Getting It Through My Thick Skull (20 page)
As I was getting all my papers together and awaiting my court date, some family back East flew out to California for Jessie’s high school graduation. Our separation was well known by then. My sister stayed with me in my apartment. Joey’s sister and her husband stayed with Joe in the big house. It was all very celebratory, family-oriented, and amicable. Evanka was nowhere to be seen. She vanished, at least for the weekend, as we put aside our personal issues to celebrate Jessica and her many accomplishments. Our daughter had been prom queen, was active in sports and the performing arts, and had a very bright future ahead. She deserved plenty of credit. I had no choice but to be around Joe and put on a happy face, but I was so angry that I could barely look at him. I was bracing myself for yet another legal matter that I had done nothing to cause but was forced to deal with.
Filing for bankruptcy was humiliating beyond belief, and trust me, I had known some humiliation in my life with Joe. I showed up at the crowded courtroom, a very public forum, with only my court-appointed lawyer for company, and waited for my name to be shouted out. I watched as the judge ran each person through a list of their creditors. “Can you pay this $2,033 charge to MasterCard?”
“No.”
“Can you pay this $560 owed to the electric company?”
“No.”
This process could go on for quite some time. I found it excruciatingly embarrassing. Finally, my name was called, and I approached the bench. We ran through the list of creditors and, just like everybody else, I had to answer “No” each time he asked if I could pay the bills. But I got a special set of questions. “Do you have any movie productions about your life in the works?” he asked.
“No,” I answered.
“How about upcoming television shows or appearances?”
“No.”
“Radio appearances?” This line of questioning went on and on. If no one had recognized me in the courtroom before, they were sure paying attention now. The judge wanted to be sure I had no plans to capitalize on my notoriety to make money. I had absolutely no plans for that. For one thing, the story was over. I had officially forgiven Amy, and she was free. Joey and I were separated. There was nothing about those days I wanted to revisit; I was doing my best to look forward.
The minute I completed the whole painful process, I got into my car and called Joe. I was beyond angry. I couldn’t get my own apartment now because my credit would be in the toilet from this point on. Joey’s credit was ruined, too, of course, but he could come up with cash, or charm the landlord, or do whatever it took. I grabbed the information about the new place in Newport Beach and dialed his number, even though we were barely speaking. “This is the address, this is the apartment number, these are the terms of the lease, and I don’t care what it takes. You go down there and deal with it!”
“Okay, okay. Whatever you want, no problem . . .” We quickly reverted back into the exasperated mother/naughty son dynamic. He did whatever had to be done—fast—and I packed up my things and escaped to where I wanted to go for a change: Newport Beach.
I had grieved for our marriage for a year. Now anger kicked in with a vengeance. I decided that I was going to take Joe for everything I could from this point on. I would damn well live where I wanted in Newport Beach while I studied, with whatever furniture I wanted, too. “I need five thousand dollars for a new couch,” I announced, and he handed over the money, no questions asked. Absolutely, I took advantage of his guilt over the fact that I was adrift in California, that he had a girlfriend, that he still wanted to control me—everything. I consciously decided to suck him dry—because I truly believed that’s what he had done to me. Twenty-two years of my life—now it was my turn. Whatever he gave me, I more than deserved. That’s what I told myself anyway.
I forced Joe to get me new credit cards, even though it was a big hassle because they had to be secured with cash due to our bankruptcies. “Okay, okay,” he said meekly, and set about getting me new cards in my name. I was determined to rebuild my credit, though I had no way of earning my own money at the time. Whatever kept me quiet and happy was fine with him. I am not proud of my behavior and motivations at the time, but I certainly believed they were justified. And for the next eighteen months, I was happy. I really began to live again like I hadn’t since I’d been shot.
I
was now the proud resident of my own beautiful apartment decorated exactly the way I preferred with no husband or kids to mess it up! For the first time in my life, I could set something down, go out for a while, and find it just how I’d left it when I came home! I enrolled in community college, joined a local gym, and showed up faithfully every day at both places. I embarked on a strength-and-conditioning weight-training program, ran on the treadmill until I was exhausted, worked out hard on the elliptical machine, and even took an abs class. I was in the best shape of my life. I got very tan and even wore belly shirts! I had long ago come to terms with the injury that froze half my face. It looked a bit strange as I aged and my skin began its inevitable droop, but I didn’t care. For the first time in years, I was comfortable in my own skin.
I had been so lonely in my first apartment, but now I relished my freedom. I used to come home from school sometimes and just stand in my doorway, gazing happily at my immaculate, quiet apartment. My job was complete: both my children were officially grown and living on their own. My heavy feelings of obligation and guilt over everything they’d endured throughout their fractured childhoods dissipated because it was over. I had done the very best I could in the very worst circumstances, and I was pleased and proud of the two young adults I had raised. Now I didn’t have to solve anybody’s problems, I didn’t have to listen to anybody, and I didn’t have to clean up after anybody for the first time in more than twenty-five years. I loved it.
Living in Newport Beach, a small coastal community, was the closest I’d felt to home for a long time. Being waterside with plenty of sun and visits to the beach all year round did a great deal to rejuvenate me. My heart and brain were healing more every month. Sometimes I’d take a leisurely drive up the coast—a gorgeous ride—to visit Jessica, who was thriving in Santa Barbara. I made a couple of casual new friends and occasionally went out to lunch or shopping with them. It was a time of personal growth, reflection, and healing.
I truly believed in my heart that I’d had my shot at love in this life. I’d married and had kids with the man I loved—and when it was over, it was over. Love was over for me. I had zero expectations of finding anyone else because there was no man out there who would be able to deal with my baggage—not my grown children, not the fact that I was divorced, not the bullet in my head, and especially not the big piece of Italian baggage named Joey Buttafuoco.
I was not much of a bar person. I went to the gym solely to work out, and 90 percent of my classmates were the ages of my children. I didn’t even bother looking for someone new because I had no idea where to look! Joe was not completely out of the picture. I still saw him occasionally. He and Evanka had a tumultuous relationship. They broke up and made up all the time, like teenagers. He was so familiar to me. He was all I knew, all I’d ever had. The pull was still strong, and occasionally I weakened and spent time with him.
We chatted on the phone a couple of times a week, and he always said all the right things: “I miss you, I love you, I want to see you . . . Why don’t I come down this weekend? We’ll hang out, have fun.” We did have fun together. With the petty aggravations of day-to-day life with Joey gone, it was almost like we were dating again. My schedule was far from full. Wonderful and peaceful as it was to live alone, there were times I missed a male presence. I missed having sex, and Joey was always happy to oblige me there. I also had good reason to return to his house occasionally—to see Paul. Joey was always amenable to a visit from me. Every time I drove out the gates of that huge stone residence, I regretted my visit immediately and bitterly and got down on myself for a few days. Joey’s spell was difficult to break. It was hard work to be strong. Two steps forward, one step back.
Whenever Joe really made me angry, I’d whip out a credit card and go shopping. Looking back, I’m ashamed of that behavior, but I had no other way of expressing my anger and feelings of subjugation. Blowing his money was the only way to get to him because it was all he ever cared about. It was the only way I had of expressing,
You really hurt me.
He had set up the game this way, and I played it. Whenever this happened, I’d get a phone call, and he’d laugh and say something like, “Boy, I must have pissed you off last week! Just got the bill from Pier One today!”
“Yeah, I was not happy!” I’d laugh, too, and he’d pay the bill and say no more about it. It was a very unhealthy dynamic, but one that we were both comfortable with. He enjoyed the power and sense of control that paying the bills gave him. I liked being on my own to sort out my life without the immediate pressure of making a living. Of course, I rationalized the situation to myself all the time: This man has caused all my problems. I have a bullet in my head because of him! I had to move to California because of him! He has cheated and lied and driven me crazy. If I want $500 worth of clothes, I’m getting them! It was my little fuck-you, the weapons of the weak, the only way I could stick it to him.
When I was thinking clearly and regretted this unhealthy behavior on my part, I’d speak more reasonably to him about money. “You’ve got a lot of big expenses going, Joe. How long can you keep this up?”
“Hey, no worries, everything’s fine, no problem,” he’d always say. Never a worry or a care. In other words, how he got his money was not my concern, so I didn’t pry. Joe had always been a hard worker, an excellent provider, and as far as I knew, business at his auto body shop was booming. Joey had huge bills: a daughter in college, a girlfriend who demanded the best, a big house—I was the least of his expenses. As soon as I was out of the picture and living a safe distance away, he became increasingly reckless in his quest to make money: insurance scams, car repair fraud, renting out his house as a porn set, you name it.
I was blissfully unaware of the sordid details. Certainly Joe and Paul, who was exposed to far too many unsavory business deals and shady people, preferred to keep me in the dark. Joe wanted to remain in charge, do as he pleased, and not have to listen to me remonstrate. Paul just didn’t want his mother to worry. I had a small sense of security knowing that I had taken out a huge life insurance policy on Joe years before, just in case something went wrong—as it inevitably did. I took Joe’s advice and for once
didn’t
worry. None of it was my business anymore anyway. The next two and a half years of my life were focused on coming to terms with being a single woman and figuring out what to do with the second half of my life.
Obviously, I’d had plenty of physical therapy and people working on me during my recovery, which was a large part of why I was drawn to occupational therapy. To prepare for enrollment in the specialized OT program, I needed credits in algebra, English, and many other background courses. I had much preferred socializing to studying when I was young, so going back to school was a huge challenge for me. I had very little confidence in my academic abilities.
Joey and I weren’t even legally separated, so I had enrolled in school as Mary Jo Buttafuoco. I was surrounded by kids, many of whom were too young to remember who I was, though certainly I got some looks in the halls from faculty and other adults. During my very first semester, I enrolled in a public speaking class. The first week, our instructor said, “We’re all going to stand up, introduce ourselves, and tell each other a unique fact about ourselves; something nobody knows.” My face started to burn. I had been so hoping to remain an anonymous student named Mary Jo.
When it was my turn, I stood up, faced the room, and said, “My name is Mary Jo Buttafuoco, and something unique about me is that I’ve been shot point-blank in the head.” The whole room gasped. That was all; I sat back down. During that class, another middle-aged woman stated her name and said that she had survived a plane crash in New Jersey where two of the passengers had been killed. She sought me out after class, and we became friendly.
My English class was a joy. I loved to write and earned plenty of praise from my teacher. Algebra, on the other hand, was a real struggle. My brain just couldn’t seem to grasp the concepts. The teacher, a lovely woman about my age, encouraged me and offered extra help and assistance. She even made me her teacher’s aide. I certainly wasn’t assisting in algebra instruction, but made copies, collected papers, and helped her any way I could. She was my cheerleader and assured me I was definitely going to get it. I started to believe in my heart that I really could become whatever I wanted to be. Baby steps, baby steps, but I was starting to make some solid progress.