The Bookie's Daughter (5 page)
By all accounts, I was a strange-looking infant, long in length with big feet and a large nose. I was also purple, which my mother attributed to the gallons of elderberry wine she consumed every week for the duration of her pregnancy. My Uncle Abel never missed an opportunity to remind me that I was the ugliest baby he ever saw. Thankfully, I was a happy baby and surprisingly healthy given Bonnie’s prenatal diet of wine, doughnuts, and cigarettes. My mother would often chuckle over the alcohol-soaked diet she consumed during both her pregnancies, usually ending her reflection by saying “it’s a wonder you both didn’t come out pickled!”
According to Bonnie, I was a good baby and toddler, always curious and exploring my surroundings. Her biggest worry was that I refused to vocalize other than laughing or crying; I did not speak my first words until I was into my third year. Bonnie would often reflect on this period and her fears about my seeming inability to speak. She dragged me to doctors and specialists throughout Pittsburgh hoping for an explanation about my silence. In fact, she was afraid that I was, as she said, “an idiot.” Time and again, the doctors would give me a clean bill of health and tell my mother that I would speak when I had something to say.
Her fears of giving birth to “an idiot” were finally removed when I suddenly developed a passion for Bob, one of my father’s employees. Bob was a one-man act who often entertained family and customers. When not pulling coins from my ears or doing card tricks, Bob would entertain the neighborhood kids by running down the Avenue, leapfrogging over the parking meters. He also had an unlimited supply of candy in his pockets, which he doled out to any child he chanced upon. Between his feats of flight and magic tricks, this real-life Peter Pan became my favorite playmate. As a result, “Bob” was the first word I ever uttered. Although relieved that I finally had something to say, my mother was not happy with my choice of first words, as she thought it was a sign that I would “like the men” a little too much.
Bonnie began to drink heavily shortly after my birth, discarding elderberry wine in favor of her true passion: Jack Daniels. Years later, when alcohol was no longer enough to drown her demons she began to supplement Jack with “black beauties.” She kept her stash in a cookie jar, which always seemed to be brimming with the gleaming black capsules. They were a quick fix for the hangover she awoke with each day. In retrospect, the combination of speed and Jack explains a lot about her erratic behavior. She often vacillated between being a sweet, cooing mother and a raving harpy. Vanessa and I never knew who we were dealing with. We learned at an early age to walk and talk softly just in case Mommy was in “one of her moods.”
Both my sister and I spent most of our time in the family stores. By the time we were born, Bonnie and Al had expanded the businesses to include a record shop and a sporting goods store, all on the 700 block of Clay Avenue. As infants, our mother carried us to work and placed us in a makeshift crib in the bottom of the showcase that housed the newest models of Kodak cameras on the top shelf. Bonnie made curtains and placed them inside the base of the case so that customers would not see us slumbering and we would not be disturbed. After growing out of our makeshift cribs, Vanessa and I would play in the corner while our parents conducted business.
By this time, Al had built up a lucrative gambling business, which he ran out of the back room and basement of the store. Bonnie would conduct the legit business in the front and direct gamblers to the back rooms, where poker games were normally running and other betting games were conducted.
Before Vanessa entered first grade she regularly worked in the stores, and I would shortly follow suit. The family businesses were the center of our lives. All of our family dramas played out there, as neither of our parents had a sense of privacy. Most arguments were conducted in public. As Vanessa recently remarked, “Every day was a potential embarrassment. In order to survive we had to hold our heads high and pretend as if we weren’t bothered.” She is not exaggerating in any sense, as fights, raids, and arrests occurred on a regular basis.
Despite the tension between our parents, times were often entertaining. We lived lives of abundance, and Al and Bonnie often took us on outings and mini-vacations. Money was no object at this time, as my father’s gambling had not yet exceeded his earnings. The legitimate businesses prospered, since Jeannette’s factories were running around the clock and Al’s Bargain Center was the place for factory workers to spend their hard-earned wages. Vanessa and I can remember the money coming in so fast that our parents used to store bundles of cash in shoeboxes in the bedroom closet. If Bonnie wanted to go shopping, she would simply go to the closet and grab a stack of bills.
Similarly, Al always had a wad of money in his pocket, which, when not gambling, he lavishly spent on expensive restaurants. His appetite for food was the only thing that could match his need for gambling. My father would eat the meal Bonnie prepared and then head out to a restaurant to eat again, and again. I can remember vividly Al sitting down at a table and ordering the entire menu. Many of the restaurants he frequented purchased a special chair just for my dad because he was so huge that he would often break the seats meant for regular customers. He ate so much, so often, that they would gladly accommodate his size with a chair reserved especially for him.
On our first trip to a restaurant in Pittsburgh that served Middle Eastern fare, Al broke three chairs before they brought out a heavy metal chair from the kitchen. He excitedly pulled up to the table, telling the owner to start bringing every appetizer he had on the menu and to follow up with every entree. He always ordered dessert after finishing his meal. Sometimes it was a whole pie or cake, but most often the restaurant owner would create a special sampler plate with one of everything on the menu.
Al was a spectacle at feast and he loved to invite people to dine with him. Often, he would take anyone who was in the store as he prepared to leave. He frequently took Vanessa and me along, as well as any friends with us at the time. The neighborhood kids loved to hang out at our house because he always included them in any adventure he was cooking up, whether legit or not. If he wanted to go to the movies, which he loved to do, he would fill up the car with neighborhood kids and buy out half the theater’s popcorn and candy.
My father also loved amusement parks. A friend of his ran an amusement park near the Pittsburgh Airport, where my sister and I—and our friends—thoroughly enjoyed ourselves and were always accorded special treatment. The manager, Dave, would shut down the bumper car ride to the public and let us race around smashing into each other for thirty minutes or more. The bumper cars and roller coasters were his favorites, and he delighted in sharing the experience with his daughters and our friends.
Life was never dull around my father, who always seemed to be looking for the next thrill. Bonnie, on the other hand, was more of an introvert and would often opt out of the merriment, much preferring to stay at home with a good book, the family dogs, and a bottle. She said that she hated people, and she meant it. In contrast, her husband’s goal in life was to live as much as possible every day and not worry about the consequences. His urgency to have fun was contagious but also unsettling, as he could not be serious when times warranted.
Although enjoying himself was a priority for my father, his relationship with my mother was at times downright hazardous. In our home, fun was fleeting and violence loomed a constant threat. Blood is prominent in my earliest memories and was a regular feature throughout my childhood.
I clearly recall my first memory of a parental fight that ended in bloodshed. Asleep in the bedroom I shared with my sister, I awoke with a start at the sound of crashing glass. Raised voices soon joined the barrage of plates my mother hurled in fury; Bonnie was great at throwing dishes and usually hit her mark. The screaming reached a crescendo that peaked at the same time I heard a loud thud, as if one had thrown the other into a wall. A momentary silence ensued before Bonnie began to shriek. “How dare you! You tore my dress. I’ll kill you, you black bastard,” my mother screamed, referring to my father’s Arab descent.
“Good,” my father replied. “Where were you planning to go all dressed up at this hour? You’re staying home! I’m tired of you running out at a whim.”
“You can’t tell me what to do! I will come and go as I please and don’t need your permission. Get out of my way, or you will be sorry.” Shouting was her characteristic response to frustration.
A scuffle ensued and then silence. A few moments later, the light came on in the hallway leading to our bedroom. Al appeared in the door and walked over to my crib. Although four at the time, I still slept in a crib and would do so until the age of seven. Caught up in mortal combat with their demons, neither of my parents thought anything amiss with my sleeping arrangements. Each night, I would crawl into the crib and pull the safety rail up behind me. It was rather comforting, in a kind of “yes, I’m in prison” way. I used to imagine that the bars possessed magical qualities that would protect me from the outside world. It became my “safe place,” although I longed for a big girl’s bed like my sister.
I stared up at my father, wondering at this new twist in their regular fights. Why was he standing there?
“Heather. Wake up. I want to show you what Mommy did to Daddy.”
Leaning up on one elbow, I inquired, “What’s wrong, Daddy? What did Mommy do to you?”
Al bent over and showed me his arm dripping with blood. “Mommy stabbed me. She’s crazy. You know that, don’t you?”
I stared at his wound, and then replied in my high-pitched voice, “That’s not blood, Daddy. It’s red, silly sand.”
My father looked disappointed. I don’t know if he wanted sympathy or an ally, but I did not give him what he needed. “You don’t care that your mother stabbed me?”
“Yes, but that isn’t blood, Daddy. You are just being silly. Go to bed and everything will be better in the morning.”
Al stood and walked to the door, looked back and wished me a good night. A few minutes passed and I heard him leave the house, leaving his four-year-old daughter bewildered and his wife sobbing in another room.
Our parents never bothered to shield us from their fights, which were always verbally brutal and all too often escalated into violence. Al would taunt Bonnie and she would fly into a rage, attacking him with anything she could grab. One such argument occurred while my mother was cutting pork chops from a large loin, which you would think my father would have taken into consideration. Sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, Vanessa and I ignored our fighting parents, who stood at opposite ends of the table. We concentrated on the dominos we were tediously setting up for the big “knockdown.” Of course, the knockdown came, but it was not the dominos that put on the show.
The argument began when Al announced that he was leaving to attend a weekend poker game in Pittsburgh. Given their volatile relationship, you might assume that my mother would enjoy a weekend without her watchful husband. Instead, she began to mock him with the same arguments he used against her every time she wanted to go out unaccompanied. As the argument escalated, Bonnie began chopping erratically at the loin. Without warning, she raised her arm back over her head and flung the meat cleaver directly at my father. Vanessa and I forgot the dominos as we watched the cleaver spin through the air, over our heads, finally coming to rest with a squishy thud. It entered my father’s body where the shoulder meets the chest.
The house became very quiet. I was amazed to see only a slight flinch from my father, who calmly reached up and pulled the cleaver from his shoulder. Blood gushed from the wound as the steel left his body. Bonnie, who had stopped shouting, showed little concern. She simply threw a kitchen towel at him with an angry growl. Al grabbed the towel and squashed it to the oozing wound. Blood squirted between his fingers as he tried to determine the most urgent opening. Placing the towel effectively, he turned and left the house. He went to the nearby hospital where he was cared for by one of his cousins, who asked no questions.
Hearing the door slam shut, my mother started, as if awakening from a dream. Inspecting the mess on the table, blood-soaked dominos, and a pork loin that looked like dog meat, she exclaimed, “Well, this won’t do at all. How about I get this cleaned up and take you girls out for ice cream? Isaly’s is still open. Or do you want to go to the DQ?” Not bothering to wait for response, she pulled the garbage can over to the table and began scraping the bloodied dominos and pork into the can. My sister and I sat in silence, which we had learned from experience was the safest option, until she finished scrubbing the table. “There, all cleaned up and everything in its proper place. Well, what will it be? A Dilly Bar or Isaly’s?”
Vanessa and I looked at each other and decided a Dilly Bar sounded just right.
Bonnie’s practice of taking us for ice cream or other treats after a bloody battle became so common that I would often find myself trying to decide on what treat I would request even while the fight ensued. Ice cream and violence—a strange combination, indeed.
Another parental fight that remains all too vivid in my mind earned Bonnie bragging rights for putting the first bullet holes in Clay Avenue, whose brick roadway had been paved for the first time a decade before. My mother and father were arguing about a mystery man who Al thought had become too friendly. She denied any wrongdoing and insisted that my father’s jealous nature saw evil around every corner.