My mother felt no remorse for desiring the death of her stepfather. If anything, she was glad he was dead and no longer a threat to her family. For Bonnie, Marco’s death was liberating. A few months after his demise, she decided it was time to make a change. Knowing her siblings were no longer in immediate danger, she left her mother’s home. She ran away, settling in Greensburg and began to dream of a new life. Only fifteen at the time but aged beyond her years, she quickly found a position as a server in a restaurant close to the Westmoreland County Courthouse. With the tips she earned, she found lodging in a nearby boarding house owned by a hawkish elderly woman who rented only to single women. Here Bonnie would find a measure of safety as she looked toward a new and hopeful future.
Ten years after running away from her mother’s home, Bonnie gave birth to my sister, Vanessa. I am sure my mother intended to practice a “different” kind of parenting from that which she had endured. By the time I came along, three years later, Bonnie appeared to be a loving mother. After all, parenting was not new to her. Having taken on much of the responsibility for her younger siblings, she had been raising children since the age of eight. Raw from the violence she had endured at the hands of her stepfather, Bonnie made certain never to lift an angry hand to her rowdy siblings. Given her determination to provide a measure of safety for her siblings, I am sure my mother would have been appalled to learn that in a few short years, she would carry forward the generational violence she inherited by practicing physical and emotional abuse upon her two young daughters.
My mother was a complex woman. At times she was a devoted and fiercely protective mother, in direct contrast to her alter ego, which was best described as a violent harpy. Her fiery temper, combined with alcohol and speed, produced a home atmosphere of unpredictability and looming violence. My sister and I were constantly on edge.
The beatings did not begin in our earliest years. Rather, they erupted suddenly around the time my sister entered the second grade, when Bonnie added speed to her daily dose of Jack Daniels. Black beauties became her relied upon source for energy. At first, one black capsule would sustain her for an entire day. As her addiction progressed, however, she began eating them like candy, popping two or three at once, often several times a day. Although it is impossible to pinpoint the “cause” of my mother’s sudden propensity toward violence against her children, Vanessa and I both agree that the beatings began shortly after the cookie jar of black beauties appeared on the scene. On speed, her periodic dark moods would morph into screaming fits and systematic beatings that would only temporarily quench her simmering rage.
In the beginning, Vanessa and I were confused, wounded, and deeply distressed with this new aspect of our mother’s personality. Our home was no longer a safe haven from the chaos of my father’s profession. After a particularly brutal series of beatings involving a razor strap on naked flesh, Vanessa and I devised a plan of inaction in the hopes of quelling her violent rages. Swearing a pinkie pact, we resolved to adopt a façade of stoicism. We would neither show fear nor shed a tear, no matter how bad the beating. Bonnie was somewhat taken back the first time her daughters remained silent throughout her tirade. The beating was cut short, and Vanessa and I reveled in our brilliant plan.
Our next stoic stand pushed her into a furious rage, leaving us unable to sit for several days, but we continued forward with our plan. Next, we decided to take and destroy her weapons of choice. The razor strap mysteriously disappeared, as did the wooden and steel kitchen utensils that were my mother’s favorite backups. Determined to defy her with our “no fear-no tears” pact, we stayed our course and eventually won the perverse battle. By the time I entered the second grade, the systematic beatings had diminished into occasional spontaneous slaps or punches. Make no mistake, though; Bonnie had a hell of a right hook!
Although the threat of physical violence would continue to lessen over the years, my mother became a master of verbal attacks. She would casually demean us with sarcastic comments and hateful remarks. Though Vanessa was not immune to her vicious tongue, I was Bonnie’s favorite target.
I understood at a very early age that something was fundamentally missing in my relationship with my mother. Distorted by her addictive relationship with Jack Daniels, our mother-daughter bond never fully developed and remained fragile throughout the years. Most of the time, I felt as if she merely tolerated me. Even so, I knew that if threatened by outside forces, my mother would be the first to come to my defense. In many ways, she was fiercely protective of my sister and me, especially when childhood illnesses reared their ugly head. She would turn into a concerned and gentle mother, vigilant in her care for her ailing children.
Bonnie’s nursing skills were put to the test on too many occasions, as my sister and I seemed to catch most of the illnesses that plague children. In 1974, Vanessa was diagnosed with rheumatic fever and had to endure eleven months of complete bed rest, which deeply concerned our entire family. My mother cared for Vanessa tirelessly. She arranged tutors to ensure that Vanessa did not fall behind in her schoolwork, and often hosted small gatherings of Vanessa’s friends and even sleepovers to keep her company.
During this period, I began to spend the bulk of my time with my father. Although Vanessa and I had spent most of our early childhood helping with the family businesses, once we entered the sixth grade we had formally scheduled work hours in the store. With my sister removed from the schedule, I was expected to take up the slack. Outside of school, I was practically always working in the store or making runs with Al.
The next year brought a full recovery for Vanessa, who was thankful to escape the boredom of the sickbed. Unfortunately, within a few months she was involved in an accident at gym class, resulting in a badly damaged knee. I clearly remember arriving at the store from school that day to find my mother crying behind the sales counter. She hysterically informed me that my sister was in the hospital and was scheduled for surgery the next day. I wanted to comfort her, but did not know what to say. I handed her a tissue and patted her shoulder. Wiping her eyes and nose, Bonnie pulled away from me.
“Vanessa’s recuperation will take months so we need you to work more hours,” she said through her tears.
“Sure, Mom, I can do that.” I then inquired softly, “Can I go see her?”
My concern seemed to set her off. She began to yell about the school being responsible for Vanessa’s injuries. Furious, Bonnie ranted about the teacher who insisted Vanessa participate in gymnastics class, even though she had explained that she was not comfortable with jumping the pommel horse. At the threat of failing class, Vanessa did as instructed, fell off the horse, and badly injured her knee.
Trying to soothe my mother, I attempted to hug her. Bonnie pushed me savagely away and screamed, “Why couldn’t it have been you? Why does everything happen to your sister? It should have been you! You should be lying in the hospital, not your sister!”
Stunned, I stared at my wild-eyed mother in disbelief. Before I could respond, a customer jumped to my defense. “Bonnie, you don’t mean that. You’re upset. Tell your daughter you didn’t mean that!”
Mortified, I looked around in embarrassment at the customers and gamblers in attendance. Aware of my mother’s temper, most averted their gaze, as if trying to spare me any further embarrassment. Looking back at my mother, I saw something akin to hatred in her eyes. I realized, at that moment, she meant every word.
The indignant customer stepped in between Bonnie and me and again demanded that she apologize. Not wanting to further antagonize my mother and fearful that she might hit the woman, I hurriedly hushed the customer, “It’s okay. I understand she’s upset. Please, don’t worry for me.” Looking into my mother’s eyes, I added, “I understand exactly what you mean.” Then I turned and left the store.
Feeling as if I had been punched in the stomach, I sat on the store steps, trying to quell the shaking that began in my core and radiated outward in a rush that took my breath away. This was a defining moment for my mother and me. Although I was only twelve, I understood the implications of this maternal rupture and grieved deeply. Our relationship, always rocky, would never be the same. My mother never apologized for her hateful words, but I believe that she too understood the destructive implications of her vicious utterance.
A few days after Vanessa’s successful operation, I found myself on an early morning run to Pittsburgh with my father. As was his habit after a family blow up, Al took advantage of the trip to talk about the latest family drama. Apparently having been filled in on my mother’s obscene remarks, he broached the subject, using dialogue with which my sister and I were all too familiar. “Are you okay? I heard your mother was a little rough on you the other day. You know your mother loves you in her own way. Mummy finds it challenging to deal with her emotions because of her difficult childhood. You need to be patient with her and not take what she says personally.” Having received this speech on previous occasions, I knew how it would end: “You have to take her past into consideration and forgive her.”
I was not so willing to comply this time. I was acutely aware that something important had been irretrievably lost. I no longer knew how to feel about my mother. Actually, I was rather tired of Al’s excuses for her bad behavior, and I was not the only one fed up with the drama of my parents shenanigans.
By Thanksgiving of 1975, Vanessa and I began planning a special request in lieu of Christmas presents. After much discussion, my sister and I sprang it on our unsuspecting parents at an annual family dinner where Christmas gifts were normally discussed.
Over a feast of exotic delicacies at my father’s favorite Chinese restaurant, Vanessa and I explained that we wanted a divorce. Our parents were horrified. Bonnie began sobbing while Al tried to reason with his two, determined daughters. Stating our case, we explained that we were fed up with their relentless fighting and the apparent misery in their marriage. Our lives were filled with constant drama, we explained, and between the tensions involved with the family business and their vicious martial spats, something had to go. We wanted out!
As Vanessa and I laid out our plan, Bonnie continued sobbing and Al stared at us with a blank look upon his face. They should file for divorce immediately, we told them, and find separate apartments,
not
on Clay Avenue. I would live with Al and Vanessa would live with Bonnie. By the time our entrées arrived we had laid out our case. With my mother on the verge of hysteria, Al requested that the meal be packed up to go and we left the restaurant in silence.
A few days later, our parents took us out for another family dinner and gave us their answer. After a tearful discussion of how we broke their hearts, they told us that they would try to “do better.” Thinking that was the end of the discussion, they then asked what we “really” wanted for Christmas. Again, we replied that we wanted a divorce. They continued to ignore our request, but did make a fleeting attempt to be more traditional parents. Their efforts at improvement were short-lived. By my mother’s birthday in February of 1976, they were at each other’s throats again.
Although we failed, my sister and I felt some measure of achievement at having called our parents on their immature and destructive behavior. Unfortunately, we were not aware at the time, that it was possible to sue your parents for emancipation. We were astounded when, a year after my father’s death, the movie
Irreconcilable Differences
, which had just such a theme, made its debut. Hearing of the movie, Vanessa and I, by then autonomous adults, met up for dinner and the show. Afterward, we sat laughing hysterically at our futile attempt to convince our parents to divorce, when we could have just hired an attorney and divorced them ourselves.
Our attempt at mutiny, although unsuccessful, marked a new dynamic in our family life. While before, we had been children struggling to cope with the crazy antics of our parents, afterward, we constantly challenged their actions. A newfound sense of rebellion took hold. Vanessa and I began to confront, defy, and contest our parents at every illegal bend in the crooked highway that ran through our remaining years on Clay Avenue.
I did not burden my father with the confusion and heartache I felt after my mother’s verbal attack, but did come to the conclusion that from this point forward Al would be my primary parent. Working at the store and accompanying my father on runs would provide many opportunities for me to keep a distance from my mother. I was determined to limit the time I had to spend alone with her.
A complication with Al’s health contributed toward my goal of keeping a distance from my mother. A diabetic, Al began to develop cataracts in both eyes. As the disease progressed, the once simple task of driving became a dangerous endeavor, since Al could not ascertain the color of traffic lights or drive at night without assistance. Given that my father’s fireworks, gambling, and alcohol businesses depended on regular road trips, his troubled eyesight was of great concern to our family’s financial health.
Instead of putting his considerable energy and intelligence into finding legitimate ways of making money, Al determined a solution that was as bizarre as it was comical. He would simply have a trusted driver accompany him at all times. At first, Jimmy and Colin filled the role, but after graduating from high school, they began to create lives of their own. Their availability for runs with little advance notice declined. My sister and I became the obvious candidates to fill the position.