The Bookie's Daughter

by Heather Abraham

  Determined, the billy goats devised a plan to outsmart the troll, sending the youngest goat across first to lay the groundwork for their deception. As expected, the troll pounced from his hiding place under the bridge but the little goat showed no fear. “I’m too small, wait for my older brother. He is larger and tastier,” advised the little goat. The greedy troll smacked his lips and agreed. The second goat then crossed and repeated the same story. Again, the troll agreed. The third and largest goat then began to cross the bridge. The troll, mouth watering in anticipation, leapt from his hiding place to find a huge angry goat on the bridge. Realizing too late that he could never subdue this massive goat, the troll met his doom as the large billy goat beat him senseless and threw him off the bridge. The three billy goats made their way to the green fields of their desire and the bridge was forevermore safe to all travelers. The troll was never seen again. Damian, of course, was the troll. I had played the part of the first two billy goats, who narrowly escaped danger.

  During those last months of fifth grade, I often pondered the similarities of my encounter with Damian and the victorious animals of the folktale. How would my narrative play out? Who would play the role of the third billy goat, ultimately defeating the troll, and making the bridge safe forevermore? These questions plagued me as I busied myself with schoolwork and desperately tried to cling to the last trace of childhood I had left. Until that final conflict occurred and my universe was put right, I simply altered my route on the bridge. No longer walking the footpath, I instead followed the path of the vehicles that so casually crossed over, without knowledge or fear of the troll who might be lurking below.

  As the school year ended, it looked as if Damian had permanently disappeared. May marked my graduation from grade school and signaled the approach of the high summer season for the store. The Fourth of July was around the corner, and the Abraham family was busy preparing for the upcoming festivities.

  Apart from Christmas and Easter, the Fourth of July was our busiest time of year. Unlike religious holidays, the Fourth afforded double the opportunity to make loads of money, both legitimate and illegitimate. Jeannette’s annual Fourth of July parade and carnival attracted thousands of visitors, who descended en masse to enjoy the hours-long parade, often replete with famous actors, athletes, and beauty queens. For the Abraham family, employees, and close friends, the weeks leading up to the Fourth were demanding. The work never ended, and no matter how many able-bodied workers joined in, we were always short-handed.

  In the months leading up to fireworks season, Al began making runs to Pittsburgh, Cleveland, and West Virginia to pick up the illegal beauties. Orders for the coveted explosives were often placed before the merchandise arrived, leaving us constantly playing catch up. The season also brought with it an increase in police scrutiny. Fireworks were illegal in Pennsylvania, and most years, we experienced at least one raid.

  Caught up in the frenzied preparations for the Fourth, thoughts of Damian slipped into the recesses of my mind. I spent the next month immersed in the fireworks business: accompanying Al on runs, sorting the explosive merchandise, and filling orders. The week of the Fourth itself always bordered on insane, as demand increased and the customary last-minute rush ensued, prompted by those wanting to celebrate America’s freedom with their own personal pyrotechnic extravaganza.

  The frenzy of preparation also focused on the very profitable legitimate business of providing treats for the parade goers. My sister and I were charged with preparing and cleaning the machinery for making the expected snacks. Days would be spent moving the popcorn, hot dog, and snow cone machines out of storage and setting up for the coming feast. Vanessa and I would spend at least two days in the store’s basement making gallons of snow cone syrup to top the hundreds of snow cones that patriotic spectators would soon gobble up. We would inevitably end up covered in the sweet, sticky syrup, topped off with gunpowder residue that leaked from the fireworks we handled in between making batches of syrup.

  Luckily, that summer saw only one raid, which resulted in a temporary and insignificant loss of profit. Having been tipped off, we managed to hide most of the explosive goods before the raid ensued, leaving behind only the least expensive merchandise for the police to commandeer. Al thought it only appropriate that we supply some fireworks for the police to confiscate. After all, a raid quenched law enforcement’s need to make a public effort to curb our crimes. Moreover, the publicity generated usually resulted in an avalanche of new orders. Ironically, we typically experienced a spike in fireworks sales immediately following a raid.

  The months of preparation paid off. Jeannette’s parade was a resounding success and the throngs of satiated spectators left our coffers overflowing with legitimate and illegitimate gains.

  Return of the Troll

  The Fourth finally behind us, Vanessa and I were pleasantly surprised when our mother announced that she was taking us to a mountain resort for a few days of relaxation. In fact, my parents had had a marital spat, and the surprise vacation was really an opportunity to put some distance between them.

  Thrilled with my mother’s announcement, I immediately began to gather the necessary tools I would need for my favorite activities: swimming, bug and frog collecting, and reading. Vanessa and I shared a passion for books and swimming, but she thought my obsession with bugs and amphibians bizarre. I packed an assortment of specimen containers that I hoped would soon be overflowing with tadpoles and frogs in various stages of metamorphosis. Of course, a butterfly net was an absolute necessity, as were my microscope and a few buckets to carry the frogs I would temporarily detain in the name of scientific exploration. I packed a few resource books for use during my experiments and decided to make a trip to the Jeannette Library to load up on historical fiction, mystery novels, or folktales to read poolside.

  After readying my gear, I set out for the library, looking forward to exploring the stacks. Making my way up Clay Avenue, I stopped at Olympia’s Candy Store and purchased one of my all-time favorite treats: a velvety root beer float. Exiting Olympia’s, I realized my first mistake. I would have to finish the float before reaching the library just a few blocks away.

  Determined not to waste even the tiniest drop, I jumped in fully committed, sucking hard on the straw until I realized my second mistake. A sharp ice cream-induced pain danced across my eyes and forehead. Although temporarily impeded by the blinding brain freeze, I decided to muster on once my vision returned to normal. Reaching the corner of Fourth Street and Clay Avenue, I again attacked the float. As expected, another sharp, icy pain formed as I delighted in my sugary frozen torment.

  Although lost in the mysterious throes between delight and agony, I felt a vague sense of imminent danger. My mind slowly defrosting, I became aware of a foreboding but strangely familiar sound coming from somewhere to my right. Thud, thud, thud. The sound intensified and quickened. A voice in the back of my mind began to scream, “Open your eyes, open your eyes!” I forced myself to comply, squinting through the icy pain, and turned abruptly in the direction of the ominous thud. To my horror, Damian Doom was running straight for me and closing in quick. Frozen in terror and still partially enchained by my frosty drink, I hesitated a second too long and realized that Damian was about to lay his slimy hands on me. I stood immobile as he closed in, arms outstretched, for the approaching contact.

  Suddenly, I could move. Furious and terrified, my body went into action. In one quick and synchronized action, I threw my drink—hitting Damian in the head—as I turned and ran north on Fourth Street, away from the resurrected troll. No time for strategy, I instinctively made a sharp left into the alley, passing Calisti’s radio station. In a day fraught with childish mistakes, I feared my decision would put me in more danger, but I quickly determined to outrun Damian. The alley provided a straight shot home.

  Running for my life, I approached the Fifth Street crossing without stopping to look for oncoming cars. As I entered the roadway, I heard the screech of tires as a ba
by blue Cadillac slid to a stop in a desperate attempt to avoid hitting me. It failed. My thighs crashed into the driver’s side front panel of the car as I rolled across the hood, landing on my feet on the other side. My movements were rapid and unbroken, leaving me with only a momentary impression of a startled driver.

  At the moment my feet hit the road and I straightened my body to continue the race for my life, I saw my father driving the store’s white step-van. Returning from a meeting in Greensburg, Al had chanced upon the scene just as I made my turn into the alley at Fourth Street. From his vantage point on Magee Avenue, which ran parallel to Clay Avenue and the alley, he hurried to the Fifth Street crossing to ensure that Damian had not caught me.

  Seeing the look of fury on my father’s face, I felt a thrill of hope. I continued on my course, eager that Damian not notice Al’s pursuit. As I crossed over Sixth Street, I looked to my right and saw that my father was still in sync with my movements.

  With only one remaining block to go, I maintained my speed. I wanted to reach Seventh Street at the precise moment Al did. The distance of this last block seemed to stretch toward forever. I remember the sound of my heart pounding in my head, the burn of my leg muscles, and the thud of Damian’s bulky boots as they crashed into the pavement behind me. Finally, Seventh Street was in sight. I continued on my path right down the middle of the alley, hoping to outwit Damian by making a last-minute left turn onto Seventh Street and the safety of the store. As I cleared the alley, I saw Al to my immediate right. I crossed over in front of my father’s vehicle and at the last possible moment turned left as Al made a sharp right into the alley, now in hot pursuit of Damian Doom. The hunter had become the prey.

  Dashing into the store, I breathlessly explained to my mother the events that began at Fourth Street and the twist of fate that had turned the tables on Damian. A few gamblers, who were playing a friendly game of gin rummy, leapt to their feet and ran outside to see if they could be of assistance.

  Ten minutes later, I exited the store looking for signs of Al and was horrified to see Damian Doom heading straight for me. I would later find out that he had led my father on a wild chase through the alley and onto the Clay Avenue extension, moving in a direction away from our store. Then he turned suddenly, heading back up the Avenue toward the business district, perhaps hoping to find a safe haven from my furious father. As I exited the store, Damian was crossing over Eighth Street and heading in my direction. Before I could react to this bizarre twist, Al whipped the white van onto the Avenue. There he was—the great billy goat—in hot pursuit of the evil troll.

  Spotting Damian on the sidewalk, Al accelerated the van until he was just ahead of his prey. Intentionally, he veered the van to the right and then pulled sharply to the left, crossing in front of oncoming traffic. Jumping the van up over the curb and onto the sidewalk, he narrowly missed Damian, who threw himself into a very shallow depression in one of the buildings in search of protection. My father turned the wheel sharply, aimed straight at Damian, and pinned him up against the building with the van’s massive front bumper. Damian, unable to move and rightly fearing for his life, immediately began to scream for help.

  My father, face knotted in rage, jumped from the vehicle and approached his prey without uttering a word. Frozen, I watched as he advanced on Damian and slapped him with his open hand. Damian’s head flopped to the right and then to the left as Al repeated the blows, alternating from side to side. In short order, blood was pouring down his face. With every blow, his long, blonde hair became saturated with blood and clung to his skin. He was a terrible sight as he began to beg for his life.

  My mother came up behind me, pistol in hand, and began to cheer my father on. Patrons of the bar next to the store came out to see what was going on. As word quickly spread that the bloody man pinned to the building was a pedophile caught in the act of stalking me, they too began to cheer. Al concluded his attack as Damian slumped over, moaning in pain and fear. Grabbing him by his bloody hair, my father bent over and whispered something in his ear that made him sob even louder. A hush came over the bystanders as Al turned his back on Damian and walked deliberately toward me.

  “Did he touch you?”

  “No, I was too fast. But it was too close for comfort,” I responded unsteadily.

  Al reached out and pulled me close to him, giving me a reassuring squeeze. “I promise that he will never bother you again. Damian Doom no longer exists for you.” He patted my shoulder.

  There was no time to question his peculiar utterance, as the police siren was closing in fast. The officers arrived on the scene to find a bloodied and unrecognizable Damian still pinned against the building. Onlookers quickly enlightened them as to the events that had precipitated this horrific scene. One of the officers barked some orders and a bar patron jumped into the van and slowly inched it away. Damian collapsed on the street. This was my last image of the vanquished troll, so rightly trounced by Al, my billy goat gruff.

  In many ways, Damian was my first instructor in the twisted evil that stalks the unsuspecting. In the past, I had experienced shocking encounters with individuals who tried to harm my father through me. Until Damian, however, I had never actually been a specific target of evil intent. The unexpected education I realized from these terrifying encounters forever altered what was left of my adolescent worldview in a profound way. Up to this point in my life, I had been blissfully unaware that there were those who perversely feast on the fear and misery of others. This knowledge shook me to the core. It robbed me of my innocence.

  I never saw Damian again and cannot give this chapter a proper ending. I have no details of his life after his bloody encounter with my father. His collapsed, bloody body is my final memory. I was then taken from the Avenue by my grandmother and escorted to her apartment. After consuming a hot cup of tea, I fell into an exhausted sleep on her sofa and awoke hours later to find everything cleaned up and in its proper place. I do not know if Damian was taken away in an ambulance, arrested, or left the state. My parents never answered my questions, other than repeating my father’s strange statement: “Damian Doom no longer exists for you.”

  Like the vanquished troll in the folktale, Damian simply disappeared without a trace. The bridge was now safe for passage.

  Six

  Mommy Dearest

  “When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us.”

  Helen Keller

  My mother was a complex and dominant figure. Although she physically survived the violent years of her childhood, sadly she could not escape their repercussions. Violence was her go-to weapon for conflict resolution but also one of the demons she struggled with on a daily basis. As survivors of abuse often do, Bonnie inflicted her unresolved issues on innocent bystanders. My sister and I were often the targets on which she exacted her misplaced anger.

  In many ways, my mother was a tragic figure, a continued victim of her bizarre, unhappy, and brutal formative years. Anger consumed much of her life as the ghosts of her childhood were never acknowledged, confronted, or resolved. The predictable result of my mother’s inability to contend with her past was a modified continuation of the violence that so damaged her youthful spirit.

  Bonnie was a psychologically and physically abused child who grew into an abusive adult. She never developed any self-awareness about her own history. Her inability to recognize the consequences of the unspeakable acts she survived as a child left her incapable of breaking the cycle of violence she inherited. Abandonment, alcoholism, physical abuse, and sexual violence were my mother’s childhood companions—companions that would enchain her and forever scar her relationships with others.

  Bonnie: The Early Years

  Bonnie’s entire life was predicated upon an event that occurred before her birth. Her worldview, relationships with her mother, siblings, and daughters, her intense mistrust of men and her general misanthropy were all constr
ucted on a foundation of abandonment, sadness, and anger. Anyone who entered my mother’s life was viewed through the lens of mistrust and suspicion. This was her inheritance from her wayward parents, a mother, father, and stepfather who were so caught up in the destructive drama of their relationships that they failed to understand the damage they inflicted or the far-reaching consequences their cruelty would have upon my mother’s life.

  Bonnie was five years old the first time she met the man who had abandoned her. She was living with her grandmother, who had taken on the responsibility of raising her. According to my mother, her first encounter with her father occurred on a bright and sunny day as she played happily with her dolls on the spacious front porch of her grandmother’s home in Avonmore, Pennsylvania. Lost in a fantasy involving her large doll collection, Bonnie startled at the voice of a strange man who suddenly appeared at her side. Before she could inquire as to his identity, her mother, Greta, flew through the screen door and attacked him. She pushed him toward the steps and beat him with her fists, screaming, “You bastard, how dare you come here? You’re not welcome here!”