The Bookie's Daughter (32 page)

Unaware of the looming threat, I arrived home from school and settled in for a nap. Shortly afterwards, Bonnie received a phone call from a childhood friend who was living in Florida. Unable to enjoy the conversation in the bustling and noisy store, Bonnie asked her friend to give her ten minutes and then call her back at the apartment. My mother arrived home and found the door surprisingly unlocked. Indeed, it was slightly ajar, but the ringing of the phone caught her attention. She scurried up the steps, answered the phone, and settled in for a nice long chat.

Although napping in the front bedroom, I became dreamily aware of my mother’s presence in the apartment and drifted back into a fitful sleep. Bonnie, munching on cookies and sipping coffee, continued with her conversation, occasionally hearing noises coming from the game room located at the bottom of the stairwell. Not having checked the bedroom, Bonnie assumed that I was responsible for the noise, as I often retreated to the quiet of the game room to enjoy a book. Twenty or thirty minutes into the conversation, Bonnie heard the familiar, telltale squeak that indicated someone was ascending the stairs. Stretching the phone cord, Bonnie went to the top of the stairway to find Colton halfway up the steps. Dropping the phone, my mother screamed for me. I awoke to hear her shrieking, “Heather get the gun! Bring me the gun!”

As my mother was not one to panic, I knew something was terribly wrong and immediately grabbed, at random, one of the guns from the nightstand. Running down the hall, I handed my mother the gun and turned to look at the focus of her attention. Colton, a defiant sneer on his face, stood in the middle of the steps with a large serrated hunting knife in one hand. I promptly collapsed at my mother’s feet. My mother later described my reaction at seeing Colton to my sister. “That poor girl just slid down the wall in a half faint.”

I didn’t stay down long. While I was trying to catch the breath that had been knocked out of me, my mother nudged me with her foot and instructed me to call for help. Regaining my senses, I scampered off the floor and ran for the phone in the bedroom. Unfortunately, it was useless as it had not disconnected from my mother’s interrupted call. Unable to get a dial tone, I went to the front window and screamed for help. A man coming out of the bar next-door quickly offered his assistance.

“I am Big Al’s daughter. There’s an intruder in our apartment. Go into the store, have my dad come immediately, and call the police.”

I ran back to the top of the stairs where my mother was engaged in a heated verbal exchange with Colton, who kept saying he “just wanted to talk” to me. From the slur of his words, it was apparent that Colton had spent the better part of the day drinking. Ordering my mother out of his way, Colton mounted another step. Bonnie attempted to pull the trigger. The gun failed to discharge and Colton laughed, obviously enjoying what he understood as my mother’s apparent ineptitude with firearms. My mother tried the trigger a second time, and again nothing.

Not having taken her eyes off Colton, my mother did not have the opportunity to consider which gun I had given her. Guns of various models were aplenty in our apartment and normally each had its own assigned space: revolver in the kitchen, semi-automatic pistols in each bedroom, as well as several shotguns and rifles in various closets. On the occasion that we had company that included small children, all guns were moved into the bedroom for safety. Colton’s menacing visit occurred just one day after visitors necessitated their removal. They had not yet been returned to their proper resting place. My mother’s attempts to shoot Colton were thwarted because I handed her the semi-automatic with the safety switch and not the revolver that should have been within her reach in the kitchen.

Finally realizing which gun she was holding, Bonnie turned the safety to the off position, took solid aim and growled, “Third time’s a charm, Colton; you want to take the chance? As God is my witness, I am going to blow a hole through your black heart if you take another step closer. On second thought, come on up, you son of a bitch, we need to get this over with. One step further and tonight you’ll dine with the devil.”

The air cracked with tension. Colton suddenly seemed to believe my mother’s warning and finally began to fear for his life. He took one-step backwards just as the door burst open. My father rushed up the stairs and grabbed Colton, wrestling him out the door. The police arrived minutes later. After subduing a belligerent Colton, they retrieved the knife he had thrown on the steps when my father grabbed him. He claimed that he had pulled it in self-defense only after my mother had pulled her gun on him. Of course, he had no explanation for what he was doing in our apartment in the first place. As the police took Colton to the waiting squad car, I went into the bedroom and changed into my work clothes. Minutes later, I was in front of the store talking to the police who assured me that Colton would be spending the night in jail.

The next time I saw Colton was in a courtroom, for what I think was a preliminary hearing. Arriving early with my parents, we took our seats in the front row of the public gallery. Colton entered with his attorney and took his seat, awaiting the entrance of the judge. In short order, the court officer announced his imminent arrival. The courtroom stood as he entered and quickly got down to business addressing Colton.

To my astonishment, Colton rose and began to declare his innocence, claiming that he was my boyfriend and that he was being unfairly persecuted. He continued spewing his hateful lies, declaring that he had been my secret lover for years and that I was going along with this farce because I was afraid of my parents. Just when I had thought this nightmare could not get any worse, Colton’s lies made a mockery out of the torment I had endured at his hands. His words struck at my soul. I sat paralyzed with rage.

My mother jumped to her feet, a stream of crude, but appropriate, vulgarities dripping off her tongue. My furious father, on the other hand, took physical action. Stepping over the wooden partition separating the public gallery from the court officials, Al grabbed Colton by the throat. As I sat, silent tears of rage streaming down my face, I watched as Al threw Colton on the table and began to choke him in earnest. The courtroom erupted in chaos. Bailiffs and other court officials jumped on Al, trying to pull him from Colton. I looked to the judge, wondering at his silence. Watching intently as if waiting for events to unfold further, the judge finally picked up his gavel. He softly tapped it on the bench and in a voice just above a whisper uttered, “Order in my court. Order in my court.”

Meanwhile, Bonnie was screaming, “Kill that son of a bitch! Kill that son of a bitch!”

Al’s size and strength gave him the advantage. Even with four men pulling on him, my father continued to wring Colton’s neck, periodically slamming his head on the table and punching him in the face. Fortunately, for my father, the court officials finally managed to release the hold he had on Colton and wrestled him to the far side of the courtroom. Gasping for breath, Colton slid onto the floor. A court officer knelt and checked him for injuries.

The outrageous and violent incident occurred in just a matter of minutes but it fundamentally changed the forward dynamics of our cat and mouse game. I seethed with rage, as I watched Colton’s removal from the courtroom. An overwhelming need to escape took hold and I bolted. My mother found me in the nearby ladies room running cold water over my reddened face.

“Are you all right?” Her voice was shaking with emotion.

Although her concern for my well-being was unmistakable, the absurdity of her question stabbed my soul. I exploded. “No, I am not all right, Mom. I am seventeen and worn out. I am tired and numb and want to go home. I’m not coming back to this…this circus. That bastard stalks and threatens me for years, and now
my
reputation is in question? If they put him away, it will be without my help. Daddy was right. There’s no justice in this joke of a system. I swear, if he comes for me again, I’ll be ready. If he tries to touch me again, I’ll kill him!” I was livid. Years of fear, anger, and frustration, poured out of me. My mother’s laughable but innocent inquiry replayed in my mind. “Am I all right, you ask? What a ridiculous question! It’s not bad enough that Daddy’s activities put us in constant danger: raids, midnight runs, bodyguards, attempted kidnappings, and this animal’s threats and lies. Do you even understand what just happened in there?”

My mother was silent. I could see she was wrestling with her own emotions. Realizing that my tirade was only adding to her distress, I tried to swallow my rage. We stood in silence, both trying to find our emotional footing. My mother broke the silence with a lamenting statement of regret. “I should have shot him as soon as I turned the safety off.”

“This is not your fault mom. If you weren’t at home, I probably wouldn’t be here right now. You saved me,” I responded, trying to comfort my mother. Then thinking of the future, I added, “But, if you ever find him in the house again, shoot him immediately.” With resignation, my mother shook her head affirmatively. Our composure somewhat regained, Bonnie took my arm in support and we made our way back to the courtroom where we found my emotional father.

Strangely enough, charges were not filed against Al. I guess the judge thought my father’s actions were provoked, or maybe Colton was getting tired of engaging my family in his sinister game. I never asked for specifics and my father never explained how he managed to avoid legal action. We left the courtroom and drove home in silence. My father’s knuckles turned white from his tight grip on the steering wheel. My mother calmed her nerves with a succession of cigarettes.

We arrived at the store in a stupor, and my parents went back to work. My father dismissed the employee who had been covering the gambling business and my mother took her place behind the register, ready to check out the next customer. I retired to the upstairs apartment and spent the next few days in bed, refusing to eat or talk to anyone. Over and over, I murmured my standard mantra: “They’re all fucking crazy. They’re all fucking crazy…” I dreamed of having my revenge on Colton. My mother, not used to my silence, insisted I go to the doctor. I refused. Although my ulcers were in rare form, I declined any medication. The pain kept me grounded. I was emotionally numb. I only wanted to be left alone.

After a few days, I emerged from the apartment as if nothing had happened. Everyone was especially kind to me but their kindness was unnecessary. I had formulated a plan and was determined that I would never again be Colton’s victim. Although I knew Colton was in jail, I didn’t inquire as to the length of his sentence. I did not care. He was waiting for his sick, twisted revenge, and I would be ready for our next encounter. In a strange way, I was actually looking forward to it. I was no longer afraid; I was fed up with this seemingly never-ending threat. Unbeknownst to my parents, I had taken my mother’s prized pearl-handled revolver from its hiding place in her cedar chest. She referred to it as “a real lady’s gun,” delicate but deadly. It was loaded and I carried it with me at all times. Determined to end Colton’s tyranny, there was no doubt in my mind that the next time he came for me, I would kill Colton or die trying.

Colton never came for me, but we did meet again. Our final encounter was brief and surprisingly uneventful. My final collision with Colton Copperhead took place in the summer of 1983, a year after my emancipation from Clay Avenue and a few weeks after the passing of my father, when on my way to attend the annual Westmoreland County Sheriff’s picnic, I stopped at a gas station for a fill up. After topping off the tank, I proceeded into the store to pay for my purchase and grab a soda. As I was preparing to exit the store, a friend of my sister’s entered and we chatted for a moment near the open doorway. As we finished our conversation, I turned to leave and crashed into an incoming patron with enough force that I dropped my soda and purse. Seeing my lipstick rolling across the floor, I knelt down immediately but found it already out of reach. Gathering up the nearby contents, I saw a male hand close around my lipstick. I did not have to look at his face to know it was Colton Copperhead. The snakes slithering down his giant biceps and forearms were immediately recognizable. My heart skipped as I choked down a momentary desire to flee, but instead concentrated on retrieving the contents of my purse.

Outwardly calm, I continued with my task as I pictured the layout of the store in my mind, and mentally searched for a potential weapon. Before I could further react, Colton issued an unexpected apology for his part in the collision. In an instant, I realized he did not recognize me in my fancy picnic garb. Dressed in a black and white polka dot sundress, with a black, wide-brim hat and sunglasses, I was unrecognizable from the wrathful young girl he had last encountered in the courthouse two years earlier. Relieved that I would not have to brain him with the hot dog machine or scald him with a carafe of coffee, I thanked him for his help, and quickly excused myself. As I walked to the car, I silently berated myself for giving up the pearl handled gun upon joining Congressman Murtha’s staff shortly after graduation. Driving to the picnic, I marveled at the passivity of the encounter but quickly determined the need to obtain a replacement weapon. Now that I knew he was again loose upon society, I needed to be more aware of my surroundings and appropriately armed.

It was strange to encounter Colton as others may have—as an average man rather than the slithering menace who had haunted my life and dreams for years. His polite response to our collision would once have been impossible for me to conceive. The encounter reinforced my belief that each of us carries within a multitude of personalities and that a few can easily move between dual lives—effortlessly presenting an air of commonness or bringing forth the monster within.