No, Daddy, Don't! (15 page)

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Authors: Irene Pence

BOOK: No, Daddy, Don't!
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At 6:25
P.M.
, to both her relief and chagrin, she spotted Battaglia’s truck. She pulled up one row away from him and told her daughters, “Okay, sweeties, here you go.” They both climbed over the seat and gave her kisses and tight hugs before reluctantly getting out of the car. She watched them shuffle unenthusiastically to Battaglia’s large truck. As he stretched across the seat to unlock the door and open it for them, she happened to catch his eye. He frowned and glared at her. It was the most hateful, belligerent stare she had ever seen. She watched as Liberty showed him the laminated book she had made in school; then piled several Beanie Babies on top of it before climbing into the truck. Faith shut the door and Battaglia put his car into gear. He circled by Mary Jean. As he passed, Mary Jean caught Faith’s lonesome stare. Without smiling, Faith gave her mother a final wave good-bye, moving her right hand in an arc in front of her sad face.
Mary Jean watched them leave. Before Battaglia’s black pickup had pulled onto Mockingbird Road, she felt an overwhelming sadness, and tears glistened in her eyes. She had never felt so alone. Those girls were her life. She drove aimlessly away from the shopping center, but she couldn’t rid herself of the vision of Faith’s halfhearted wave and melancholy expression.
Tonight, Mary Jean was to attend the USA Film Festival Board meeting. The organization raised money for the arts, and she enjoyed working on it. She would see many of her friends there. Her thoughts wandered to the galas she had helped orchestrate, which brought back pleasant memories of meeting the actors and actresses who came to town for the benefits. It was a happy, upbeat organization, but she felt neither happy nor upbeat. Tonight she didn’t want to be around people who expected her to be cheerful and outgoing and positive. Tonight, she was none of those things.
Since Mary Jean wouldn’t be home from the board meeting until ten or ten-thirty, her good friend, Melissa Lowder, had agreed to let John Battaglia drop off the girls at her house after dinner. Melissa’s house was several blocks from Mary Jean’s and was on Mary Jean’s way home. Mary Jean decided she would feel better if she stopped and talked with Melissa instead of going to the meeting. Once she made that decision, Mary Jean accelerated up Preston Road, raced down University Avenue, and then pulled into the driveway of Melissa’s two-story beige brick home.
 
 
John Battaglia would later tell a
Dallas Morning News
reporter what the children had said to him that night.
John exited Avon Cleaners with his plastic-covered laundry and dry cleaning slung over his shoulder. As he opened the truck door, a store across the street caught his eye.
“See that place over there?” he asked the girls. “It’s got tents and stuff. Maybe there’s something we could use for our campout next weekend.”
Liberty and Faith looked at each other but said nothing.
“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?”
Faith gave her father a despondent glance. “I don’t think we’re going camping,” she said quietly.
Battaglia audibly groaned. “Okay what is it this time? What’s your mother up to?”
The girls looked hesitant to speak. Liberty said, “You tell him,” then turned to look out of the truck’s window.
Faith cleared her throat. “Daddy, you know what you told us on the phone tonight? That you’d be in jail?”
John’s muscles tensed. “Well, maybe it won’t happen that soon.”
“Mom says you could be in jail for a month or so.”
That damn Mary Jean. She’ll do anything to make my life more miserable than it already is.
Battaglia looked off into the crowded street, ignoring his daughter’s statement. His mind started racing. “How about getting some barbecue?” he asked. “We haven’t done that in a long time.”
The girls nodded.
So Mary Jean’s intent on keeping me from my girls,
he thought.
Well, I’ll just show her who’s boss.
His mind moved into fast-for ward and began spinning out of control.
“If I’m gonna eat barbecue I can’t do it this suit. Let’s run by the loft and I’ll change into something casual.”
 
 
The entrance to the Adam Hats Lofts was utilitarian and somewhat factorylike. The building had retained much of its original character from when the Ford Motor Company had constructed it in 1913 to build Model Ts.
Faith and Liberty had rollerbladed in the lobby, which looked like a whimsical playground—one wall was painted deep purple, and that purple color continued vertically to all four floors. Another wall was gold and others were white, lending more vivid contrast to the dramatic colors.
Ford had built a metal, four-story, open spiral chute to fling automobile parts to various sections of the plant. Now the decorative curly structure was painted bright yellow on one side, orange on the other. It playfully twisted and turned around a shiny black pole. The lobby soared open to all four floors, and overhead, exposed skywalks resembled the pieces of an Erector Set.
John and his daughters took the elevator to the fourth floor, past more walls painted vivid colors in an attempt to give the building warmth.
Tall ceilings soared above their heads, and held heavy, exposed utility pipes that gave the building a high-tech look.
As they neared his loft, John Battaglia said, “Wait till you see my new place. It’s bigger and nicer than the one I had on the third floor.” John pushed open the door to reveal a 1600-square-foot space whose open plan made it feel even larger.
Faith squealed, “Yuck, it’s a mess! There’s boxes and stuff all over the place.”
“Sure, I only moved in yesterday.”
Liberty glanced around, then said, “I bet you’ll make it real nice, Daddy. Your other place looked good.”
“It will be great once I find a place for all these books.”
Stacks of John’s books crowded the bases of century-old support columns. The loft’s brown-stained concrete floors echoed hard and unforgiving, magnifying every footfall.
Two walls held floor-to-ceiling windows. The loft sat on the side of the building closest to the roaring eight-lane Central Expressway. Even the hum of the air conditioning couldn’t muffle the noise of cars and semis clamoring their way south to Waco or north to Denton. The cars were so close that anyone in the loft could make out the faces of passengers.
The western window framed a picturesque view of downtown Dallas with its crowded collection of skyscrapers. A walk-in closet, laundry room, and bath lined the wall to the right, with the kitchen straight ahead, close to the window with the view.
Despite the gorgeous panorama, the loft’s stark aura was as cold as a tomb.
 
 
Faith and Liberty kicked off their shoes, as they always did when they entered their dad’s loft. The feel of the cool, rough surface of the floor was a drastic contrast to their own home’s thick carpeting and highly polished oak floors, which felt like silk under their feet.
“How long’s it gonna take you to change?” Liberty asked her dad.
“I won’t be long.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s just seven now,” he said, as he headed for his closet.
A few minutes later, he came back wearing a snow white T-shirt and creased blue jeans. “Before we go to dinner, I want to talk to your mom and check out this story you’ve been telling me. I need to get to the bottom of why she’s trying to put me in jail.”
“You can’t do that,” Faith said. “You’re not supposed to call Mom.”
“Well, then, how about you calling her? If she’s not there, just leave her a message to call you back.”
Faith hesitantly picked up her father’s portable phone, punched in her mother’s number, and waited for her familiar message. When she heard the beep, she said, “Hi, Mom. Call us back. Okay? Call us back.”
Battaglia, disappointed, said, “Guess I’ve got to think of something else.” He leaned over and placed his elbows on the kitchen’s white Formica countertop. “Would either of you please tell me why your mother wants me in jail? I mean, really. What have I done to her? I don’t go inside her house and I don’t call her on the phone.
“How about you, Faith?” her father said. “Since you left the message, why don’t you try to see what she’s up to when she calls back?”
Tears filled the little girls eyes and she lowered her head. “Okay, if I have to.”
“On second thought, your mom may be out till late. Let’s talk to Grandma.” Battaglia punched in the number for Dorrace Pearle. After a few rings, she picked up. “Hi, Dorrace. It’s John.”
“Oh, er, hello, John,” Dorrace said, obviously surprised to hear his voice.
“I need a favor,” he began. “The girls have a question for their mom and I don’t want to break the rules and call her. So would you give her a jingle and let her know that they want to talk with her?”
“Well, I guess I could.”
“Just have her call them over here at the loft.”
“Okay, John. I’ll call her right now on her cell phone.”
 
 
As Mary Jean strolled up the sidewalk to Melissa Lowder’s house, she passed a large elm on her left that had a graceful fern hanging from one of the lower branches; behind it stood a beautiful magnolia tree. Overall, it was a lovely place for a single mother of two. Mary Jean had met Melissa when their older daughters were in kindergarten, and for the past five years they had remained good friends.
They had socialized as married couples, but now both women were divorced, which added another commonality to their friendship.
Just as Mary Jean started to climb the stairs leading to Melissa’s front porch, her cell phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID and saw it was her mother’s number, so she punched the receive button.
“Mary Jean, it’s Mom,” Dorrace said. “I just got a rather strange call from John. Said the girls wanted to ask you about something and would you please call them at his loft.”
“Oh darn. What’s he putting them up to now?” She paused for a moment, then said, “On second thought, judging from the last time I saw them, they probably want to come home. Okay, I’ll call down there. Thanks.”
Mary Jean crossed Melissa’s porch and rang the doorbell. Melissa greeted her with a broad smile, then gave her a warm hug. “I’m surprised you’re here. I expected to see you much later,” she said.
“My plans have kinda changed. Right now I’ve got to call John. Which phone do you want me to use?”
“There’s another line in the kitchen,” Melissa told her. “The kids are in there finishing up their dinner, and I’m just doing some paperwork back at the desk in my bedroom. Come back when you finish.”
Mary Jean went to the kitchen and chatted with Melissa’s son and daughter for a few minutes, then around seven-twenty she picked up the phone at the kitchen desk and punched in the number for Battaglia’s loft. She hoped one of her girls would answer so she wouldn’t have to speak to her ex-husband.
 
 
John Battaglia said hello and it grated on Mary Jean to hear his voice.
“Hi, John,” she said lightly. “Mom called and said the girls wanted to ask me something.”
“Yeah,” he said, and Mary Jean could hear the echo-like sound that always accompanied his punching the speakerphone button.
“Ask her!” John’s voice pounded.
“Ask her,”
he repeated in a louder, harsher voice.
“Mommy?” Faith stammered. She was noticeably crying and her voice sputtered out in short sobs. “Why do you want Daddy to have to go to jail?”
Mary Jean could feel her body temperature climb. “Oh come on, John, don’t do this to them.”
Then Mary Jean heard the screams that will forever haunt her. Faith’s voice cried out, “No, Daddy, don’t! Oh please no, Daddy. Don’t do it. No, no, no!”
Suddenly, over the piercing cries of her daughter, Mary Jean heard the blast of a gun. Her bewilderment at John’s question abruptly changed as she grasped the situation.
Oh my God, he’s shooting the children!
“Run, babies, run!” she screamed. “As fast as you can, run for the door!”
Everything was happening quickly. Mary Jean began to shake and her eyes filled with tears. She was overcome by a feeling of complete helplessness. If only she were there, she could try to wrestle the gun away from him, but she could do nothing but hang on to the phone—her lifeline, but also her connection to the nightmare. She continued to hear shots. Five? Six? She couldn’t tell for sure. They came so rapidly that they sounded like one continuous explosion. Then, all went quiet. Mary Jean pressed the phone closer to her ear. In only moments, John’s voice came back on the line. He spoke in a loud, threatening, mocking tone. “Merry fucking Christmas, Mary Jean!” he yelled. Then the line went dead.

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