Last Dance, Last Chance

by Ann Rule

  “Lena was a change-of-life baby,” Debbie explained. “She was born into a very, very poor family in Port Colborne, Ontario. Her parents died when she was young, and she was never close to her brothers and sisters.”

  But Lena Wakunic, christened Sabena, was beautiful. She was Ukrainian and had pale blond hair, ice-blue eyes, and a lovely figure. As a young man Ralph Pignataro met Lena at Crystal Beach, a resort a few miles east of Port Colborne. She was alone in the world, and he fell in love with her and vowed to make up for all the things she had never had. He even put her through high school. When she was angry or “uppity” with people who had less than she did, Ralph knew it was because of the dark times she had lived through. He always tried to smooth the way for her and to make excuses for her.

  By the time Debbie met her, Lena Pignataro was a very attractive middle-aged woman with the body of a girl in her twenties, as fair as Dr. Ralph was dark. Her blond hair had turned white and looked platinum rather than gray. She wore expensive but modest clothing with high necks and long sleeves, although she usually wore high heels and a delicate gold ankle bracelet.

  Dr. Ralph himself looked like Vic Damone, a popular singer of the era. All of Ralph and Lena’s children were good looking, with Antoinette and Ralph resembling Dr. Ralph and Steven and Anthony looking more like their mother.

  In time, Lena came to accept Debbie as Anthony’s girlfriend. Still, Debbie realized that Lena might not make the most nurturing mother-in-law if she and Anthony should ever marry. Lena adored Anthony and was partial to all of her children. She had great difficulty refusing any of them anything, but Steven was clearly her favorite.

  Debbie knew she wasn’t a debutante or anything close to it and that Anthony could have had any girl he wanted. Sometimes she still marveled that he had chosen her. She was glad that she had had the courage to tell him how she felt about him.

  She never minded that their relationship was all about him. Anthony had such great dreams for the future that she was happy to be part of them. When he told her he was going to follow in his father’s footsteps and one day become a surgeon, Debbie knew that medical school and internship would take many years, but she was willing to wait. She promised Anthony that she would work and help him through med school if that’s what it took. They would be together forever and have the children she longed for—the children she believed he wanted, too.

  Remarkably, Debbie Rago and Anthony Pignataro ended up dating for seven years before their marriage—mostly a long-distance courtship. It would have been nice if they could have become engaged sooner than they did, but he explained to her that they would have to wait until he finished medical school. He needed to concentrate totally on his studies, he said, but he assured Debbie that being apart was as difficult for him as it was for her because he loved her completely.

  It turned out to be a very long-distance romance. To his shock, Anthony wasn’t accepted by any medical school on the mainland of the United States. The top universities accepted only about five percent of those who applied, looking for applicants who had the best grades and the most well-rounded personalities. Given the option of choosing a straight-A student with no other interests or extracurricular activities, and one with less than perfect grades but a broad base of friends and community service, the second possibility usually got the nod.

  Anthony Pignataro didn’t make the cut, probably because he had done little to prepare for the test, counting on his intelligence alone. He didn’t even come close. The MCAT scores for those chosen by Harvard’s med school averaged over 11, and Anthony’s were far below that.

  The only med school willing to take him was the nonaccredited San Juan Bautista School of Medicine in Hato Rey, Puerto Rico. One drawback to attending a Puerto Rican med school was that the courses there were all taught in Spanish. Anthony was quite willing to learn the language, and he mastered it quickly. From 1983 to 1985, he attended the Universidad Central del Caribe in Bayamon, Puerto Rico. There, students could enter with an MCAT score of 6.7. The tuition was almost as steep as it was at Harvard, but del Caribe accepted over fifteen percent of those who applied. Anthony didn’t have to worry about the tuition; Dr. Ralph Pignataro was willing to pay it. Even though it was taking so long, the realization of his dream of having his son practicing with him meant so much to him.

  Dr. Ralph Pignataro gladly paid $24,000 a year tuition and all of Anthony’s living expenses in Puerto Rico. Whether his medical training was as thorough or as current with medical care advances as taught by medical schools in the continental United States was a question. Top-ranked American medical schools had 3.8 instructors for every student; del Caribe had only 0.4 instructors for each student.

  Still, Anthony Pignataro was very intelligent, more so than his undergraduate grades indicated. When he set out to do something, his brain fairly sizzled. He often said that he viewed himself as a modern-day Galileo, and he prided himself on the way he visualized original concepts. His first goal was an M.D. degree—but that, he assured Debbie, was only a jumping-off place for what he would later accomplish.

  He first planned to become a specialist in obstetrics and gynecology. “I found genuine pleasure in obstetrics…assisting in the giving of life,” Anthony commented. “It was the gynecology addendum to the OB/GYN that did not thrill me.”

  “Female problems” didn’t interest Anthony, and treating such ailments had none of the drama and joy that came with presenting a new baby to its parents. Beyond that, Anthony cited family loyalty. His father was a surgeon, and he leaned toward a surgical specialty of some kind that would complement his father’s practice. He searched for a residency program where he could learn more.

  With Anthony undergoing intensive training in Puerto Rico, he and Debbie were even farther apart than when he was at Lehigh. But she waited for him faithfully, happy in the knowledge that they would be together forever after four or five years. Debbie kept working and saving her money for that day. She “practically commuted” to Puerto Rico, and she and Anthony seriously discussed having her move there to live with him.

  “But we couldn’t do that,” she recalled. “With our religious beliefs and our families, living together just wasn’t something we felt comfortable with.”

  Sometimes it seemed that their wedding would never happen; Anthony was spending their early and middle twenties in college and med school. Finally, they set June 15, 1985, as their wedding date, almost exactly eight years since Debbie had first run her car into a wall, staring at Anthony.

  She could hardly wait to start their life together.

  *See note on copyright page.

  Part Two

  The Doctor

  3

  Anthony Pignataro and Debbie Rago were married in St. Bonaventure’s Catholic Church before a gathering of more than three hundred and fifty guests. It was a joyous occasion and a beautiful wedding, the culmination of all their years of waiting.

  Debbie had six attendants in mauve satin gowns. Her color theme was mauve and white. She was very slender and looked lovely in her white gown with its long train. A photographer took dozens of pictures of the bride and groom and the wedding party and family members.

  Two handsome families blended that day, but the one member of the wedding party who photographed the best was Anthony. He was so photogenic that it was hard to get a bad picture of him. He had his mother’s fair complexion, and his hair was much lighter than his father’s. The moustache he’d grown after achieving his status as an M.D. only made him look handsomer.

  Debbie and her parents had wanted the reception to be held at Samuel’s Grand Manor, a very nice facility chosen by many newly married couples. It would hold all their guests comfortably. Anthony agreed—at first. But Ralph and Lena Pignataro argued that it would be preferable to have the reception at their country club. Anyone could book a reception at Samuel’s Grand Manor, but only a small number of newlyweds could have their reception at the Wanakah Country Club. Anthony told Debbie that that made sen
se, just as he always agreed with his parents’ wishes. After much discussion, he convinced her to honor Ralph and Lena’s request that they move the reception to their exclusive country club.

  Still, Debbie had her doubts. The posh club was lovely, but she was afraid that it wasn’t nearly large enough. When the day came for their reception, she saw she was right. It was a very warm night, and their guests were hot and crowded. In a way, it became Ralph’s and Lena’s day rather than the bride’s and groom’s.

  Always anxious to please his father, Anthony made a glowing toast to Dr. Ralph, but his toast to Frank Rago, perhaps meant to be humorous, came off as demeaning and insulting. Debbie was so happy to be Mrs. Anthony Pignataro that she forced herself to keep smiling, but inside she was crushed to see her father trying to mask his hurt. She worried about her dad. Frank Rago’s health was failing, and it was all he could do to walk her down the aisle and dance with her at the boisterous Italian wedding reception. Frank and Caroline Rago wanted Debbie to be happy, and they were happy, too, to see her a bride at last.

  Debbie was 28 years old. She had waited all those years for Anthony, and now she was married to her young doctor. Thanks to his father’s connections, he was scheduled to begin his first year of surgical residency on July 1 at St. Agnes Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland. St. Agnes was a satellite of the Johns Hopkins system, yet Anthony always referred to his first internship as being at Johns Hopkins, a prestigious name in the world of medicine.

  Right after their wedding reception, Debbie and Anthony flew to Los Angeles, where they boarded a cruise ship that would take them to exotic ports of call on what Anthony called the Mexican Riviera: Puerto Vallarta, Mazatlan, and Cabo San Lucas. Their two-week honeymoon should have been idyllic, but there were jarring moments.

  Debbie had long accepted that Anthony had no particular talent with people. She didn’t know why, but he just wasn’t a people person.

  “Sometimes he seemed conceited,” she recalled, “so arrogant.” He had never had many friends, but she didn’t mind that at first; they had so little time to spend together that she had been glad that his free hours belonged to her.

  All through school—high school and college—Anthony had only one close male friend. He had gone to the private and expensive Nichols School, and he rarely mingled with anyone from public schools. Graduates of Lehigh University later remembered him as “very conceited. He always had such a high opinion of himself.”

  Debbie knew Anthony turned people off, but never his loyal buddy from school. She assumed that he would change once he wasn’t so laden down with studies. It was just that he was always in a hurry, she told herself, trying to cram too much into too short a time.

  So she was a little shocked on their luxury cruise when Anthony’s blunt and artless conversation annoyed people and isolated them from the other travelers.

  “He embarrassed himself one night,” Debbie said. “There was a Jewish couple at our table, and he made awful remarks and jokes about Jews. They asked to be moved to another table.”

  Debbie was mortified. She had always tried to be kind to people and think of their feelings. It bothered her that her new husband had been so rude and that he seemed completely oblivious to what he had said. He shrugged his shoulders when she told him why the couple had moved to another table.

  But when Debbie later looked at their wedding and cruise pictures, she saw again how perfect they were together. She had never really felt pretty, but she felt beautiful on their honeymoon. She was very much in love.

  Debbie was a typical Italian-American wife of the seventies. Despite the strides being made in the women’s movement, she sublimated her needs and desires to her husband’s wishes, content to stand in his shadow and know that she was helping him reach his goals.

  They moved to Baltimore, and Anthony was immediately plunged into the life of the fledgling doctor at St. Agnes Hospital. He began a two-year program in general surgery, his intern years, and he was on call every third night. Sleep was elusive, as it was for all young doctors.

  Debbie and Anthony found an apartment they could afford. It was quite pleasant, but it was in a section of the city that had a relatively high crime rate. When Anthony was at the hospital all night, Debbie was afraid, hearing sounds that woke her often. She had a job during the daytime in a plastic surgeon’s office, and that time raced by, but she dreaded the nighttime when she was home alone.

  Sometimes Debbie socialized with the other interns’ wives, but mostly she lived a solitary life in Baltimore. Anthony was studying when he was home—or sleeping. She had expected this—it was what they had both worked for; he was going to be a doctor, a surgeon, and all their sacrifices would be worth it. They lived on one salary and banked the other, saving for the future when Anthony would build his own practice.

  The early spring of 1986 brought both joy and sadness. Debbie was thrilled when she became pregnant, but she miscarried before the third month. “Anthony felt bad, too,” she recalled. “He was very comforting to me, and told me we would try again and it would be all right.”

  And it was. By July, she was pregnant again. Anthony teased her because they were both so busy he wondered how they’d ever had time for conception to happen, but they were both elated. This time, Debbie felt wonderful, and she continued to work while carrying the baby.

  Anthony had completed his first year of internship in general surgery and begun the second. He was sure that two years at St. Agnes would set him up nicely in his career as a surgeon. So was Debbie, although she wasn’t really aware of what was going on at St. Agnes. Living with a man as mercurial as Anthony was, and as brilliant, she had long since learned to make the adjustments necessary to keep him happy. She listened when he told her of his life at the hospital, but she didn’t question him when he didn’t want to talk.

  By March 1987, Debbie was more than eight months pregnant and a little nervous about being alone. One night when Anthony was at the hospital, Debbie awoke to a sound that wasn’t the usual creaking of their building. Her heart beating wildly, she crept to where she could peek into the living room. Someone was moving outside the sliding glass doors of their apartment. The doors had never fastened correctly, and suddenly one slid open. There stood a tall naked man inside her apartment, raving incoherently.

  She was terrified, but she remembered the gun Anthony had purchased. “I found the gun where Anthony put it in the dresser, and I held it on that man. That seemed to snap him out of his delusions, and suddenly he wasn’t talking crazy any longer.”

  She managed to call the police as she held him at gun-point, and they came and took him away. “It took three officers to get him in the car,” she remembered with a shiver. “I was really scared, but thank God, I didn’t go into premature labor.”

  A few weeks later, Debbie gave birth to her baby by cesarean section. On April 4, 1987, she had a son—just what Anthony wanted. They named him Raphael Frank after Anthony’s and Debbie’s fathers. He was a beautiful baby, and they were both enthralled with their dark-eyed child.

  Everything was moving along on schedule for them. Anthony was only a few months away from the end of his first two-year program, and he had decided to continue on at St. Agnes for another year. But he was stunned and then outraged when his contract was not renewed.

  “They only renewed one of the residents,” Debbie said, “and it wasn’t Anthony. He talked to an attorney to see if he could sue them, but he didn’t go ahead with it.”

  During this, the third year of their marriage, a tiny network of fissures appeared for the first time. Debbie noticed a number of hang-up phone calls coming into their apartment. One time, a female voice actually gave her a message to give to Anthony. “Just tell him ‘hello,’ she said.”

  Debbie was puzzled but not overly alarmed. Anthony was a very handsome man, and she knew women often got crushes on doctors. It was probably some woman who had come into the hospital. Still, she had a wife’s insecurity. She realized that she never r
eally knew where Anthony was at any given time; that was just part of the nature of his career. She had always trusted him.

  Debbie had almost forgotten about the odd phone call, but then she answered another call from a woman. It was their last night in Baltimore, and Debbie was happy that they were getting ready to go home. This time, the woman’s message was for her. “Go look in the back seat of your car,” she said with a hard edge to her voice.

  Making her way out to the car, Debbie opened the door, hoping that it was just a hoax. Instead, she found a cassette recording, a letter, and a Christmas card. Her hands were numb as she opened the letter and the card, reading what seemed unfathomable to her. She played the tape, and there was no question that it was Anthony’s voice on the tape, obviously talking to another woman. There was no other way to view the items in the back seat beyond accepting that her husband had been having an affair.

  Debbie Pignataro might have been a loyal and patient girlfriend, and then a wife willing to work and postpone having a nice house to help Anthony through his years of residency and postgraduate training. She was a faithful wife, her marriage blessed in the Catholic church and sacred to her. But she was no doormat. Whatever else might be wrong with their relationship, she had believed in Anthony’s fidelity. Now, she had proof that he had been cheating on their marriage—and she erupted, as angry and hurt as she had ever been in her life.

  “Get home right now!” she shouted, when she got him on the phone.

  “He came home,” she said, “and I screamed at him and cried, and I hit him—not hard, but I hit him. I was so angry that he betrayed me like that.”

  Anthony was stunned, and shocked when he realized that Debbie actually intended to leave him. He didn’t call his father for advice this time; he called Debbie’s father and said, “Debbie wants to leave me, and take the baby.” Then he handed the phone to her.