The GI Bride (32 page)

‘I know the feeling,’ he was
finally able to say.

We drove out to the suburbs, to a fancy and
well-known restaurant called Richard’s Lilac Lodge. I had heard that some of
Chicago’s mobsters hung out there, not that I would have recognized any of them.
After our car had been valet-parked, we entered the grand chandeliered lobby and stopped
to take off our coats. As the coat-check girl helped me off with my lovely borrowed
coat, Chuck’s eyes became as big as saucers.

‘What the hell is that?’ he
said, almost choking on his words. I looked down, and the world suddenly went into slow
motion. I stood there, paralysed. I had forgotten to take off my coverall floral apron.
I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me. Then, clutching my coat back around me, I
dived into the nearby ladies’ room, locked myself inside a cubicle and sat there
wondering if I would ever be able to show my face again.

I decided the best and only thing I could do
was face the music. I rolled the apron up as tightly as possible and stuffed it into my
dinky borrowed handbag, I wasn’t about to throw a perfectly good apron into the
trash, and went bravely out to face a bewildered Chuck, who was waiting for an
explanation.

‘Jeez, I thought you were wearing a
floral nightgown,’
he said, and laughed until tears rolled down
his very red face. I honestly don’t know how we ate our dinner that night, but it
definitely helped to have a couple of drinks first.

Almost forty years later, I can still see
that apron, with its frills and flowers. That night it must have looked every bit as big
and looming as a pink elephant. As a good friend of mine said after hearing that story,
‘God does speak to us in strange ways.’ I’m sure that was a reference
to the fact that I’d been out with a married man.

Another thing that happened during my early
dating days after my divorce from Palmer was the attempt by my Outfit-related friends at
fixing me up with someone in ‘the family’. I’m sure it was their way
of trying to bring me into it; they wanted me to be safe and protected the way they all
were. Anyway, they set me up on a blind date with ‘Mike the Bear’, who was
to pick me up and take me out for dinner. Well, the name alone scared the hell out of
me, and when I met him, I knew why he had acquired that nickname. He was the hairiest
man I’d ever met. He was a nice-looking, dark-haired Italian, but if you’ve
ever seen a movie about the Mob, you’ve seen this man. Had he been an actor, he
most definitely would have been typecast as a gangster. He even drove a big black
Cadillac with tinted windows.

We had a pleasant enough evening out, but he
wasn’t my type and I probably wasn’t his. I don’t think he had ever
read a book, he had no idea what was going on in the world and obviously couldn’t
have cared less. He wanted to see me again but I told him I was dating someone else and
that I thought it was getting serious. I said he could
call me but I
think he got the message. When I told my adopted sister Jodi that it wasn’t going
to work, she laughed and said she hadn’t really thought it would, but he had been
the only single man she knew in her husband’s circle and thought it was worth a
try. She also told me they had warned him to be on his best behaviour. Somehow, I could
never quite see myself going out with, or married to, someone called Mike the Bear. Of
course, if I had hooked up with him, I doubt Palmer would have bothered me again
ever!

I was now working full time for Catholic
Charities Legal Aid Department in downtown Chicago. As an intake worker, I screened all
potential clients for eligibility before they saw one of our team of lawyers, each of
whom specialized in a different facet of the law. It was interesting, hearing the
stories of people’s legal problems. Most of the lawyers were either fresh out of
law school or probably not particularly ambitious. They must have been paid fairly well
but probably not as well as they would have been if they had been successful in their
own right. I imagine working for Legal Aid at least guaranteed a regular income.

One of the clients was a paranoid
schizophrenic. It was always difficult filling out the intake papers since we all knew
that her perceived problems were part of her condition. She reported being followed by
the CIA, spied on and physically tortured by aliens from outer space, poisoned by her
neighbours, and stalked and sexually abused by Howard K. Smith, a well-known television
reporter. My fellow workers had not warned me about this client, and the first time she
was on my caseload, they all just sat
there, watching my face.
I’m sure, had I been a cartoon, there would have been giant question marks
sticking out above my head.

My favourite client was the blind
ninety-one-year-old African American gentleman who was being sued in a paternity case.
Shaking his head sadly, he told me, in all seriousness, ‘Honey, I’s
wishin’ it was me, but da truth bein’, I ain’t had me no lovin’
since I be eighty-three or theyabouts.’ I made sympathetic noises but had a
difficult time keeping a professional straight face.

Another job I took on to earn a little extra
money was selling Sarah Coventry jewellery at home demonstration parties. I had my
doubts about this from the very beginning as some of their sales gimmicks cracked me up
and I wasn’t sure I’d cope with using the company’s sophomoric sales
methods. One rule was that we had to wear the jewellery but only one earring because
someone would eventually mention it. ‘Excuse me, but did you know you only have
one earring on?’ Your rehearsed response was to be something like, ‘Oh,
I’m so glad you noticed, and isn’t Sarah Coventry jewellery beautiful? Let
me tell you about it, blah blah blah.’ I knew immediately that I could never have
pulled that off without laughing. Another thing in our demonstration routine was the
wearing of one long black glove over which to drape necklaces and bracelets, as I
described the magnificence of each piece. I tried that at my first demonstration,
organized by my dear friend Mary, for all our mutual friends and neighbours. Mary,
wonderful host that she was and still is, made the fatal mistake of serving wine, which
yours truly also enjoyed. Within minutes, we were all falling about, laughing so
hard that the tears were rolling down our faces and I ended up just
laying the jewellery on the table and telling everyone, ‘Have a look at it, girls,
and just let me know if you want to order any of this stuff.’ I honestly cannot
remember if I sold anything that night but we had one heck of a good time.

My adopted sister Jodi organized my next
jewellery party for some of the Outfit wives. Now that was a real joke. Every one of
those women was drop-dead gorgeous and dripping with jewellery of the real kind.
I’m sure they came because no less a person than Dominic Cortina’s wife had
invited them and, of course, she had done it to help me. Once again, there was food and
cocktails and we were all having a grand old time until Jodi spoke.

‘Haven’t we forgotten
something?’ she asked.

‘Oh, my Gahd, we’re supposed to
be buying this stuff,’ I heard, from one rather tipsy woman.

So, for my second jewellery demonstration, I
simply told them all the funny things I had been trained to do to sell this stuff. They
found my descriptions highly entertaining and more than one told me it was just a little
bit bizarre. Then I told them that, out of respect for their intelligence, I would
simply lay my wares on the table, along with the order forms, and they could carry on
partying. We had a fun time and I made some money that night but wondered what those
women would do with the junk jewellery they had ordered. Later, I apologized to Jodi for
putting her through such a fiasco.

‘Are you kidding?’ she said.
‘All the girls told me they couldn’t remember having such a good laugh, and
they hope we can do it again some time.’

‘Over my dead body,’ said I.

I did one or two more jewellery parties
after that but I couldn’t be serious about it. Besides, all that partying was
wearing me out!

For now, I was perfectly happy dating
married men. It sounds awful, I know, but I had to avoid making any more mistakes. I was
beginning to realize that, in my need for love, I was vulnerable and had to be aware of
my own susceptibility; I had to be ever vigilant, had to avoid my heart ruling my head.
I had already made too many mistakes. I was still young and had plenty of time to enjoy
life without risking my children’s or my own health and happiness. I knew I must
never expose my children to such turmoil again.

I was seeing more and more of Spiro T. No
man had ever treated me the way he did, with what I can only call gentle adoration. He
called me his princess and that was exactly how he made me feel. He knew I had just come
through a terrible phase of my life and was determined to make it up to me. At first it
bothered me that he was married but he had convinced me that his marriage was in name
only and that his wife and he lived almost completely separate lives. Of course, that
was what I wanted to believe.

Spiro talked a lot about his mother, who was
first-generation Greek, and often brought me Greek food that she had prepared. He also
told me about his daughter, an only child whom he adored. ‘I want so much for you
and Sally to meet,’ he told me, and added, ‘when the time is
right.’

‘I’ll look forward to that day, no
matter when it is,’ I assured him.

When Christmas came he overwhelmed the
children and me with gifts. He made sure we had everything we wanted or needed. I cried
when I saw everything he’d put under the tree on that Christmas Eve, threw my arms
around him and cried some more. ‘I don’t know what to say, Spiro. It’s
all too much. You really are our special angel,’ I blubbered. He assured me that
it had given him great pleasure to help make our Christmas special. Then I gave him his
present. I had knitted him a golf cardigan, and covers with numbers on for his
clubs.

Now it was his turn to cry.
‘That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me,’ he said,
through his tears. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve finding
you.’ I echoed his words, adding that I was only sorry he couldn’t be with
us the next day to see the kids open their presents.

He wasn’t able to see us on Christmas
Day because he was going to be with his family, as was their tradition. That was fine by
me as we usually spent Christmas with my brother Peter and his family. Spiro had
explained that his wife was Jewish and didn’t celebrate Christmas, so he had
always kept his Greek family’s traditions alive by spending the day with his
mother and brothers.

We saw each other almost every day or
evening, and even when he said he couldn’t come for one reason or another, he
often surprised me by showing up. When he wasn’t there, I received regular phone
calls from him so he could tell me that he missed me. He was never possessive or
overbearing, just attentive and caring. The children loved ‘Mr T.’, as they
called him, and he was
always bringing little treats for them too.
Sometimes if he had to make an emergency service call, out in the suburbs on a weekend,
he would call, tell us to get ready and take us with him. He’d drop us off at a
motel with a pool so that the kids could play and swim until he came to pick us up. He
was always trying to think of nice things to do for us, and different ways to surprise
us. I had come to adore him just as much as he seemed to adore me, but there was never
talk of anything permanent on either side. At that point, we were both comfortable with
our situation, just the way it was; for me, it was safe.

Spiro was a wonderful lover and he taught me
things I had never experienced in either of my two marriages. My first husband had
little sexual experience, and neither did Palmer, who had had little interest in the
activity, unless it came in the form of a brutal attack. It was Spiro who introduced me
to oral sex. The first time it happened was a near disaster. Spiro and I had been out
for dinner and had had a few glasses of wine. The children were away overnight and we
were both feeling amorous. Spiro knew I was still somewhat bashful in the sex department
but, aware that I was a little tipsy, he told me to relax and let him pleasure me,
whatever that meant. I was apprehensive but gave in to his coaxing and lay back on the
bed, letting him undress me. He then proceeded to do what I thought was the unthinkable.
At that moment, I made the big mistake of looking at him, down there. In our moment of
hot passion, he had forgotten to take off his horn-rimmed glasses, and from that angle,
he looked exactly like Groucho Marx. I totally lost it and burst out laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’ he
asked, as he repositioned and smoothed himself out.

‘I can’t tell you yet,’ I
managed to get out, before rolling over and covering myself to hide my embarrassment.
‘I’m sorry, I’m too ashamed of myself.’