The Bookie's Daughter (26 page)

“I don’t know what I think right now. I have some soul searching to do.” Then changing the subject, he asked, “So tell me, what all did that idiot instructor say to you?”

I filled my dad in on the whole sordid story during the long drive home. An hour later, as we pulled up in front of the store, I was startled to realize that I was actually happy to be back on Clay Avenue—proof positive that Reverend Hellfire and his church were not food for my soul! Weighing the two, I decided that our crazy criminal life was better than the sick drama I had experienced at church that morning. I shivered just thinking of the morning’s snuff film. And I thought
we
were fucked up.

While my dad grappled with his religious convictions, I called our family Orthodox priest and asked for a meeting. A few days later, I sat down with Father Habibi and talked to him about my experiences at Reverend Hellfire’s church. What I wanted was an explanation of why the churches were so different. Both were Christian but hardly resembled each other. How was this possible? After listening patiently, Father Habibi’s answer completely turned my naïve understanding of Christianity upside down. “Well, Heather, first you have to understand that there are many different Christianities.”

Christianit-
IES
? Wow! I was blown away. Until this point, I had understood the different denominations to be based strictly on ethnic background. It had never occurred to me that Catholicism, Eastern Orthodoxy, Lutheranism, and other churches practiced Christianity differently or had different beliefs about Christ. Father Habibi suggested some books for me to read that might guide me through the maze of Christian denominations and beliefs. That was the beginning of my magnificent obsession with religion.

While I struggled with Christian theology, historical schisms, and the incredible diversity of “Protestantism,” my father made the decision to stop attending Reverend Hellfire’s church. Reverend Hellfire periodically stopped by to minister to him, but he had lost his initial controlling influence. The actions of the man he hoped could lead him to God left him wondering about his motives. His mask had slipped and Al did not like what he saw.

Televangelism became my father’s next source of spiritual sustenance. The television, so long blaring with the sporting event of the day, now loudly displayed various televangelists popular in the 1970s. Al was desperate for a relationship with God. His health was failing, his addictions were leading him toward the precipice of financial ruin, and the afterlife loomed in his future. My father responded by trying to create a relationship with God, but in the end he could not escape his demons. For a while, he kept a Bible on the table beside the parlays, betting slips, and numbers book. Between taking bets, he would read the Bible, occasionally blurting out a passage as if asking an invisible force for clarification. My mother easily became exasperated with this strange conduct. She could often be heard mumbling, “God-damn Bible-thumping bookie.” Father Habibi stopped in occasionally but even he could not reach my father’s wounded soul.

Seeing Al so conflicted was difficult for his wife and daughters. His optimism, zest for life, and fearlessness were badly missed. My heart bled for him. I have often reflected on this strange and poignant period of my father’s life and have come to believe that his addictions were at the heart of the matter. His escalating compulsions left him feeling isolated. Yet, he did not know how or where to reach for the help that he so badly needed. As with many addicts, my father was heading toward the abyss, and was desperate to find a lifeline that would pull him from the edge. Like a good gambler, he played the odds—hoping that God could rescue him. Addicts never act from logic. Tragically, they act from desperation.

This religious phase of my father’s life slowly dissipated as his disillusionment with the televangelism grew. Al concluded that con men come in many different disguises. Although he walked away from institutionalized religion, he never lost his faith in Jesus. His religion became a private matter and he would never again trust any man spouting God’s word. Setting aside his fear of the afterlife, my father picked up where he had left off. He jumped back into his crazy, crime-ridden life with gusto, and did so just in time for the Christmas season, which was fast approaching. Al put his Bible away and the two of us jumped into the car and headed to Ohio to pick up a badly needed shipment of alcohol. The Bible-thumping bookie was no more. It was time again for sticking it to the state and the man.

“
Show me a hero and I will write you a tragedy.”

Unknown

Big John was virtually a constant presence in our life. Although he left Jeannette for periods to work as a professional bodyguard, circus strongman, and occasional stints as an oilrig hand, he spent many years working in the legitimate side of my father’s business. Big John’s name was accurate, to say the least. He stood about 6 feet 5 inches and weighed more than 500 pounds. With massive shoulders, chest, and arms, his strength was mind-boggling. Never brooding or troublesome, he was a cuddly giant who loved my sister and me as if we were his own children.

Although he had been a presence in my earliest years, my first “remembered” meeting with Big John was disastrous. Somewhere between my fifth and sixth birthday my mother took Vanessa and me to see
Mickey and
the Beanstalk
, where I encountered my first moving images of a mythical giant. While other children sat mesmerized by the tale, I found myself in the throes of terror. Visions of the movie giant left me paralyzed with fear and I cried the whole way home. Bonnie, trying to comfort me, explained that it was just make believe. She assured me that giants did not really exist. “You’re not afraid of your father, are you? He’s a real life giant and yet you don’t fear him.”

This had not occurred to me, and I asked if there were any men bigger than Daddy.

“Of course not,” Bonnie replied. “Your father is the biggest man on earth, a real walking giant.”

Her explanation calmed me and I soon forgot about Jack’s menacing colossus until a few months later when I encountered the impossible—two real-life giants. I encountered these Goliaths while engaged in my favorite pastime: terrorizing pedestrians on Clay Avenue in my Batmobile. When weather permitted, Vanessa and I would drive up and down the Avenue, humming the Batman tune while mischievously aiming for pedestrians, who were forced to hurriedly jump out of the way of the oncoming superheroines flying about the street.

Obsessed with speed, I would often begin my wild ride from atop Seventh Street hill, imagining that I was on my way to vanquish an evildoer on Clay Avenue. Cape flying in the wind, I pedaled furiously, all the while keeping my eye on the upcoming corner. Waiting until the last possible moment, I turned sharply on the wheel, successfully making the corner and barely missing the parking meters that lined the Avenue. Pleased with my prowess, I came to a stop and contemplated popping into the store for a proper chocolate reward. It was then that I noticed a large pickup truck pull into the bus stop in front of the store. To my utter horror, a blonde man of mammoth proportions exited the vehicle and sauntered around to help his friend out of the back. Horror-struck, I realized that the second man was larger than the first! My fearless Batgirl façade slipped away. I began to scream at the top of my lungs as the two giants came toward me.

At the sound of my screams, my mother and father rushed from the store, fearing I had been struck by a car. Instead, they found their youngest frozen in front of two huge men who were desperately trying to calm me. My mother quickly grabbed her screaming daughter, while my father excitedly embraced the two men in friendship. Big John was working in a nearby traveling circus, and had brought an even larger friend, Bud, to meet my father. The three giants, each over 500 pounds, were a remarkable sight to everyone except the terrified Batgirl. Hushing me, my mother explained that the two men were my father’s friends and not dangerous.

“But you said no one was bigger than Daddy,” I cried, to which Bonnie assured me that the two oversized men were friendly and would never cause me harm. “You knew about them? Why did you lie to me?”

“Hush now, you’re making a scene,” my mother admonished. “This is Big John. You knew him when you were very little. He is a good friend of your father’s. Now be nice and say hello. I promise he won’t hurt you.”

Concerned at causing me such a fright, Big John sat on the ground beside me and put his arms out for a hug. Caught between fear and curiosity, I was reluctant. Laughing, he instructed Bud to get something from the truck. Bud produced a box full of colorful balls, which Big John began to juggle. After entertaining me with his juggling abilities, he reached behind my ear and pulled out a chocolate coin, and presented me with the treat. Eventually, I climbed up onto his immense shoulders and he announced that I was now the largest of all giants. Squealing with delight, I decided then and there that Big John would be my favorite playmate. It was love (after screams) at first sight.

Big John stayed in Jeannette for a few days before going back on the road. Eventually, he brought his wife back to Jeannette, where they lived for the remaining years of their married life. Big John and his growing family lived close by the store and so he often witnessed the Abraham family dramas and squabbles. Because of his natural sweetness and genuine love for my family, he often found himself acting as a buffer between my parents and their two headstrong daughters, who increasingly challenged their outrageous actions.

Like my father, Big John was adored by the neighborhood kids and he regularly accompanied us on adventurous trips to the movies, circus, amusements parks, and fairs. He and Al played games with more glee than all the neighborhood kids combined. As with my father, eating was his favorite pastime. Big John and Big Al were quite a spectacle when they were hungry, invading restaurants and gobbling up plates of food for hours on end. Of course, men of these proportions loved buffets. Seven Springs Ski Resort was their favorite place to feast. As famous for their fabulous cuisine as they were for their beautiful ski slopes, Seven Springs provided an array of the most delectable treats for their insatiable appetites. The Springs’ Friday night Neptune Buffet was the ultimate repast for these two giants, who would sit for hours on end eating a small school of fish and numerous pounds of shrimp.

During one such trip to the Springs, I dropped the ravenous men off at the buffet and headed to the swimming pool for a few hours of relaxation. I luxuriated in the steamy, glass-enclosed pool area, which afforded swimmers a spectacular view of the ski slopes and snowy landscape. After enjoying an hour in the pool, I settled into a lounge chair to read a book, wrapped in a thick terry cloth robe. This was my escape, my favorite place in all the world—a sanctuary from my life on the Avenue. Three hours after leaving my giants, I emerged showered and refreshed to find that they had not made it to our agreed upon meeting spot. Sauntering through the lodge, I peered into the restaurant and found Big John and Big Al still at table.

Astonishingly, I noticed the wagon of chilled shrimp, usually placed at the end of the buffet, was sitting astride the table. The giants were gleefully devouring mounds of the tiny delicacies. Passing by the host, who knew my family well, I noticed a look of discomfort on his face and realized that I had to put a stop to this show of gluttony. As I approached the table, I could see Al and Big John exchange a look that indicated they were prepared for the coming lecture.

“Okay, guys, dinners over. Let’s go play some pool,” I cheerfully exclaimed, to which Big John complained that he wanted dessert. “You guys have been here for three hours and are terrorizing the guests and staff.” Exasperated with the cozy scene they had constructed, I added loudly, “What the hell is that wagon doing here?”

Sheepishly, Big John explained that the plates were too small and he was tired of getting up for a refill, so he brought the entire wagon back to the table. Glancing around the room, I took in the looks of astonishment, amusement, and distress. I knew I had to get them out of the restaurant. Speaking to each one’s inner child, I challenged them to a game of pool. I upped the ante to make it more appealing to my father. “Dad,” I proposed, “if you guys beat me, I will forfeit my salary for a week.” Well, Al could never resist a bet. He agreed to meet me in the game room in fifteen minutes. True to his word, they arrived at the appointed time. I skinned them both!