The Bookie's Daughter (14 page)

At the moment my feet hit the road and I straightened my body to continue the race for my life, I saw my father driving the store’s white step-van. Returning from a meeting in Greensburg, Al had chanced upon the scene just as I made my turn into the alley at Fourth Street. From his vantage point on Magee Avenue, which ran parallel to Clay Avenue and the alley, he hurried to the Fifth Street crossing to ensure that Damian had not caught me.

Seeing the look of fury on my father’s face, I felt a thrill of hope. I continued on my course, eager that Damian not notice Al’s pursuit. As I crossed over Sixth Street, I looked to my right and saw that my father was still in sync with my movements.

With only one remaining block to go, I maintained my speed. I wanted to reach Seventh Street at the precise moment Al did. The distance of this last block seemed to stretch toward forever. I remember the sound of my heart pounding in my head, the burn of my leg muscles, and the thud of Damian’s bulky boots as they crashed into the pavement behind me. Finally, Seventh Street was in sight. I continued on my path right down the middle of the alley, hoping to outwit Damian by making a last-minute left turn onto Seventh Street and the safety of the store. As I cleared the alley, I saw Al to my immediate right. I crossed over in front of my father’s vehicle and at the last possible moment turned left as Al made a sharp right into the alley, now in hot pursuit of Damian Doom. The hunter had become the prey.

Dashing into the store, I breathlessly explained to my mother the events that began at Fourth Street and the twist of fate that had turned the tables on Damian. A few gamblers, who were playing a friendly game of gin rummy, leapt to their feet and ran outside to see if they could be of assistance.

Ten minutes later, I exited the store looking for signs of Al and was horrified to see Damian Doom heading straight for me. I would later find out that he had led my father on a wild chase through the alley and onto the Clay Avenue extension, moving in a direction away from our store. Then he turned suddenly, heading back up the Avenue toward the business district, perhaps hoping to find a safe haven from my furious father. As I exited the store, Damian was crossing over Eighth Street and heading in my direction. Before I could react to this bizarre twist, Al whipped the white van onto the Avenue. There he was—the great billy goat—in hot pursuit of the evil troll.

Spotting Damian on the sidewalk, Al accelerated the van until he was just ahead of his prey. Intentionally, he veered the van to the right and then pulled sharply to the left, crossing in front of oncoming traffic. Jumping the van up over the curb and onto the sidewalk, he narrowly missed Damian, who threw himself into a very shallow depression in one of the buildings in search of protection. My father turned the wheel sharply, aimed straight at Damian, and pinned him up against the building with the van’s massive front bumper. Damian, unable to move and rightly fearing for his life, immediately began to scream for help.

My father, face knotted in rage, jumped from the vehicle and approached his prey without uttering a word. Frozen, I watched as he advanced on Damian and slapped him with his open hand. Damian’s head flopped to the right and then to the left as Al repeated the blows, alternating from side to side. In short order, blood was pouring down his face. With every blow, his long, blonde hair became saturated with blood and clung to his skin. He was a terrible sight as he began to beg for his life.

My mother came up behind me, pistol in hand, and began to cheer my father on. Patrons of the bar next to the store came out to see what was going on. As word quickly spread that the bloody man pinned to the building was a pedophile caught in the act of stalking me, they too began to cheer. Al concluded his attack as Damian slumped over, moaning in pain and fear. Grabbing him by his bloody hair, my father bent over and whispered something in his ear that made him sob even louder. A hush came over the bystanders as Al turned his back on Damian and walked deliberately toward me.

“Did he touch you?”

“No, I was too fast. But it was too close for comfort,” I responded unsteadily.

Al reached out and pulled me close to him, giving me a reassuring squeeze. “I promise that he will never bother you again. Damian Doom no longer exists for you.” He patted my shoulder.

There was no time to question his peculiar utterance, as the police siren was closing in fast. The officers arrived on the scene to find a bloodied and unrecognizable Damian still pinned against the building. Onlookers quickly enlightened them as to the events that had precipitated this horrific scene. One of the officers barked some orders and a bar patron jumped into the van and slowly inched it away. Damian collapsed on the street. This was my last image of the vanquished troll, so rightly trounced by Al, my billy goat gruff.

In many ways, Damian was my first instructor in the twisted evil that stalks the unsuspecting. In the past, I had experienced shocking encounters with individuals who tried to harm my father through me. Until Damian, however, I had never actually been a specific target of evil intent. The unexpected education I realized from these terrifying encounters forever altered what was left of my adolescent worldview in a profound way. Up to this point in my life, I had been blissfully unaware that there were those who perversely feast on the fear and misery of others. This knowledge shook me to the core. It robbed me of my innocence.

I never saw Damian again and cannot give this chapter a proper ending. I have no details of his life after his bloody encounter with my father. His collapsed, bloody body is my final memory. I was then taken from the Avenue by my grandmother and escorted to her apartment. After consuming a hot cup of tea, I fell into an exhausted sleep on her sofa and awoke hours later to find everything cleaned up and in its proper place. I do not know if Damian was taken away in an ambulance, arrested, or left the state. My parents never answered my questions, other than repeating my father’s strange statement: “Damian Doom no longer exists for you.”

Like the vanquished troll in the folktale, Damian simply disappeared without a trace. The bridge was now safe for passage.

“
When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us.”

Helen Keller

My mother was a complex and dominant figure. Although she physically survived the violent years of her childhood, sadly she could not escape their repercussions. Violence was her go-to weapon for conflict resolution but also one of the demons she struggled with on a daily basis. As survivors of abuse often do, Bonnie inflicted her unresolved issues on innocent bystanders. My sister and I were often the targets on which she exacted her misplaced anger.

In many ways, my mother was a tragic figure, a continued victim of her bizarre, unhappy, and brutal formative years. Anger consumed much of her life as the ghosts of her childhood were never acknowledged, confronted, or resolved. The predictable result of my mother’s inability to contend with her past was a modified continuation of the violence that so damaged her youthful spirit.

Bonnie was a psychologically and physically abused child who grew into an abusive adult. She never developed any self-awareness about her own history. Her inability to recognize the consequences of the unspeakable acts she survived as a child left her incapable of breaking the cycle of violence she inherited. Abandonment, alcoholism, physical abuse, and sexual violence were my mother’s childhood companions—companions that would enchain her and forever scar her relationships with others.

Bonnie’s entire life was predicated upon an event that occurred before her birth. Her worldview, relationships with her mother, siblings, and daughters, her intense mistrust of men and her general misanthropy were all constructed on a foundation of abandonment, sadness, and anger. Anyone who entered my mother’s life was viewed through the lens of mistrust and suspicion. This was her inheritance from her wayward parents, a mother, father, and stepfather who were so caught up in the destructive drama of their relationships that they failed to understand the damage they inflicted or the far-reaching consequences their cruelty would have upon my mother’s life.

Bonnie was five years old the first time she met the man who had abandoned her. She was living with her grandmother, who had taken on the responsibility of raising her. According to my mother, her first encounter with her father occurred on a bright and sunny day as she played happily with her dolls on the spacious front porch of her grandmother’s home in Avonmore, Pennsylvania. Lost in a fantasy involving her large doll collection, Bonnie startled at the voice of a strange man who suddenly appeared at her side. Before she could inquire as to his identity, her mother, Greta, flew through the screen door and attacked him. She pushed him toward the steps and beat him with her fists, screaming, “You bastard, how dare you come here? You’re not welcome here!”

When he responded, my mother realized that the red-haired stranger was her absent father. “Greta, there is no need for hysterics. I came to see her and would like to take her for ice cream. You have no right to stop me. She carries my name and should know who I am.”

Furious at having been denied her way, Greta leapt from the porch and flew over the steps, knocking her ex-husband to the ground. Kneeling on his chest, she removed a shoe and began to pummel Clive’s head and face. Bonnie, frozen on the porch beside her Grandmother, began to cry in confusion. “What’s wrong, Grandmother? Why is Mommy so angry?”

Trying to shield her granddaughter, Mrs. Hanson quickly pulled Bonnie into the house and tried to occupy her thoughts. “Let’s go into the parlor and have some cookies and ice tea.” Bonnie rebelled, pulling away from her grandmother’s loving arms. She ran to the parlor window in time to see her father, his back toward her, disappearing from view.

Minutes later, Greta entered the house and instructed Bonnie, “Be a good girl for grandmother. Mommy is going away. I will come see you in a couple of weeks.” Without a further word of explanation, Greta disappeared from the house, leaving a mystified and distraught child in the care of her loving grandmother.

Bonnie would not see her father again until she was well into her twenties, when my father tracked him down and invited him for a visit, hoping in vain for reconciliation. My mother’s anger and resentment toward her father was deeply ingrained. She had heard the stories of his cruelty to his pregnant wife, which were related to her by Greta so often that they became familiar—not unlike a sad and repetitive bedtime story.

According to Greta, she had been married to Clive for six years when she discovered that she was pregnant. Knowing that Clive did not want children, she approached her husband with trepidation and told him the news. Clive reacted viciously, kicking his pregnant wife out of the house. Heartbroken, Greta left with a few belongings and shortly thereafter made the journey to her elder sister’s home in Hamtramck, Michigan. Bonnie was born there on February 14, 1935. I have always thought it ironic that my mother, so closed off from her feelings, was born on a holiday representing true and enduring love.

Sadness abounded for the first few months of my mother’s life as Greta’s sister, Dalia, died soon afterwards from a tubular pregnancy. Greta packed up her infant daughter and returned to Avonmore, Pennsylvania where she moved in with her grieving mother. Putting aside her sorrow, Mrs. Hanson embraced Bonnie and took on the responsibility of raising her beloved granddaughter. Greta was happy to surrender the heavy burden of motherhood. She soon began to live a rather scandalous life, seemingly without care for her daughter. Her ability to drink like a man and her passion for billiards drew her to late nights out with the boys, and provided significant amounts of fodder for the gossip mill.

Thankfully, my mother was well cared for in her grandmother’s home. My great grandmother dotted on Bonnie, even as she worried at her own daughter’s reckless attitude for the future. For a few short years, my mother lived a charmed life, with everything a little girl could want—except, of course, responsible and loving parents. Greta visited occasionally, staying for a week or so only to disappear again. Her pattern of behavior continued until she married her second husband, a ruggedly handsome Italian coal miner named Marco Rossi, and found that she was pregnant with her second child.