Under the Knife

by Diane Fanning

  Maria’s first stop in her new country was Houston, Texas, where she worked for Citibank. As big as it was, the Bayou City did not possess the hustle or import in the financial community that Maria desired. Her ambition drove her to the world capital of global business—New York City. She arrived in the city of her dreams in 1993 through a job transfer at Citibank.

  There, she enrolled at Fordham, the Jesuit University of New York. The Graduate School of Business Administration was located at Lincoln Center near Central Park, not far from St. Joseph’s Home—the boarding house on West 44th Street that she now called home. It was a modest structure, designed as a model tenement in the late nineteenth century. The minuscule apartments offered only tight quarters for families, but the building’s saving grace was its enormous courtyard, built to provide air and light and to serve as a safe place for children to play.

  At the time Maria moved in, the entrance was cramped and awkward to negotiate. A set of steps jutted out from the building. A tall wrought-iron fence pressed against the stairs on three sides. When she opened the gate, she had to step up immediately and then bend down to pull it shut. The steps led from the sidewalk to the outside doors. On that landing, a statue of St. Joseph perched on a pedestal in the corner. Passers-by often mistook the building for a church and paused to genuflect and pray. More steps rose up between the outer and inner doors. In that tiny foyer, a cheerful, bright-colored tile mosaic offered a warm welcome to residents and visitors.

  Catholic women dominated the population of this Church-owned facility, although other religions were representated as well. Women from India, Central America, the United States and all across the globe called St. Joseph’s home, though Filipinas outnumbered the rest. Most of the women remained for long periods of time, the rooms full year after year.

  By Manhattan standards, that section of 44th Street was a quiet oasis. Trees lined the sidewalk—each one surrounded by a tiny wrought-iron fence encircling a bed of colorful tulips, daffodils and jonquils in the spring. The bustle of Ninth Avenue, though, was just a block away. Dubbed Ethnic Avenue by New Yorkers, this stretch of real estate was known for its exotic restaurants—Brazilian, Turkish, Afghan, Mexican, Jamaican, Balinese and more.

  Maria graduated with honors from the esteemed business school at Fordham. She now held an MBA in finance and international banking. Family members said that she was very happy with her position at Citibank. In 2001, though, Barclays Capital made aggressive moves to pick up personnel from other businesses. They staged a futile and much publicized raid against Credit Suisse First Boston in February in an attempt to lure away senior bond executives. The more modest attempt at Citigroup netted a win for Barclays, and Maria felt her best choice was to go with her team. She entered the new company many steps up the ladder on her way to becoming a certified financial analyst. Barclays offered a world well suited to Maria—or to any woman pursuing success. It was a corporate environment where meritocracy was central. A woman with Maria’s ambition was destined to stand out.

  Despite her improved financial status, Maria remained at St. Joseph’s Home for some time, continuing to attend mass nearly every day. Her church of choice, St. Malachy’s—the actors’ chapel—was rich in history. The Church founded the parish in 1902, and erected the neo-gothic building in 1903.

  When the Theatre District sprang up in the area in the 1920s, the church became a haven for actors, dancers and musicians. St. Malachy’s offered atypical times for worship—a 5 P.M. mass before performances and a late mass at midnight, 2 A.M. or even 4 A.M. to accommodate entertainers and the people who labored backstage on Broadway.

  Douglas Fairbanks and Joan Crawford were married at St. Malachy’s. A final tribute to Rudolph Valentino there filled the sanctuary and spilled out into the streets. Spencer Tracy, Perry Como, Irene Dunne, Bob and Dolores Hope, Danny Thomas, Ricardo Montalban, Jimmy Durante and Florence Henderson were among the many stars who worshiped there.

  Inside the doors, celebrity was left behind and a hush descended as sculpted marble columns ascended to great heights, supporting the chapel’s three arches. The two side arches had lower deep blue ceilings sprinkled with golden stars. The middle arch rose in gothic splendor to a carved ceiling. The focal point was an ornate altar backed by a painted mural of Christ on the cross.

  Dark wooden pews arced out from the front of the altar. Stained glass windows flanked each side. The architectural splendor provided the heady, tremulous sensation of standing in the presence of God.

  DESPITE HER IMPROVED SITUATION, MARIA DID NOT, AT FIRST, make any expenditure to improve her own lifestyle. Instead, she spent her money on others. She treated her parents to an anniversary cruise in the Bahamas. She splurged on relatives when they traveled from the Philippines to visit her in New York. She was known to munch on an apple for lunch and open a can of okra for dinner when she ate on her own, but would not hesitate to pay for Broadway plays and expensive Apple Tours excursions for family members. Once the first choice of tourists to New York, now defunct after a collision with a Hell’s Kitchen resident.

  In the romance department things blew hot, then ice cold. For four intense months, she had a serious relationship with Bill Morgan. When he moved to Chicago, they agreed that it was over. Emotionally, though, Maria had a hard time letting go. She contacted him later with a proposal that she follow him to the Windy City. She dropped that idea when Bill told her he planned to marry someone else.

  In 2002, Maria took the next step to molding her vision of a perfect life: She became a naturalized United States citizen. In May of that year, she took a trip to Houston for a family wedding. Her parents flew in from the Philippines for the occasion. The reunion was short but sweet. Rudolfo and Irenea had no way of knowing that it would be the last time they would ever see their daughter.

  At Christmas time, Maria took in the glorious display at Rockefeller Center. She loved the pageantry of Christmas in Manhattan, but vowed that when the holiday rolled around the next time, she would celebrate in her native land.

  No country on earth has a longer celebration of Christmas than the one in the Philippines. Every household is adorned with the bright, colorful parol—the national symbol of the Star of Bethlehem. For nine mornings, Catholic families gather at their local churches for a dawn mass. Outside, vendors fill the air with the tantalizing scent of traditional holiday treats.

  After mass, families gather round to purchase and consume bibingka—a sweet rice cake resembling a Western pancake topped with grated coconut—and puto bumbong, a rice and water batter baked in a special clay pot lined with banana leaves and topped with slices of kesong puti, a white cheese, and itlog na maalat, salted duck eggs. The thought of these native concoctions made Maria’s mouth water, and she began to plan her first trip back to the Philippines in more than ten years.

  As 2002 came to a close, so did Maria’s decade-long stay at St. Joseph’s Home. She moved seven blocks away to a luxury studio apartment on the fourteenth floor of a high-rise complex with a uniformed doorman.

  In January of 2003, Maria Cruz surfed the Internet and made a fatal decision. She scheduled her first appointment with Dean Faiello.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DEAN FAIELLO WAS BORN AT CLARA MAAS HOSPITAL IN Belleville, New Jersey, on August 31, 1959. Sam and Carmel Faiello brought their first child home to Newark, where the family lived in the home of Dean’s widowed maternal grandmother, Ada.

  The year Dean turned three, he and his parents moved into their own home at 9 Cedar Avenue in Madison, a small, affluent town close to New York City. Another change occurred in the Faiello household that year—Dean’s sister Debra was born.

  To the children, the world revolved around their mother. She stayed at home and devoted her life to her kids. Like all the women in her family, Dean’s mother was of diminutive stature—just 5′3″, a couple of inches taller than her own mother. To her children, though, she thrust sky-high—a tower of strength. When they spoke to her, she focused in on th
eir words, looked them directly in the eye and made them feel like the most special people in the world. Her smile lingered in Dean’s mind. It was a warm and radiant smile that filled her entire face.

  Her influence extended beyond the children. Carmel affected the mood of those in any room she entered. No one could ignore her presence. She was loved for her kindness and empathy.

  Carmel sent her children off to school in clean, fresh-pressed outfits with lunch money in hand. She made sure they were on time for class. She was active in the PTA, helping organize school fairs and pot-luck dinners. When the kids returned home each day, they knew she would be there waiting with snacks, ready to listen to their stories about school.

  Despite the chaos of having two young children at home, Carmel maintained a fastidious appearance. She kept her nails manicured, her hair styled, her make-up impeccable and her clothing always neat and well suited to each occasion.

  She took just as much care with her home. Carmel had a keen eye for design and never overlooked the slightest detail in pulling together a picture-perfect room. She painted woodwork, hung wallpaper and added coordinated accessories in a cycle of redecoration that never seemed to end. She added personal touches to the rooms of her children. Both had desks for doing homework. She put up a shelf for Dean’s collection of Hardy Boys books and hung another in Debra’s room for her ever-growing collection of athletic trophies.

  She kept the home full of candles, plants and tasteful knick-knacks all year round. When Christmas time came, she threw herself into the spirit with decorations and handmade ornaments. Long before it was the norm, she strung tiny white lights everywhere to make her house glow.

  Carmel was devoted to her children. Every one of their accomplishments made her beam with pride. A good report card from Dean, a trophy from Debra—they laid their offerings at her feet for the reward of her smile. If anyone hurt her children, that smile turned into a scowl, and her protective maternal instincts rose to the fore.

  She seemed to hold the whole world in her hands, but there was one thing she could not shape into her pleasant ideal of a life well-lived—her husband.

  Sam’s narcissistic appetite for manipulation made Carmel’s control over anything seem precarious. He used his wife and children to stroke his ego and inflate his sense of self-importance. When they didn’t cater to his needs, there was hell to pay. Verbal and physical abuse were common. Carmel intervened, interrupting beatings, brushing away tears and holding the children tight till the pain faded away. But fortunately for the family, their interaction with Sam was minimal—he spent most of his time elsewhere.

  When he did come home, everyone waited timidly at the garage door to greet him. Like all kids raised in the sixties, Dean and Debra loved their TV shows. Their favorites were typical fare: My Favorite Martian, Green Acres, Lost in Space and Gilligan’s Island. But when it was time for Dad to come home, they’d better not be watching television. Their place was beside the garage door, waiting for the return of the family breadwinner. If they were not there to greet him, he was furious. Even when respectfully met at the door, Sam shut himself in the den away from his family after just a brief moment of interaction.

  Dean carried items to his Dad’s den for his mother on occasion. The biggest life lesson he remembered learning from his father was how to make a vodka martini. Dean followed his father’s instruction with care. He coated the ice cubes with vermouth, pouring the excess away, leaving only the ice cubes to flavor the vodka—in the Faiello household the martini was gently stirred, never shaken. Then, according to his father’s mood and the supplies on hand, he added a twist or an olive. After serving Sam, Dean left the room as soon as he could.

  Carmel did all she could to counteract the toxic atmosphere created by her hostile, demanding husband. When he was gone, she created an environment of peace, an oasis of love. When he blew in like a hurricane, she did her best to keep her children out of his way.

  From 1966 through 1970, summers were a special escape for Dean and Debra. They spent the entire season at the home of their paternal grandfather, Carmine. He and his second wife, Emma, lived just a couple hundred feet from the beach in South Seaside Park. The unincorporated town was across from Toms River on the Barnegat Bay on an Ocean County barrier island in southern New Jersey.

  Carmine, an immigrant from Italy, owned the town’s water utility, South Seashore Water Company. Rumors circulated that he was connected to the Mob. Whether they were based on fact or ethnic stereotype, they persist even to today.

  Emma worked on the beach selling admission badges during the season. Dean and Debra left Madison on Memorial Day weekend and spent nearly every day of their break from school frolicking beachside—cooling off in the waves, baking in the sun.

  This world of playtime fantasy, made up of miles of white sand, filled their summers with seagulls and horseshoe crabs. Up on the boardwalk, the fresh ocean breeze mingled with the acrid smell of the creosote-soaked boards and the sweet scent of cotton candy. They rode the roller coaster, Tilt-A-Whirl and bumper cars until they were exhausted. They journeyed through the haunted house and the house of mirrors and down water slides. They collected pinwheel art and stuffed animals. They played Skee-Ball, ring toss and other games of chance that tempted them along the length of the broad boardwalk. They stuffed their tummies with hot pretzels, cold custard, Orange Julius and deep-fried zeppola—an Italian fried dough concoction drenched in powdered sugar.

  Then Labor Day came and Dean and Debra’s world of limitless freedom and fun came to a screeching halt. Once again, it was time for school work—and the harder job of avoiding their father’s wrath.

  CHAPTER SIX

  DEAN WAS 12 YEARS OLD AND DEBRA WAS 9 WHEN THEIR parents first separated. Sam moved out of the home on 9 Cedar Avenue. He consulted an attorney who advised him to move back into the home, or his wife could divorce him on grounds of abandonment. The lawyer convinced him that a no-fault divorce would leave him in a better position—he would lose fewer of his assets, and his alimony and child support payments would be lower.

  So weeks after leaving, Sam returned. He forced his way in and reclaimed 9 Cedar Avenue as his own. For Dean’s mother, this started the divorce clock all over again. At that time, to legally end a marriage, a couple needed to live apart for eighteen months. Now, Carmel had no choice. She had to leave the home at once to free herself of the man who made her and her children miserable.

  Carmel told Dean and Debra to pack their things. They had to move from the only place either child could remember calling home. Dean stood in his bedroom in a daze. He stared in his sock drawer not knowing which colors to take and which to leave behind. He didn’t even know how long he would be gone or if he would ever return.

  As he stood stock still, incapable of taking any action, Sam entered his room. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  Dean glared at him. How could he offer to help his son pack his clothes and leave his home in the middle of the night? He wanted to say, “Sure, you can help me—by leaving my sister and my mother and me alone.” Instead, he just shook his head.

  The three found refuge at grandmother Ada’s home in Newark. She was living alone in a small apartment with only a living room, a bedroom and a kitchen. Now, four people occupied the tiny space. Despite the challenge and the loss of privacy, Ada did all she could to make her daughter and grandchildren feel welcome.

  Ada slept on the sofa—a situation that embarrassed Dean. He offered to take her place, but she would not give it up. In the sole bedroom, his mother slept on an uncomfortable cot. Dean offered her his place in the bed where he and Debra slept but she would not even consider it. He and his sister had school to attend, she told him; they needed to sleep well. Watching the sacrifice of his mother and grandmother night after night fed the flames of anger and resentment that Dean felt toward his father.

  Every morning, Carmel drove Dean and Debra to school in Madison. Every afternoon, she drove back to pick them up and bring them to the
loving but minuscule apartment. Dean’s mother struggled with depression over her situation—the overcrowded home, the endless negotiations and waiting for the divorce papers. For the first time in her life, she let herself go. Her hair hung limp for days at a time, her fingernails became chipped and ragged, her clothing draped from her body. Compared to a lot of women, she still looked great. But for Carmel, the appearance was definitely sub-par.

  The largest room in the apartment was the kitchen, where Italian tradition made meal preparation a central part of every day. After school, Dean sat down at the long white Formica table to do his homework while his grandmother and mother bustled over the hot stove. Surrounded by school books and the delicious aroma of home cooking, he studied hard, nibbling on the treats they set before him.

  Outside, the neighborhood was not the suburban sanctuary of Dean and Debra’s earlier life. Gone were the broad manicured yards—these houses were separated by only the width of the driveway. Gone were the trees they used to climb and the vast expanses of grass where they could run and play. Here, concrete and a garage adorned the backyards of most homes. Gone were safe streets where children tossed balls and rode bikes. In the city, the streets were busy and dangerous. Gone were the pleasant window views of sweeping lawns covered with lush, green grass and dotted with trees, flowers and shrubs. Here the only sight was the wall of another structure, blocking the sun.

  Dean passed through his early adolescence with no strong father figure—or any man—in his life. The only male in an otherwise female household, he lived in an apartment complex filled with single mothers and widows.