Chapter 1
The Calm Before the Storm
1966 was a different time. In the Chicago suburbs, people left their front doors open at night. Summertime brought everyone outdoors to celebrate the warm temperatures after a long, snowy winter. Children of all ages played outside and safely roamed the streets on brightly colored bicycles. Neighbors waved to one another and exchanged heartfelt pleasantries. Laundry hung to dry, caressed by a summer breeze sweetened with the captivating scent of sunshine, new-mown grass, and blooming flowers. Under an endless blue sky, kids in bathing suits frolicked through sprinklers that automatically fanned back and forth on lush green lawns.
We drank milk, Tab, Coke, and Tang. Water was considered a beverage with which to take an aspirin, make Jell-O, or stir into powdered Kool-Aid. If you wanted a cup of coffee, you made it in your own kitchen—for pennies—from a large can of ground Folgers. If you happened to see someone jogging, they were trying to catch a bus. Grownups exclaimed over the latest technological advancement—the color TV—and all of our friends hoped they would be the first to own one.
That summer, our apple tree produced fruit so tart that it was inedible but I nibbled anyway because it was our tree. Sporting brand new Keds, my brother and I dug up huge, squirming earthworms, captured monarch butterflies, climbed trees, played kick the can, read comic books, consumed endless boxes of root beer popsicles, and watched the fireflies work their on-and-off incandescent magic every night at dusk. In our suburb northwest of the city, the captivating smell of sizzling hamburgers and hotdogs regularly perfumed the neighborhood from backyard barbeque grills, even on weeknights.
Lyndon Johnson was president. Gas was 32 cents a gallon. Everybody smoked, including our doctor, who kept a metal ashtray on his desk. Radios were tuned to the Beach Boys, the Monkees, or the Cubs if they were playing a home game. While my brother teased me, I danced along to American Bandstand on TV, and developed a secret crush on Davey Jones. I nagged my mother to buy me the latest fashion direct from London. At ten years old, I argued, I was certainly grown up enough to wear the miniskirt!
Unbeknown to me, that innocent time was going to come to a fateful conclusion by two life-changing events that I would witness in the course of a single midsummer night. First, I saw my father try to strangle my mother. When I succumbed to an exhausted, terrified stupor that night, I found myself—in my sleep—at the scene of what Chicago Tribune reporters had dubbed The Crime of the Century. I watched in horror as a lone assailant brutally raped and then slaughtered seven young women. My psychic destiny had ignited, flared and caught fire. It was only the beginning of my journey.
Chapter 2
The Night My Father Tried to Strangle My Mother
Even as a kid, I knew that my childhood wasn’t normal. Every Saturday night I worried about the abuse my mother would suffer—verbally and physically—at the hands of my alcoholic father. I never knew from one week to the next if we’d be spending Sunday morning watching cartoons and eating pancakes or waiting in the emergency room of the local hospital.
My father, the only child of Swedish immigrants who were themselves big drinkers, would have his first beer early Saturday afternoon. I would watch helplessly, like a practiced—but unarmed—soldier witnessing an all-powerful enemy mobilizing for the inevitable assault that was sure to come later the same day. Unlike my gentle Scandinavian grandparents, alcohol triggered a metamorphosis in my dad that would abruptly transform him from a sensitive, insecure, intelligent human being into a raging, abusive beast.
Despite the fact that my father drank beer all afternoon, he’d still be jovial at dinner. He would eagerly fire up his large Weber grill in the garage, and the flames would shoot alarmingly close to the raftered ceiling where our bikes hung along with the summer lawn chairs. Even in the frigid Midwestern winter, my father would patiently wait outside until the flames died down and the charcoal briquettes were properly red and glowing. While my mother made salad, sautéed mushrooms, and baked potatoes in the kitchen, he’d be in the garage grilling his thick-cut, specially marinated sirloin steaks. As they sizzled and crackled, the rapturous smell would perfume the neighborhood. Each tantalizing slab of Angus beef was painstakingly cooked to order for each member of the family. Unlike anyone else, I liked mine bloody rare. Somehow, he was always able to consistently present that to me. With anticipation, he would hover next to my chair as I inspected the heavily-charred piece of meat so tender that I could cut it with my fork. Inside, pale pink edges framed a red, raw center, and I’d squeal with excitement and tell him that it was perfection! My happy acknowledgment gave him a great deal of pleasure. My dad would comically roll his eyes, asking whether the semi-raw piece of meat needed more grill time, and I’d shake my head, already happily munching.
With the illogical denial of people in the eye of a hurricane whose full strength had not yet hit shore, we’d share a boisterous family dinner where we all laughed and talked over one another.
When we had polished off the last of my father’s culinary masterpiece, my mother and I would clear the dinner dishes and prepare a hot apple pie or frozen chocolate whipped cream cake for dessert. Then we’d all retire—uncomfortably full—to the family room to watch TV. Besides my Dad’s steaks, watching Jackie Gleason on our brand new color TV was also a Saturday night tradition. My parents loved watching the Honeymooners. My two younger brothers and I would sit with them, never quite grasping why grownups thought the fights between Ralph and Alice were so funny.
Following a Saturday afternoon of inhaling six packs, my dad would start on the heavy stuff right after dinner, announcing to no one in particular, “I’ve only had one beer!” He especially liked brandy and Greek Ouzo. He called it Firewater. When my father started getting really drunk, he began to imitate Ralph Kramden during the commercials. At the pivotal moment, he’d look at my mother and say, “Bang! Boom! One of these days, Alice! To the moon!” We knew then that the eye of the storm was going to surrender to the full force of the hurricane. My father’s demons were about to be unleashed . . . full force!
In the flash of a second, my dad would snap and suddenly become unhinged. My two younger brothers and I had learned that when he exploded, we needed to become invisible. With the abruptness of a volcanic eruption, his mindless rage would spew and he’d lash out at my mother. She’d respond with tearful disbelief—as if it was the very first time—and try to escape by running upstairs to get away from him. He would charge after her, yelling, “Don’t you dare run away from me!” They would cloister themselves in the master suite where the verbal tirade would escalate into a physical assault. With adrenalin pumping, we kids would retreat into our individual bedrooms where we’d hear him abusing her for hours.
“You’re NOTHIN’!” he’d scream at the top of his lungs.
“No! Stop!” my mother would plead. There’d be the familiar sounds of muffled slaps. Because she was so terrified of him, I knew that she didn’t dare fight back. That would have made him angrier.
“I’ll see you and those kids in the GUTTER!” he’d threaten.
With my knees drawn up close, my whole body shaking, stomach heaving, I’d cower in my white provincial canopy bed, angry that the neighbors didn’t come to our rescue. I was always certain that his demented, drunken raving could be heard echoing throughout our middle-class subdivision.
