This Family of Mine: What It Was Like Growing Up Gotti (13 page)

Dad told me that although college wasn’t a necessity for a young woman (he held the old-fashioned belief that marrying someone
acceptable—a man of wealth and power—was still a viable path to a better life), attaining education, to the highest degree possible, was a worthy goal for anyone, and would only serve to make a woman more attractive and self-sufficient. Dad was something of a walking, talking paradox in this regard: generally speaking, he believed women had no place in the work world. That was for men only. But when it came to his daughters, well, the rules were different.

“Nothing is beyond your reach,” he used to tell me. And I believed him.

Thanks in part to my father, I developed quite the affinity for reading. I could easily devour two or three books a week, most from the local library. At the time, I was too young to acquire my own library card, but when the librarian realized I was the girl who had accompanied the handsome, dark-haired John Gotti, she was more than happy to bend the rules. I could borrow any book I wanted, without ever having to worry about late fees.

I
don’t remember Dad leaving, and years later I came to believe that he left in the middle of the night because he didn’t want to face us. I was only seven years old when I learned that my father went to jail. Until this point, and even after, my parents tried as hard as they could to keep my siblings and me sheltered from the harsh realities of my father’s line of work.

It wasn’t the first time Dad went away. My father had spent only a short time in jail after being arrested for several petty crimes as a young man. The judge took into consideration Dad’s youth and his comparatively unthreatening rap sheet, which consisted of mostly low-level, nonviolent crimes like public intoxication and petty larceny. He was also married and had young children to support.

There was, however, a misunderstanding over whether he had
evaded military service, which might have factored into the judge’s decision. The fact was, my father simply hadn’t registered for the draft, figuring that he was exempt on several counts. For one thing, he was a new father; for another, the cement mixer mishap many years earlier had cost him two toes and several broken bones in his legs, which would have precluded the passing of a physical examination. So when he was questioned about why he “dodged the draft,” the answers he gave were deemed satisfactory and the allegations soon disappeared.

Over the next few years, though, my father began to amass a far more impressive résumé. Accounts of this period of my parents’ lives often point to my mother’s father as being the savior of the family. Nothing could be further from the truth. Even in these difficult times, Mom’s relationship with her parents remained frayed and tense. Although my grandfather lived a very comfortable life, I can honestly say that I have no recollection of him ever helping our family—or even offering to help. In fact, it was always the other way around.

And yet, according to FBI reports, my grandfather supposedly bought us a house and took care of the bills while my father was away. Not true. Dad would never accept a dime from anyone, in particular his father-in-law.

A
S A LITTLE
girl, my father was my hero. He could do no wrong in my eyes. Maybe that’s why, with Dad sentenced to three years in prison, Mom opted to tell us that Dad was going away on business, to “a new job, building the biggest building ever.” Just like Dad, she didn’t think it wise if we were there to see him off, so instead we all said our good-byes after dinner the night before. Mom made a special meal of lasagna and roast beef.

I remember that time like it was yesterday. I hugged my father
for dear life because I was scared I’d never see him again. When he told us he was going away for work, it did little to calm my fears. Even when he said that his “boss left him no choice,” I was still upset with him. I wanted him home so he could take me to the park, the aquarium, and the movies—but mostly, I wanted him home so I could prance him up and down the block in front of the other kids.

I went to bed angry that night—and woke up even angrier the next morning. Mom could say little to calm me. I wouldn’t speak for days. My frustration grew when we couldn’t visit Dad for the first few months he was away because of inmate orientation, which of course I didn’t know at the time. So I wrote him every day and usually received a return card two or three times a week. In the most beautiful penmanship, he always wrote the same message: “Be sure and help Mama. This is a very hard time for her. I love you. Love, Dad.”

He was right. It was indeed a
very
hard time for Mom.

T
HE WEATHER CHANGED
from warm to cold, and winter was rearing its ugly head the day I learned how to use food stamps. My mother did her usual grocery shopping every Saturday. She’d lug my siblings and me down to the A&P on Knickerbocker Avenue. The routine was always the same—Mom pushed one wagon, with Frank strapped in the front seat, while my sister and I took turns pushing the second wagon, with my brother John strapped in the front. We always began at the dairy aisle and worked our way up and down the other aisles, gathering only the essentials. Before Dad left, going food shopping with Mom was an errand we all enjoyed. She let us race up and down the aisles filling the wagons with the usual foods and supplies. Milk, eggs, bread, cereal, and if we behaved, she let us each choose a small box of cookies. But now that Dad was gone, Mom let us know we couldn’t afford as much. It was one of
the earlier signs that we were no longer lower class. Overnight, it seemed, we were back to being dirt poor and things were only getting worse.

One time Mom stood on line at the cashier and when it was her turn, she put the groceries on the conveyor belt. When all our items were rung up, Mom realized she didn’t have enough cash on her. She was mortified and didn’t know what to do. Mom eyed the woman behind the register and asked if she could write a check. The woman answered in a nasty tone, “We don’t accept checks.” Reluctantly, Mom reached inside her wallet and pulled out a book of food stamps. Although she had had them for almost a week, she had been too embarrassed and too proud to use them. She handed the cashier the book and looked around to see if anyone she knew was watching. Then the woman behind the register did the unthinkable. She reached for the microphone and yelled, “Food stamp customer at register three!” I thought Mom was going to faint. Her eyes filled with tears as she packed each brown bag with the groceries.

I
WAS IN
the third grade and had one of the meanest teachers, Mrs. Murphy. She was a sixty-year-old, heavyset woman with a helmet of bleached-blond hair and the most frightening black eyes I’d ever seen. Being painfully shy was one of my shortcomings. I was always a very nervous kid, at least that’s what my mother always said. And in those days I looked like a geek—I wore colorful plastic rhinestone-trimmed glasses, had skinny knock-knees, and was a straight “A” student. Put all that together and you had the makings of a colossal nerd!

One rainy October morning, I came to school with my latest assignment, an essay on who my hero was. We were expected to read
our reports in front of the class that day. As you can imagine, I was beyond terrified.

I remember telling Mrs. Murphy a white lie—something about having an upset stomach. But she wasn’t sympathetic. I made it through the first page of my report, stuttering and stopping most of the way. Of course my hero was my dad and I wrote about the wonderful man he was and the wonderful job he had “building skyscrapers and office buildings in faraway places.” All of the kids were fascinated—all except Ethyl Eden.

Ethyl had apparently been listening to her parents at dinnertime discussing the neighborhood gossip, and one juicy bit of news was that my father had gone to jail recently. So Ethyl—a spoiled and privileged girl from Ninety-fourth Street—yelled out that my report was a lie. She went on to tell the class that my father was
not
away building houses, he was actually “in jail.”

I was devastated and heartbroken. A million questions raced through my head.
Was my father really in jail?
I stood still—absolutely frozen. I couldn’t move or speak. I remember the kids’ expressions going from shock to laughter, then the sound of their loud cackles drowned out any questions in my mind. They were staring at the floor around my shoes, at the puddle of yellow liquid I was standing in. I remember crying and shaking. But what I remember most was that the teacher, Mrs. Murphy, did nothing. She didn’t even move to quiet the other students. All she did was stare in disbelief at the yellow puddle around me. A minute or two later she began yelling. She told me I was “a crybaby and belonged back in kindergarten.” I looked at her with pleading eyes and asked if I could go to the bathroom. She said no—and forced me to clean the floor. Believe it or not, the old witch made me get the mop and clean up the mess, while the other students whispered, pointed, and laughed.

During lunch I found a place behind the handball court where I could sit alone. I hid from the other kids and cried.

After the three o’clock bell rang, I walked to the corner and crossed the street. I walked up the steps of the tiny attached house we lived in and headed straight for the bathroom to take a bath. My mother realized something was wrong right away. It was hard enough getting us to take a bath after dinner at night and yet I was taking one, in the middle of the afternoon?

I told her what had happened—every last detail. We both cried when she explained why she had lied about my father: “to protect you, Victoria.” She went on to add, “I knew the truth would destroy you. Besides, sometimes the truth isn’t always the best way—sometimes the truth can hurt, like now.”

Of course she was right. I was too young to understand—just as Ethyl Eden was too young to be hearing that gossip from her parents.

O
VER THE NEXT
few months, things got even harder for Mom. She was left with four kids under the age of eight and a mountain of unpaid bills. Yet somehow she managed. Weekly visits from my uncles, Gene and Pete, brought some monetary relief. Other income came from Mom’s work as a freelance seamstress. Back in those days, it often seemed to me that my mother was the most resilient and talented woman on the planet; there was nothing she couldn’t do. And it is even more impressive to me now that I realize she was completely self-taught. I even remember her building and refinishing our worn old living-room cocktail table. Better to save it than to throw it in the trash, Mom reasoned. Especially since cash was in such short supply.

As for me, I never did get over the incident with Ethyl or Mrs. Murphy. For the next few years, the kids at school called me
names—they even played practical jokes on me, like hiding a box of Pampers in my cubby at school. Or bringing in a pacifier and leaving it on my desk in the morning. Mostly, though, I worried about my father. I was upset and embarrassed that he was in jail. I tried hard to convince myself that it was all a mistake. I was in denial—and became withdrawn and anxious. I even started wetting the bed, at seven years old.

I
may have been young when my father went to Lewisburg, but I can vividly recall our monthly visits. The imposing structure of the prison, the guard towers, the sanitary conditions—these are things you don’t ever forget. Nor do you forget what it’s like to see your father trapped behind bars, like an animal.

There was a rhythm to the visits. After the prison’s careful screening and scrutiny of us, my mother would lead us through a series of steel doors until we reached the visiting room. It was always packed and bustling with activity. Despite the noise and the interaction of family, it seemed to be a terribly sad place. There was always a lot of crying, with inmates holding their wives and children, rocking back and forth. Even though I was just a child I could still pick out the knock-around guys from the ordinary thugs. The
guys who were “connected” were well-groomed, with slicked-back hair, white deck sneakers, and had trademark tattoos: a cross with a knife through it, surrounded by rosary beads; or even a bleeding heart with a woman’s name scrawled across the bottom. Dad was not particularly fond of body ink. He had only one tattoo on the back of his shoulder, of a near-naked woman kneeling. It was, he explained, a reminder of an earlier stint in prison, during which he’d utilized the services of one of the many jailhouse tattoo artists. “I was young and stupid,” Dad said. “And I never let anyone mark up my body again.”

F
OR A CHILD
, these prison visits were grueling. I remember watching my mother and feeling so sorry for her. The corrections officers treated the wives of inmates with palpable disrespect, really no better than ranchers treated cattle. It was also obvious which guards were on the take and which were not. Typically, an inmate’s wife smuggled in nothing more serious than various delicacies designed to compensate for the poor quality of prison food. Pepperoni links, fresh Italian bread, small provolone cheese wheels, and freshly made mozzarella were some of the luxuries brought in by the prisoners’ wives. The women would conceal these goodies inside their bras or under loose-fitting clothing that would not set off the metal detectors. In mob movies like
Goodfellas,
similar prison scenes are depicted with much comedy, respect, and care. But in real life, there’s nothing funny or easy about prison. There’s nothing respectable about wives smuggling in delicacies to their inmate husbands. In real life, it’s downright degrading.

My father never allowed my mother to take part in this ritual, in part because he felt it would cheapen her, but also because the risk was substantial. If she were caught smuggling contraband, the embarrassment she’d suffer as a result would have killed him. Besides,
she didn’t have to. The other guys whose wives did bring these things in were all too willing to offer much of it up to my father first, as a means of showing respect.