by Irene Pence
John Battaglia’s face brightened when he heard about Billy. He told her that he loved children. During his four years in the Marines, he had volunteered to help with Special Olympics because he wanted to work with children. He couldn’t wait to meet her son.
Michelle soon realized that of all the things she liked about John Battaglia, she was most impressed with his interest in Billy. When Battaglia brought toy soldiers to Michelle’s two-bedroom, one-bath rental house, Billy was delighted to see him walk through the front door. As John and Billy made the soldiers march up and down the furniture, he told the young boy about his experiences in the Marines. Soon, Michelle began to wonder if Battaglia was more interested in Billy than in her. Michelle had a rule that she wouldn’t leave the house until after 8:00 P.M., when Billy was put to bed. So Battaglia came early before their dates to play with him, and at other times would take just the boy out for pizza.
Billy became very attached to John. The seven-year-old’s father lived in Baton Rouge, and Billy wasn’t seeing him on a regular basis. John took over that role, and the two became very close.
When Michelle and John attended law firm parties, her colleagues would exclaim how lovingly he looked at her. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the new man in her life adored her.
On New Year’s Eve, three months after they began dating, Billy was scheduled to visit his father in Baton Rouge, freeing Michelle for three full days. At the same time, one of her law school friends offered to loan Michelle her New York City apartment on Third Avenue while the friend was visiting relatives in Shreveport.
Michelle and John flew to New York for three romantic days. They bundled up for the crisp, cold weather and strolled down Fifth Avenue, delighted by the spectacular Christmas decorations in all the upscale store windows. They stopped at Rockefeller Center to watch the locals ice skate and were awed by the spectacular jewel-toned lights decorating the tree beside the rink.
The crowded, fast-paced city captivated their imaginations. Yellow taxis streaked by them as they walked the streets deeply inhaling the wafting aroma of freshly baked pretzels.
They made love for the first time, which made the trip all the more special.
Only one incident marred their vacation. Michelle had run across the street to a grocery store, and when she returned, Battaglia was sitting on the bed with a goofy expression on his face.
Michelle looked into eyes that stared blankly at her. She was positive he had taken some kind of drug. But he wouldn’t admit to anything and his behavior appeared normal. Still, Michelle couldn’t get his silly look off her mind.
As the weeks passed, Michelle saw no other indication of drugs, and John seldom drank, so their whirlwind courtship returned to its original happy, and now intimate, state.
In February of 1985, they decided to drive to New Orleans to celebrate Mardi Gras. It was only a forty-five minute drive from Baton Rouge, and Michelle wanted to introduce John to her family.
At five o’clock, he picked her up at her glass-and-granite office building on Pacific Street. Once in his car, she took off her heels and slipped into a pair of loafers she had pulled from her suitcase. He had already been home and changed into jeans and a casual shirt.
They headed east on Interstate 80, through a chain of small Texas towns. They crossed the Louisiana border near Shreveport and drove southeast for several more hours.
At pitch-black midnight, they were nearing Baton Rouge when a car full of teenagers roared past them. No sooner had it passed, then it pulled in front of them and slowed down, causing Battaglia to slam on his brakes. That enraged him, but when the kids flashed a bright floodlight directly into his eyes, he went crazy. It was impossible for him to see the road.
“Those goddamn kids!” he bellowed. “Are they trying to get us both killed?”
In the glow of the light, Michelle could see Battaglia’s face visibly change. His eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted into a threatening grimace.
He reached down, his right hand fingering the carpeted floor, searching for something.
“What do you want?” Michelle asked
“The duffel bag,” he said as he groped in vain under the seat. “I’ve got a gun in the bag. Get it for me!”
The thought of a gun frightened her. “That’s the last thing you need,” Michelle said, her concern growing. She kept glancing at his face. It was a face she hadn’t seen before. For the first time since she had met him, he looked panic-stricken. His eyes stared wildly and he began yelling at her. “Give me the goddamn duffel!”
As they fought over the bag, Battaglia began weaving across lanes.
“Stop it,” Michelle screamed. “Now you’re going to get us killed!” What’s wrong with him? she asked herself.
As he sped up the car, his driving became more erratic. Michelle was so frightened that she grabbed the duffel and threw it into the backseat. A few moments later, they passed the car full of boys and Battaglia screamed obscenities at them.
When the teenagers’ car was only pinpoint headlights in their rearview mirror, the atmosphere in the car was still heated.
“Why in the world are you bringing a gun?” Michelle asked, her temperature still climbing.
“New Orleans is a dangerous place,” he told her.
“It’ll be a lot more dangerous if you’re carrying a gun!”
She thought she knew him, but this man sitting beside her was a total stranger.
It was almost one in the morning in Baton Rouge when they pulled into the driveway of Michelle’s sister’s house where they would be spending the weekend. One look at Michelle, and her sister could tell that she was upset and asked her what was wrong. Michelle explained about the incident in the car.
The rest of the weekend flew by in a blur for Michelle. She couldn’t erase the craziness of the highway episode, although no further bizarre incidents occurred during the rest of the trip. John Battaglia behaved normally in spite of the loud and colorful Mardi Gras crowds and the parades that covered them with confetti and plastic jewelry.
However, by the time Michelle returned to Dallas, she had made up her mind. She wouldn’t tolerate anyone who had such drastic mood swings and was so scary and unpredictable. No longer would she be seeing John Battaglia.
Then she found out she was pregnant.
FOUR
Despite the circumstances, Michelle was excited to be pregnant. She didn’t want to raise her son as an only child. Then as the reality of her situation settled on her, she began to wonder what in the world she had gotten herself into. She didn’t want to be married to John Battaglia, but she didn’t want to have a child out of wedlock. Overall, she was surprised to be pregnant since she had been on birth control pills and was diligently taking them.
When she finally built up the courage to tell John that she was pregnant, he immediately wanted to marry her. But she wasn’t sure that she wanted to jump into such a commitment. She kept pondering her options, although she never considered having an abortion. Then reconsidering marriage, she wondered if she could have the baby on her own and not marry John, but she was afraid to discuss single parenthood with him.
In late March, she sat down and wrote a letter to her mother, telling her about her plan. Her mother’s explosive response came back by return mail.
Michelle,
How dare you think of having that baby all by yourself?
Her mother went on to question whether she had the right to deprive her child of a father and make it illegitimate.
Michelle had hoped for a little support; she had no idea that her mother would blow a gasket.
In mid-April, Michelle slid up the zipper of her skirt and noticed a gap where the last half inch didn’t meet. Although she hadn’t gained much weight, she knew that time was running out and she had to make a decision.
On April 28, 1985, she took her mother’s words to heart and married John Battaglia in an unromantic civil ceremony at the courthouse. Amid cluttered desks and ringing phone
s, they were married by a justice of the peace. John slid a plain gold ring on her finger and gave her a peck on the cheek after the brief ceremony; then they stepped aside for the next couple to get married in assembly-line fashion.
Only one month after they were married, to Michelle’s shock, John disappeared. He was gone for two days. On the morning of the third day, Michelle was frantic, not knowing if he were dead or alive. When he finally called mid-morning, she was relieved to hear his voice.
“Michelle, I’m really sorry,” Battaglia stammered. “I know I should have called you before now. See, here’s what’s happened. I’m over at Janet’s. She’s kinda my ex-girlfriend. I’m really sorry about this.”
“Janet?” Michelle asked, ice forming on her words.
“Well, right before I met you I was engaged to her. I’m sorry, I should have told you all this before now. I’m really sorry. I’m at her place now, but I’ll be right home.”
Michelle hung up the phone and dropped to her sofa. Tears filled her eyes. She had known nothing about any Janet. What had she gotten herself into? Married and pregnant. What were her options?
Minutes later, a repentant John Battaglia quietly padded through the front door of Michelle’s small house and began apologizing all over again.
Michelle listened. Today they had planned to drive to Austin, Texas, where John would be awarded his CPA license. Not one person in his family had called about his passing the tests, nor had anyone offered to go with him to the awards ceremony. His parents still lived near Dallas on Lake Ray Hubbard. He looked so pathetic that Michelle felt sorry for him and thought that someone should accompany him to Austin. She would go on one condition. As soon as they returned, they were going to have a very important meeting with this Janet. She wanted to know exactly how her new husband felt.
Mark Weisbart, John Battaglia’s friend who had introduced him to Michelle, let them use his apartment for their meeting with Janet. Weisbart even whisked Billy to McDonald’s while the confrontation took place.
John stood up in front of both women. He shook from fear, nervously licking his lips and running his fingers through his hair. Without eye contact, he told Janet that he wasn’t in love with her anymore and that he loved Michelle.
Only later would Michelle learn that while she was pondering whether or not to marry John, he was conspiring with Janet to leave Michelle after the baby was born, and to take his child and raise it with Janet.
FIVE
Once he became a CPA, John Battaglia’s accounting firm gave him a handsome raise in addition to larger, more prestigious clients. Now he looked forward to the day he would become a partner.
By July of 1985, Michelle was five months pregnant and the family would soon be needing a larger home. They began searching in neighborhoods close to their offices, and found a three-bedroom house on Bellewood Drive in the Lake Highlands area. There was also an excellent school for Billy only a half block from the new house.
Michelle was in the master bedroom, filling boxes with belongings. She called to her husband, who was watching television, “John, will you please come help pack this stuff?”
“Nah,” he replied. “Most of that’s yours. I don’t see why I should pack it.”
Michelle frowned, wondering why he’d have that attitude. It was true that almost everything belonged to her. She had accumulated a house full of lovely traditional furniture; some from her first marriage, and other pieces that she had inherited from her grandmother.
After packing another box, she walked into the living room and again asked for help as she passed by John.
He jumped up and grabbed her from behind, jerking his arm around her neck, his elbow bent in front of her.
Michelle’s eyes widened in disbelief. He was hurting her, but more than that, he was frightening her.
His mouth was only inches from her ear when he hissed, “I’ll help when I’m good and ready, if at all. Do you understand?”
He released his grip and Michelle angrily shoved him away, then ran crying to the bathroom. She stayed in there, holding a damp washcloth to her face and shaking with fear. He was so strong; she was totally under his control. If he had continued squeezing her neck, she couldn’t have stopped him. Thinking back to their ride to Baton Rouge and the gun he had carried, she realized that this marriage had been a terrible mistake.
When she came out, he was packing boxes as if nothing had happened.
The next week, the Battaglias moved to a Beaver Cleaver kind of neighborhood. Three- and four-bedroom homes graced neatly trimmed lawns that were laced with beds of begonias and caladium. Huge live oak trees made leafy green canopies over the streets.
Their new house, built of beige bricks, had a long porch spanning the front that was supported by decorative white wrought-iron columns.
The house was less than a mile from White Rock Lake, a city reservoir built in 1912. The lake rested in a natural cauldron and the entire area was a series of green, heavily treed hills that gently sloped toward the lake’s shores.
With more room for both her seven-year-old son and the new baby they were expecting, Michelle relaxed, knowing that now they were settled in their new home, her existence would be more peaceful.
The cool October nights held a hint of fall as summer finally lost its grip on Dallas. Michelle stood in the kitchen, cooking spaghetti. As she inhaled the spicy aroma permeating the room, the phone rang. She tucked the receiver between her shoulder and her ear and kept stirring. “Hello,” she said, and her mother’s voice greeted her.
John Battaglia was wrestling with her son in the living room. As she listened to her mother, she kept smiling to herself, thinking how wonderful her husband was with Billy.
She heard Battaglia say, “Okay, that’s enough.” Then she heard her son plead, “Just five more minutes.” Suddenly there was a loud thump and her son’s piercing scream.
She dropped the phone, leaving it to dangle and bang against the kitchen wall as she ran to the living room. She saw her son holding his arm and crying.
“He threw me against the wall,” Billy sobbed. Wide-eyed, Michelle looked at her husband in horror.
“I told him I didn’t want to play anymore,” John said, showing no remorse. “Besides, it was an accident. I meant to throw him on the sofa.”
But only weeks later, Battaglia kicked her son’s rear, raising him off the floor. Again, John showed no remorse and went off to their bedroom to watch television. Michelle followed him, screaming at him to never do that again. Without looking away from the screen, he said that he wouldn’t.
Michelle’s frustration soared. At first, Billy had loved John; they were best friends. But now she could see her son begin to cower whenever John entered the room. She vowed to protect her son at all costs, but she was due to give birth in a month, and it seemed like the worst possible time to move out. Other than the two times John had hurt her son, he was wonderful to her and Billy, which only made her decision to leave more difficult. John effectively orchestrated his wife’s emotions. There were just enough good times to keep her staying with him.
Also, Michelle didn’t know that most batterers would not abuse a pregnant wife. Until the baby was born, they took their rage out on other family members.
A little after 6:00 P.M. on November 10, 1985, their beautiful, eight-pound daughter, Laura Julia, was born at Presbyterian Hospital. John Battaglia chose his mother’s name, Julia, for the child’s middle name. He was thrilled to have a daughter and spent many hours doting on her. She was his “Laurie Mouse” and he was her “Ba-ba.”
Battaglia was always around, playing with his daughter, grinning, waving his arms, making up funny words—anything to entertain her and hear her baby giggles.
However, the happiness of having a child was short-lived. In mere months, Battaglia switched back to his pattern of abusing Michelle. But he never again abused Billy.
Michelle began to detect a cycle. He seemed to explode every three months as circumstances wo
uld build. He never went into a depression; he’d just wind up tightly, like a clock. At the beginning of the cycle, he appeared normal, but tension would mount every few days. Then, as time progressed, he’d turn into a ranting, screaming stranger who was abusive and unrepentant for his actions. At those times, Michelle would be scared out of her wits, not knowing what John would do or who he might hurt.
After that, Battaglia would orchestrate the “honeymoon phase” of their relationship: an abuser’s modus operandi. He’d surprise her with gifts and sprinkle her with compliments. They would go out, just the two of them, and have dinner, see a movie, or spend a Sunday afternoon at the Dallas Museum of Art.
In the spring of 1986, their life changed. Michelle had hired a young girl from France to care for the children. The woman didn’t speak English, nor was she attentive to the children. Michelle’s requests to discuss getting rid of her were met by disinterest from Battaglia.
Finally he said, “Will you leave me alone? It’s tax season and I don’t want to talk about it now!”
“We have to talk about it now,” Michelle retorted. “Laura is in danger because the woman’s not really taking care of her.”
John Battaglia’s eyes grew large and the veins on his neck bulged out. “I said not now!” he screamed. “Do you understand English? Not now!” He punctuated his words by jabbing his finger at Michelle’s face and backing her up until she reached the wall of the breakfast area; then he began punching her chest. John’s hands were so strong and his demeanor so hateful that she shook from fright.
His punches left ugly purple bruises that immediately began swelling. They were particularly painful because she was still nursing.
