The Bookie's Daughter

by Heather Abraham

  The refrigerated meat case, now within arm’s reach, beckoned seductively. Reaching forward with my free arm, I grabbed desperately for an anchor. Connecting with the cold metal of the meat case, I began to scream loudly, “Nooooooo!” Colton seemed startled at my verbal pleas for help and slackened his hold just enough to allow me to grab a leg of lamb from the meat case. Turning with all my force, I swung the leg of lamb through the air, connecting with the side of Colton’s head. The sickening sound of flesh on flesh hung in the air. Stunned, Colton released me. I bolted for the front of the store.

  Desperate to escape, I sprinted up an aisle, startling patrons along the way. Spying a group of customers talking to the store manager near the door, I threw myself into the middle of the group and shouted that I had been attacked. Springing into protective action, the manager ordered one of his employees to call the police while pushing me toward a stairway that led to the safety of his office. As I climbed the stairs, I glanced back, looking for Colton. He was calmly moving through the store as if his even demeanor would allow him to blend in with the customers. Despite his acting abilities, he stood out loudly. His considerable bulk and menacing snaked arms screamed for attention. As he approached the checkout lines, our eyes locked. He mouthed the words “next time.” Then, he exited the store, where he was promptly grabbed by the police, who had just arrived on the scene.

  My mother appeared shortly thereafter, as word spread quickly down the Avenue that Colton was in hot pursuit of her youngest daughter. Of course, I heard my mother before I actually saw her. She was on the street screaming at the police and Colton, her words peppered with a unique and colorful combination of vulgarities. Although her coarse language could have made a sailor blush, I could not help but marvel at my mother’s ever creative and interchangeable use of blue terms. As Bonnie continued her tirade, I thought back to a recent argument she had with my sister, who was now working at Jeannette Glass Factory. Having stopped into the store to visit my mother after her shift, Vanessa swore several times during the course of their conversation. Still furious with Vanessa for dropping out of college and taking a job in the factory, my mother responded to Vanessa’s casual use of curse words in an unusual and exasperating manner; she held the factory culture responsible for my sister’s “filthy mouth.” Vanessa and I found considerable humor in my mother’s failure to understand her own culpability. After all, we had learned from the master.

  The store manager’s slight but reassuring pressure on my shoulder shook me from my temporary mental departure from the day’s unsettling exploits. He accompanied me onto the Avenue where I stood as my mother finished her creatively descriptive tirade. Colton sat silently starring at me from the back of the squad car. His parole was promptly revoked and he returned to jail, but I knew there would be another encounter to come. I wondered if I would survive it.

  Although the encounter was distressing, I had a poker game to run. I recovered quickly and returned to the task at hand. After all, this was not my first assault. Even so, I wondered at my calm response. Then again, my mother had trained her daughters well. She saw crying as a weakness, one that she rarely permitted. “No tears, no fear” was a motto the Abraham women lived by. The advice Vanessa had given me years before, during the aftermath of the Trial, still applied: “Never show fear, hold your head up high, and spit in the devil’s eye.” Of course, in this instance, a leg of lamb was more effective than a defiant attitude.

  That night, I contemplated the day’s events while sitting in the musky, smoke-filled basement surrounded by gamblers. I noticed, and thought it odd, that for the first time in days I was out of harm’s way. Among the many not-so-upstanding citizens, I found comfort. I spent the night making sandwiches and serving gamblers with colorful names such as Fast Eddy, Mayhem, Tricky Pete, Fat Head, Cleats, Hook, and Triple D. Many of the gamblers had been filled in on the day’s events and made an effort to be especially kind. My father tried to insert some humor into the earlier events by repeatedly calling me “killer” or “Little Bonnie,” referring to my mother’s fearlessness when confronting danger. In his way, he was telling me that I handled myself well and that he was proud of me.

  It was a long and profitable night, and I earned a few hundred dollars for my escape fund. As morning dawned on the city of Jeannette, I began to make breakfast for the players, many of whom were Catholic and would leave the game in time to make the late mass. Others settled in, determined to see the game through to its end. I often wondered if the God-fearing Catholic gamblers confessed the many nights they spent in pursuit of the big take. My mother, always straightforward and blunt, would sneer at them as they passed through the store on their way out, calling them hypocrites and telling them that they had better “pack a fucking lunch” if they were going to confession.

  After the faithful gamblers left, I turned the game over to another employee, and headed home for a long soak in the tub and for the first time, to have a good cry. As I slipped into bed that night, I prayed for a peaceful night’s sleep, but Colton was there in my dreams and in my uncertain future.

  One Wish Three Cakes

  With my seventeenth birthday fast approaching, I was determined to put Colton out of my mind and celebrate heartily. Although an unconventional family in many ways, we always fully celebrated birthdays. I awoke in the morning to my father’s booming voice: “Let’s go, birthday girl. Rise and shine, Daddy’s taking you out for breakfast and then we are going to have a scavenger hunt!”

  Rolling out of bed, I hurriedly dressed and met up with my father in front of the store. Al and I piled into the car and did a quick circle around town, collecting and paying out on the previous day’s games. Arriving at a popular Jeannette eatery a short time later, we took our seats and happily awaited the expected onslaught of verbal abuse from the waitress. Joy was a force to reckon with—a slim blonde with a quirky sense of humor and a mouth that could make even the worldliest blush. Joy was famous for her no-nonsense attitude and her colorful vocabulary, both of which she served up with a dazzling smile and melodic laugh. Stopping by the table, she gave me a wink and then rolled her eyes at my father. “What the hell do you want? I have other assholes to wait on, so don’t waste my time.” Joy’s smile was as big as her face.

  Al, always ready to banter with Joy, began asking irksome questions about ingredients in specific dishes until he finally elicited the response he wanted.

  “Look, you son of a bitch, it’s all on the menu. If you can’t read, have your daughter read it for you. I don’t have time for your shit this morning. I’ll be back in a few minutes. If you haven’t decided by then, you can take your big ass elsewhere.” Joy stormed off while Al and I enjoyed a good laugh.

  After placing our order, Al laid out the day’s birthday plans, which surprisingly did not include a family dinner. Vanessa’s work schedule necessitated that the family celebration be moved to later in the week. Having escaped Clay Avenue a few days after graduating from high school, Vanessa was still locked in battle with my mother, who insisted she attend college. After several mother-and-daughter confrontations, she finally agreed to enroll in college but her heart was not in the endeavor. She had acquiesced in an effort to repair her relationship with Bonnie, who was still furious with her abrupt departure. Determined to live life on her terms, Vanessa soon dropped out of college and found employment in one of Jeannette’s factories. Her continued defiance had renewed my mother’s considerable fury.

  I admired my sister’s resolve to take control of her life as much as I applauded her dramatic exit from the family apartment two years before. Even though Vanessa had repeatedly made clear her intentions of leaving home once she reached eighteen, neither of our parents had taken her seriously. With graduation on the horizon, my sister secured an apartment and informed Al of her impending flight. He was supportive of his eldest daughter’s decision but worried over how Bonnie would react to the news.

  My sister’s departure caught my mother off guard when sh
e arrived home to find Vanessa sitting in the kitchen with three garbage bags lying at her feet. Vanessa had packed up her clothing and essentials, not bothering to use any of the numerous suitcases stacked in the closet. Curious about the bags, Bonnie inquired about their contents. Vanessa calmly informed her that they contained her belongings and that she was moving out immediately. Bonnie was livid, berating and warning Vanessa that if she left, the door to our apartment would never be open to her again. In response, Vanessa calmly picked up the garbage bags and quipped, “I’m finished with this, Mom. I’m out of here.”

  My mother’s fury at Vanessa’s defiance and independence only abated with my sister’s entry into community college; her dropping out had rekindled my mother’s wrath. My birthday celebration would be the first family event since Vanessa’s rebellious decision. I did not mind moving the celebration, but hoped to avoid another all out Abraham family brouhaha.

  After breakfast, Al left Joy a big tip and we returned to the store. My mother presented me with a list of clues that would lead to seventeen envelopes, one for every year, which held my birthday gifts. I spent the next few hours deciphering the clues that led me to each prize, hidden throughout the apartment, store, and warehouses. All of the envelopes held money—the first contained one-dollar, the tenth contained ten-dollars, and finally, the last envelope contained seventeen-dollars and an opal ring my parents had designed especially for the occasion. After finishing the scavenger hunt, I returned to the store to enjoy birthday cake with my parents, gamblers in attendance, and any customers who wandered in to make a purchase. I went through the ritual of blowing out the candles but saved my wish for the “official” celebration to come. Thinking the day’s celebration had concluded, I was surprised to learn that Bonnie and Penelope were taking me out to eat that evening.

  Since my sister’s exit from college, my mother had become more sullen than usual, often not speaking to anyone for days at a time. So, her plans for a “girls’ night out” celebration came as a surprise. Flush with money from the scavenger hunt, I headed uptown to visit the lovely ladies at the Ritz Boutique, hoping to find a new birthday outfit. Finally settling on a plum colored dress, I then stopped by Sam’s Shoe Store and made my final payment on a pair of smoky grey boots I had put on layaway a few weeks before. With my birthday outfit complete, I returned home and dressed for the evening’s celebration.

  Penelope arrived, dressed to the nines, and the three of us began the hour-long ride to Seven Springs Ski Resort, my choice destination for the special dinner. Within minutes of our departure, Bonnie and Penelope began to discuss a new restaurant that had opened near Seven Springs. After much persuasion, I finally acquiesced to my mother’s increasing insistence and agreed to have the dinner at Bella Luna’s, a restaurant that specialized in seafood.

  The décor and atmosphere of Bella Luna’s was seductive and welcoming. Any reservations I had at having my plans changed quickly melted away. Snaking our way through a long corridor that connected a series of small, intimate dining rooms and lively bar, we approached the hostess who asked our names without looking up from her reservation book. My mother explained that it was my birthday and although we did not have reservations, we were willing to wait for a table. She appeared rather annoyed by our lack of foresight and informed us that it would be at least a thirty-minute wait. We agreed and she escorted us to the bar.

  Although I was four years under the legal drinking age, I took a chance and ordered a drink. I was surprised when neither my mother nor the bartender objected. By the time I received my first vodka martini—shaken not stirred—several other groups entered the bar and joined us in waiting for an opening. Bonnie, Penelope, and I were soon talking amicably with the other patrons and the drinks flowed easily as we waited with anticipation.

  Forty-five minutes later, Penelope went to inquire about a table and encountered a now openly hostile hostess who informed her that since we did not have a reservation, we would have to wait until it was convenient for her to seat us. Penelope pointed out that three groups that had arrived after us, also without reservations, were already seated. The hostess barked at her to return to the bar and await her summons. She complied, not wanting to cause a stir during my birthday celebration. Fifteen minutes later, the inhospitable hostess finally seated us at a long table set up for a party of twelve. Although we thought it strange to be placed at such a large table, we were happy to be seated and away from the hostess’s surly gaze. I ordered my third martini and the three of us settled in to study the menu. Having made our choices, we awaited the waitress. Instead, we were approached by a perplexed elderly man, who wanted to know if we were joining the Delaney party, since we were seated at a table reserved for their family celebration.

  The hostess soon reappeared and began to scream at us for intruding on the Delaney’s celebration. Issuing apologies to the elderly man, we left the table and returned to the bar, where Penelope confronted the hostess about the bizarre situation she had instigated. My mother and I sat, drinks in hand, and watched in a mixture of horror and shameless amusement as the hostess took a pencil and waved it in Penelope’s face all the while, verbally berating her. At the end of her tirade, the waitress brazenly pushed the pencil into Penelope’s nose until it tilted slightly upwards.

  In response to this unexpected twist in my birthday celebration, Bonnie uncharacteristically took my hand and commented on the evening’s events, “I’m really sorry about this. I wanted you to have a nice quiet birthday. Prepare yourself; this is about to get ugly.”

  “Not your doing, Mom. That hostess is a crazy bitch.” I calmly sipped at my martini as I watched the confrontation between Penelope and the rabid bulldog of a hostess sizzle to its conclusion.

  Flabbergasted at the hostess’s shocking behavior and at the end of her ropes, Penelope barked at the hostess menacingly, “Listen here, bitch. I have been patient with you up till now, but you have gone too far with your ridiculous behavior. I want to see the manager immediately.”

  The hostess, not backing off, snapped back, “I’m in charge here and you will not be getting a table.”

  Beyond furious, Penelope grabbed the pencil from the hostess. “You…nasty…bitch! I wouldn’t eat here if you paid me. Who in the hell do you think you are treating customers this way? You must be the owner’s girlfriend, because no one would allow a paid employee to act like this. No…No…On second thought, you must be the owner’s daughter…because you’re too nasty to be fucking anyone!” Penelope roared loud enough that the entire restaurant was now aware of the confrontation. With that outrageous declaration, she snapped the pencil in half, threw it into the hostess’s face, and turned in our direction. Sweeping past our table, she commanded, “Let’s go!”

  Still sitting with martini in hand, I watched as Bonnie and Penelope sailed through the exit door. Placing my drink on the table, I began to gather up my coat and purse when the bartender and hostess approached me, demanding payment for the bar bill.

  “Don’t look at me. It’s my seventeenth birthday.”

  “Seventeen!” the hostess screamed. “Your mother bought her seventeen year old a drink?”

  “No, I ordered the drinks myself and your establishment served me three martinis. My mother didn’t buy them, as you just pointed out. If you want to get paid, I suggest you go into the parking lot and ask nicely.” Reaching for the martini, I finished the contents and handed the empty glass to the belligerent hostess. I then excused myself and met up with Bonnie and Penelope who were waiting for me in the car.

  “What took you so long?” Bonnie inquired. “I was just going to come in to get you.”

  “They wanted me to pay the bar bill. I explained that it was my birthday and I wasn’t paying.”

  “Oh shit, we forgot to pay. Stay with Penelope. I’m going back in to pay the bill.”

  “Absolutely not, Mom. Let the hostess pay the tab. We wasted enough time with that lunatic. If you go back in there, it will end up in a fight. We�
��ve been here for almost an hour and a half, and I want to go to Seven Springs and have a nice quiet dinner.”

  They agreed with my assessment, so we left Bella Luna’s behind and continued on our way to Seven Springs where we enjoyed a fabulous meal in peaceful surroundings. After dinner, the waitress brought out a small birthday cake. As with the first cake, I passed on the opportunity to make a wish, saving it for the “proper,” and hopefully peaceful, dinner with the family.

  A few days later, the Abraham family met up at Rizzo’s Malabar Inn, an Italian restaurant that was often the scene of intimate family celebrations. Thankfully, Bonnie was pleased to see Vanessa and all went smoothly. This celebration is still a treasured memory, a rare occasion when my whole family was emotionally present, unified, and joyful in our celebration. Feasting on Rizzo’s famous veal parmigiana, antipasto, and numerous mouthwatering pasta dishes, I was thankful for the intimacy and calm of the occasion. After our feast, I was presented with my third and final birthday cake: a huge, blue Cookie Monster that my father special ordered from a bakery in Pittsburgh. I teased my father about the “childish” cake. After all, I had turned seventeen and been served alcohol in public, so I was now obviously an adult. I declared that this would be my last Cookie Monster cake. It was not. Al continued the tradition, and Cookie Monster was present at my next two birthdays.