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.