The Bookie's Daughter (13 page)
Rolling away from the opening in the railing, I leapt to my feet and ran as fast as I could the two remaining blocks home. On reaching the safety of the store and the gang of familiar gamblers who were so often present out front, I turned to face my attacker but found no one there. Damian had not followed me. Out of immediate danger, I began to scream at the top of my lungs. Concerned customers and gamblers surrounded me. I collapsed on the steps, and sat shaking as Bonnie rushed outside to see what was amiss. Taking in my disheveled appearance and bleeding elbow, my mother quickly guided me into the store and tried to calm me as she cleaned the gash on my elbow. “It was Damian, Damian with the long hair; he tried to pull me under the bridge.” I gulped air in between violent sobs.
Bonnie surveyed the crowed and quickly dispatched Big John to the bridge with specific orders. “She’s talking about Damian Doom. Run up to the bridge and see if he is still there. If you find him, bring him back here.”
By this time, I had calmed down enough to explain what had happened to my horrified audience. While describing how Damian had pulled me down on the ground by grabbing my ankle, my mother knelt down and pulled up my pant leg to check for injury. “That bastard! Look at what that bastard did to her,” my mother shrieked when she saw the bruises his steely grip had left upon my calf and ankle.
As I stared aghast at the bruises that would shortly develop into the unmistakable shape of a handprint, Bonnie grabbed the 9mm handgun we kept in a wooden box under the cash register. Checking to ensure it was fully loaded, she slipped the gun into her purse.
Seeing Bonnie with a gun usually set my ulcers on edge, but this occasion did not add to my anxiety in the least. In fact, I wanted to go back to the bridge, find Damian, and watch my mother shoot him. The shock wearing off, my body filled with rage. How dare he? School was my haven, the one place I could find peace and sustenance, where I could actually enjoy being a kid. How could I ever walk to school again without being afraid? Would he be lurking around the schoolyard, waiting for the chance to grab me?
Bonnie’s voice brought me out of my brooding thoughts. “I’m going to the bridge to check in with Big John. He fucked with the wrong child this time.” She stroked the gun through her purse.
“No,” my father’s angry voice rang through the store. “You stay with Heather; we don’t need you going off half cocked. I’ll take care of Damian.”
Realizing that my book bag was still at the bridge, I insisted on taking my parents to the scene of the encounter, where I hoped to retrieve my treasured schoolbooks. My parents and I piled into the station wagon and drove the few short blocks to the bridge. We found my book bag lying open, its contents strewn about. As I gathered my things, Bonnie, Al, and Big John surveyed the area, inspecting the sidewalk, brush, and underside of the bridge for any evidence Damian may have left behind. Blood from his nose was evident on the railing and the edge of the sidewalk, as were drops of blood from my elbow. Damian himself was nowhere to be found. He had simply disappeared.
My father and Big John escorted my mother and me back to the store then set out looking for Damian. Bonnie put the word out on the street that Al would pay a reward for information leading to his whereabouts. Although there were plenty of rumors, his location remained unknown. According to one rumor, he had jumped a train and headed out west somewhere; another had him running off to West Virginia with a fourteen-year-old he had impregnated. Although rumors were rife, Damian was nowhere to be found. Days passed and my anxiety intensified. Not knowing if or when he would reappear left me constantly on edge. My imagination ran wild as Damian lurked in every unexplained noise or imagined shadow.
For the next month or so, Bonnie or Big John accompanied me on my walks to and from school. Still there was no sign of Damian. As the school year progressed, my anxiety lessened and I insisted on resuming my walks to school unescorted. My entrance into junior high on the horizon, I did not want the embarrassment of having a daily escort. Bonnie reluctantly agreed, understanding my longing to fit it with the other kids. After all, the memory of having bodyguards accompany my sister and me to school three years earlier was still fresh. I desperately wanted to avoid any unusual attention from my classmates.
Damian remained at large throughout the rest of the school year. I thought of him every time I crossed the bridge. He had left his mark of psychological terror.
I had a habit of relating real-life events and characters to the folktales and myths that I loved to read. Damian therefore became synonymous with the troll under the bridge in the folktale “Three Billy Goats Gruff.” The story told of three billy goats in desperate need of fresh green fields for nourishment. In search of a utopian paradise, the billy goats came to a bridge that separated the barren fields that could no longer sustain them from the rich verdant fields that stretched into the horizon. Unfortunately, crossing the bridge was fraught with danger, as it was known to be the hiding place of a terrible troll who gobbled up anyone who dared to attempt the crossing.
Determined, the billy goats devised a plan to outsmart the troll, sending the youngest goat across first to lay the groundwork for their deception. As expected, the troll pounced from his hiding place under the bridge but the little goat showed no fear. “I’m too small, wait for my older brother. He is larger and tastier,” advised the little goat. The greedy troll smacked his lips and agreed. The second goat then crossed and repeated the same story. Again, the troll agreed. The third and largest goat then began to cross the bridge. The troll, mouth watering in anticipation, leapt from his hiding place to find a huge angry goat on the bridge. Realizing too late that he could never subdue this massive goat, the troll met his doom as the large billy goat beat him senseless and threw him off the bridge. The three billy goats made their way to the green fields of their desire and the bridge was forevermore safe to all travelers. The troll was never seen again. Damian, of course, was the troll. I had played the part of the first two billy goats, who narrowly escaped danger.
During those last months of fifth grade, I often pondered the similarities of my encounter with Damian and the victorious animals of the folktale. How would my narrative play out? Who would play the role of the third billy goat, ultimately defeating the troll, and making the bridge safe forevermore? These questions plagued me as I busied myself with schoolwork and desperately tried to cling to the last trace of childhood I had left. Until that final conflict occurred and my universe was put right, I simply altered my route on the bridge. No longer walking the footpath, I instead followed the path of the vehicles that so casually crossed over, without knowledge or fear of the troll who might be lurking below.
As the school year ended, it looked as if Damian had permanently disappeared. May marked my graduation from grade school and signaled the approach of the high summer season for the store. The Fourth of July was around the corner, and the Abraham family was busy preparing for the upcoming festivities.
Apart from Christmas and Easter, the Fourth of July was our busiest time of year. Unlike religious holidays, the Fourth afforded double the opportunity to make loads of money, both legitimate and illegitimate. Jeannette’s annual Fourth of July parade and carnival attracted thousands of visitors, who descended en masse to enjoy the hours-long parade, often replete with famous actors, athletes, and beauty queens. For the Abraham family, employees, and close friends, the weeks leading up to the Fourth were demanding. The work never ended, and no matter how many able-bodied workers joined in, we were always short-handed.
In the months leading up to fireworks season, Al began making runs to Pittsburgh, Cleveland, and West Virginia to pick up the illegal beauties. Orders for the coveted explosives were often placed before the merchandise arrived, leaving us constantly playing catch up. The season also brought with it an increase in police scrutiny. Fireworks were illegal in Pennsylvania, and most years, we experienced at least one raid.
Caught up in the frenzied preparations for the Fourth, thoughts of Damian slipped into the recesses of my mind. I spent the next month immersed in the fireworks business: accompanying Al on runs, sorting the explosive merchandise, and filling orders. The week of the Fourth itself always bordered on insane, as demand increased and the customary last-minute rush ensued, prompted by those wanting to celebrate America’s freedom with their own personal pyrotechnic extravaganza.
The frenzy of preparation also focused on the very profitable legitimate business of providing treats for the parade goers. My sister and I were charged with preparing and cleaning the machinery for making the expected snacks. Days would be spent moving the popcorn, hot dog, and snow cone machines out of storage and setting up for the coming feast. Vanessa and I would spend at least two days in the store’s basement making gallons of snow cone syrup to top the hundreds of snow cones that patriotic spectators would soon gobble up. We would inevitably end up covered in the sweet, sticky syrup, topped off with gunpowder residue that leaked from the fireworks we handled in between making batches of syrup.
Luckily, that summer saw only one raid, which resulted in a temporary and insignificant loss of profit. Having been tipped off, we managed to hide most of the explosive goods before the raid ensued, leaving behind only the least expensive merchandise for the police to commandeer. Al thought it only appropriate that we supply some fireworks for the police to confiscate. After all, a raid quenched law enforcement’s need to make a public effort to curb our crimes. Moreover, the publicity generated usually resulted in an avalanche of new orders. Ironically, we typically experienced a spike in fireworks sales immediately following a raid.
The months of preparation paid off. Jeannette’s parade was a resounding success and the throngs of satiated spectators left our coffers overflowing with legitimate and illegitimate gains.
The Fourth finally behind us, Vanessa and I were pleasantly surprised when our mother announced that she was taking us to a mountain resort for a few days of relaxation. In fact, my parents had had a marital spat, and the surprise vacation was really an opportunity to put some distance between them.
Thrilled with my mother’s announcement, I immediately began to gather the necessary tools I would need for my favorite activities: swimming, bug and frog collecting, and reading. Vanessa and I shared a passion for books and swimming, but she thought my obsession with bugs and amphibians bizarre. I packed an assortment of specimen containers that I hoped would soon be overflowing with tadpoles and frogs in various stages of metamorphosis. Of course, a butterfly net was an absolute necessity, as were my microscope and a few buckets to carry the frogs I would temporarily detain in the name of scientific exploration. I packed a few resource books for use during my experiments and decided to make a trip to the Jeannette Library to load up on historical fiction, mystery novels, or folktales to read poolside.
After readying my gear, I set out for the library, looking forward to exploring the stacks. Making my way up Clay Avenue, I stopped at Olympia’s Candy Store and purchased one of my all-time favorite treats: a velvety root beer float. Exiting Olympia’s, I realized my first mistake. I would have to finish the float before reaching the library just a few blocks away.
Determined not to waste even the tiniest drop, I jumped in fully committed, sucking hard on the straw until I realized my second mistake. A sharp ice cream-induced pain danced across my eyes and forehead. Although temporarily impeded by the blinding brain freeze, I decided to muster on once my vision returned to normal. Reaching the corner of Fourth Street and Clay Avenue, I again attacked the float. As expected, another sharp, icy pain formed as I delighted in my sugary frozen torment.
Although lost in the mysterious throes between delight and agony, I felt a vague sense of imminent danger. My mind slowly defrosting, I became aware of a foreboding but strangely familiar sound coming from somewhere to my right. Thud, thud, thud. The sound intensified and quickened. A voice in the back of my mind began to scream, “Open your eyes, open your eyes!” I forced myself to comply, squinting through the icy pain, and turned abruptly in the direction of the ominous thud. To my horror, Damian Doom was running straight for me and closing in quick. Frozen in terror and still partially enchained by my frosty drink, I hesitated a second too long and realized that Damian was about to lay his slimy hands on me. I stood immobile as he closed in, arms outstretched, for the approaching contact.
Suddenly, I could move. Furious and terrified, my body went into action. In one quick and synchronized action, I threw my drink—hitting Damian in the head—as I turned and ran north on Fourth Street, away from the resurrected troll. No time for strategy, I instinctively made a sharp left into the alley, passing Calisti’s radio station. In a day fraught with childish mistakes, I feared my decision would put me in more danger, but I quickly determined to outrun Damian. The alley provided a straight shot home.
Running for my life, I approached the Fifth Street crossing without stopping to look for oncoming cars. As I entered the roadway, I heard the screech of tires as a baby blue Cadillac slid to a stop in a desperate attempt to avoid hitting me. It failed. My thighs crashed into the driver’s side front panel of the car as I rolled across the hood, landing on my feet on the other side. My movements were rapid and unbroken, leaving me with only a momentary impression of a startled driver.
