Sleep, My Child, Forever

by John Coston

  There was nothing different about this Memorial Weekend trip, as far as Deanne was concerned. Like all the others, they had to plan it well in advance, which meant they had to not only save up enough money, but also somehow arrange to get tickets in advance. They wouldn’t even bother to go if they couldn’t be in the first three or four rows in the arena. The fact that Ellen was more than seven months pregnant when she made this cross-country trip didn’t faze Deanne much. She knew Ellen. Even if she were in her last month, Ellen might go for it.

  The payoff came when the managers and the wrestlers came down the aisle, displaying invincible machismo and, in Ellen’s fantasies, at the same time surveying the crowd for her and Deanne. Both women knew that they were more than just fans to these guys. Both women believed that as true, loyal fans who made the effort to follow the circuit, they made a difference for the performers. Carl Fergie, a referee, Paul Ellering, manager of the Road Warriors, and DiBiasi all let Ellen and Deanne know that they loved it when they went on the road to follow them. Somehow, Ellen and Deanne could see the difference they made. After all, wasn’t it nice to put on a show for someone who really appreciated it? they would say to each other. Ellen made a round-trip to Kansas City, a five hundred mile journey all the way across Missouri and back, just to be there when the ticket office opened so she could be guaranteed seats somewhere in the first few rows.

  To someone who didn’t know her, Ellen’s behavior might be viewed as quite strange, considering that she was married with two children and a third due to arrive in a couple of months. Paul, in turn, was breaking the mold in a more commonplace way. He had become interested in someone else. Her name was Teri. Like Ellen before, she was a young girl who rode his bus.

  Tucked away in his wallet, Paul still carries the transfer ticket he gave to her one day in August 1984, when she boarded his bus the first time. Teri, who had started classes at Florissant Valley College, wrote her name and address on the slip of paper for him. For weeks, she rode the bus every day to and from school. That fall she was forced to drop her classes because she could no longer manage the baby-sitting arrangements for her daughter. But it was by no means the end of her relationship with Paul.

  Only a week after Ellen returned from her big Memorial Day weekend trip, Paul had some bad news for his pregnant wife. The date was June 6, 1986, the day they were supposed to celebrate their sixth wedding anniversary.

  What Paul told Ellen was that he didn’t want to leave, but that he had to get treatment at a Veterans’ Administration hospital in Texas. Ellen knew that Paul suspected he suffered from something that was the result of exposure to Agent Orange during his days in Vietnam. He was prone to breaking out in rashes, and sometime they would spread over his entire body.

  He said he would be spending a couple of weeks at a VA hospital in town before going to Texas. He explained that the treatment he was seeking would take months. He would have to quit his job at Bi-State, but he told her that if he was to ever get better, he would have to do this.

  Ellen believed him, despite the many reasons why she might have doubted his story. For one, Paul had a drinking problem, one that wasn’t hard to recognize. Ever since he had stopped going to the matches with her at Kiel, he had started hanging out with his set of friends—in the bars. It was almost as if they had made a pact. Ellen could pursue her wrestling craze, and Paul could do what he wanted. Neither of them suspected how far the other would take it.

  Ellen had other reasons to doubt Paul. He had been gone at night lately, though it was the kind of behavior she racked up to his drinking. But when Ellen told Deanne about Paul’s hospitalization, Deanne was doubtful.

  “Ellen, have you talked to his doctors? Have they talked to you?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t understand this,” Deanne said to her friend. “When my husband was sick, and he had to have a triple bypass … I mean he wasn’t dying of cancer or Agent Orange—”

  “What?” Ellen interrupted.

  “Ellen, I don’t understand, they took me in with him and when he met with the surgeon and the doctors, and they explained the process to both of us. I was there.”

  “I don’t know,” Ellen said. “He said he had to do this. What am I supposed to do?”

  “I think you ought to go out by that hospital and see if his car’s there. Check this out, Ellen.”

  After Paul had been gone a week, Ellen did just that. She drove down to the Veterans Administration Medical Center at Jefferson Barracks in South St. Louis. It was no surprise to Deanne that his car was nowhere to be found. Something was wrong about the whole story. When Ellen got a phone call from a former work associate, she found out why.

  “Your husband is having an affair with my wife,” the man said.

  The next thing Ellen learned was that Paul had left town with another woman, the young blond passenger on his Bi-State route.

  On July 25, 1986, the day their second son was born, Paul Boehm showed up at the hospital. He was the proud father, too, cupping the newborn in his arms and posing for a snapshot in the hospital maternity ward. Ellen had dressed her little “DA-DA” (pronounced “day-day”) in a red and white baseball jersey. The word SHORTSTOP was printed across his chest in letters as big as his hands. When he was a year old, and able to prop himself on his elbows for a more formal, department store portrait, his mother would outfit him in a Cardinals cap and suit.

  David Brian Boehm was a merry little tyke, a tow-head with brilliant blue eyes and a big grin. His father would see him only once before leaving town. In less than two weeks, Paul would be headed for Dodge City, Kansas, not Texas, and he would be traveling with his new love, Teri, who would become, in due time, his third wife.

  Ellen returned home to the house on Wyoming Street, her status as a single mother confirmed. Just as her father had abandoned his first wife and children, and then his second wife and child, Paul had left her, never to return. In less than three months, she would start a new job at Andersen Consulting, and her mother would become a permanent babysitter so Ellen could support her family.

  It all seemed to have happened so fast. A bus ride had turned into a life that now was a burden. Almost overnight, Ellen had transformed herself from a giggly, high school girl into a single parent with three demanding children. It was a story all too familiar to Paul’s first wife, Susan, who was now going by her maiden name, Emily.

  Susan and Ellen now shared more in common than before, and they occasionally got together. Susan’s youngest daughter, Terrie, was only four years older than Stacy, and the two girls liked to play together. Most of the time they played house, with Terrie filling the role of mother. It also seemed appropriate somehow that these two stepsisters should know each other.

  The two women didn’t become the best of friends, but they went out drinking and dancing a few times. Susan liked wrestling, and went along with Ellen to a couple of matches. But most of the time their visits centered around the kitchen table, and the two of them would just talk as the girls played.

  “Whatever did you see in him?” Susan once asked Ellen, viewing Paul herself now as less than the ideal marriage material.

  Ellen sighed. “I don’t know. He was a pusher. He was always talking me into doing things.”

  A Thanksgiving Tragedy

  David Brian Boehm

  “Our Little DA-DA”

  July 25, 1986

  Nov. 26, 1988

  Heat and serve. Those were the directions for preparing the turkey spread Ellen had bought at the National for Thanksgiving dinner. She had invited her mother to join her and the children. But it would prove to be a day not of celebration but of death.

  By the fall of 1988, Ellen’s life after marriage had changed considerably. With her husband’s income gone, she was in financial straits. She had declared bankruptcy. The house was gone. She had found the job at Andersen, and it paid better. Plus she had found an affordable apartment. Still, Ellen had to take on a part-time job at night, delivering
for Elicia’s Pizza, a take-out place that she and Paul had patronized when they lived on Wyoming. It was right on the corner of Gravois, and when Ellen noticed the sign in the window for drivers, she went in to see Mike.

  Mike Romay, the manager, knew Ellen as a customer, and he gave her the job. She worked four nights a week, earning four-twenty-five an hour, plus fifty cents for each delivery and whatever tips she got, which typically were seventy-five cents to a dollar per delivery. Ellen was able to gross about eighty-five dollars a week from her part-time job, but it meant she was working sixty hours a week. Of course, she was caring for three children, when her mother wasn’t watching them for her.

  Her life stacked up as one responsibility after another. Ellen had to get her children dressed and fed in the morning, then arrange for her mother to baby-sit. She proceeded to go to work all day, and had to drive four nights a week, delivering pizzas. She also had to fit in all the domestic tasks, such as shopping for food and clothes, taking her children to the doctor and the dentist, and maintaining her car. Ellen was a single parent living in the survival mode, and about the only pleasure she knew was her addiction to the professional wrestling circuit, which she also somehow managed to satisfy.

  By the time David had his first birthday, Ellen had attended not only numerous matches in town and around the state, but she had made six overnight road trips with Deanne. Catherine, Ellen’s mother, always kept the kids for her.

  In August 1987, they went to Kansas City, where Ellen could indulge what was becoming a romantic interest in Carl Fergie, a referee. The attraction was definitely one-way. Ellen had little chance of capturing the genuine affections of Mr. Fergie, but her own fantasy flourished nevertheless. Deanne didn’t try to dissuade Ellen, either, because it was all in fun as far as she was concerned. Deanne, a recent divorcée, was Deanne Bond once again. They both loved wrestling. They were out of town, playing it up, hanging at the bar at the Howard Johnson Motel in downtown Kansas City. Why not let your imagination go a little?

  Ellen could be herself with Deanne when they were out running around together. Deanne could talk about her ex-husband, and about how tough it was to make ends meet on one salary. When she had split up with her husband, she hadn’t demanded any settlement from him. It was mutual, just the way Deanne wanted it. For her part, Ellen was supposed to be getting child support, but never received a dime.

  The escape to the wild, male-oriented theater of professional wrestling was too much to resist. Almost from the beginning, Ellen had trouble distinguishing the pleasure she took in writing to Carl Fergie, or Paul Ellering, or Ted DiBiasi, from the reality of their negative response to her flirtations. Deanne knew, because Ellen always photocopied her fan letters for Deanne. Ellen didn’t have to impress Deanne. She could just be Deanne’s friend, and Deanne never tried to put the brakes on Ellen’s addiction.

  To Deanne, the world Ellen found so irresistible was nothing more than an escape, no different from going to a movie. Deanne was well aware that she was merely enjoying the show. When it was over, she returned to her own life. She could see that Ellen was having a harder and harder time walking away from it the way she did. But Deanne wasn’t going to say anything. This was about the only happiness Ellen had, and she wasn’t going to take that away. Besides, she was having fun, too.

  She and Ellen were just two happy-go-lucky wrestling fans, planning their next trip. They both loved to travel, and Ellen loved a particular cassette tape by Kenny Rogers. The title song, “They Don’t Make ’em Like They Used To,” was about good friends. They played that tape over and over.

  The two of them were an innocuous version of Thelma and Louise. Depending on how long they planned to be gone, they would stock up a cooler that sat on the backseat with sodas and stuff for sandwiches. If they were going to be away for maybe two days, they would spend thirty or forty dollars at the grocery store. A longer, three or four day trip, would cost forty or fifty dollars for onboard supplies.

  The trips themselves weren’t cheap, even though the women always tried to be economical, beginning by splitting all costs down the middle. Still, it would cost $200 or $300 if they were away for two or three days. Whenever they stayed where the wrestlers stayed, which was usually a Marriott, it would cost more. It helped a little that Ellen was a Preferred Member at the Marriott, which meant that even in some of the bigger cities, the two of them could get a double room for $59, or even $49 a night. On one-city trips, they typically would drive in on a Saturday, which allowed them to take advantage of weekend-special rates, and they would also get a free complimentary breakfast.

  Deanne knew that Ellen was pinched for money most of the time. She also knew that Ellen didn’t do much of anything else for fun. She never went out to the movies. She didn’t go out to restaurants at night. This was it for Ellen, and she enjoyed it so much. Whenever they headed out, crossing the Mississippi River on I-70, eastbound for Chicago, or going the other way, westward on the same multilane interstate with the whole expanse of Missouri in front of them, the adrenaline would start to flow. Ellen would pop in the Kenny Rogers tape, and the fun would start.

  In some ways, it occurred to Deanne, these road trips meant more to Ellen. Ellen was more deeply drawn into the experience. She immersed herself in the world of professional wrestling, the hotel rooms, the road trips, the crowds, and the screaming and yelling and excitement that went along with it. At times, Deanne wondered if Ellen failed to draw the line between fantasy and reality.

  In October 1987, she and Ellen drove to Evansville, Indiana, and stayed at the Days Inn. Ellen still had a crush on Carl Fergie, but he wasn’t reciprocating. By the time Deanne and Ellen were able to muster the finances for the next gig, which would be in Louisville, Kentucky, in March 1988, Ellen had dropped Fergie and was now pursuing Road Warriors’ manager, Paul Ellering. Two weeks after that match, the two women drove to Peoria, Illinois, to another match, but they didn’t stay overnight. Ellen was coming to realize that her fan letters, which were pumped full of double meanings and obvious romantic hints, were falling on deaf ears. The letters were overzealous and almost silly. Deanne never thought much about them, and in fact sometimes just dropped them in a file in her desk drawer, marked “miscellaneous,” thinking that she would get to them someday. But the degree to which Ellen would go to stay on top of the sport was enough to surprise even Deanne.

  In the spring of 1988, after the Peoria match, Ellen decided she had to go to an upcoming event in Chicago, which was scheduled for April 16. Ellen arranged for Deanne to drive her and her children to the airport, because Ellen was going to fly to Chicago so she could be there on Saturday morning when tickets went on sale. Ellen needed Deanne to drive her to the airport, so she could save money by not having to park her car over the weekend in the long-term parking.

  When she learned how expensive the cab fare was from O’Hare to downtown, Ellen decided to rent a limo instead. She and the children stayed at the airport Marriott that weekend and flew back on Sunday. Deanne was amazed when she heard the story about the limo, but she wasn’t surprised that Ellen was able to get some of best seats in the arena. When the date rolled around, the two of them flew up and stayed in the Marriott. It was a grand time.

  That summer, Deanne moved out of St. Louis. Across the river, in Collinsville, Illinois, she found an apartment, and because of the toll charges, she and Ellen didn’t spend as much time talking on the phone. They stayed in touch almost daily from work, but those longer, nighttime chats became less frequent. Gradually Deanne and Ellen started to grow apart, and Ellen began to spend more time with friends from work.

  Considering her finances, Ellen’s addiction was extravagant, a match almost for the outlandish puffery of the NWA. Although she sometimes stayed at more moderately priced motels, she also treated herself with stays at Marriotts, typically ones at the airport. The advance trip to Chicago was a foolish move for a woman on the financial skids.

  Ellen’s U.S. Bankruptcy Court settlement,
granted in September 1987, included arrangements for her to settle her debts. It also made provision to garnishee her paycheck every month, allocating $135 against past bills. But Ellen was also behind on her utilities. Southwestern Bell had garnisheed her salary, every month taking $57.40 against her outstanding bill. The phone company had also disconnected her service. Union Electric had similarly put Ellen on a budget-billing arrangement. She had to pay $156 a month, because she was some $700 in arrears.

  She did have the stability of a job, her mother’s caring for the children, and a chance to start all over again on the financial front. But Ellen was definitely not happy with her life.

  The pounds she had gained during her pregnancies had been augmented by overeating. Now, at age twenty-eight, Ellen was tipping the scales almost on a par with the male wrestlers she adored. At five feet, three inches, she weighed 250 pounds. Ellen was not attractive to men and she knew it. Though she had never been skinny, the plump teenager had turned into an obese woman. Like many women who are children of alcoholics or who suffer abuse as children, Ellen was indulging in an obsessive-compulsive fantasy about romance with big, strong wrestlers who were far beyond her reach. Also in this pattern, her appetite was way out of control. She was stuck in a vicious cycle. She had been abandoned, and forced to rely on her mother again in a way that turned her back into a dependent child. She was fat and lonely.

  The hope that had been sparked by Paul Boehm ten years before had begun to run out. Though Ellen went through the motions on this particular Thanksgiving night, her heart wasn’t in it.