The Bookie's Daughter by Heather Abraham Page B

shortly after the public became aware of the arrests of Jeannette’s Police Chief and Mayor. We received a package containing a dead canary, a note soaked in a blood-like substance, and a multitude of threatening phone calls, many of which included descriptions of what would happen to my sister and me if my father continued to work with the Feds. 8 The source of these threats was never identified. It is not my intention to put the blame on those who were indicted in this silly affair. There were many, some who were not even involved in this particular matter, who abhorred my father’s willingness to turn state’s evidence. After all, “ratting” was anathema to those who made their living on the wrong side of the law. Al’s long association with criminal elements and his free participation in illicit dealings made many of his criminal associates apprehensive.
     
    In response to these anonymous threats, my sister and I were afforded the protection of undercover state police officers who accompanied us whenever we left our home. Having been raised in an environment that was often explosive and always an adventure, Vanessa and I rolled with the punches. We found our new “friends,” Travis and Dennis, to be delightful companions. Of course, we did have some explaining to do the first time they escorted us to school. Thankfully, after a few days, their presence became part of the routine, and Travis and Dennis ceased to be objects of curiosity for our classmates.
     
    The anonymous threats and the mean-spirited actions of those irked by my father’s temporary marriage with the Feds remains most clearly in my memory. When the slain canary arrived at our apartment in a small box, its message was not just clear to my parents but unsettling for my sister, who opened the box with a squeal. I clearly recall the look of horror on Vanessa’s face, as she stood frozen in fear and confusion. I caught only a quick glimpse of the poor creature before my mother snatched the offending package and hurried off to berate my father for bringing such trouble into the family home. Thereafter, mail was treated as suspect; all packages were inspected by our professional “companions.”
     
    The phone also became something of a menace. The once-merry ring suddenly became sinister. Anonymous male voices would taunt Bonnie about the welfare of her daughters. A “bloodied” note appeared mysteriously fixed to our doorframe in the middle of the day. Having spent the morning in the backyard playing under the watchful gaze of my grandmother, we returned to the apartment at my mother’s call for lunch to find the ominous note which consisted of one, telling word: “DIE.” To press the malicious intent of the note, the anonymous perpetrators dripped a red fluid over the message. The large butcher knife that fixed the note to doorframe of our apartment left no doubt as to the rage some felt at my father’s decision to “sing.”
     
Spitting Studda Bubba
     
    My most vivid memory of this time involves a chance encounter with a raging studda bubba. “Studda bubba” is a Pittsburghese 9 term used to describe elderly women, usually Italian or Polish, who dressed in widow’s weeds. The typical studda bubba “look” included a long dark-colored skirt or dress with a matching coat or smock, accessorized by clunky masculine shoes and a babushka covering their grey hair. Because of their traditional attire, normally quiet presence, and difficulty with the English language, studda bubbas were strangely anonymous and somewhat mysterious figures. A common presence on Clay Avenue, they quietly conducted their business and usually avoided attention.
     
    My mother raised me to be respectful of studda bubbas, whom she saw as strong, hard-working women. These wise women were keepers of their native culture—the heart and soul of many families. So, I was not, at first, wary when the studda bubba approached me as I played hopscotch, just a few feet from