Grateful for the reprieve of not being on duty in the store, I would escape to the family apartment and dive into a book only to be called back to work before the day’s end. I am mortified to admit that in my desperation for free time, I learned quickly what would set him off. I instigated fights that I knew would end with me being thrown out of the store. Being “fired” became a way for me to get some downtime, a few coveted hours away from my parents to breathe.
Unfortunately, a peaceful escape was not always possible, as my brooding mother was often home. Since Vanessa’s departure from the Avenue a few years before, my mother had become increasingly withdrawn. In addition to guarding her solitude jealously, she refused to speak to me for days and even weeks on end. When in the store or the presence of a friend, she would revert to her normal mode. Once alone, however, she would resume her silence. At first, I found this treatment disconcerting but eventually concluded that silence was an improvement over the sarcastic stabs she so effortlessly threw in my direction. The tone of our relationship swung wildly, depending on her mood. Of course, her temper was often influenced by my father’s. My parents were wallowing in their addictions, unable to perceive a future with any hope of happiness. Their increasing misery left me little chance to find “safe space” in which to regroup from their chaos and misadventures. After all, at this time I was still caught up in my dangerous dance with Colton Copperhead, one of the most harrowing events of my life.
In the midst of this domestic un-bliss, my father began to disappear for hours and sometimes days at a time. Most of his absences appeared to be triggered by visits from a tall, dark, and handsome outsider who had periodically appeared since I was in grade school. Although I had seen him on occasion, I never knew his name and simply referred to him as my father did: “the Fed.” The Fed was a mystery I never fully cracked. My father was absolutely tight-lipped about their dealings. He deflected my inquiries with his standard response: “The less you know, the better.” The Fed’s visits most often occurred late in the evening, typically coinciding with the closing of the store at nine pm. He would enter the store, ask for Big Al, and then disappear outside to await my father.
Although my father called him “the Fed,” I do not know what agency he worked for or whether he was actually in the government’s employ. Al would speak with the attractive stranger for a few minutes on the side street, reenter the store, and instruct me to close up shop. He would then disappear into the night along with his visitor. I knew from experience that he would be gone the entire night and possibly the next few days. Although I did not, at first, worry unduly, I did wonder about what my father was up to and whether his dealings would ultimately give rise to more sinister visitors. My unease increased as the Fed’s visits became regular occurrences.
A mysterious, handsome man, the Fed was average height, with dark chestnut hair and brown eyes. He always dressed in a casual but stylish manner, which consisted of blue jeans with a button-down shirt, a sports jacket sporting suede elbow patches, and curiously, cowboy boots. Intrigued by him, I repeatedly tried to engage him in conversation to no avail. Although never rude, his terse responses conveyed a sense of secrecy that only heightened my curiosity.
At times, I sensed a mixture of unease and barely contained excitement in my father’s manner. Regardless, whatever adventure he was cooking up with the Fed left me anxious about the outcome. The mystery of his regular contact with the cowboy Fed grew as I began to notice my father’s interest in criminals he once considered anathema. Although Big Al despised drug dealers, he suddenly began taking calls from several drug runners who were beforehand considered persona non grata in our criminal world. When I questioned his involvement with them, he would quote his hero, Michael Corleone of the
Godfather
movies: “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” Enslaved by his need for adventure and perhaps desperate for a temporary escape from the financial turmoil of his gambling debts, my father for once committed himself to a game without knowing the odds or the stake.
This shadow side of my father’s life caused me much anxiety. Knowing that there was always the possibility of a police raid or looming predator was one thing, but his association with men involved in other branches of the criminal world was disconcerting. The secrets of this side of my father’s life were forever lost with his death in 1983, leaving me with few facts and many questions. I have always wondered if his dealings with the Fed and the drug runners were the catalyst to an incident that occurred late in the summer of 1981. The incident I call “the rockin’ van” occurred just weeks before I began my senior year of high school and mere months before I reached the liberating age of eighteen. This episode put the Abraham family on full alert.
Danger found me on a beautiful late summer morning as I arranged and tidied the mini-farmer’s market that surrounded the storefront on most sunny days. Placing wooden crates upside down and arranging them along the underside of the storefront window, I proceeded to set up the produce, an array of fruits and vegetables brought in fresh from an early morning run to Pittsburgh’s Strip District. I was fanatical about the display. I sorted and arranged the produce to ensure that only the most beautiful were offered to our clientele. Once satisfied with their presentation, I began to tidy up the sidewalk area around the store, sweeping debris into the road for the street sweeper to claim during the coming night. As I swept, I moved closer and closer to the curb.
Lost in my morning ritual, I was only partially aware of the arrival of a white van, which pulled into the bus stop in front of the store. This was nothing out of the ordinary as vans arrived most mornings to deliver beer and sundries to the bar next to our family apartment. Continuing with my chores, I heard the van’s side door slide open. I instinctively awaited the telltale sound of the hand dolly clanking on the sidewalk, signaling the arrival of cases or kegs of local Pittsburgh beer. Undisturbed, I continued my task, sweeping my way to the left, away from the van’s door. Suddenly, I realized that the van was in motion—slowly inching backwards—in sync with my movements. Before I could retreat, the side door slid further open and I found myself airborne, clutched by my upper right arm and jerked halfway into the van. I was held by a large scruffy man who seemed as startled as I was.
I went into survival mode. I began to scream at the top of my lungs as I grabbed the man by the ears and dug my nails deep into the flesh behind them. Holding on tightly, I pulled his head toward me as I slammed the top of my head into his face with enough force to draw blood from his nose. Temporarily stunned, my attacker had no time to react before my mother appeared on the scene.
Noticing the curious movements of the van from inside the store, Bonnie sprang into action when she realized that the van was following my movements. While I was busy digging into my attackers ears, she charged the van. Seizing the broom from the sidewalk, she wielded it like a spear, stabbing at the now bleeding man. With one hand, she grasped my belt, while thrusting the broom at my attacker with the other, hitting him in the throat, chest, and finally, squarely in his balls. While my mother repeatedly stabbed him with her wooden sword, I bit savagely into his arm. Concerned with his own well being, the man released me with a wounded howl, sending my mother and me sprawling backwards onto the sidewalk. As our bodies hit the concrete, I could hear my attacker screaming to the driver, “Go, go, go!” The van took off down the Avenue with the side door still open. Although the terrifying incident happened in mere minutes, its consequences would reverberate for months to come, enveloping my last year on the Avenue in a fog of gloom and mistrust.
Stunned, my mother and I lay gasping on the sidewalk as we struggled to take in the events of the last few minutes. A thumping on the street caught our attention. Tensing up for a continued fight, we were relieved to find a regular gambler heading in our direction. Mookie, a soft-spoken, middle-aged gambler, ran to us excitedly. “Jesus, Bonnie, are you two all right? What happened? I saw the van and then heard screaming but couldn’t see what was happening.”
“Did you get the license plate?” my mother asked shakily. She extended her hand for Mookie to help her up from the sidewalk.
Taking her hand, Mookie pulled my mother up. “Yeah. Most of it, anyway. It all happened so fast. I saw the van from down the street but didn’t think anything of it until I heard screaming. By the time I realized something was wrong, I only got a partial number before it sped away.”
Sitting upright on the sidewalk, I waved away Mookie’s outstretched hand. I was not yet ready to move. Feeling as if I had lost something, I needed to sit still. Stillness seemed necessary to recapture whatever was missing. The sound of my mother’s voice snapped me back into reality.
“What?” I inquired, not having processed what she had been saying.
“Are you all right?”
Suddenly furious, I screamed at her, “I have no idea!”
Somewhat taken aback, my mother reached down and offered her hand. Still looking for the mysterious “it” that I had lost, I rolled onto my knees and stood up. Although I could not have articulated what I was seeking, I scanned the street and felt my pockets, as if I needed the mystery item to understand what had just occurred.
Although I had had close calls before, this encounter left my body shaking even though my mind was occupied with the missing “it.” Wanting to get me inside the store, my mother pulled my arm. I flinched with pain. Releasing me, she pushed me toward the store entryway. Turning to Mookie, she asked that he stay outside and keep an eye out for the van. Mookie agreed and my mother locked the door behind us. Seated behind the sales counter, I rubbed my sore right arm as I watched my mother retrieve a gun from a wooden box under the cash register. She checked to ensure it was fully loaded and placed it on the service counter. Curious as what she intended to do, I tried to speak but could not find my voice.
“Here, drink this.” My mother offered me a styrofoam cup containing a dram of whiskey.
Taking the cup from her, I smelled the contents and my stomach turned. “Why is everyone always trying to shove whiskey down my throat? I
hate
whiskey!” I had found my voice again.
Grabbing the offending cup, she downed the contents.
“If you want to give me something,” I invited, “I’ll take some vodka.”
My mother scrambled to the cases of booze stacked up in the far corner behind the service counter, seized a “halfman Russian,” and hurriedly twisted off the cap. Silently, she handed me the bottle and a clean cup as if to say, “Here, drink up. Things will seem better!”
Pouring a few shots in the cup, I swished the contents in my mouth and spit the vodka out hoping to remove the taste my attacker’s arm left in my mouth. I then downed a large swig from the bottle and welcomed the burning haze that spread through my aching body. I stared at the drying blood under my nails and on my fingertips, physical proof that I had not dreamed the attack.
“Did you recognize anyone? Did anyone say anything to you?” Bonnie asked.
“No,” I answered, still caught in the numbing afterglow of the Vodka. “How about you, did you recognize them?”
“No. I don’t know who they were.” My mother was visibly shaken by the events. Looking me over, she squealed at the blood in my hair. “You’re hurt! There’s blood in your hair!”
Reaching up to find the offending goo, I remembered my attacker’s bleeding nose. “It’s not mine, Mom. It belongs to the creep who grabbed me. I head-butted the asshole.” I was thankful to feel the anger that began to course through my body, following on the heels of the vodka. Suddenly disgusted with having his blood on me, I stood up and headed for the basement stairs.
“Where are you going?” my mother demanded, obviously concerned.
“To wash this crap out of my hair!” I screamed before disappearing into the basement stairway. As I descended the stairs, I could hear her on the phone telling someone to come to the store immediately. Doubtful that she had found my father so quickly, I guessed she was calling Big John in to stand guard. While waiting for the water to warm up, I stared at myself in the mirror. In addition to the blood matted in my hair and smeared on my forehead, I found scratches and an angry red welt on my right arm. Pulling down my jeans, I saw a giant red welt on my hip that I must have acquired when I fell to the ground. After washing the blood out of my hair and rinsing off my face, I decided two things. First, given the circumstances, I was lucky to be in one piece. And second, this half-assed washing did not do the job. I needed a long, hot bath to scrub away the feel of alien hands.
As I approached the steps, I could hear my mother’s raised voice. I ascended carefully, not wanting her to hear my approach. As I reached the door, I could clearly hear her agitated voice. “They targeted her, Al. I saw the men in the front. I’m not sure but I think they were looking at a photo, as if trying to determine if she was the one they wanted…No, I didn’t call the police, but you better find out who ordered this and why they were targeting her…If I find out that your secretive movements put this in motion, I’ll make your life a living hell!”
Entering the storefront as she hung up the phone, I resumed my seat. “Are you going to call the police?”