Chapter Five
It took a while for my eyes to become accustomed to the darkness as I walked into Caesars II, the latest happening place on the west side. Low ceilings covered in red burlap disguised the musty smell of what had formerly been a cellar. Rooms partitioned by hanging beads left over from the sixties lent a cozy feeling to the vast, soulless space. Spotting Sammy G and Joey Tiraborelli sitting at the front table near the band, I walked over to join them.
“Hey, kid, how ya doin’?” Sammy asked as he stood and kissed each of my cheeks. The two women sitting with them didn’t seem as pleased to see me.
“Whatta ya drinkin’?”
“I’ll have a Scotch, Sammy. In fact, make it a double.”
“Bea!” he yelled to the waitress as Jimmy Cristo came through the door. “Bring us another round and a double Chivas for the lady. And take care of Jimmy’s table. Line up another shot for our proprietor, too, while you’re at it.”
“Sure thing, Sam,” she said as she whisked away, fighting her way through the crowd.
The band took a break, making it possible to hear.
“A double, huh? What’s going on with you, kid?”
“I left Tom, Sammy. He’s not taking it very well.”
“Yeah, well, I knew that would happen sooner or later. You’re goin’ places, kid. I knew that the day I laid eyes on you. What were you then, thirteen, fourteen years old? I’ve watched you blossom into a beauty. You deserve better anyway.”
A man appeared from behind, pulling the back of a chair up to the table and straddling it. I continued my conversation with Sammy, sensing the man hanging on my every word. Finally, I turned and looked at him for the first time.
Seated with a straight back, he appeared a little over six feet, weighing approximately 165 pounds. Mystery peered out from his unwavering dark brown eyes. He didn’t smile; nor did he introduce himself. He just stared at me with a truly piercing look.
“I’m going to marry you,” said the stranger.
I laughed at him. “Get serious,” I said, looking over at Sammy, my eyes asking, Who is this jerk? With a crooked half smile, Sammy shook his head in disbelief.
“I am. You’ll see,” the man said with unfettered confidence.
Well, if I hadn’t heard it all. A little egotistical for my taste, although he was unusually handsome, with olive skin, a sharply etched jawline, and a perfectly straight nose. Arrogant, to say the least, but he had an enticing allure. A curl from his thick, jet-black hair fell softly onto his forehead as he lifted his glass in Sammy’s direction.
“Thanks for the drink, Sam.”
“Salud,” said Sammy, raising his glass and taking a swig.
“Well, is anyone going to introduce me to this gorgeous girl?”
No one looked too eager to make the first move. Finally, Joey Tiraborelli spoke up. “Joe, this is Georgia Durante. You’ve probably seen her on TV and in the newspapers,” he announced proudly.
In an attempt at regaining some attention, the sexy-looking redhead seated at the table cleared her throat as she crossed her legs, exhibiting a suggestive amount of creamy thigh.
“Yeah,” Joe said. “Weren’t you on the cover of Upstate magazine last Sunday?”
“Yes, I was.”
“That was a great article.”
“Thank you,” I responded, allowing myself a small smile.
“Georgia, this is Joe Lamendola, the owner of this joint. He’s turned it into one hell of a gold mine.”
“I can see that,” I said, looking around at the people pouring in. “This is my first time here.” I hadn’t been out in the club scene much since I’d been married.
“I know,” Joe said. “You never could’ve gotten by without me noticing you before.”
I ignored the compliment, convinced it was a line he’d rehearsed many times before. “I like your choice of bands.”
As he began to respond, someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Joe, I think we have a problem in the back room.”
He excused himself and disappeared into the crowd. Joey Tiraborelli watched me as my eyes followed him until he was out of my view. Something about him intrigued me.
“Hey, Sammy,” Joey Tiraborelli yelled above the music. “Looks like our little Alice in Wonderland has eyes for Casanova.”
“Beauty and the Beast is more like it,” Sammy said under his breath.
Obviously no great love existed between them. An unspoken rivalry always simmered between the east siders and the west siders. I chalked it up to that being the case here. As I pondered this conflict, the waitress appeared with a tray filled with drinks.
“These are on Joe Lamendola,” she said, unloading her bounty.
“Bring me my tab on your next pass, Bea,” Sammy ordered.
“Coming right up, Sammy.”
“We’re going to Ben’s Café from here, Georgia. Would you like to join us?”
“Sure, why not?” I answered, noticing hostile glances from the two girls at the table.
Bea returned with the check and Sammy paid it, leaving her a $100 tip. “Give these ladies whatever they want and put it on my tab,” Sammy instructed as we stood to leave.
I was surprised the girls weren’t joining us, but evidently not as surprised as they were. Their venomous stares undoubtedly followed us even after we passed through the door.
“Why aren’t they coming with us?” I asked as we climbed the flight of cement stairs leading out of the club.
“Why bring a ham sandwich to a smorgasbord?” Sammy answered, and we all burst out laughing.
Two days later I received a call from Joe Lamendola. “Hey, pretty lady. Where’d you run off to the other night?”
“Oh, we just did the Friday-night ritual. The Blue Gardenia, Ben’s, and breakfast.”
“Listen, I have to go to Buffalo Wednesday night to see a group I’m thinking of booking. Would you like to come with me? I’d really like your opinion.”
“Well . . . are you planning on returning the same night?”
“No, but you’ll have your own room, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“In that case, I’d love to go.”
He picked me up in his 1970 Stingray—my kind of car. We dropped Toni off at my mother’s and drove the ninety miles to Buffalo, learning a little history about each other along the way.
“You know,” I said, “your brother Ronny is a friend of mine.”
“I know; how do you think I got your number?”
“Oh . . . well, I assumed you got it from Sammy.”
“I tried that route, but he basically told me you were unlisted.”
“He’s overprotective of me sometimes.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“I didn’t know Ronny even had an older brother,” I said. “Why haven’t I ever met you before?”
“I’ve been in Boston for the last six years. I’m sort of the black sheep of the family. The one no one ever talks about,” he said with a nervous laugh. “How do you know my brother?”
“I used to date a friend of his, Sammy Sapienza. I was about fourteen or fifteen at the time. Ronny was the bouncer at a club Sammy took me to. He got me past the door without having to show my ID. We just became friends over time.”
We arrived at the Executive Hotel about six thirty. Jimmy Constintino had the red carpet rolled out upon our arrival. Champagne was in Joe’s suite and flowers were in mine. The note he left read: Relax and enjoy. The limo will pick you up at seven thirty for dinner. Looking forward to seeing you.
I had heard about this powerhouse, Jimmy Constintino. He was a young, good-looking guy, the owner of one of the largest hotels in Buffalo. I had to admit I was curious about him, and he seemed interesting. But like so many of Joe’s praiseworthy acquaintances, I would meet him once, never to encounter him again.
Joe and I had a wonderful dinner at a quaint Italian restaurant, compliments of Jimmy. Songs from Italy, played on a harp, added charm to the atmosphere and set the stage for a romantic evening. After dinner the limousine took us back to the hotel. We went into the lounge to hear the new group. Joe asked the female singer if she knew the song “What Are You Doing the Rest of Your Life.” She did. We danced like we’d been together for years.
“You are going to marry me, y’know,” he said as we danced.
“I’m already married.”
“We’ll just have to do something about that, won’t we?”
“I’m only six days into a separation, and I’m not ready to jump into the fire quite yet. Besides, it’s bad enough being married, having a child, and getting a divorce all before I’m twenty,” I said, laughing.
“How old is your baby?”
“Eight months,” I answered.
“We’ll be married by the time she’s three. Is that long enough?”
He held me close for the remainder of the song. I felt that tingle in my vulnerable young heart—the kind of feeling that seems to happen only in youth, the first stage of falling in love.
The evening was wonderful, but as we walked from the lounge toward our rooms, apprehension surged through me—the dread of the sexual advances that were sure to come. I knew Joe wouldn’t be satisfied with a simple kiss at the door. I was determined to handle the situation as an adult, but how? How did a young girl handle a dilemma like this without adult experience?
Being married young had furnished me with a cloak of safety. Now I was single again and fair game. Conventional myth said divorcées, having had a steady diet of sex, were easy marks. Except I was maybe as difficult as they came. Being married and having a child didn’t automatically make me an adult. I still had a month to go before I turned twenty. My instincts said run. I never did perfect the handling of sexual encounters. Even today, though I no longer physically break track records, I still hold the gold medal in my head for running the fastest.
I worked myself into a frenzy thinking about it. Sensing my extreme discomfort, Joe acted like a perfect gentleman. He was probably intrigued that a woman wouldn’t sleep with him on the first date—a problem I was sure he had not encountered often.
Frankie came to Rochester a few times after the breakup with Tom, and I saw him when I traveled to New York on my little side jobs. On one of his visits, I packed a lunch and we went on a picnic with Toni. Frankie had a wonderful way with children. He would have been a good father.
Somehow we wound up in the cemetery—not really so unusual for our peculiar relationship. Sitting under a willow tree, we ate our lunch and watched as Toni climbed on the tombstones. We wrote a letter together, professing our love for each other, wrapped it in the plastic from our sandwiches, and buried it under the tree. We made a promise we would come back in twenty years to read it again. We knew that, barring death, we would always be in contact. I actually did go back twenty years later, but with the natural growth of the trees I couldn’t remember which one the letter was buried beneath.
We still harbored strong feelings, but life was a little different now. Having a baby changd everything. Life in New York was harsh enough for an adult; with a child it was out of the question. New York City and my life there with Frankie became only fond memories.
Joe and I were soon an item. Just as he predicted, we ultimately were married. As unhappy as I was with Tom, I was still scared and insecure about what the future held for a young woman with a year-old infant. Intuitively understanding my fears, Joe used this apprehension as a vehicle to lure me in, making my daughter as big a part of his life as he made me. Never having any children of his own, Joe seemed to enjoy the little pleasures kids can bring into one’s life. He had little trouble converting from his bachelor lifestyle to instant family man.
Caught off guard by love, I was grateful I’d found someone who loved my daughter and was willing to take us both as a package. Determined to be the only father Toni would ever know, Joe wanted Tom out of her life. For some reason, Tom really wasn’t a major problem. I’m sure Joe’s reputation had something to do with it, but Tom was as lax about Toni as he was about himself. Toni, just being a baby, didn’t know the difference. She enjoyed the attention from wherever it came.
The beginning of our relationship was a whirlwind of excitement. But then again, any kind of social life, much less life in the fast lane, would have been exciting compared to living with Tom. Joe was a flashy nightclub owner and always dressed the part. Drawn by his thousand-watt charm and good looks, women threw themselves at his feet—which, of course, made men secretly hate him. But he had chosen me, and I felt proud to be his woman.
Joe knew how to spend money, and doors opened wherever we went. Maître d’s greeted him as though he were a king. Only the best table in the house was good enough for Mr. Joe. When he walked into a room, people were immediately intimidated by his presence. He carried an undeniable aura of power. I fell madly in love, dazzled by the illusion of Joe Lamendola.
We connected beyond anything we could relate to on an earthly plain. Our strong desire for each other felt as if it were a continuation from another lifetime. We didn’t need to speak to understand each other’s thoughts. We were happy together and utterly miserable when apart.
Once we were separated by a snowstorm. I was stuck in a photography studio only seven miles from home, but the streets were impassable. The night on a cold studio floor promised to be long. But Joe wouldn’t give up. He searched until he found a kid with a snowmobile and paid him $100 to bring me home. When I got there, he had a candlelight dinner and wine waiting. We spent a warm, snowed-in, romantic evening together.
Joe took me out frequently, even on Fridays, which had always been deemed “boys” night out. On Saturdays, everyone took out their wives, but Fridays were reserved for girlfriends. We truly enjoyed each other’s company, always finding something to giggle about. This was what I had missed when I was married to Tom.
We took many short trips to Toronto and New York, usually in search of good bands to book for the nightclub. In anticipation of our arrival, other club owners made sure we were treated like royalty. We were an envied couple by the women who vied for Joe’s attention. I had captured the heart of one of the most desirable bachelors in town, and he had captured me.
Once I was under his spell, and hopelessly in love, Joe’s jealousy began to intensify. He wanted to shield me from any external influences. I became his property. Men couldn’t even look in my direction without a violent reaction from Joe. I started to change my own personality, careful not to attract attention from the opposite sex, but it didn’t work. To eliminate the problem, Joe started to make me stay at home. At my age, with the world to explore, his restricting conduct was like a death sentence.
Life with Joe soon became twisted. He began to dominate and control me. Over time, in subtle ways, the frequency of his dominant behavior became more pronounced. At first his caring seemed genuine, guiding me in ways that appeared to be in my best interest. Eventually, though, he made all my decisions, and my independence completely crumbled. I wasn’t allowed to associate with my friends—for my own good, of course—and eventually I even had restrictions on my own family. He forbade me to have contact with anyone who might open my eyes to the destruction of his domination. My opinions had no value. His opinions were law.
When my mother sensed what was happening, she offered me refuge. Refuge didn’t mean safety, however, so I camouflaged my unhappiness. The more aware Joe became of my parents’ feelings, the less contact I was allowed to have with them. I tried my best to balance it all with harmony, but resentment grew on both sides.
We lived in an apartment above Caesars II. There wasn’t anyplace where Toni could go out to play—no trees, no park, just pavement. I started to feel as if I had traded one prison, my marriage to Tom, for another. And from the new one there seemed no escape.
I loved Joe, or so I thought. His flashy club-owner status and the attention from other women made him seem quite a catch. As a result, I put up with his behavior. In Joe’s world, women did what they were told. He knew that my sense of self was shaky, despite my successful modeling career. His put-downs became vicious and cruel. I began to believe that I was lucky to have found him. Who else would want me, especially with a child? I actually began to participate in my own subjugation.
Because of Joe, my modeling assignments became limited to the Rochester area. Even nearby Buffalo was considered too far out of town. I could work at a distant location only if he traveled with me. Having Joe on the set, not surprisingly, was propelling me into early retirement.
Joe never said much—he didn’t have to. His expressions said it all. His presence made everyone extremely uncomfortable, including me. My side trips to New York were impossible now, but at least I had a good excuse to turn down the frequent requests for my services.
Industry parties often demanded my presence, but I could never go to these affairs alone. If Joe didn’t accompany me, then I’d have to stay home. I recall one party we attended and, as usual, he made me a nervous wreck. It was obvious to my colleagues that Joe was from a different world, and my business friends caught the change in my personality with him around. I could feel that my conversations were impaired and strained. I knew what the evening would hold even before we arrived, as Joe always became irritated whenever I enjoyed the spotlight. I hoped against hope that he’d conduct himself with dignity and show respect.
A male model, Jim Alquist, approached us at the party. “Hi, Georgia. Great party, huh?” he remarked, innocently resting one hand on my shoulder while sipping his drink with the other.
“Yes, the studio doesn’t look quite the same with all these people in it. Jim, this is Joe.”
“Good to meet you, Joe,” Jim said, holding out his hand.
“You touch my wife like that again, you’ll be missing a hand,” Joe retorted.
Jim stood, stupefied, with his arm still outstretched.
Here he goes. Let’s leave now, White. It’s only gonna get worse.
Joe took my arm and abruptly led me through the crowd. He was seething.
“Joe, please don’t embarrass me,” I pleaded, forcing a nervous smile at familiar faces as we passed.
“Embarrass you? Quite the opposite, my dear. How can you allow yourself to be touched like that and expect me to stand there like a fuckin’ idiot?”
“Jim was just being friendly; he didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Yeah, I know how friendly he’d like to be.”
“You’re ridiculous, Joe. That’s his wife right over there. Look at her. She’s gorgeous! What would he want with me? We all work together—we’re friends!”
“Not anymore you’re not. Get your coat. We’re leaving.”
“I can’t leave yet. They haven’t started the slide show. I’m being featured—it’s why we’re here!”
“Get your coat.”
You may as well leave. People are beginning to stare. Next time, pretend you’re visiting your mother—and go alone!
I said whatever it took to appease Joe, while never agreeing with the way he thought. When, against my better judgment, I occasionally attempted to demonstrate that I had a mind of my own, he became infuriated. The result was never worth my effort.
I learned very quickly how to sneak. I took jobs out of town and drove ninety miles an hour to get back home at a reasonable time. I even had Toni lying for me: “Tell Daddy we stopped for an ice cream. Don’t say we visited with Susie. If he asks, say we were at Grandma’s.” Only now do I realize how sick it was, putting that type of pressure on a child. But then I was so terrified, I’d do anything to escape his wrath. I still find it difficult to think about the normal life I deprived my daughter of because of my own chaos.
Toni practically lived with my parents. They were wonderful, loving grandparents, but they weren’t what she needed the most. She needed me. My parents took care of her when I worked and when I played, both of which I did a lot. I wanted to taste the life of my youth that early motherhood had stolen from me. Mom and Dad lovingly afforded me that opportunity.
Other reasons surfaced for my frequent absences from Toni’s life. As time went on, Joe graduated from emotionally destroying things that were precious to me to punching holes in walls—and, finally, to physically abusing me. He never laid a hand on Toni, but the mental abuse she endured during his outbursts took a significant toll on her psyche.
When Joe became physically abusive, which happened often, I’d take Toni to stay with my mother. I desperately attempted to avoid her being subjected to Joe’s violent behavior. I would lie to my parents, but they suspected something was wrong. They eagerly opened their door and sheltered my little girl. Although Toni missed me, she was happier and more relaxed in the safety of my parents’ loving home. Absorbed in my own pain, my mind was scarcely free to mourn her absence. I took comfort in knowing she was receiving the love and attention she needed.
Toni played as quietly as a mouse around Joe. She never knew quite what to expect from him. She gradually became timid and withdrawn, fading into the background whenever he raised his voice.
One day Joe and Toni were playing in the kitchen while I was preparing breakfast. Toni climbed onto the counter and jumped into his arms. Delighted with the attention, she actively pursued the game. I placed the pan on the stove and turned to survey them, enjoying their laughter. Toni repeatedly climbed back up and jumped. On her sixth jump, Joe moved away, letting her fall to the floor.
“There—that’ll teach you never to trust anybody.”
I ran to her and picked her up, wiping the tears from her eyes. “That was sick, Joe! How could you do that to her?”
“Don’t challenge me on how to bring up a kid! Maybe if someone did that to you when you were younger, you’d never have gotten raped. She’s not going to grow up to be as stupid as her mother.”
You’re not stupid! He’s trying to confuse you by turning it all around—so he looks right. He’s wrong! Don’t give in; you have nothing to apologize for.
Joe’s dominant behavior persisted. I loved him and hated him in equal measure. My will became the only thing that sustained me. My reluctance to let go of what belief I still had in myself just increased his insecurity. His lack of self-control became more overt. The blame always flowed in my direction, and, after a time, I came to accept it. Through it all, I persistently and paradoxically believed I loved him.
In the beginning, I saw the possessive side of Joe as proof of his love. But time showed it to be a sickness. The signs were there from the start, but love has a celebrated myopia. Yes, Joe was certainly suave. Although I had been around enough to know the kind of character he was, I was still just a babe in the woods, young and impressionable. Joe was thirty-five when we met—and a master of mind manipulation. The fifteen years of experience he had on me made his molding me into the person I would become that much easier. Joe was tall, dark, and handsome, but the dark was much darker than I had bargained for. Once I entered that darkness, escape would take years.
I still managed to keep in touch with Tom’s brother and his family. Another broken rule. I would occasionally sneak over to visit my ex-sister-in-law, Billie, for coffee. She was always happy to see me pulling into the driveway. A simple housewife, she was stuck at home with four children, all less than nine years of age. She loved hearing my stories of the outside world.
Billie was becoming increasingly discontent with her existence, and she often vented her frustrations over coffee during our visits. As I had also felt when I was married to Tom, Billie wanted more from life than a humdrum existence. Now my life was anything but humdrum. There had to be something in between.
The only time Billie and Babe ever went out was to church socials. They took no vacations, and there were no dinners away from the kids. Determined to start getting out, she joined a women’s bowling league—an act of independence which I could readily understand. Babe, being the typical possessive Sicilian, didn’t agree with this sudden show of independence. In his view, a woman’s place was barefoot, pregnant, and chained to the stove. Billie reluctantly dropped out of the league.
Only twenty-eight years old, she looked closer to forty. Her dark hair sported a plethora of gray, quite a bit more than you would have expected for a woman her age. She wanted to color it, but Babe refused to let her. His fear was that the effect would make her more attractive to the opposite sex. It was simply out of the question. Although miniskirts were in fashion, Billie could wear her skirts only below the knee. If Babe had allowed her to wear makeup, she could have been a truly attractive woman.
Over time, Billie’s resentment continued to grow.After all, she wasn’t asking for the moon. She definitely didn’t want any more children, but birth control was against the Catholic religion and Babe opposed it. She took the pill anyway and hid the containers in her drawer. When Babe stumbled upon them one day, he became convinced Billie was having an affair. He started popping up at home at all hours to check on her.
An obedient wife from the beginning, Billie eventually began to rebel. This confused Babe. The only explanation could be that she was being unfaithful. He became obsessed with the thought, and their marriage started to go downhill fast.
Babe became so depressed he took an overdose of sleeping pills. Barely found in time, he was rushed to the hospital. Billie begged the doctors to keep him for psy chiatric observation, telling them that the next time he would kill them all. They said they didn’t have enough beds and sent him home.
How could this be happening? This was not the happy-go-lucky Babe I remembered. In her kitchen, not long after Babe came home from the hospital, Billie told me in a prosaic tone, “He’s going to kill me, Georgia.”
Billie was emotionally drained. Her eyes appeared dull, and the dark bags under them were big enough to pack clothes in. Her sparkle was gone. She was giving in to her belief in the inevitable.
“What are you saying, Billie?”
“You don’t know what it’s like, Georgia. Every time I have to run to the store for a quart of milk or a loaf of bread, I have to pile all the kids into the car. I’m terrified to leave them home alone with Babe. I’m afraid he’ll kill them.”
“Oh, Billie, come on. He would never kill his own children. Remember how he tore down your pool when David almost drowned? Babe loves those kids! He wouldn’t hurt them.”
“Something is very wrong with his mind, Georgia. You don’t believe me, the doctors don’t believe me, no one believes me.”
Babe arrived home unexpectedly just then, interrupting our conversation. Billie began to twitch and nervously bite her lower lip, fearing that Babe had overheard us.
He seems pretty normal. Billie must be paranoid. Joe has threatened me too, but Babe is not like Joe. Babe is compassionate. He could never do anything like that.
“How are you, Georgia? It’s been a while,” Babe said, kissing me hello. He acted like the same old Babe, but his face showed signs of stress. The playfulness that normally shone in his eyes was absent.
Babe was only about five-six, with tight, curly hair and an outgoing personality. Always the teaser, he never stopped kidding around. I’d always enjoyed his company. He constantly went out of his way to do you a favor. He was my favorite of Tom’s two brothers. Tom had even been jealous of our rapport.
“I’m fine, Babe.”
“Saw Toni outside playing with the kids. She’s getting big.” He looked down at the table and paused. His face flushed red with rage. “Why aren’t you using the china?” he shrieked. He picked up a half-filled coffee mug and threw it against the wall. Billie shrank in her chair as the mug shattered.
God, could Billie be right? I’d never seen Babe behave this way.
He stormed out the door, slamming it so hard that the pictures rattled on the wall.
Billie looked at me wide-eyed. “Do you believe me now?”
“Geez, Billie. What’s happened to him?”
She ran to the front window to be sure he’d really left while I picked up the broken mug and wiped up the mess.
“I don’t know what to do, Georgia. I have to get out of here.” Her hand shook uncontrollably as she pushed her dark, tangled hair from her face. “I’m going to my sister’s in Pennsylvania tomorrow after he leaves for work. I can’t take this anymore. I’ve got to get away from him for a while.”
“Does Babe know you’re going?” I said, comforting her with an arm around her shoulder.
“No, I’ll leave him a note. You can do something for me, if you would,” she said with pleading eyes.
“Sure, Billie, anything.”
“Call him after I’m gone. See if you can get him to go to your nightclub. Try to talk to him for me. Please,” she said, desperation dripping from her voice. “Convince him there’s no one else, that it’s just his behavior that’s driving me away. Will you do that for me, Georgia?”
“Consider it done,” I answered. “I’ll help in any way I can. You know that.”
“Oh, thank you. I’m so scared,” she said, bursting into tears.
Deeply troubled, I drove home, considering Billie’s fears. Was Babe possibly capable of fulfilling Billie’s prediction? They were just going through a tough period. Babe was acting a little irrational, but time would eventually heal that. Surely this was true.
To keep my promise to Billie, I had to admit to Joe that I had done something against his wishes. I had committed the sin of visiting with my ex-in-laws. This would not sit well, but I had pledged myself to help.
“You sneaky little bitch!”
“Joe, they have a right to see Toni; she’s their niece. Why is that so hard for you to understand?” I yelled back in my defense.
“They’re not your family anymore! You divorced that fuckin’ guy. Now divorce the family,” he said heatedly.
“I gave Billie my word I would try to talk to Babe. I can’t go back on it now. I think I can help,” I insisted. “Babe listens to me.”
“You actually think you have anything intelligent to say?” he said, laughing.
“Yes,” I said defiantly, “I do.”
“Stay out of it! It’s none of your business,” he demanded in a booming voice.
“You say you hate it when I lie, but you make me lie. I’m being honest with you now. I’m going to try to talk to him,” I retorted, standing up to him.
He flashed me one of those don’t fuck with me stares. “Go ahead. Try it. You’ll see what fuckin’ happens. Get me a lighter,” he ordered, brushing off my brazen attempts to get my way.
Frustrated, I picked up a pack of matches and threw them at him. “Here! Light yourself on fire!”
That did it. Joe grabbed my neck and shoved me against the wall, his thumbs pressed hard into my throat. “Don’t you dare defy me. If I hear you’ve talked to those people again or anyone I’ve forbidden you to, you’ll fuckin’ live to regret it. Do you understand?”
I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even nod. The only way he knew I understood was from the tears streaming down my cheeks. When he finally let go of my neck, I gasped for breath.
“Okay, okay . . . I won’t call,” I answered, backing away.
Satisfied, he went downstairs to the club to prepare for the evening. Anger festered inside of me.
Follow your heart, White. You’re surrendering again.
I can’t. . . .
Why was I letting him take control of me? I was afraid. Fear of the pain that he would inflict on me overpowered my will. It made me a coward. And he was a master at this game.
No one could ignore Joe’s presence in a room. The false confidence in his demeanor made everyone aware of his domineering sense of superiority. Mr. Authority, he got off on holding court, expounding his theories, and daring anyone to challenge him. If they did, he’d pounce. He had an uncanny way of knowing others’ secret fears, never passing up an opportunity to point out their shortcomings. Joe enjoyed mentally mutilating people, stripping them of their own self-confidence. He squashed them like insects, without a hint of compassion. He was downright cruel.
One night after hours, a cop showed up at the club. New on the beat, he stated confidently, “It’s after two. Lock it up or I’m going to have to close you down.”
Joe laughed at him. “Who the hell do you think you are, Gunga Din?”
I couldn’t believe he had spoken to a uniform like that. But such was Joe. He respected no one. When the cop got angry and cited him, Joe ripped the citation up in his face and showed him the door. The next day the officer was reprimanded and transferred out of the division.
It wasn’t just strangers who Joe treated this way. He even bedeviled his own family. I recall him belittling his younger brother Jimmy in front of customers while Jimmy worked behind the bar. Jimmy walked out, leaving Joe stranded without a bartender on a Friday night, the busiest night of the week.
Later that night, after closing, Joe went to his mother’s house and woke his brother from a sound sleep by choking him. Joe told Jimmy that if he wasn’t out of their mother’s house by morning, he was going to burn all his clothes. The next day Joe found Jimmy’s clothes still hanging in the closet. He loaded them into his car, drove to the nearest dump, and set them on fire. Jimmy came back to work the next night. This was the man I lived with.
During these times I was slowly being brainwashed, and continually being convinced that I was worthless, just as Joe said. Joe constantly confirmed all of my self-fears. He was a real pro.
Somehow, ever so slowly, my inner shadow began to extend a hand and pull me out when I was in trouble. She grudgingly encouraged me and told me I deserved more. I was too scared to listen most of the time, but she had obviously never completely given up. To grow strong would take time, but she would, eventually.
Breaking my promise to Billie bothered me. Every day I thought of calling Babe, but I could not summon the courage to openly disobey Joe again. The night Billie was due to return home, Joe and I went to an opening of a new dinner club in Billie and Babe’s neighborhood. I couldn’t stop thinking of them. Were they all right? I should’ve done more. But how? I struggled with my guilt. An uncanny heaviness gnawed at me all evening.
Call her, White. She needs you.
Spotting a pay phone outside the ladies’ room, I dialed their number. It rang twice before Joe became suspicious and sauntered over. I hung up quickly.
“Who you calling?” he asked.
“I was just checking on Toni,” I answered casually.
Babe had kept himself busy while Billie was away. He’d gone to a nursery and bought grass seed for the lawn; then he had stopped at a gun shop where he purchased a shotgun and ammunition. On the day of Billie’s return, he occupied himself making a giant sign that read, “WELCOME HOME,” and he hung it over the kitchen door entrance from the garage. He’d apparently planned for it to be the first thing Billie would see when she opened the door and saw his dead body sprawled under it. But he changed his mind.
As soon as Joe left home the following day, I called Billie. The phone rang and rang—no answer. I tried again later that day, and still there was no answer. That feeling again . . . something’s wrong. Joe returned and I couldn’t make any more calls. I wanted to discuss my fears with him, but it was out of the question.
Then the phone rang.
“Georgia,” my sister, Sharon, said, “are you alone?”
“No, Joe’s here. Why?”
“I have to tell you something and you shouldn’t be alone.”
“What’s the matter, Sharon?” I asked, but I already knew. The feelings were too strong to doubt them. I felt a thousand invisible pins piercing my skin as I waited for her to confirm my premonition.
“It’s Babe. Georgia, he killed himself.”
“Oh, my God! I knew it; I felt it . . . Oh, God, Sharon—”
“Georgia, that’s not all. He killed Billie, too.”
“Oh, no . . . oh, God . . . she told me he was going to do it. I didn’t believe her. Oh, my God.”
“Georgia . . .” She hesitated. “He killed the kids, too.”
“Please, God, no. No . . . No, not the kids.”
“What happened?” Joe kept repeating.
I handed him the phone and began crying uncontrollably. After Joe hung up, he tried to comfort me. “I’m sorry, honey,” he said, putting his arms around me.
I abruptly pulled away from him. “I’ll never forgive you for this, Joe! If I hadn’t listened to you, they might still be alive. I hate you!”
I’m the one you need to hear, White. Start listening.
I had never been to a funeral with six caskets in one room. Not many people have. I sat numbly looking at the pictures on top of the caskets, remembering.
Billie’s body was found on the bed, severed in half from two .12-gauge shotgun blasts to the abdomen and chest. Michelle, the oldest child, was found on the floor of her bedroom. A bullet from a .22-caliber rifle had gone through her hand first, then into her head. She must have been awakened from the sound of the shotgun blast that killed her mother. My heart ached for that child. She was old enough to realize what was happening.
Then there was Karen, only seven, found in her own bed with a bullet in her head and one in her stomach. And four-year-old David, the only boy in the family, Babe’s pride and joy. He was found lying on the living room couch, one bullet in his head. Why had he shot David only once? The baby, just a year old, was found in the family room on the couch, one bullet in her skull and another in her tiny torso. They found Babe next to Billie in their bedroom with his brains splattered against the walls. Babe had been determined to keep his family together, one way or another.
Gradually, the shock wore off, but the reality of how closely I was walking that same line haunted me as I tiptoed through my own mind fields in the years that followed.