze on me.
“It was New Orleans, Louisiana, they tell me. At Tulane Hospital. And there was a place you stayed at there, called The Willows.”
Judy’s eyes get big. There’s white all around her pretty green pupils. She puts a trembling hand on the doorknob and leans against it to steady herself. My ears fill with what sounds like pounding surf, and I feel a little wobbly in the knees myself.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, her face stricken, the blood draining from her face. “It can’t be you. It can’t be . . . God! They said you’d never . . . how did you . . . God! I need a cigarette.”
She reaches for a pack of Marlboro Reds from a table in the foyer, tears at it with shaky fingers, torches the filter end with her Bic before realizing her mistake, relights it, and takes a deep pull on the proper end. I could use a smoke myself, and a slash of Beam to go with it, but hold off.
Exhaling as she looks me up and down once more, she finally says, more to herself than to me, “You’re Russell? My little, sweet, baby boy Russell? Ohhh, you must be! How else could you know?”
Then the dam breaks, and the cradle must fall, and down floats the baby, cradle and all—on a river of maternal tears.
She opens her arms, reaching for me, sobbing.
That intense—in some ways, harrowing—first encounter with Judy had taken me a while to process. Despite (or because of?) her wealth and privilege, Judy’s life had not been one of ease and comfort. In many ways her life and family stories reminded me of my own, and of several I had come to know from my classmates at the snooty St. Louis prep school I had attended (which had compelled my decision to get as far away from there as possible in search of a new persona as much as a higher education).
That long drunken night she had shared with me the intimate details of her struggles, her compulsions, escapes, and losses. With the kindest of intentions (but blurred boundaries) she had disclosed her life to me as a sort of cautionary tale, perhaps hoping at some instinctive, protective maternal level to steer me clear of the pains she’d suffered as the result of her own incautious behaviors. The reckless, impulsive behaviors that had drawn her as a teenager to a swaggering Marine only to be cast aside by him and cast out by her own family; that had later damaged her reputation and ruined her marriage to a kind and decent man from rural Michigan. Demons that had driven her to relocate and reinvent herself from the impossibly rich East Coast debutante to the frozen lockstep of upper Midwest domestic conformity, to the gay divorcee partying with the rowdy wildcatters and cowboys in Dallas.
Though I didn’t look much like Judy, I identified with her far more than I’d anticipated—or would have liked.
At that first encounter, all three of Judy’s kids welcomed me into the family with the same delight and enthusiasm that Judy had. Suddenly I had three half siblings. Such welcome had not been forthcoming from the rest of Judy’s family, however. Her brother Ben was furious that my deception of him had been the key to locating Judy, and sister Kathy was certain I was just a gold digger after a piece of the family fortune. Notwithstanding their skepticism, my “reunion” had been about as successful as such reunions get, compared to the horror stories I’d heard from the adoption search people.
But I was troubled by the similarities between Judy’s life and my own, particularly by the alternating patterns of profligacy and piety. Meeting Judy had answered many old questions, but it seemed to open up a bewildering array of new, scarier ones. How much of my destiny is predetermined by nature, how much by nurture? What must I do to forge my own path, independent of either?
And what of that other wild card, the mysterious Marine who impregnated then abandoned Judy thirty years ago, no doubt further scattering his seed from here to Korea?
I would replay in my mind that boozy, blubbery night when Judy told me the story of Tom Whitaker. He had been her first love, she said, “And they’re always the most intense, you know.” A crack marksman, he was a riflery coach at Parris Island. “And he looked like a movie star in his dress blues,” she’d said, sounding like the teenager she’d once been. “You know the Marines have the best uniforms, with the brass buttons, the red piping, and the white belts and hats!” His hometown was Motown, his father some big exec in the auto industry. Though only a year older than Judy, he seemed (to her sheltered nineteen years) so worldly and dashing and “slightly dangerous”; he was simply irresistible.
“You look just like him: so handsome,” she’d said, her eyes brimming.
But when she had shared the news of her pregnancy with him, he denied responsibility, saying “anybody in the barracks” could be the father, for all he knew. She insisted tearfully that he’d been her first, her only. But he had stormed off and then would not even take her frantic phone calls. A few months later, as my presence grew obvious, one of Tom’s fellow Marines telephoned her with the news that Tom had requested duty in Korea and had shipped off to the 38th parallel to be a sniper behind enemy lines.
Her parents were furious with her. They plucked her out of Wright College for Women in Beaufort, South Carolina, and put her on a train to The Willows in New Orleans. There, all the other girls whispered that she must be the daughter of Howard Hughes because of all the trunks of fine clothes that had arrived with her. They were jealous, and they shunned her. She was miserable and unbearably lonesome for what seemed an interminable six months. Her parents would visit her not once in New Orleans.
On January 26, 1952, after a sleepless night of increasingly painful contractions, she delivered me at a little past midmorning. She was allowed to hold me for all of two hours at Tulane Hospital before she was shuttled back to The Willows. She never saw me again and was whisked off by her parents a few days later for a whirlwind tour of Paris. Not to cheer her up, or to begin a new life for her. The trip was solely for the purpose of buying enough French trinkets and souvenirs, taking a sufficient number of snapshots of her next to landmarks, to lend credibility to the great Culkin cover-up: Judith had spent a semester studying at the Sorbonne.
“I had absolutely no say in the matter, you understand. There was never any discussion of keeping you. My parents, especially my mother, they were proud people. And of course back then, it wasn’t like it is now. It could have been a major, major scandal, a disgrace to the whole family, and my father had his businesses to think of and his political aspirations. If it had been like nowadays, I’d have probably just had an abor—” She caught herself but not quite soon enough. I must have blanched. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean what that sounded like! If you only knew how I grieved for you, for years! Every January, I’d get so-o-o blue around your birthday, I’d just hafta drink my way through it!”
There’s a comforting thought, I remember thinking, as I had downed another shot of Beam and chased it with a pull of Bud.
When she returned to Hampton, Virginia, a letter was waiting for her, from that same barracks buddy of Tom’s who had told her of Tom’s orders to Korea. He was writing, sadly, to inform her that Tom had been killed in action on one of the many frozen, barren, unnamed pork chop hills of this forsaken hellhole. Before Tom had shipped out, the guy wrote, “Tom made me promise that if anything happened to keep him from coming home, I would let you know. Tom was a brave warrior, a patriot, he gave his life for his country, for our freedom, blah, blah, blah,” Judy recited with a sneer, twin flumes of blue smoke streaming from her nostrils.
I was a little put off by her cynical telling of Tom’s story, and saddened by the news, despite his less-than-honorable exit from their shared predicament.
“Weren’t you devastated?”
“What? ‘Devastated’? Oh, Hayelllll no!” she scoffed. “I thought, good riddance, you cowardly son of a bitch!” Evidently, some long-buried resentment still stirred. Judy took another gulp of Beam and a drag from her Marlboro. “I mean, the way he treated me? To hell with him! He got what was coming to him, courtesy of the corps and the commies!”
There was a long pause, and my throat constricted. “So, that’s it for him then, huh Judy? Adiós, muchacho? I guess it’s sorta the end of a road for me, too, in a way. Do you know . . . is he buried in Arlington?”
“Ohhh, honey, I’m sorry,” Judy said, suddenly tender. “I did it again, didn’t I? Oh, you’re so sensitive. I knew you would be . . . I just assumed . . . I guess I thought . . . I guess I didn’t think, did I? But since you found out everything about me, I guess I just thought you knew all about him, too. But of course, you couldn’t. You didn’t even know his name until you found me. Oh, I’m so sorry. And no, I don’t have any idea where he’s buried.”
“Didn’t you get some kind of official telegram or something from the Defense Department, or the Marines? A letter of condolence, at least?”
“Why would I? I wasn’t next of kin. We were never married. They don’t send that stuff to old girlfriends. I’m sure the Marines don’t even know I exist.”
No, of course not. A guy like Tom Whitaker probably had lots of girlfriends. No way the Corps could or would bother with any of them. No official communication for Judy Culkin or any of the countless other grieving jilted girlfriends left behind to deal with Tom’s liberally scattered seed. How sad, how tragic, really, but (it struck me, out of nowhere) how very convenient for him.