When Mariyn Reed was about to turn sixteen, she said she was going to confront my mother about the hold she had over me. I told her that was not a good idea. She marched in the house determined to break this hold. Before I could count to ten, I hear Rosemary shout; “No one tells me how to raise my son!” followed by Marilyn’s screams. I went to her rescue. My mother had her by the hair and was slapping her face as hard as she could. I pulled the monster off M. Jon Presco Copyright 2016
After my mother was arrested, she fled to L.A. lest she face a trial and more charges. She left her four children in the care of an old crazy woman who ate cold pork and beans out of the can while she watched T.V. with us. We hardly got a word out her. She looked like a witch and had a big mole.
Six months later, she came and got us. We saw very little of her. She went out a lot, and there was often a doggie bag from the Beverly Hills Hotel with a steak inside she hardly touched.
Near the end of her life, I asked Rosemary about her secret life. She told me she hung with a crowd at the Beverly Hills Hotel that was too degenerate for her taste.
It was right after our move to L.A. in 1964 that Rosemary told us she knows…
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