The Bookie's Daughter

by Heather Abraham

  I played along. “Did they fall off a truck?”

  “No, I purchased them properly.” There was pride in his voice. “I know how much you like it. With your salary,” he teased, “I figured you were doing without.”

  “Thanks, Dad, I appreciate it. How long have you been here?” I saw the mound of crumpled newspapers on the passenger seat.

  “About an hour.”

  “Why didn’t you come to my office?”

  He shook his head. “That wouldn’t be a good idea. I wouldn’t want anyone seeing me there. It might cause you problems. You’re legit now, and in case you didn’t know, I have a bad-boy reputation. Besides, I wouldn’t want any of my friends thinking I was fraternizing with the other side.” A mischievous smile danced across his face.

  “Dad, you are always welcome in my office. Don’t ever think otherwise.” I wanted him to know he was always welcome in my life. Looking in the car I asked, “Where’s the Perrier?”

  “I paid a neighbor kid to take them upstairs and put them in front of your door. Why don’t you go up and put them inside, and we’ll go out for dinner. This little town must have a restaurant.”

  “Actually, Dad, I have been cooking at home and haven’t checked out the eateries. I’m on a budget now, as you so eloquently pointed out.”

  “You always have the option of running a poker game or two if you find yourself in need of additional income.”

  “That’s not going to happen, Dad. I’m doing fine. I have some savings and my expenses are low. I appreciate the offer, though. How are the guys doing?”

  “They ask about you, but understand that you’re out of the game. I think they’re proud of you.” Then returning to his need to feed, he offered an alternative to Somerset’s unknown restaurants. “Since you don’t know of any place to eat, how about I take you to Sarnelli’s down in Jones Mills? We can be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Are you coming up?” I pointed to my upstairs apartment.

  “No, I’ll wait down here. Go put the Perrier inside and let’s get going.” He motioned toward my apartment door and then rubbed his big belly. “Daddy’s really hungry.”

  “Chill out, big guy. Don’t go eating any of the neighborhood kids. I’ll only be a minute,” I said, keeping up the light banter before dashing off to secure the Perrier. Finding four cases at my doorstep, I wondered at my father’s thoughtful gift as I stacked them on my kitchen counter. Four cases would keep me for months. Big Al was playing Santa early this year.

  Twenty minutes later, we were seated at Sarnelli’s Restaurant perusing the menu and talking with the owners, longtime friends who were originally from Jeannette. After placing our orders, we had a leisurely dinner and sat talking until late in the evening. This was the first of what would become weekly father-daughter dinners that would span my months in Somerset.

  Although I had spent much of my childhood in my father’s company, these dinner dates were a revelation for us both. Our weekly get togethers provided father and daughter, for the first time, a chance to forge a relationship removed from the tensions of the family businesses. Free from worry of police raids, psychotic criminals, and the everyday anxiety resulting from the unknown variables that accompanied our life up to this point, we enjoyed our time together. We got to know each other—not as a stressed-out criminal and reluctant accomplice but as father and daughter.

  Before my emancipation, our intimate discussions were limited to what I called “windshield time,” conversations during our many runs to pick up contraband. Even then, we were preoccupied by dealing with seedy characters and escaping the gaze of law enforcement. I found myself looking forward to the weekly dinner dates and long talks, which provided me with the opportunity to discover my father as a person, outside of his addictions and the insanity that issued from them.

  We shared our fears and dreams. He discussed his enduring love for my mother. Our talks covered politics, history, and science, as well as our mutual love of film and science fiction. Most poignantly, we spoke about religion. Having left the “born again” world, my father had not yet reconciled with the Eastern Orthodox faith, even though he admitted he missed the church of his youth. Big Al was concerned with the Beyond. He would often speculate about different religions, comparing various beliefs about salvation and life after death, as he struggled with the timeless questions surrounding the meaning of life.

  In addition to our weekly dinners, he often took Vanessa and me to the movies on Sunday afternoons. Al would arrive at the theater looking weary, having traded the restorative properties of sleep for the promise of a marathon weekend poker game. I could tell by his demeanor when he had lost a substantial sum, but the tension in his face would fall away during our time together. Afterwards, the three of us would retire to a favorite restaurant and talk until late in the evening. Although the subjects of our talks varied widely, they never centered on my father’s criminal activities. If I inquired about that side of his business, he would return a short, empty answer and quickly change the subject. A shadow of pain would play about his face, and I came to understand that our father-daughter time provided him with a much-needed escape from his addictions. Now removed from his world, I did not know the depth of his troubles but I suspected that they continued to consume him.

  Sadly, our weekly get-togethers came to an end with my move back to Westmoreland County in January of 1983. I returned to my hometown without trepidation, comfortable with the new direction I had chosen and unwavering in my need to keep the past at bay. Although my return signaled the end of our weekly dinners, I was thankful for the peaceful time my father and I had spent together. With his daughter now living just a few minutes from the scene of so many Abraham family dramas, Al returned to his chaotic schedule. Our brief period of bonding had allowed each of us much needed respite from the angst of my father’s world. My only regret is the brevity of that interlude.

  Loss

  Back in the familiar surroundings of my hometown, I settled into a lovely apartment that Penelope found for me. Although just a short distance from the scene of my childhood misadventures, I deemed it far enough away to provide a buffer from both the memories I longed to escape and the dangers my father’s lifestyle attracted. Absorbed with my work, I had little time to contemplate the toll Al’s lifestyle was taking on his health. I no longer saw him on a weekly basis, so the changes in his physical condition were all the more startling when we did manage to get together. My once robust, roaring father suddenly took on a haggard appearance, and his upbeat personality became increasingly melancholy. I embraced the fleeting time we spent together but sensed an unease and sadness in him that was disconcerting. Although Vanessa and I repeatedly inquired about the cause of his troubled mind and insisted he visit with his doctor, we were always assured that “Daddy is just going through a phase.”

  With spring arriving, our inquiries were put on hold. Big Al began preparations for the upcoming Fourth of July by engaging in his favorite pastime of running fireworks. Since exempting myself from the family business, I was seeing little of my father. I found myself dropping by the store after work to check on him. On the rare occasion I did find him in residence, he was swamped with phone calls or surrounded by eager gamblers waiting to play cards.

  June found Al in high gear, caught in the joys of pyrotechnic play and the excitement of the possible legal storm that accompanied every fireworks season. The store was bulging with the explosive stock. Customers were lined up and waiting for their orders to be filled. The spectacle that I had so long been a part of fascinated me, and I studied the frenzied dance of customers, criminals, and gamblers from the position of an outsider. I marveled at the energy that pervaded the store and overshadowed the woes of my father’s final winter.

  Although I longed for quiet time with my father, I knew from experience that trying to pin him down for a conversation was useless. He was once again a preoccupied little boy playing with explosives and had little time
to spend with his daughters. I put my fears aside, relieved to see him enjoying life again and thankful that his health seemed to have improved.

  Although knee-deep in fireworks and managing a chaotic schedule, he did take time out when I came around to show him my first brand-new car, a 1983 silver Mercury Capri. He gleefully emerged from the store to inspect my new ride and called me a “big shot.” Jumping into the passenger seat, he demanded that I take him for a spin around town. During our leisurely drive, my concern for my father’s health returned full force. After some playful banter, he began to talk about how thankful he was that his daughters were doing well for themselves. “Your mother and I raised you both to be independent. In that we didn’t fail.” His tone changed from triumphant to serious as he inquired about my financial state. “You’re doing okay financially?”

  “Sure, Dad. I mean, my pay isn’t great but it’s enough to pay the bills. I like my job, so that’s a plus. For now, it’s fine.”

  “And the apartment? Are you comfortable there? Do you need anything?”

  “Yeah, I love the apartment, and no, I don’t need anything,” I answered honestly.

  “Well, I guess Daddy can die in peace now…without worry for either of his girls. You can take care of yourselves and for that I am grateful.” He spoke almost casually, but I immediately sensed that his words were prophetic.

  I pulled the car off to the side of the road. “Dad, is there something you’re not telling me? I know you haven’t been feeling well. What’s going on?”

  “I’m fine. I was just going through a phase this past winter. I have my problems but nothing out of the norm. No worries, I was just stating the facts. I’m proud of both my girls and feel good that you can stand on your own. I didn’t mean to worry you.” He tried to be upbeat, but I was unsure that he was telling me the whole truth.

  He steered us away from the seriousness of the conversation. “How about we go out to dinner tonight, just us? Of course, if you want,” he added mischievously, “you can go on a midnight run with me for old time sakes.”

  “Dinner sounds great, but I’ll pass on the midnight run. I have to stay the course, Dad, but I will admit that I sometimes miss the excitement. Any law enforcement encounters lately?”

  “No, the boys in blue don’t seem to be interested this year.” He sounded almost wistful.

  “It’s okay, Dad.” My sympathy was tinged with sarcasm. “I’m sure there is a cop out there who wants the privilege of slapping his cuffs on you. Cheer up. You’ll be arrested before you know it.”

  “Ha! You’re a smartass just like your mother!”

  “Dad! Since when did you take up swearing? I just might have to get a bar of soap and wash your mouth out when we get back!” I screamed, with feigned indignity.

  “Miss Big Shot, with her new car. Not big enough to wash my mouth out, but I’d like to see you try!” After teasing me, he issued an order. “Get me back to the store. I have business to attend to. Come get me about seven and we’ll go out to dinner.”

  I dropped him off and headed home, but his unsettling remarks kept running through my mind. I arrived early that evening and found my mother in the family apartment. I filled her in on my earlier conversation with my father and asked if she knew of anything that should cause us worry. She was a bit surprised by his strange utterance, but insisted that he was acting normal.

  Al and I drove into Pittsburgh and had dinner at a restaurant atop scenic Mount Washington. After a leisurely meal, we took a short stroll along Grandview Avenue, taking in the stunning view of the city and rivers below from atop one of the mushroom-shaped overlook decks that, in the evening light, appeared to grow organically out of the mountainside. Pushing aside my fears about my father’s health, I enjoyed the evening and was grateful to find nothing to support my earlier anxieties. He seemed his old self and was in fact in good spirits, excited about chasing a shipment of fireworks that had come in from China. They were, he assured me, the most beautiful and powerful he had ever seen. I marveled at his boyish glee and wondered once again about the power the explosive beauties held over him.

  Our drive home was dominated by one of his famous “windshield” speeches, which as usual, centered around my mother. I knew the speech from heart but took new interest when he began to talk about how he worried that my mother’s reluctance to “emotionally connect” might prove troublesome for our relationship in the future. “You know your mother had a difficult childhood and that’s why she can’t show how much she loves you. I worry that you two will drift apart when I’m no longer around. She loves you in her own way. You have to see that.” There was desperation in his voice.

  The direction our conversation was taking was deeply unsettling. “Dad, that is the second time today that you have talked about dying. What is going on?”

  “Life is full of surprises. That’s all I’m saying. If I go before her, who will be the buffer between you two? You have to make allowances for her. Okay?”

  “Dad, I love Mom but she is so difficult to be around. She constantly throws barbs at me. She’s exhausting.” I sighed. Then I inquired firmly, “You need to tell me the truth. What’s going on with your health?”

  “Daddy’s been sick for years, you know that. But I promise, I’m not hiding anything. Just feeling tired lately.”

  “Well, maybe you should get some rest and not make the run tonight. Your sleeping pattern is abysmal. You spend too much time playing cards and chasing excitement. Get some rest and see a doctor,” I implored. “Promise me you will make an appointment to see the doctor?”

  He agreed reluctantly. “Okay, I will but not until the Fourth is over. But seriously, I’m feeling fine.”

  By the time we reached the store, I had a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. The feeling intensified a few weeks later, on the morning of July 2, when my mother called and asked me to come to the store as soon as possible. I arrived on the heels of my sister, who had also been summoned. We found Bonnie standing in the door to the store, a look of concern written on her face. “Now don’t freak out, but I think there is something wrong with your father. I need you to talk to him and see what you think. I may need you both to help convince him to go to the doctors.”

  Vanessa and I entered the store and found my father at his post behind the counter. “Hey, girls! What brings you here so early on a Saturday morning?” There was a subtle slur in his words. Not wanting him to know Bonnie had called us, we made an excuse and sat down for an investigative chat. A few sentences later, we were sure that he was having trouble speaking.

  “Dad,” Vanessa asked, “are you feeling okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I lost a fight with the cooler door yesterday and got a nasty bump on my head. But other than that, I’m fine,” he replied, seemingly unconcerned.

  “Dad, you’re slurring your words,” I explained as I inspected his forehead, which sported a large, red bump. “How did you do this?”

  “The cooler door was loose and when I grabbed it to put it back on its tracks, it came off completely and slammed into my head. It’s nothing.” He waved me away.

  “Dad, we’re taking you to the hospital right now!” Vanessa declared loudly.

  “No, you’re not. I’m fine,” he insisted, looking into the concerned faces of his daughters. “It’s just a bump. I’m slurring my words because I didn’t get any sleep. I’ve had a headache all night. Seriously, I’m okay.”

  In unison, Vanessa and I demanded again that he go to the hospital. Again, he refused but this time gave the real reason. “I’ll go to the doctors after the Fourth. I’m not missing the parade and fireworks. Besides, I have a lot to do in the next two days. After the Fourth, if I’m still feeling tired, I’ll go. But not before.”

  Speaking to Bonnie outside, we decided that pressing the issue was pointless. He would not budge and we knew it. If we called an ambulance, he would become irate. Our hands were tied. My mother assured us she would keep a close eye on him and sent
us on our way. She called later that afternoon and gave us good news. He was doing much better and his speech was back to normal. I stopped in to see him that evening and found him in good spirits. Despite his improved speech, I again pressed him to see a doctor. He agreed but “not until after the Fourth.”

  Checking on him the next morning, I found all the alarming signs of the day before had vanished. He was in a jovial mood, excited about the celebration scheduled for the next day. We went to breakfast and he insisted I come back the following day and watch the parade with him. Although I had not planned on attending, I agreed.

  The Fourth of July dawned brightly in Jeannette. Clay Avenue was in a pre-parade frenzy as I made my way to the family store. I found my father holding court, having opened up the store at seven that morning. He was enjoying himself, visiting with friends and family who came to see Jeannette’s multi-hour parade. Vanessa appeared shortly afterwards and the Abraham family watched the parade from the store steps. Except for the worry over our father’s health, it was a blissful day. That evening the whole family attended a private party in a neighboring town. The highlight of the evening was a massive fireworks display, acquired, of course, by Big Al.