Getting It Through My Thick Skull

by Mary Jo Buttafuoco

  Our life together as a newly married couple started without a hitch. I was thrilled to live in my own house and be in charge of my own life. The freedom was exhilarating. Joey and I both worked hard all week; he in the family business, me at the bank. We were the only couple of all of our friends to own a house; all the other twenty-one-year-olds we knew were living in apartments or renting rooms in somebody’s basement. We’d done things the right way, responsibly, and were firmly set on the path to a secure future. Married life was great. There was fun and excitement and having our friends over and going out on the weekends—and our very own home to retreat to every night.

  The late seventies were such a fun time to be young! A new craze called “disco” was sweeping the country. The movie Saturday Night Fever came out in November of ’77; it was the first movie Joey and I saw as a married couple. The music was so powerful that you couldn’t help but dance to it, no matter where you were or what you were doing. A little percussion could turn laundry day into my own private Studio 54. On weekends, we put on our platform shoes, headed to clubs, and danced the night away. Going out was all about dancing and discos, and more and more frequently, the drug of the moment: cocaine. We were young, curious, looking to have a good time, and Joey and I both gave it a try.

  Wherever I went and whatever I did, Joey was right by my side. I was crazy about my bad boy, and he in turn loved me and needed me. We were madly in love, happy hanging out with our friends from high school, my coworkers at the bank, or with his or my brothers and sisters. Family functions of one kind or another were going on nearly every week at one of our families’ houses. We were equally content puttering around our little cottage, where I sewed curtains, repainted walls, and made dinner as Joey worked industriously in his garage, music blasting. He had a sideline painting flames and stripes on motorcycles. He was very creative and talented, and his talents were much in demand. Joey couldn’t have been more adoring or appreciative to me. Being married was all that I had hoped for and more.

  Our carefree newlywed life ended when I discovered I was pregnant. While we certainly planned on having a family, it happened sooner than we expected. The two of us were excited and scared at the same time. As the oldest of five, I knew all too well the realities of raising children. The honeymoon had just about come to an end. The young, selfish part of me mourned the loss of the life I had come to love, but we’d been married for almost two years, and this was what nice Catholic married women did—have children. Both sides of the family were ecstatic, of course. It was the next natural step in our lives.

  Pregnancy, I quickly realized, was not a breeze. I was frequently sick in the early days and eventually gained fifty pounds. My twenty-four-year-old body transformed, and I felt heavy and unattractive. I no longer breezed through a day at the office and came home ready for a late night out. I became captive to the couch, swollen feet and ankles anchored to the ends of legs that used to help me race about, but which I could no longer even see or recognize as my own. As the baby’s birth became imminent, I felt a bit uneasy. Joe and I had been perfectly in sync since the day we married, and now it seemed that the more responsible I became, the more he acted out. Alcohol, cigarettes, and drugs of any kind had long since disappeared from my life. I couldn’t fit my swollen feet into my platform shoes, let alone dance. More and more, my thoughts turned inward and focused on the new life inside of me. Joey, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to the fact that life was about to change. He joked, laughed, and partied just as hard as ever.

  When I was nine months pregnant, we went to his parents’ house for a Christmas Eve gathering followed by midnight Mass. Everyone made a big fuss over me and the baby-to-be, who was scheduled to arrive in two weeks, but I was hugely pregnant, worn-out, and anxious to get home and rest. On the short drive between Massapequa and Baldwin in Joe’s Lincoln, I suddenly heard a siren. “Shit, we’re getting pulled over,” Joe said. He must have switched lanes without putting his blinker on or had been speeding. As we pulled to the side of the road, Joe muttered something about the tags being expired or the insurance not being paid—some minor infraction.

  I sighed. It was an annoyance and an inconvenience; we’d probably have to pay a fine. It was typical Joey carelessness to let these kinds of little details slide. I didn’t much care; I just wanted to get this over with and get home. Joey was peering in his rearview mirror and realized that a Long Island Railroad security car had pulled us over, not a “real” police car from Nassau County. As the officer stepped out of his car and approached our vehicle, Joe slammed the car back into drive and took off.

  I couldn’t have been more shocked. “What are you doing?” I screamed. “You can’t just take off when you’re getting pulled over!”

  “He’s just a Long Island Railroad dick—he doesn’t have the authority to pull us over!”

  Well, you could have fooled me. This “Long Island Railroad dick” was in hot pursuit with his lights flashing and sirens blaring. In less than a minute, we’d become involved in a high-speed chase—me and my pregnant belly suddenly passengers in a black Lincoln Continental gone rogue.

  “Please, Joe! What are you doing? You’ve got to stop! Pull over—he’s right behind us!” I begged.

  “Oh, fuck him. I just want to get home. Don’t worry, he can’t do anything to us.” My husband continued racing home at eighty miles per hour, with the car right behind us the whole way. The officer must have radioed for backup because a couple of other cars soon joined the pursuit—and they were most definitely the “real” police. But Joe had come up with a story.

  “Now, listen,” he said as we approached the house. “When we get there, we’ll tell them you’re in labor, and I needed to get you home immediately. Just hold your belly and tell him you’re having contractions.”

  I was too stunned to even reply. Three police cars with lights flashing and sirens whooping followed us through the quiet suburban streets of our neighborhood. When we pulled into the dead end of our street and parked in the driveway, one police car blocked our driveway and two others closed off the street. Their strobe lights lit up the entire block, and the neighbors started to stir.

  “Don’t worry, just do what I said. Everything will be fine,” Joey said, and got out of the car sporting a nonthreatening, hands-up pose, facing the cops.

  “I’m so sorry, officer,” he said in his friendly, good-guy way. “My wife is having a baby very soon, and I was afraid she was going into labor. I didn’t mean to take off like that, but I was so worried I had to get her straight home.”

  By now all the neighbors had come out to see what was going on, and they gathered in little groups at the edge of our lawn and across the street. I was so embarrassed that I wanted to die, but what could I do? When the officers came to my side of the car and opened my door, I did what Joey told me to do. I clutched my belly and got out of the car very slowly. I didn’t have to pretend. I really was terrified—terrified that my husband was going to be arrested and hauled away when I was nine months pregnant. “I’m so sorry, officer,” I said. “This is all my fault. I really wanted to get home, and I think my husband panicked a little.”

  Several officers escorted me into the house. “Do we need to call an ambulance? Should we take you to the hospital?” one asked politely.

  “Oh, no, not quite yet. The contractions are still pretty far apart. But I really do need to lie down.” I just wanted to get out of there. I walked back into our bedroom and lay in the dark on our bed, still not quite believing what had just transpired. Joe had endangered our lives, the life of our unborn child, and had shown complete disregard for our family, the law, and everyone else on the road . . . and actually got me to lie about it. And for what? What was wrong with him?

  Joe rejoined me half an hour later after ushering the policemen out, cocky as ever. I don’t know what he said to the police. All I know is that they didn’t arrest him. He came into the room with a big grin on his face. “What are you so upset about? Quit wor
rying about it,” he said when I immediately started reproaching him. He just laughed. “Come on, Mary Jo—we got away with it. It’s not a big deal.” I was sick to my stomach over what had transpired that night. Meanwhile, he acted like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  It was no big deal to him, for sure. But it was actually a very big deal in terms of how our entire marriage would play out. Irresponsibility, thrill-seeking, believing that the rules for the rest of the world didn’t apply to him, glibly talking his way out trouble . . . What I didn’t realize at the time, of course, was that I had just witnessed his first display of sociopathic behavior.

  Only five days after the birth of our first child in January 1980, a son we named Paul, Joey became an owner in his family’s business, Complete Auto Body and Fender, Inc. Cass’s original partner retired to Florida, so it was the perfect opportunity to bring Bobby and Joey, the two grown sons and heirs, officially on board. Cass retained 51 percent ownership and split the remaining half between Bobby and Joey. We were the perfect young couple, complete with darling baby boy, loving extended families nearby, and our own cozy home. It was the ultimate setup to a happy, secure life. It only took Joey six years to screw it all up.

  For the sake of our family’s future, I appreciated that Joey was now part-owner of the family business. But Complete Auto Body had been well established since the fifties and ran very smoothly, so I had a hard time understanding why my husband couldn’t make it home by 6:00 for supper, and why he had to spend all day every Saturday in the shop. His father remained very much in charge, however, and now Joe was pulled between his father, the boss, and a young wife who was overwhelmed by the challenges of a colicky new baby. I was exhausted and cranky. Looking back, I realize that nothing Joe did at that time was good enough. I wanted him right by my side, holding my hand and helping me through it. He was a twenty-four-year-old kid who suddenly had a weepy, demanding wife and crying baby on his hands.

  Between running a business, the painstaking labor involved in his work, and taking care of Paul and me, Joey had plenty of new pressures, which depleted his normally buoyant energy level. A snort or two of cocaine in the mornings and a few more at work kept him going through the long days. Sober and miserable, I watched as Joe consumed. Insidiously, cocaine became more and more of a presence in our lives. Eventually, I tried doing a few lines occasionally, too. I liked the drug’s effects on my bad case of baby blues, but more important, I wanted to stay close to my husband. I wanted us to be happy together, like we’d been the first two years of our marriage.

  Now Joey was spending his scarce free time at a dingy recording studio on the seedy side of town. It’s not that I couldn’t have accompanied him, but I had no desire whatsoever to hang out with a bunch of local musicians doing drugs and endlessly discussing music.

  Our adorable but very demanding baby had changed my priorities drastically, but I didn’t want to nag Joey. What I wanted was to be the perfect wife and mother he couldn’t wait to come home to each night. I figured that if I couldn’t beat him, I’d join him. I quickly realized that the drug had very different effects on us. I could do a couple of lines and then stop. I certainly didn’t want to stay up all night talking. In fact, I didn’t want to stay up late, period. That experiment ended quickly.

  But Joey wouldn’t—or couldn’t—stop. He’d stay up all night snorting cocaine and then drag himself to work in the morning. He managed to hold it together for months, but inevitably the problems started. He’d stagger home after a long night out with some of his new companions, wanting nothing more than a few hours’ sleep. “Honey, do me a favor and call my dad and tell him I’m sick. Just say I’ve been throwing up half the night and need some rest. I’ll be in around lunchtime.”

  I didn’t want to lie to my father-in-law, of course, but I did it. I was covering for him, enabling him, but at the time I didn’t think of it in those terms. I wanted to be a good wife and help my husband out. So I did what he asked, hating myself for lying.

  The arguments between us became more and more heated. I didn’t fully understand what I was dealing with. I certainly didn’t have much sympathy. The word “rehab” wasn’t tossed around much back then. In fact, there was no such thing as “rehab.” There were 12-step programs in basements, and that was about it. For the life of me, I could not understand what his problem was. It wasn’t about us anymore—we had a child to raise. Why couldn’t he just grow up?

  “Stop, just stop! I quit, why can’t you?” I would yell.

  “You’re right, you’re right, okay, I really am done with it. Promise.” He was always contrite, and he always swore he would quit.

  But apparently he couldn’t, and he was also tired of the endless arguing, because soon the disappearances started. The first time started very innocently. Joey called me from work to say he had to finish up a big job on a car. “I’ll be home late, so don’t wait up for me. Give Pauly a kiss for me. I love you.”

  I put the baby down to sleep, enjoyed a couple of very welcome “me” hours, then fell fast asleep. I woke with a jolt around 4:00 AM, realizing Joe wasn’t in bed next to me. I checked the living room, thinking maybe he was on the couch. I looked out front to see if his car was there. No Joe, no car. I rang the auto body shop, but no one answered. I paced the floor and worried that he’d been in an accident. But deep in my heart, I knew. He was coked out somewhere and was too paranoid to come home, so I didn’t call his parents or the police. I paced some more and worried. Just as the sun rose, I heard his car pull up in the driveway.

  I ran to the door to meet him. “Where have you been? I’ve been so worried! I called the shop, and you didn’t answer!”

  “I was there, honey. I just didn’t hear the phone. I got so tired that I fell asleep in one of the cars and just woke up a few minutes ago. I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to worry you . . . I thought you’d be sound asleep. You waited up all night for me? How sweet! Do you know how much I love you?” And he wrapped his arms around me in a big, comforting hug.

  I was relieved to see him alive and unhurt, but I had to ask, “Were you out all night doing blow?”

  “Absolutely not!” he answered firmly, looking me straight in the eye. “I told you—I was working and fell asleep!”

  But then it happened again . . . and again. The disappearances started happening every few weeks or so, and I could not imagine what had gone wrong with my marriage. “I’m just running over to the shop for an hour,” he’d say after dinner—then fail to come home for two days. I failed to comprehend that I was dealing with an addict. In my mind, someone who did lots of cocaine every day was an addict. Joey could stay away from it for weeks or months at a time, so I was sure he wasn’t really “addicted.” Then he’d binge until he worried that I really would leave unless he quit. He’d stop again, we’d have a few relatively calm months, and then the whole cycle would play itself out again.

  Boy, could he ever lie! He would look me right in the eye and spin the most preposterous stories about where he was, what he was doing, and why he looked and acted so odd. His manner was more convincing than the lie itself; he had an answer for everything, never skipping a beat or getting flustered by my pointed questioning. Sincerity seeped from every pore, constantly assuring me how much he loved me and that I was the most beautiful, understanding woman in the world. He was a master manipulator, playing on my need to be a perfect wife and mother.

  Wanting to believe my husband, hoping for the best, I refused to face the fact that he was a liar. I loved Joe, we had a beautiful son, and I was in this marriage for the long haul. I thought I could help him. I thought I could fix things. Bottom line: I just couldn’t leave, though there were times when I really believed I’d had enough. More than once, he’d come home after a three-day binge, and I’d have my mind made up. I simply could not raise a child and deal with his drug use and disappearances. Usually, I was driven to hysteria by the time he came in the door, but sometimes I was oddly calm. “Joe, I can’t live like
this anymore. We are going to have to get a divorce,” I would say, and mean it.

  “Oh, no, no . . . you can’t leave me, I love you . . . I swear, Mary Jo, I’ll never do it again.” These rare showdowns really scared Joe. He would write the most beautiful, heartfelt letters, bring me expensive jewelry, and make a million sinceresounding promises. He swore it would never happen again. I wanted to think that, this time, he meant it. And he was so convincing that I bought his story—every time.

  CHAPTER 4

  GOING BONKERS

  IN BALDWIN

  Our relationship wasn’t all unrelieved misery and worry. Life could run along smoothly and happily for months. That was the crazy-making part, the reason I stuck it out during the bad times, because the good times were fantastic. We took family vacations to the Bahamas and Florida, hung out with our friends and their babies, doted on Paul, sang to each other along with the radio as we drove around town, and laughed. We laughed all the time! Then one night without warning, he’d disappear, make me frantic with worry, eventually return, and beg my forgiveness. Soon enough, he’d wear me down, talk me into staying, and “behave” for a few more months—at one point for such an extended period that we agreed it was time to have another baby. It was a dreadful dance, one familiar to anyone who lives with an alcoholic or drug addict, and we both knew all the steps.

  When Jessica arrived in March 1983, I now had two babies— three, if you counted my husband. If anything, Joe’s binges were becoming worse. The pressure of living with a cocaine addict while pretending everything was fine sent my anxiety levels off the charts. One day, I headed to the store to buy Jessie some diapers. Both kids were parked in the shopping cart, and as I walked the aisles of the familiar supermarket, which I visited twice a week every week of my life, a wave of nausea swept over me. I suddenly found it hard to breathe and started gasping for air. The world turned black at the edges as my vision narrowed. I began to panic and broke into a cold sweat. I was so dizzy that I was sure I was going to pass out, and all I could think of was what would happen to my babies if I lost consciousness, not to mention how embarrassing it would be.