The Bookie's Daughter (12 page)
“
Always remember, it’s simply not an adventure worth telling
if there aren’t any dragons.”
Sarah Ban Breathnach
Damian Doom came into my life from out of the blue. I am not sure if he was a native of Jeannette or a displaced predator looking for new victims, but he appeared suddenly on the Avenue around the summer of my eleventh year. He was a tall, lanky man of about forty with lean, hawkish features, deep brown eyes, crooked front teeth, and long dirty blonde hair that flowed down over his shoulders. He was a mysterious figure whose history was well hidden. The one thing that was commonly known about him was that he liked young girls. Damian was a pedophile.
I first became aware of Damian while in the company of my mother, who grew concerned when she noticed him conversing with young girls enjoying ice cream cones in front of the luncheonette across the street from our family store. Bonnie, having heard of his predilection for children, stepped in to warn the girls to go on their way. It was then that Damian noticed me. Seemingly amused that his presence around the girls had ruffled my mother, he softly inquired after me. “Is this your daughter? Such a pretty girl. What’s her name?”
My mother immediately went into attack mode. “Never mind her name. Don’t even think of coming near her. I know all about you and am warning you to stay away from the Avenue. If I hear that you even looked at my daughter, I’ll have your head on a spike.”
An off-duty police officer noticed Bonnie in a heated conversation and stepped in to mediate. Damian seemed to enjoy the attention. His voice dripping with sarcasm, he subtly taunted my mother while deflecting the officer’s concern. Annoyed with Damian’s tone and anxious to prevent the unleashing of Bonnie’s considerable temper, the officer advised him to stay away from my mother and me. HehHh protested his innocence and insisted that Bonnie had approached him with silly and unwarranted accusations. Damian knelt down, addressing the officer while staring intently at me. I remember the awful stench of his breath and his curious gaze. Although speaking over his shoulder to the police officer, I had the unsettling sensation that he was trying to read me as if I were a book. Bonnie pulled me away. As we crossed Clay Avenue, I heard the officer warn Damian to stay clear of my family. Chuckling, he responded that Bonnie had misunderstood his intentions. “Good,” replied the officer, “because she won’t hesitate to shoot you if you go near her daughter.”
A week or so later, I had my second encounter with Damian. Assigned the task of picking up lunch for the store’s employees, I set out up the Avenue to pick up a half dozen of Abie’s and Bimbo’s famous swinger sandwiches. Within minutes, Damian came into view. He was standing in front of Jeannette Bakery, his back toward me. Apparently on a lunch break, he was deeply absorbed in conversation with a few factory workers. I was mindful of his presence but felt secure that he would heed my mother’s warnings. After all, Bonnie’s verbal threats were usually very effective, thanks to her well-earned reputation.
Approaching Damian and his friends with caution, I passed by quickly, immediately relieved not to have attracted his attention. I continued on my way, my destination closing in fast, when I heard a series of strange thuds coming from behind. Suddenly, Damian jumped in front of me. It was then that I realized the dull sound came from his clunky work boots. Only laced half way up, they produced a distinctive, uneven thump on the sidewalk.
Ignoring his presence, I attempted to step around him. He blocked my way. Annoyed, I asked, “What do you want?”
“Well, well, well, nice and direct like your mother. I like that. What do I want? Well, I want to be your friend, your special friend,” he said softly.
I tried to slip around him as I responded, “You’re too old to be my friend. Can’t you find friends your own age? My mother says you are a pederast: a bad person who likes to hurt little kids. Now, let me pass or I will tell my mom you’re harassing me.”
Obviously furious at my blunt appraisal of his character, Damian bent forward and grabbed me by both arms, snarling, “I’m not afraid of your little mother. Now, you can be my friend by choice or by force. But you will be my friend one way or the other. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Oh, yes...Let’s do it the hard way.” His fingers dug into my arms as his breathing took on an urgency that made my skin crawl.
“Take your hands off me, you pig!” I screamed, jerking away from his grip. I kicked him hard in the shin, then turned and ran towards the store.
I arrived a few moments later and found Vanessa in front of the store digging through the back of my uncle’s work truck in search of some tool he had sent her to retrieve. She paused when she saw my lunchless hands and red face, demanding, “What happened?” I quickly filled her in on my encounter with Damian. Without another word, my brave and furious fourteen-year-old sister grabbed a large pipe from the truck bed and rushed off in the direction where I had last seen Damian. Although I wanted to alert my parents, I knew I needed to be with my sister. I quickly ran after her.
Damian was now in front of Abie’s and Bimbo’s, laughing it up with his friends. He stood with his back toward us, unaware of our approach until Vanessa tapped him on the shoulder with the pipe. He turned with a start but before he could utter a word, Vanessa began her verbal barrage. “You want to fuck with someone, asshole, here I am. You think you are such a badass, picking on a little girl. If you ever bother my sister again, you sick fuck, I will split your skull and shove this pipe up your ass.”
Damian, temporarily stunned by our sudden appearance and Vanessa’s verbal offensive, looked angrily at his friends. They now found him to be an object of amusement. Knowing that his tough ass reputation laid tattered at his feet, thrown there by the two, young girls he now faced, he reacted by going on the offensive. Puffing out his chest, he sneered at Vanessa, “Bitch, you need to go home before I kick your ass. In fact,” he yelled, arms waving, “you both need to get out of my face before I make you sorry. Threaten me with that pipe again, bitch, and I will take if off you and beat you senseless.”
Not one to scare easily, Vanessa defiantly held her ground, waiting for Damian’s tirade to end. Just as he threatened to “beat her senseless,” Vanessa swung the pipe at him. He moved quickly, narrowly missing a direct blow to the head. Now determined to split his skull open, Vanessa repositioned her hands on the pipe, grasping it like a baseball bat. As if to make a home run hit, Vanessa stepped forward toward Damian and swung back sharply, only to be interrupted by a police officer who came from behind her and grabbed the pipe from her in mid-air.
Pipe in hand, Officer Roy stepped in to mediate. Angrily, Vanessa told the officer what led to the encounter he chanced upon. She defiantly added that she intended to follow through on her plans for Damian’s head the next time she saw him. Officer Roy, a long-time friend of our family, knew my sister and me well. As it was out of character for either my sister or me to start trouble, Roy immediately understood that Damian must have instigated the conflict.
Taking control of the situation, Roy assured my sister that he would take care of the problem and ordered us home. Vanessa and I complied but were deeply disappointed that Damian did not get what he had coming—namely, a pipe in his skull. Halfway home, Vanessa remembered the lunch still waiting to be picked up at Abie’s and Bimbo’s. Grabbing me by the arm, she pulled me back toward Officer Roy, who was in the process of berating Damian. Vanessa sauntered up to the pair and remarked imperiously to Officer Roy, “Please remove the garbage from the street so that we may finish our business here.” He complied, pulling Damian aside and waved us toward our destination. Picking up lunch, we made our way back home and were in the process of informing our parents of the incident when Officer Roy entered the store.
My mother immediately inquired as to Damian’s whereabouts. “Did you take that bastard to jail?”
Officer Roy steeled himself for the barrage to come. “Now Bonnie, I couldn’t arrest him without cause. He denied everything your girls said and was supported by his friends, the only witnesses. I have no doubt that he did what Heather and Vanessa claim, but my hands are tied. In fact, he wanted to press charges against Vanessa, but I insisted that would be a mistake and he dropped the issue.”
Furious, Bonnie exclaimed, “Press charges against Vanessa? How ludicrous! She was just protecting her sister from a known pedophile! Roy, if you don’t get that bastard off the street a child is going to get hurt. I swear to you, if he comes near Heather again, you will have to call the county for a body bag.”
Attempting to diffuse the situation, Roy tried to explain to my mother that there had never been any concrete proof that Damian was indeed a pedophile. Apparently, there had been many rumors regarding his predilection for young girls, but he had never been formally charged. On the rare occasion that he was accused by a parent, the child had refused to name him as their molester. Pedophilia was something that made society rather uncomfortable in the 1970s and was often swept under the carpet. Victims did not have the support system available today, and would often accept blame for their own molestations or be so fearful of reprisals that they would not testify against their attackers.
Roy assured my parents that he had “put the fear of God in Damian,” and that he was quite confident that he would not pose a threat to me in the future. Evidently, he claimed to be unaware of whose daughters he had been messing with. Upon finding out that he had provoked the wife and daughters of Big Al Abraham, Damian became rather contrite and fearful. I did not believe he was unaware of who my mother was, but I hoped that Roy’s assessment was accurate.
Damian stayed off the Avenue and I did not see him again until school started in August. It was the beginning of my last year at Gaskill Elementary School. A fifth grader, I looked forward to finishing up at Gaskill and moving on to Jeannette’s Junior High School the following year. A short five-minute walk from home, my daily journey to Gaskill entailed crossing, via a footpath, the railroad bridge that connected Jeannette’s city center with the north side of town. During my morning and afternoon walks across the bridge, I noticed Damian on the tracks below, talking to railroad workers. Seeing him thus, several days in a row, I assumed incorrectly that he had found employment with the railroad. I was mindful of his presence and checked for his whereabouts each day before crossing the bridge. I never once saw him glance my way and felt that maybe Office Roy was right. Damian would not mess with me again now that he knew I was Big Al’s daughter. I was unaware that he had already noticed my twice-daily walks over the bridge.
A month or so later while walking home from school, I found out how truly dangerous Damian was. On this particular day, I stayed after class to assist my teacher with a class project. Leaving about a half-hour late, I found myself walking the short distance home alone. Approaching the bridge, I glanced down at the tracks and found no unusual activity. I crossed over and came within reach of the end, where the bridge met the sidewalk. This was a favorite spot for some of my classmates, who would dash out of school in a mad rush to cross the bridge, crawl under the horizontal railings, and lay in wait. From this position, one could peep up through the wooden boards on the bridge and determine the exact moment to reach up and playfully grab at the ankles of classmates passing by. Having finally achieved the status of an elder elementary student, this specific mode of entertainment had lost its novelty for me. However, each school year introduced new students to the joys of this game.
I remember the serenity of the day and the gentle breeze, caught between the heat of late summer and the approach of early fall. I heard the familiar creaking sound of the boards as I crossed the bridge. Approaching the end, I suddenly felt something catch my pant leg. Stopping, I glanced down but found nothing amiss. Before I could resume my stroll, I felt a sudden and violent pull on my left ankle. Losing my balance, I fell sharply against the railing. Assuming I was the target of a mischievous student, I attempted to stand upright when a second tug pulled me down hard upon the ground. I landed violently on my right side. Dazed and bewildered, I felt a sharp pain in my right elbow and the warmth of blood as it flowed down my arm. Unable to move my left leg, I looked down with curiosity and discovered a large hand snaked around my ankle. A feeling of dread came over me as I realized someone was trying to pull me under the bridge.
Throwing my book bag aside, I grabbed onto the bottom rung of the railing and tried to pull myself up and free of the vice-like grip. Suddenly another hand joined the first, higher up on my calf, its fingers digging into my flesh. My eyes followed the hands up the arms, shoulders, and neck to encounter the cold, black eyes of Damian Doom. “Let go, bitch! Come on, I only want to play with you for a little while. I will even buy you ice cream afterwards.” Laughing out loud, he inched me toward the opening in the railing. Screaming at the top of my lungs, I kicked him full force in the face with my unfettered foot and watched with detached fascination as blood poured out of his nose. Desperate to escape, I pulled my free leg in, knee close to my chest, and forcefully kicked him again. I hit my mark and Damian released my leg with a scream. “You little bitch! You broke my fuckin’ nose!”