The Bookie's Daughter (4 page)
Al was larger-than-life in many ways; his physique, intellect, personality, appetite, generosity, addictions, zest for life, and propensity for attracting trouble were all oversized. He lived large, succeeded large, and failed large. He was consistent in doing everything with a bang. He attracted the good, the bad, and the ugly, and yet always appreciated life’s blessings and messiness. No matter how grave the situation, he believed that good was just around the corner. I found his mantra—“better days are coming” —as inspirational as it was exasperating. My mother, on the other hand, wanted to throttle him every time he began the chant, as she believed tomorrow was just another opportunity for unhappiness.
My parents were a strange pair, Bonnie being Al’s opposite in fundamental ways. My mother was a tiny creature, 5 feet tall and 98 pounds, when she met my father. He towered over her beautiful but delicate frame. A fiery, freckle-faced redhead with soft brown eyes, her appearance directly contrasted with her husband’s massive size and the dark, smoldering looks he inherited from his Syrian ancestors.
In direct contrast to Al’s “the glass is half full” view of life, Bonnie was a life-long pessimist. She possessed a dark sense of humor, artistic nature, passionate love for animals, violent temper, and a mouth like a drunken sailor. My mother always expected trouble and usually found it. In my mind, she resembled a female Archie Bunker on steroids. She was a
beautiful, angry woman who never missed an opportunity to throw a punch or pull a gun.
As a child, I wondered at their strange and volatile pairing. Our house often shook with explosive arguments that usually ended with my father disappearing for a few days or running to the hospital for stitches. Although Al stood at 6 feet 4 inches and weighed more than 475 pounds for most of their marriage, Bonnie was never intimidated by or fearful of her husband. I never saw Al raise a hand to her and so was quite surprised, while conducting research on my father’s criminal record, to learn that he had been arrested in 1968 for threatening to kill my mother. The Westmoreland County arrest record of July 26, 1968 states:
The defendant did unlawfully threaten to take the life of one Bonnie Abraham and from the manner and conduct of the defendant, the said Bonnie Abraham is afraid he will carry his threats into execution.
This account caught me off guard, but given their volatile relationship, it was not a complete surprise. In my experience, this event was completely out of character for my father. However, one never truly knows another, so I must concede that it was a possibility. My mother dropped the charges a few months later and never, to my knowledge, repeated the accusations. Although I never witnessed Al physically handle my mother in a threatening manner, I was present on many occasions when Bonnie threatened to or tried to end my father’s life.
By all accounts, their marriage was stormy from the beginning. Bonnie was a beautiful young woman who attracted attention and my father was insanely jealous, watchful of any outside male competition for her affection. A runaway when she met my father, Bonnie was only sixteen when they married.
In an attempt to escape the pain of her childhood, my mother left her family at fifteen. She ran away to the neighboring county seat of Greensburg, Pennsylvania, where she secured a job as a waitress. Given the extreme abuse she endured in her formative years, Bonnie’s maturing process was hindered by the ghosts that haunted her, and by her constant guilt and worry for the siblings she left behind. Al understood the damaging effect of her horrific childhood and made allowances for her mean-spirited behavior. In many ways, they were two wounded souls who recognized their own pain in each other. Each was protective of the other when it came to outside threats, but unfortunately, their intimate understanding of the other’s vulnerability was often wielded as a weapon during their tumultuous thirty-two-year marriage.
Only a child when she declared her autonomy, my mother was a lonely, young woman who had little faith in adults. When not working at the restaurant or cleaning the boarding house in which she lived, Bonnie would explore the downtown district of Greensburg, visiting the local antique stores, theatres, and bookstores. It was during one of her weekly excursions in search of a new mystery book to occupy her lonely nights that Bonnie met my father, home on break from the University of Pittsburgh. Al, a lifelong movie buff, was in Greensburg to see a movie at the magnificent Palace Theatre. Arriving at the theatre early, he decided to pop into the bookstore next door and peruse their collection of comic books. Al gathered his selections and hurried to make his purchase, not wanting to miss the opening credits. In his rush, he crashed into my tiny mother and knocked her to the ground. My father never made the movie, but within a few months, he had a wife. Bonnie and Al were married on April 22, 1951 in a civil ceremony in West Virginia. Their volatile marriage began with a lie—one of many to come. Bonnie, just past her sixteenth birthday, somehow convinced her husband that she was a very young-looking twenty. Twenty-two years would pass before he discovered that he had indeed married a child bride.
Shortly after their marriage, Al found a job in a chemical plant in Cleveland. My mother was at first excited by the promise of a fresh start in a new city but quickly became distressed and anxious at being so far away from her younger brothers and sister in Pennsylvania. Torn between worry for her siblings and the desire for a “normal” life, she occupied her time settling into their new apartment and quickly found a part-time job at a local bookstore. Although her mind was too often occupied with thoughts of her family, she made an effort to create a home for her husband, who was excelling at his job at the nearby factory. Al’s passionate love for his work and his spirited personality allowed him to quickly attain popularity among his colleagues, who were attracted by both his skillfulness at work and his zest for life.
Although desperate to put the past behind her, Bonnie could not find peace. She constantly complained of her loneliness and worry. Al finally agreed to go back to Pennsylvania but made it clear that they would not live near her family in Johnstown. They would go back to his hometown, Jeannette, where he could open a business to provide for her and her family. Thankful for his sacrifice, Bonnie agreed. Al quit his job and they moved back to Jeannette, settling into an apartment on the upper part of Clay Avenue. Now only fifty miles from her family, Bonnie was able to keep an eye on the “kids” and still have the solitude she so desperately needed.
As they settled in, Al began to look for business opportunities that would provide for his wife, her four young siblings, and, by extension her mother, Greta. My father soon opened a store selling televisions, cameras, and household appliances. Drawing on the skills he had honed as a kid selling goods on street corners, his business took off almost immediately. Al’s Bargain Center attracted customers who would normally have to drive into Pittsburgh for the merchandise Al offered at a discount. By the time my sister was born nine years later in 1960, the store was the source for the latest Emerson television or Kodak camera, designer watches, fine jewelry, toys, guns, ammunition, trains, fishing poles, bicycles, and various household appliances.
Bonnie worked alongside her husband, when not running to Johnstown to check on her family. Al’s business success provided prosperity, allowing her to shower her brothers and sister with not only the necessities but also the luxuries of which she had so long been deprived. My parents lived the good life, working hard and partying harder. Bonnie was fond of drink, and the proceeds from hard work allowed her to drink away the memories that haunted her. Al’s addictions were of another ilk; food and gambling were his demons. He freely indulged, topping the scales at more than 600 pounds by the time I was born in 1963, all the while winning and losing tens of thousands of dollars at the turn of a card or throw of the dice.
Al’s penchant for gambling became an everyday adventure, continuously feeding his need for action and drama. By the time of my birth, he was among the prominent bookies in town. In my child’s mind, my father was like a superhero with two distinct personas: respectable successful Emerson sales representative by day and adventurous gambler by night.
To all outward appearances, Al and Bonnie had an exciting life. The money that poured in from both my father’s legal and illegal businesses provided Bonnie with an unlimited supply of cash to spend at will. Always perfectly coiffed, she was a notorious clotheshorse, and Al supported her penchant for the latest and most expensive styles. On a whim, she would dash off to New York to party or engage in extravagant shopping sprees, spending thousands on a few outfits with matching coats, shoes, handbags, and gloves. Both Al and Bonnie seemed to live for the day; their attitude was “to hell with tomorrow.” Saving for a rainy day was not something either considered. Times were good, and they enjoyed themselves without thought of the future.
One episode in particular sheds light on just how carefree my mother was, the stubbornness of both my parents, and the dysfunctional dynamics of their relationship. Shortly after my sister was born, Bonnie announced, to her husband’s annoyance, that she wanted a new Ford Gallaxie 500. Although Al had never before denied her anything, he was a little put off with this demand, as they were in the process of looking for a lot on which to build my mother’s dream home. An architect had already been consulted and the finished blueprints awaited the perfect property to build upon. Reminding her of their plans, my father refused her request.
Not one to be denied, Bonnie persisted. She constantly brought the subject up, sulking when she did not get her way. Worn out, Al gave her a choice; she could have the Gallaxie 500 or he would build her the house they had been planning. If she chose the car, he would never build the home. True to her defiant nature, my irresponsible mother chose the car.
A few days later, Al presented her with the coveted vehicle, but warned her not to allow others to drive it. Of course, Bonnie did the opposite, allowing friends and family to freely drive the vehicle. Al was furious with the newest twist in his wife’s game, and predicted the car would soon be trashed. His predictions were spot on, as a few months later the prized vehicle was totaled when one of my mother’s friends took it out for a night of drinking and cruising. She had no car and no house.
Our family never left Clay Avenue. We spent the rest of our “family life” in an apartment above the storefront next to the family business. I have often pondered the long reach of my mother’s self-centered and foolish decision, coupled with my father’s destructive stubbornness. How different things may have been if only my mother would have chosen a home far from the crazy antics of Clay Avenue, which grew increasingly dangerous over the next decades—especially for their youngest daughter.
The business and social heart of Jeannette, Clay Avenue was once the place to be and to be seen. On payday, thousands of workers, residents, and outsiders flocked to the downtown district in search of goods and entertainment, which were aplenty. Restaurants, clothing stores, banks, theaters, groceries, and bars were abundant, as were the dollars hard-working factory laborers spent in pursuit of a fleeting happiness to numb their exhausted bodies.
Our family business thrived. Open from nine am to nine pm, Al’s Bargain Center offered the hottest fad, home necessity, or electronics—all at bargain prices. It also stocked a wide variety of toys and penny candy for the younger visitors, as well as cigarettes and snuff for adults coming off an exhausting shift. My father’s connections in Pittsburgh ensured that he could acquire most anything his customers desired. Of course, he also provided an open “book” for customers to place bets on the daily number, buy a chance on a punchboard, or bet on the sporting game of the season.
Although there was much prosperity to be thankful for, Al’s gambling and Bonnie’s love of drink instigated many violent episodes in their marriage. Both had stubborn streaks, and neither would give an inch. My mother’s upbringing made her hard in many ways, and Al’s obsessive love and watchful gaze drove her to extremes on more than one occasion. By the time my sister and I came along, they had settled into a routine of highs and lows with little in between.
My parents had been married for nine years when Bonnie discovered she was pregnant with my sister. Vanessa was something of a miracle baby as my mother had been told repeatedly that she would never be able to conceive a child. She was a happy baby, and her parents showered her with love and attention. Shortly after her birth, her proud father purchased a fishing boat and christened it the “Vanessa Renee.” There were regular family outings, and for a while, the gambling and drinking took a back seat as they reveled in their new family.
At twenty-nine years old, thirteen years into the marriage, Bonnie discovered she was pregnant with her second child. I came along in October of 1963, born a few weeks premature after my mother was punched trying to break up a fight that began in the Paradise Bar and spilled onto Clay Avenue. She went into labor shortly afterwards, still holding the ice pack to her swollen cheek.
Al was in France when I was born. Having won a national Emerson electronics sales competition, he was awarded a two-week trip to France along with a plaque designating him salesman of the year. As my mother could not possibly travel in her advanced state of pregnancy, she sent her youngest sibling in her stead. When Al returned from his trip abroad, he was presented with his second and last child. He was happy to have a healthy baby but was disappointed that I was not the son he desperately wanted. As “Albert, Jr.” was not an option, my father decided that “Alberta” would have to do. My mother refused and they fought over my name for the next month. Thankfully, she won out, and I was christened Heather. The Abraham family was now complete.