Six Barbra
six f
Barbra
W hen Tommy was two years old, I found a part-time job at Dryer’s Pharmacy, and an elderly neighbor offered to watch Tommy for free. I now had some money of my own but more importantly, the job got me out of the house and into the community.
Mr. Beasley, my favorite customer, stopped in one day to fill a prescription.
“How’re you feeling, Mr. B?” I asked.
“Good. Say, do you think your boss would let me hang a poster in your window?”
“I’m sure he would. What’s it for?”
“The Elks are having a talent show in a few weeks. Mostly lipsynching, some regular singing. I remember you were a darn good singer in high school. Why don’t you sign up?”
I’m sure I turned a bright shade of crimson. I hadn’t sung a note in years, at least not in public.
After Mr. Beasley left, I read the poster. The Elks were offering fifty dollars to the winner. I doubted my own voice would win any contest, but maybe if I lip-synched . . .
Barbra Streisand was all the rage. Her hit single “People” was on everybody’s lips. Maybe it could be on my lips, too.
I paid the five-dollar registration fee and learned I was allowed a second song. I chose “Down with Love” from Streisand’s second album.
I practiced until I had every movement perfectly choreographed. Telling Tom would be the scariest part for me. To my surprise, he loved the idea.
“We’ll invite my parents and all our friends,” he said.
You mean those losers from the bar? I kept my thoughts private, relieved I wouldn’t have to keep my performance hidden from my husband.
Stepping onto the stage at the Elks Hall felt like my Broadway debut. I held my silenced mike, closed my eyes, and mouthed every one of Barbra’s words. I received a generous round of applause after “People” and a standing ovation after “Down with Love.”
I won. Me, Ava Harrison, won first prize. I hadn’t been this happy since Tommy was born. Tom and his parents shared my joy. For a moment, I wished my parents and my brother were there. I pushed the thought aside.
“I’m starting a college fund for Tommy with my prize money,” I said.
Tom didn’t argue. I knew my joy was fleeting. Live for today and enjoy the celebration , I told myself. And that’s what I did.
For a while life improved. Tom spent more time away from me, coming home later and later, often collapsing on the couch as soon as he walked in the door. If he didn’t want dinner, the food went in the garbage. My salary from the drugstore compensated for the waste.
My friend Laura noticed a change in me.
“It’s nice to see your arms,” she said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Come on, Ava, I know Tom slaps you around. Long sleeves and makeup only cover so much. Nobody bumps into doors as often as you claim.”
Tears of shame poured from my eyes.
“Leave him while you’re still young,” Laura said.
“But what about Tommy? He needs a father.”
“You call Tom a father? He’s a drunk. He beats the crap outta you, and he’ll do the same to Tommy when he’s older.”
“He’d never hit my baby,” I said between sobs.
“You keep telling yourself that, honey,” Laura said.
I knew Laura was right. I needed to get away from Tom before another round of violence started, but how? My boss at the pharmacy couldn’t give me a raise or more hours. Other than winning the Irish Sweepstakes, I had no way to support Tommy and myself.
The only consolation came from Laura and our friend Rose. They gave me the freedom to open up about my marriage. Whenever I felt overwhelmed, they comforted me. We spent late afternoons curled up on my couch drinking coffee and sharing secrets and dreams.
One spring afternoon, Laura handed me a brochure from an organization called Project Concern. “Check this out. It’s run by Dr. James Turpin. The library has a book about his work, Vietnam Doctor: The Story of Project Concern .”
“Maybe he could help me,” I said, half-joking.
“Sorry, Ava. He’s working mostly with kids overseas.”
“Maybe Tommy and I could move.”
Laura didn’t appreciate my sarcasm.
“I thought the three of us could do some fundraising for Project Concern,” Laura said.
“Count me in,” Rose said.
“I don’t see how I could help. Between Tommy, the drugstore, and you-know-who—”
“Just read the brochure. All you need to do is get on the phone and ask for donations. It’ll get you out of the rut you’re in, and you’ll make a difference to a lot of people,” Laura said.
I’d never made a bit of difference in anybody’s life, except maybe my son’s. A ray of hope began to build inside me.
“I’ll do it!”
Reading Dr. Turpin’s book and the information about Project Concern lifted me out of my misery. I’d suffered abuse with Tom, but I always had access to food, clean water, and medical care. The poverty he wrote about broke my heart.
St. Steven’s Catholic Church was the local headquarters for donations. We met with the head of volunteer operations who told us Project Concern needed medical supplies. Together we drafted an outline of an introduction we would use to solicit donations from area medical offices. Laura and Rose had full-time jobs, so most of the phone work was my responsibility.
Once Tom was out the door and Tommy fed and dressed, I sat at the kitchen table and opened the phonebook. My hand trembled as I dialed the first number, which was for Dr. Aaron. I spoke to his receptionist, who was also his wife.
“Hello, my name is Ava Harrison. I’m calling on behalf of Dr. James Turpin and Project Concern.” I provided her with general information about the organization and the types of donations we were requesting.
“Of course, dear. We’d be happy to donate several first aid kits.” Was it the quiver in my voice that convinced Mrs. Aaron, or the true needs of the organization?
With each call, my confidence built. By the time I called Dr. Azariti, I didn’t need the script. Not every office was as amenable as Dr. Aaron’s, but most offered something.
My boss at the pharmacy was eager to help. He donated a case of Band-Aids and said he’d speak to other pharmacists in the area.
By the end of the week, I’d gotten to “H” in the yellow pages, and through St. Steven’s, arranged a truck to collect the donations on Saturday. Laura, Rose, and I stared in disbelief at the cases of medicine, first aid supplies, and vitamins that came off the truck.
After several months, St. Steven’s ran out of room, so we rented warehouse space to store the supplies. I had called every doctor within a ten-mile radius, then set my sights on dentists. Dr. Mitchum, an oral surgeon, nearly knocked me off my chair.
“Your timing couldn’t be better,” he said. “I’m closing my office and retiring. I have an X-ray machine that needs a home. If you can pick it up in the next week, it’s yours.”
Our local newspaper heard about the X-ray machine and wrote an article about Project Concern and our successful campaign. Tom skimmed through the paper in his usual drunken stupor until he saw my photo on page three.
“What the hell is this?”
“Collecting donations. Trying to help those less fortunate,” I said with pride.
“Huh, well, long as it don’t interfere with your housework and your job, guess I’ll let you do it. Next time ask my permission before you start somethin’.” He turned the page and buried his head in the paper.
Tom’s words hurt but did nothing to kill my joy. I truly believed I had found my calling.
We raised over $250,000 in donations, which were flown from McGuire Air Force Base to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. Dr. Turpin handwrote a letter thanking us for our efforts. I cried tears of love and pride as I read his words.
And then we were done.
The next morning, I sat with Tommy at the kitchen table with nothing to do.
Perhaps I could find another cause, another way to help.
In my heart I knew it wouldn’t happen. Once again, I was pregnant.
w
Another baby was the last thing I needed or wanted. With no morning sickness, I was able to keep my condition a secret from Tom for almost four months. I knew I’d be forced to quit my job. No self-respecting woman worked once she started to show. My boss at the pharmacy wouldn’t hold my job, and even if he could, he’d want someone reliable, not a woman with an infant and a toddler. I sank into a deep depression, knowing I’d be returning to my nightmare of abuse for years to come.
Tom, on the other hand, was thrilled when he learned I was pregnant.
“Hope it’s another boy,” he said.
My pregnancy did nothing to change Tom’s behavior. When I questioned him about working late, he claimed he and his boss were entertaining clients. Being part of the “good old boys” network was vital to getting ahead in sales. He pointed to his ever-increasing commission checks to prove his point.
He never let me know until he came home whether he wanted dinner or not. If what I had made was less than perfect, he’d slap me across the face. He was careful not to throw me across the room, careful not to damage the baby.
Ultrasound to determine the sex of a baby wasn’t an option until the 1970s, so we had to rely on intuition and old wives’ tales. Laura and Rose were convinced it was a boy.
“Maybe another son is what Tom needs,” Laura said. “Maybe then he’ll stop drinking.”
“It’ll take a lot more for him to stop. And what if it’s a girl?” I imagined myself barefoot and pregnant until I finally gave Tom another son.
w
Fortunately for everyone, I delivered a baby boy, Lee, on May 1, 1967. Tom’s parents were overjoyed. I made no attempt to contact my parents and received no word from them.
I prayed for freedom, my babies, and for something to change.
A year later, my prayers were answered. Tom’s company promoted him to a management position and sent him to work in Stamford, Connecticut. He hopped a train on Sunday evening and came home on Friday. For the first time in five years, my weekdays were my own.
Tom’s raise gave me more household income. I bought a few nice pieces of furniture, toys for the kids, and books for me. I even thought about enrolling in a class at our community college. With less than forty-eight hours a week with my husband, I began to feel like a human being.
My respite was short-lived.
“Big news!” Tom told me after three months. “I found us a house in Stamford.”
“But what about our home? We’ve done so much to fix it up.” That was an outright lie. I was the only one who’d done any work on the house.
“We’ll sell it and make a profit. You’ll love Stamford,” he said.
Stamford was the last place I wanted to live, but what choice did I have? I had two young kids, no job, no skills, and no money of my own.
Our house sold in a matter of weeks for a $3,000 profit, which was huge in 1968. Our attorney, Michael, was Laura’s cousin. Laura encouraged me to share my story with him.
“This is your chance to get away from Tom,” Michael said. “The law says real estate profits must be equally divided.”
So this is what hope feels like .
“God bless you, Michael.”
I managed to get Tom’s signature on the real estate documents, knowing he’d be in Stamford for the closing. In the meantime, Michael agreed to loan me the security deposit on an apartment. I’d pay him back once I received my $1,500 from the sale.
I moved without saying a word to Tom. I left him with a table and chair, a knife, fork, spoon, and dish.
Have a nice life , I whispered, closing the door for the final time.
What did Tom think when he walked into that empty house? I imagined him throwing the dish against the wall and tearing through the cabinets for his bottle of scotch, which I’d poured down the sink.
Tom then drove to his parents’ house. From his brother, Kevin, I later learned what had happened once Tom arrived.
“Where is she?” he screamed. “Where the hell are my kids?”
His parents sat at their kitchen table in their own drunken stupor.
“We don’t know nothin’,” his mother said.
“You’re a liar. I know she’s here.”
“Have a seat, boy,” his father said, “and calm yourself.”
“Calm? You want calm? My wife took my kids and left me with an empty house, and you want calm? I’ll show you calm!”
With one grand sweep of his arm, he cleared the table. Dishes, glasses, whiskey—it all went flying, crashing to the floor.
His mother tried making her way into the living room. Her feet crunched broken glass.
“Where you goin’?” Tom grabbed her arm and backhanded her across the face.
“Doris, call the cops.” His father stood to confront his son, knocking his chair onto the floor.
His mother ran into the living room and dialed the operator. “Police! Quick!”
Tom threw a glass ashtray at his mother, missing her by inches. His father restrained him while she spoke to a police officer.
Tom spent the night in jail. His parents refused to press charges.