What Were They Thinking?
29 Tranquility Interrupted
IT WAS A QUICKER ADJUSTMENT for Lily than for me. Her home in Tuscany was in the country. Of course, what I think of as a Tuscan countryside with vineyards and olive groves and the Mediterranean sun is not the same as pig manure, corn, and mosquitoes.
In 1970, twenty-five grand could buy a pretty decent house. We weren’t stupid about it, though. Flinging around that much cash could pull too much attention to us. We opened a bank account with ten thousand and set about looking for a place to live. We chose a new development east of town that had nice schools and had a selection of decent home designs that weren’t too opulent but had conveniences Lil never had in Italy. Then we set about starting a family.
It took us a while to get the first seed planted. It was almost a surprise when she found out she was pregnant. Our home was finished and we moved into it in the fall of ’70. It wasn’t until the next summer that we realized Lil was pregnant.
We never told our daughter how she got her name. The first television show Liliana saw when she arrived in the US was Bewitched. And she was. She wanted us to have our own little witch and insisted that we name the baby Samantha. It was a good idea. In both of our cultures, child naming followed two patterns—the names of saints and the names of family members. That also makes it easy to track people. I talked to Little Joe on a regular basis and once a month I took the South Shore Line into Chicago.
Ostensibly, it was to meet Little Joe and head up to our Reserve Training Camp for the weekend. The trips often extended a few days to take care of business for the Union. That business was usually just accompanying Little Joe to a meeting as security or acting as a courier for documents. And then disappearing again.
Joe didn’t just inherit the union from his father. We were still young. He threw his support behind one of the other bosses and showed why his father had depended on him so much. He was a calming influence when tempers started to rage. My role was mostly just to stand in the shadows and watch. That seemed to have a calming influence as well.
By the time Samantha was a year old, my reserve duty had ended. I was glad. I’d seen increasing corruption in the government and that always crept down through the military command structure. In some places in the United States, simply putting on our uniforms marked us as targets for dissidents protesting the Vietnam war. With Nixon ordering the bombing and occupation of Cambodia, it looked like it would never end.
My own opinion was that I served my country and went where they sent me. I didn’t massacre innocents at Mỹ Lai, and was disgusted that US soldiers could go so out of control. But the command structure in Vietnam was totally FUBAR. It didn’t surprise me that someone would issue that kind of order.
Perhaps I killed innocent people. Like most foreign wars, they all thought they were defending their country from invaders. But that was what the people of the United States sent me there to do.
We continued to use non-family names when our second daughter was born. Alexandra and Samantha were destined to keep us busy. Perhaps the combination of Italian and Spanish blood made them even more fiery in their dispositions. Mama Maria and Mama Sofia came to stay with us for a month after each of the babies was born. Of course, Liliana’s parents had returned to Italy, so Little Joe’s mother was in loco avia. We enjoyed their visit but were glad when we could send them back to Chicago and settle in with our daughters.
And my sister when she came to visit with her son—Sylvestro Cortelli.
We discovered there was a big business in providing personal and corporate security. Labor disputes were beginning to settle down but Joe seemed to have contacts all over the country. I traveled to event venues to assess security measures, designed security teams for traveling politicians, and even consulted on how to set up security for popular entertainers and sports figures.
Occasionally, I accompanied one of those persons myself if it seemed to be important. But overall, I managed to stay out of sight—the way we had been trained.
We had a peaceful country or suburban life. I had a beautiful and loving wife and two lovely and lively daughters to keep us on our toes. I played with my children and showed them I loved them. Of course, the hard work of raising daughters was Lily’s. She seldom missed a school event, accompanying the girls’ classes on field trips, baking cookies for classroom celebrations, becoming an officer in the PTA. She got her US citizenship before the girls started school and openly stated that she was proud to be married to a former US Soldier.
So it was a surprise to me to return from a business trip and find such an upset in our home.
“Your daughter is a puttana!” Lily screamed when I got home. She was beside herself. My daughter was thirteen and near the end of seventh grade. Oh! I’d instantly assumed Lil was referring to Sam. I looked around and eleven-year-old Lexi was trying to disappear into the kitchen woodwork with her eyes as big as saucers. Yes, Lily had to be referring to Sam. Suddenly, she was my daughter.
“Calmly, my love. You can’t possibly mean Samantha was selling sex on the street corners.”
“I caught her!” Lily had been working herself up all day and there was no calming that Italian blood. I was beginning to get upset myself.
“Liliana, if you are accusing our daughter of selling herself, you need to present proof to me before I get my gun. Now sit down and tell me what happened.” I seldom spoke so sternly to my wife. I’d agreed to be her partner, not her boss. But if your child is stepping in front of a bus, you don’t wait permission to rescue her. What I needed were facts before I went hunting. I led Lily to the living room and sat her in a chair so I could face her. “What happened?”
“That boy, Simon, that she talks about constantly. I walked out to the garage to get meat from the freezer and he was there, kissing her!”
“I’ll talk to her—and to him—but that doesn’t make her a puttana.”
“His hand was inside her shirt fondling her!”
Okay. I was ready to get my gun. I could make that boy disappear and no one would have an idea about what happened. But I wasn’t ready to condemn my daughter. She was a victim until proven otherwise.
“Where is Samantha?”
“In her room.” I turned to leave and Lily started to follow me.
“Stay!” I commanded. She fell back into her seat with a look of shock on her face.
I stopped in my study and removed my jacket and shoulder harness, locking my gun in the safe where it stayed when I was not working. Then I went to see my daughter. When I walked into her room, Samantha rushed to me and wrapped her arms around my waist, sobbing.
“I’m not! I’m not! I’m not!”
My heart broke.
I picked my daughter up and carried her back to the living room. I sat in my chair with her held in my arms. Tears were on my own cheeks as well.
“Tell me, Samantha, my good little witch. Tell me everything that happened and don’t leave anything out.” I was shocked at where she started.
“I’m an ugly hairy beast. Everyone makes fun of me.”
The world had changed since I grew up in the fifties and sixties. We were heavily influenced by the hippie scene, even in the military. Our icons were natural earth mother types. Janis Joplin, Joan Baez, Carole King, Joni Mitchell. You expected them all to have long hair and to eschew the niceties of shaving. Even Liliana had never shaved her legs until our wedding when it became popular to wear panty hose. I never paid a moment’s notice to the faint shadow on her upper lip. For my part, hair was a symbol of masculinity. I shaved twice a day and kept only my mustache on my face. But my chest hair often stuck out the top of my shirt collar because you simply have to stop shaving somewhere.
But the icons of the mid-eighties were Cindy Crawford and Christy Brinkley. Fashions were sleeveless with exposed armpits. Skirts were short with bare legs. And my little girls had both inherited the hair of their Italian and Spanish ancestors.
“They call me an ape. I can’t shave every day and girls in gym make fun of how much hair is between my legs.”
“I thought you had good friends in school.”
“I do. Brenda doesn’t make fun of me, but she’s so beautiful! Blondes have it so good. And now that we’re at the new school, I don’t see my friends that often.”
“And what does this have to do with that boy kissing you in the garage?” Lily demanded.
“He said I was pretty. I know it’s shallow, but no one ever said I was pretty before. And… and… I felt grateful and he wanted to kiss and then he touched me and I didn’t know what to do.”
“I will have a talk with him about how to treat young women,” I growled. Samantha cried some more.
“It’s my fault. I know not to do that. I didn’t know what to say or what to do.”
Lily sat pensively in her chair looking from Samantha to Alexandra and seeing the same early signs on our younger daughter. She sighed. Apparently, her strategy of telling the girls that sex was painful and only an obligation to their husbands hadn’t worked as well with our daughters as it had with her.
“My good little witch,” I whispered. “You lose control because it feels good. I will not lie to you about that. Your mother and I make love often, not because we are trying to have more children, but because we like it. But we are much older than you. We were much older than you when we started. Your body needs time to mature and your mind needs time to adjust to your changing body. A boy who flatters you in order to have his way with you is no suitable companion. You must not only be strong in your choices, but choose your companions carefully from those who truly respect you as well as desire you.”
“I will, Daddy. I promise. I never liked Simon all that much anyway.”
“And we will take care of the hair,” Lily said firmly. “I can’t turn you into hairless blondes, but there are methods. Perhaps I should consider some of them myself.”
My eyes popped open in surprise at my wife’s words. I wondered what she would try.
Both my daughters cried for the better part of an afternoon when Lily got their upper lips waxed. I thought that was a bit extreme but discovered later that they’d also had a bikini wax. Ah, the price of being beautiful.
I noted Lily was a little sniffly that day and saw she’d also had her lip waxed. Later that night she begged off sex until the next day when her figa would not be so tender. So, she’d suffered through everything her daughters did. I was impressed.
I wondered how often they would have to repeat the process but they discovered some kind of chemical hair dissolver by the end of the summer and my daughters looked lovely. I personally felt a little hair was a pleasant thing and was pleased when Lily at least left most of her bush intact. I didn’t ask about the girls.
It was another quiet year. I traveled a lot, so I wasn’t always home when the girls got in trouble. I knew that Lily had weekly talks with them about responsibility and purity. We did go to church most Sundays and listened to a dry priest drone on before the sacraments. I no longer took the sacrament because I got disgusted with the priest and no longer went to confession. Lily made sure the girls went to confession each week and said she was sure the priest was blushing when he came out of the confessional.
I was happy to see that Samantha had developed a deep friendship with the Methodist preacher’s daughter, Hannah. They spent a lot of time together over the summer. But Sam’s freshman year of high school and Lexi’s entry into seventh grade brought some changes I didn’t know what to do with.
“It’s so we won’t feel in danger when we go out with our friends, Daddy,” Sam explained to me. “I got in trouble a year-and-a-half ago because I didn’t know how to set limits on what Simon and I were doing. And I don’t think he’d have honored them if I had. I tried. Really. But this says we can go out with each other and not worry about someone just making a pass that we have to fight off or submit to. It’s a good thing.”
“It sounds like a good thing my little witch,” I said. “I’m going to have a talk with these boys’ parents, though. I won’t interfere with you going to group events with your friends under the terms of this agreement, but I want to know they are as serious about this as you seem to be.”
“I am, Daddy. Mommy told us spooky stories about how terrible a girl’s first time making love is. No one believes them. You and Mommy don’t even believe them. We know we aren’t ready for it, but I promise that when I make love to a man, you will know he is my life mate. This tells everyone that I’m not going to do that right now.”
‘Right now.’ I didn’t want to hear that from my little girl. I wanted to hear ‘ever.’ Even I knew that was impossible.
I talked to Hayden first. It seemed his son was a ringleader in this group and I was ready to sit him down and lay down the law. I found out some of the other fathers of girls were of a similar mind. But Hayden had other concerns that showed me he was thinking further ahead than I was. He wanted a list of names and phone numbers any of the signers on this agreement could call and be rescued immediately. It was obvious to me that neither Z Fisher nor Jim Swift were going to be much help. And Lionel had no father. It made me sad to find that his father was killed in a war that I survived. He was a Marine embassy guard. His mother was reasonable and I respected her.
I decided I needed to meet with the boys themselves.
Based on my meeting with Hayden and with Rev. Gordon, I decided a weekend at a dude ranch wasn’t a danger to my daughter, even though Brian Frost was going to be there. I chose that weekend to meet with Carl, Doug, and Lionel. I was pleased with what I found.
“Mr. Cortales, I plan to play professional basketball. I work hard at my sport and to stay eligible, I work hard at school,” Lionel said when I’d tried to lay down the law to the boys. “That means there are going to be a lot of girls like your daughter who try to take advantage of me. They might not mean to, but they can’t help but think that professional ball players make a lot of money and they could be secure for the rest of their lives. I could see you thought that when I mentioned it. I want to be straight with the women I date and let them know that there are limits to what I agree to when I date them. I don’t want girls laying traps for me. I won’t date anyone who hasn’t signed this agreement.”
I admit, I thought about the fact that he was ambitious and I liked that about him. I was a little taken aback when he implied that my daughter might take advantage of him. Before I could respond, though, Doug launched an attack as well.
“Most of us who have signed this agreement have known each other all through junior high. There’s a couple of girls that Brian calls girlfriends from Kokomo that we’re all looking forward to meeting soon. They’re at the ranch with Sam and Hannah and Brian this weekend. I wish I’d been able to pull things together so I could go, but it didn’t work out. A lot of us have been in school together since first or second grade. We started eating lunch together in fifth grade and are best friends.”
“I had three days absence in sixth grade,” Carl continued. “You know why? I caught a guy teasing Samantha and calling her a bad name. I won’t say what it was because I thought it was too disgusting to let pass. When I hit the kid, I knocked both his front teeth out. That’s why I missed school. I was suspended. But you know what? If I found any guy treating Samantha like that today—even one of these guys who are my friends—I’d do the exact same thing. I’m bigger now. I think I could do more damage.”
“The thing is, Mr. Cortales,” Lionel came back again, “we’re friends first. We’ll date because I don’t want to date anyone who isn’t my friend. There aren’t going to be many dates anyway because none of us can drive. But Brian has a saying that I’ve heard and I agree. I’ll do whatever is necessary to protect and defend the guys and girls who signed this agreement. And I know I won’t have to stand alone.”
I could have turned those guys into fine soldiers in another age. I was glad we weren’t drafting kids anymore.
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