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?”
“No, your father is on the way home. I’ll give him the partial license plate and he’ll find out what that was about,” she said, pointing outside at the bus stop that had been the scene of the most recent Abraham drama. “In the meantime, Big John is on his way. He’ll watch over you until your father comes.” As Bonnie spoke these reassuring words aloud, I wondered what she was hiding. Although my parents had a tumultuous and unconventional marriage, they always bound together and protected each other during times of crisis. The one-sided conversation I had just heard was telling; my mother was concerned that my father’s activities, whatever they were, could be the cause of the morning’s events.
A soft knocking on the store door caught my attention. Big John stood in the doorway, a worried look on his usually smiling face. Opening the door, I asked the cuddly giant, “Don’t you ever get tired of having to stand guard over my family?”
Chuckling, Big John ruffled my wet hair, gave me a comforting bear hug, and then launched into a series of questions about the morning’s event. What did the van look like? Did I see the driver? How many people were in the van? Did they say anything? I answered him with the little information I had. I never saw the driver or passenger, only the scruffy white man who had grabbed me. There was a heavy curtain strung across the front of the van, which obstructed any possible view of the driver and passenger. I had only caught a glimpse of the passenger, a man in a plain red shirt, from my position on the ground as the van pulled out.
I knew I could be of no further help. My skin still crawling with the memory of foreign hands, I announced that I was going home to take a long, hot shower. My mother instructed Big John to take me to the apartment and bring me back immediately afterwards. “See, Big John’s here now. You have nothing to worry about. Everything will be ok.” I did not know who she wanted to convince more—me or herself.
Big John escorted me home and settled in with a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. I scrubbed my skin raw in the shower. My mind was racing. Who were those men? Why did they try to abduct me? A feeling of dread poured over me as I remembered the skin runners from the year before. Could these men have come looking for me in retribution? My father had promised me that they were “taken care of,” but I was not sure of anything right now. Of course, my father’s secret activities could be at the heart of the matter. Possibly his mounting gambling debts had triggered the event. The unknow
n had me on edge. In the past, I had always known my enemies. Enemies. The word felt heavy on my lips as I repeated it out loud. What a peculiar word to contemplate. Not that I did anything to earn enmity from the plethora of monsters who gravitated toward me. Most people make enemies; I had a knack of attracting them.
Lost in thought, I scrubbed myself raw, flinching as the loofah hit a spot under my right rib cage. I glanced down and noticed an abrasion and a bruise. In a flash, I saw heaps of stereo speakers scattered throughout the van and remembered landing on top of a something hard and sharp when I was so awkwardly pulled inside. I did not know whether it might be a clue to my attacker’s identity, but other than the scruffy jackass who had grabbed me, it was the only thing I could remember. Back in the store, my mother was frantic about the morning’s events. The unknown was unsettling to her, too. When I reappeared, cleansed of the feel of alien hands, I saw just how rattled she was. My father arrived home an hour later, concern and guilt written on his face. He asked me the same questions as Big John. I described the events of the morning and added the detail about the stereo speakers that I had remembered in the shower. I inquired about the skin runners but my father assured me that they were not involved.
Although given little information from my parents, I found their apparent nervousness telling. The guilty looks that passed between them and their refusal to call the police made it clear to me that they suspected the incident was triggered by my father’s activities. This was not a random act, but one that had been planned. Although I never found out who was behind the attempted abduction, I am forever grateful to the perpetrators for choosing men who were certainly not up to the job. Reflection on the comical ineptitude of my would-be abductors would eventually replace the numbness that consumed me over the next few days. As I came out of my tearless stupor, I wondered at my quick defensive reaction, the actions of my brave mother, and the look of surprise worn by the scruffy creep who had bitten off more than he could chew.
I have always marveled at the Abraham women’s ability to react in times of danger. By necessity, instinct had become our most faithful companion. Although my parents failed disastrously to provide a wholesome upbringing for their children, they succeeded in raising two strong and independent daughters who survived their childhood by becoming spectators to their own lives. The curious detachment we wielded during the most turbulent events of our formative years allowed us to step back and view them from a distance. We were held in thrall by the tragic and comical events our parents constructed for their family. My sister and I never denied the traumas of our crazy, criminal childhood, but we knew that wallowing in fear or distress was a luxury we could ill afford. Like cats, we took our falls, rolled onto our feet, and awaited the next collision with chaos. Despite having gained this useful skill, I longed for a contemplative life to replace my knee-jerk existence.
For the next few months, Big John was my shadow. When I worked in the store, he sat behind the counter, alert to any possible danger. He accompanied me on my trips up the Avenue, and to the library and the movies. He escorted me to and from school. For the most part, I kept clear of my friends, not wanting to put them in danger or trouble them with my current problems. This pattern had begun in my earliest years. Even when I longed to confide in someone, I knew it was impossible to explain. For all our public shenanigans, the Abrahams were masters at keeping secrets. Until my “problem” was resolved, Big John was my protective companion. He was a vigilant protector but also a great friend, with a sense of humor as large as his considerable bulk. Months passed and yet I never received an explanation as to who was behind the attempted abduction. As my eighteenth birthday approached, I could not help but wonder if I would survive to make my escape into the legitimate world.
Alone among the birthdays I celebrated with my family, my eighteenth was somewhat of a let-down. Although I had long anticipated the date, the events of “the rockin’ van” loomed heavily over our celebration. Now autonomous in the eyes of the state, I was nonetheless still trapped in my parents’ world, under the watchful gaze of my mischievous giant. Where I once dreamed of leaving the family business and pursuing other interests at eighteen, I understood that until my attackers were taken care of, I was stuck in the dysfunctional world of my ill-fated parents.
The menace of “the rockin’ van” incident ended as abruptly as it began. Shortly before Thanksgiving in 1981, my parents took Big John and me out to my father’s favorite Chinese restaurant. Within minutes of our seating, an array of appetizers was spread on the table before us. Surprised, I asked what the occasion was, as this feast was usually reserved for special family occasions. My father and mother explained that we were, in fact, there to celebrate. The “situation” had been taken care of and I no longer had reason for concern. Big John was released from guard duty and I could go back to my “normal” life on the Avenue. My inquiries as to who had planned my abduction and why were met with silence. I insisted that I had a right to know, but Al only replied, “Knowing won’t benefit you in the least. The less you know, the better. The situation has been taken care of and you have nothing to fear. That’s all you need to know.”
“Yeah, where have I heard that before? It seems to me that there is always some predator lurking about.”
My parents, apparently pleased with themselves for handling the situation, pointedly ignored my sarcastic remarks. As they heartily consumed their appetizers, I brought up my intention to escape from our family home. “I talked to Aunt Virginia about my going to live with her in Michigan. I can finish school there and you two can go about your business without having to worry about me,” I announced. Then, I waited for the expected explosion.
My parents ignored my utterance and began to peruse the menu. I demanded, “Did you hear me?”
“Out of the question,” my mother responded, laying the menu aside. “You are my daughter and my responsibility. Virginia has her own problems and doesn’t need to take you on. Things have been taken care of and everything is back to normal. You’ll stay here and that’s the end of this discussion.”
Bonnie’s dismissive attitude infuriated me. “Normal? What the hell is normal? You wouldn’t know normal if it bit you in the ass! Neither Vanessa nor I have ever had a normal life. I’m eighteen and have had several attempts on my life. You wonder why Vanessa left home so abruptly. God knows I want a normal life! I haven’t even been out on a proper date yet.” Then changing my approach, I beseeched her. “Please, let me go to Michigan and have what is left of my senior year.”
My mother screamed back, “No, I won’t have it! You will not make me out to be a bad mother. I have done the best I can and will be glad to pack your stuff up as soon as you graduate. But make no mistake, you will not be going to Michigan!”
Not wanting to take either side, my father tried to calm us down. “Keep your voices down. Everyone is staring at us. Calm down and we’ll continue this conversation when we get home. This is supposed to be a celebration. Let’s order and try to have a nice time.” His voice sounded annoyed.
“Of course everyone is staring. We’re a train wreck!” I shouted. Then I lowered my voice and pled. “Dad, you have to see that this would be best for me. I’ve had enough. With me out of the way, you can do whatever the hell it is you do.”
Ignoring me, he motioned to the waitress, who appeared apprehensive about approaching the table. My father and the others placed their orders. The waitress then turned to me but I did not respond.
“What do you want to eat, Heather?” Al inquired, his voice tinged with impatience.
“I want to go to Michigan!” I shouted.
“That’s not on the menu!” my mother shouted in return.
Al ordered several dishes he knew I liked and the waitress escaped into the kitchen. Wanting to diffuse the standoff between his stubborn wife and daughter, he then reached across the table and patted my hand. “Your mother and I will discuss this when we get home. Okay?”
“Sure, Dad, wh
atever. I don’t even know why I try to reason with either of you.”
The table was silent except for the loud crunching coming from Big John. I looked over to see him devouring a plate of fried shrimp, which he ate tail and all. The Chinese spareribs got the same treatment. Big John could not be bothered to pick the meat off the tiny ribs, so he crunched on them, even consuming the bones. Knowing that it was useless to continue this discussion with my parents, I squealed at Big John about his terrible table manners. He replied that the bones provided him with his “mystical powers of strength.” The heat of the moment had passed, but our celebration was anything but joyous.
It was never made clear if Al’s secret meetings with the Fed were a catalyst for the attempted abduction, but I have often wondered about the work he was doing with the secretive man who so mysteriously entered and exited our lives according to his own agenda. My father’s secrets, as damaging as the crimes he so openly committed, were eating away at what was left of our family.
Out of the Frying Pan and into the Fire
Free from the watchful gaze of my giant, I turned again to the future. Now an adult and legally accountable, I began to distance myself from the illicit side of the family businesses. Like my sister before me, I resolutely and permanently turned away from our father’s criminal world. Caught off guard by my refusal to make runs, work poker games, or participate in any other criminal activity, Al decided to take me out for a dinner date to discuss my lack of cooperation. Seated at the table, he opened the subject. “Are you still mad at Daddy for the van incident?” His smile betrayed guilt.
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