When we were first married, life was fairly decent. He was working in the steel mill, making good money and we’d just moved from a stuffy attic apartment in the Italian quarter, to a spacious sunlit place in a brand new high rise complex. We even had a little car. We’d bought new furniture, nothing fancy but we had a new bed and dresser in our own bedroom, a sofa and TV in the living room and a dining room set. Linus was 7 months old with her own room, a crib and toys. I felt on top of the world.
The abuse had not started. In the Italian quarter, we’d had good times, climbing out our windows, onto the porch roof at night, just to listen to the world. On hot summer nights it was often cooler there. We’d listen to Mr. Ruggi fight with his wife who always won. On really good nights, Mr. Sambini would put on his records and sing the Italian operas. He was so good. We’d listen, up on our little hideaway under the stars, with our cola and chips.
This new place was beautiful and I took great pride in making it look special. A few months after we’d moved in, things began to change. He found my birth control pills and freaked on me. He flushed them down the toilet yelling that I had no right to take these without his consent. It never occurred to me that he didn’t know. He was there when the doctor gave them to me and told him so. I didn’t much think about it anymore until, a month later, when the smell of meat made me very sick to my stomach. That’s how I knew I was pregnant the first time around.
A visit to the doctor confirms my fears. Linus is only 9 months old and I really had not planned on being pregnant again this soon. He was all happy telling me this is the way things should be. I feel happy, just afraid to tell my mother. I tell her in a letter. Then as now, we have no phone. Now, I know it’s because he doesn’t want me to call home and tell them what is really happening to me. Then, I have no idea what his reasons where, other than it was too expensive. Then as now, the rent is always paid. It’s the stuff that comes after that he needs to control.
On a warm Sunday afternoon, he leaves to go the store for milk and bread. It takes about 20 minutes from here to the store on the main road. An hour later, he has not returned. I start to get nervous. Two hours go by and I’m angry that we have no phone. Three hours later, the pain of anxiety in my stomach is terrible. I’m afraid for the baby I’m carrying, the baby I call Boo. I put Linus to bed for the night and I pace and pace.
Four hours later at 7 pm, there’s a loud knock on my door and I almost jump out of my skin. I’m trembling so hard I can hardly undo the door chain. They bang again and I yell “just a minute!” and fling the door open…
On my doorstep, there are two older men in suits. The older of the two pulls back his jacket and reveals a badge and that’s when I see the gun in a holster under his arm.
Nooo…Oh dear God…what has he done…
Next -> The Police Version
Tags: abuse, hot nights, Italian quarter, steel mill, stuffy attic