Jeanne Carmen: My Wild, Wild Life

As a
New York Pin up Queen

© 2006 Brandon James.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-0-5954-0906-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-0-5956-7848-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-0-5958-5269-7 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 04/29/2016

Contents

AUTHORS NOTE

PAYBACK

HOW IT ALL BEGAN

NEW YORK CITY

THREE FOR THE ROAD

JOHNNY ROSELLI & THE LAS VEGAS MOB

ERROL FLYNN SUPER STUD!

CLARK GABLE A REAL MAN

GOODY, GOODY I MET HOWARD HUGHES

BOB HOPE THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES

LENNY BRUCE

MICHAEL RENNIE WATCH THAT KNIFE!

JEANNE & ELVIS RUNNING WILD!

MY TEXAS LONGHORN AN AFFAIR WITH A MARRIED MILLIONAIRE

MEETING MARILYN

MARILYN, JOE DIMAGGIO & ME

MARILYN, JACK BENNY & ME

MARILYN, PETER LAWFORD & ME

JEANNE & MARILYN TWO MINX OUT ON THE LINKS

MARILYN, STEVE COCHRAN & ME

MARILYN, JACK KENNEDY & ME

MARILYN, BOBBY KENNEDY & ME

MARILYN DESCENDING

MARILYN AFTER THE FALL

RAWHIDE

WHACKED! SAM GIANCANA IS DEAD

THE DOME OF THE SEA JOHNNY ROSELLI RETURNS

GODDESS THE SECRET LIVES OF MARILYN MONROE

AUTHORS NOTE

This book is the extraordinary true life story of the stunningly beautiful American Icon Jeanne Carmen—my mother. Brandon James April 2016

PAYBACK

As the plump sausages were beginning to brown, there was a knock on the door. Chicago Mob Boss Sam Giancana showed no fear as he turned back the double locks on the heavy steel door of the fortress like home that protected him from the outside world. Sam looked his old friend Johnny Roselli in the eye and invited him in. The men kissed on the cheek, exchanged pleasantries and shared a laugh. Then Mooney, as Johnny affectionately called Sam, heard the sausages sizzling in their pan and ran back to the stove to keep them from burning. While he was rolling them over, Johnny quietly crept up behind him and placed the muzzle of a .22 caliber handgun equipped with a silencer at the base of his skull and said Sam, this is for Marilyn. Sam hesitated a moment as he tended to the plump sausages that were sizzling away. A split second passed. In that moment, an image of Marilyn Monroe, the quintessential Hollywood Goddess, platinum blond bombshell, orphaned child, cheesecake pin up girl, fantasy lover to thousands of men, supposed tragic suicide victim and lover of President John F. Kennedy and his brother Bobby, filled Sam’s head. Then Johnny pulled the trigger.

A distinct muffled bang echoed through the room as a bullet ripped through Sam’s skull and into his brain cracking it open like an egg being thrown against a wall. Bits of bone, tissue and blood sprayed from the floor to the ceiling. Sam’s body jerked violently as he lurched forward and then backward falling to the floor face up. Sam was already near death by the time his body hit the floor with a thud. Sam looked up at Johnny stunned and confused. He was gasping for air and making gurgling sounds as his lips turned blue and his mouth filled with his own blood. Sam looked scared like a mackerel that had just been yanked suddenly from the chilly ocean depths and thrown onto a hot sundeck. At that moment Johnny could have walked away. The deed was done. It was over. But Johnny wasn’t finished with Sam just yet. Instead, Johnny slowly shoved the cold steel barrel of the gun into Sam’s mouth and whispered you fucker…you fucker…you mother fucker and fired again. There was another distinct muffled bang as the bullet tore a new path through Sam’s skull and hit the floor beneath him. Blood began to seep out of the gaping holes in Sam’s head and gather in a pool on the floor. Sam’s dead eyes bulged. Frozen with the knowing look of horror, terror, and betrayal he must have felt when he felt the gun against his skin; when he heard the words, Sam, this is for Marilyn. That split second as an image of Marilyn Monroe entered his mind followed by the familiar click of the trigger that would send a fiery hot bullet into his brain causing a sudden and quick death. It was a moment short lived but one filled with enormous meaning as Sam’s body collapsed to the floor and darkness overcame him with only his eyes giving a hint of what his final thoughts were.

And still Johnny wasn’t through. His vengeance was still burning. He took his pistol, shoved it under Sam’s chin and fired off five more shots one after another in a semi circle. Each shot was accompanied by distinct muffled bangs that pierced the room as blood and brain matter sprayed against the wall behind them. The bullets had ripped through Sam’s face and into the gruesome remains of what was left of his brain. There was no mistaking it. Sam Giancana, the feared boss of bosses was now dead. Johnny, now satisfied with his job, calmly tucked his gun back into his pants, walked out of the house and slowly disappeared into the still of the hot summer night.

HOW IT ALL BEGAN

It all began in a broken down shack on a small farm in the hills of Arkansas in a tiny little speck of a town called Paragould. A violent storm had whipped up suddenly and seemed to blow in from nowhere. The officials issued a tornado watch for the region and most people retreated down to their storm cellars. It was a very turbulent night and a traumatic experience for everyone involved. Nature seemed to be issuing a premonition about my life and the swirling events that would shape it.

Outside, the sky was black. The terrifying crackle of thunder was creeping ominously closer and closer. In most parts of the world, this would not be cause for great alarm, but Arkansas makes up one of the states that is known as Tornado Alley. It is a region in America that includes most of the central plains states. Tornadoes are quite common in this region and their deadly sight can send a ripple of terror down the spine of the bravest of men. Each year they kill dozens of people and cause millions of dollars in property damage. The horrific power of destruction that nature unleashes is awe-inspiring. As the swirling black vortex of death touches down, it looks like the evil finger of the Devil himself stretching across the land swallowing anything or anyone that dares to cross its path. Tornadoes have been known to uproot trees, shatter homes, lift automobiles and suck people into their dark bellies and then spit them out miles away.

A gust of wind hit suddenly blowing open the shutters to the window in our sitting room. My mother’s father ran over and closed them tightly, then secured the lock. When he turned around there was a look of grave concern and worry on his face. He switched on the old radio by the wood stove and it began to fade in and out with reports of the storm. Everyone listened intently as the announcer reported areas where twisters were being spotted. The officials issued another advisory warning urging people to immediately retreat to their storm cellars and wait for the night to pass. The cellars were dark, dank holes that resembled dungeons. They were very uncomfortable because they were usually quite small and the whole family had to squeeze in along with anyone else caught above ground. Then everyone would wait for hours or days before it was safe to come out.

Obviously, that is not the place to give birth, so my mother’s doctor was very concerned. He called the parents of his young patient into the bedroom and they discussed the best plan of action. He said, Giving birth in the cellar will probably mean death for the child. But there is also a great risk above ground. If a twister were to hit suddenly, we could all die.

After weighing the options, my mothers parents along with the doctor decided to take a chance and deliver the baby in the house. Around midnight, after what seemed like an eternity of screaming, squeezing, thundering and lightning, mom’s doctor yelled out, It’s coming! Thank the Lord, it’s coming!

Two seconds later guess who popped out? A big, fat, blue eyed blond baby boy. He looked like an angel sent from heaven and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Guess who was left back in that dark forbidding hole to wait and wonder? The mystery was short. Twelve minutes after that angel faced baby boy was born, Mom let out another scream. The doctor was already sitting down rewarding himself with a shot of Old Granddad Whiskey. He looked up at her pelvis with wide eyed astonishment and screamed out, Oh God, here comes another one!

Outside, another clap of thunder ripped through the sky and a bolt of lightning severed the branch of a nearby tree. Inside, I entered the world feet first, black and blue and not even trying to breath. I was extremely close to death and within moments I would have been knocking on heavens door if something wasn’t done fast. The doctor wasn’t very swift in this type of situation so he clumsily picked me up, slapped my ass a few times and then shouted for a bucket of cold water. When it came, he immediately proceeded to dump me in. The second I hit the water, I let out a scream that could have been heard in the next county. Believe me, when you get your ass dumped in a bucket of ice water at age zero, you’re not only going to breath, you are going to come out fighting. And that is exactly what I’ve had to do from that day forward.

My mom was completely worn out after the long ordeal of giving birth to two babies without anesthesia. She was worried sick about my health because she knew I wasn’t breathing when I was born. The doctor was such a kindly old man. He immediately reassured my mother and her family by saying, Any baby who can withstand the shock to the system that I had just been through will make it through life just fine.

He pulled his flask of bootleg liquor out of his coat pocket and took another swig.

Then he looked at the two babies, pointed to me and said, This one’s going to be a fighter.

The label that the doctor stamped me with that day and which has summed up my whole life is the label of survivor. Unfortunately, my mother stamped me with another label. She was a feisty and beautiful girl with long, flowing black hair, soft white skin and an extremely large, attention getting bust. She was an effervescent and energetic little girl who always fell for the wrong guy. If they were tall, handsome and rugged, she would be all over them like bee’s on honey. She was very kind and goodhearted but being uneducated she failed to obtain that very important piece of paper from my father stamped, marriage certificate. This of course stamped little Jeanne Carmen and her brother with the title of Bastard. Not a very nice word back in the 1930’s. It still isn’t. The stigma of being born illegitimate is something that hurts deeply. It never goes away. Regardless of what you do with your life, how much education you get, how much money you make, how famous you get or how pretty you are, the hurt of being illegitimate never goes away. It makes you feel like the most important person in your life doesn’t want you. You get the feeling that you were just a mistake. An accident that shouldn’t have happened. That you are embarrassing people by being around.

Throughout my childhood, I suffered feelings of abandonment by my father and feelings of neglect from my mother. The hurt is usually the same for the children who go through this. The only thing different are the names and the places.

For me, not having a father deeply affected me forever. I’m sure it affected my brother too but probably in a different way since he is a boy. For me, being a girl, I wanted a daddy to love me and protect me and give me advice on what to do with my life. I wanted a father more than anything else in the world but I didn’t have one. So what could I do?

I was born with three strikes against me but I was definitely not out. I simply refused to give up and go down.

The three strikes against me were as follows:

1)   First Strike: Born a bastard.

2)   Second Strike: Female half of a fraternal set of twins.

3)   Third Strike: Mother and brother want to be rid of female half.

Of course being unwed, mom did not want children. Most of all she didn’t want a girl because a girl might make the same mistakes she’d made. However, Mom soon found out there wasn’t a whole lot she could do about it. I was there and she was stuck with me. She accepted my twin brother because he was an image of the man she would love until the day she died some thirty five years later.

I was always aware that my Mom resented me for being a girl because I was a reflected image of her own youth. At the same time, she loved to pinch the cherubic cheeks of my big roly-poly brother. He didn’t like having me around either because he wanted Mom’s big tits all to himself. She always showered him with loads of attention and he loved every minute of it. Fortunately for me, even as a baby, I was smart enough to recognize the unjustness of life. Luckily, I had enough chutzpah to stand up and fight for my rights instead of letting the circumstances steamroll me. My birth sign is Leo and I definitely have enough fight in me to live up to my sign.

So my brother got mom’s tits to play with and I was given a bottle which I promptly used to hit him over the head with at every opportune moment. While my brother got all of mom’s attention, I got enough of her hostility and punishment to want to get the hell out of Arkansas as soon as possible. And get out I did, but not before I was subjected to a lot of grief, insecurity and a good share of beatings.

I guess I didn’t realize it at the time but I was a positive little thinker right from the start. One thing was for sure, I positively wanted to stay alive, so every time my baby brother would try and kick the shit out of me, I would respond with the old bottle to the head. I came close to killing him a few times and paid dearly for it. No matter what torment I was subjected to, Mom would always side with my brother when I defended myself. Then I would get a lashing that would only strengthen my resolve to get the hell out of town.

The most traumatic moment of my life came when I was about three years old. Mom decided to claim a name for my brother and me. She was determined to make the man who had fathered us own up to his responsibilities and give us his name so we wouldn’t be stigmatized as illegitimate. A very nasty trial and a lot of mudslinging and name calling hit the headlines in our little hick town. The juicy gossip that was revealed in the public testimony kept the whole town enthralled. A cross section of citizens turned out to hear the accusations and revelations of fornication and premarital sexual passion. Little old women showed up in droves so they could publicly decry and denounce sexual activity as morally wrong. It was, they claimed, an evil force that was responsible for corrupting the youth.

Secretly they were glad to be there so they could revel in the titillating details of the testimony. They were hoping against odds to reignite their own sexual flames which had flickered and faded away years ago. Fathers turned out with their teenage sons so they could point to my brother and I as a cautionary tale about immoral women who were out there prowling around in nightclubs trying to get pregnant so they can ruin the lives of innocent young men.

Luckily there were also intelligent women there who understood that it takes two to tango and that a man is just as much responsible for a woman getting pregnant as the woman. These women also realized that once a child is born it needs to be raised and supported regardless of whether the couple is married or not. Unfortunately, this was happening in the 1930’s, so the women with this attitude were few and far between. It would be a long time coming before society would begin to demand that men take equal responsibility for their sexual activity and the consequences of it.

During the trial, Mom stuck to her guns and wouldn’t back down. I think everyone respected her chutzpah down deep. Here was this petite voluptuous woman with dark long hair and big boobs fighting tooth and nail for the respect she deserved.

When the smoke finally cleared, we had our father’s last name which was Carmon. We were also awarded court ordered child support which he never bothered to pay. There was one additional result of the trial. We were now infamous in our little home town. Something I could have done without at that age. Every time Mom wheeled us down the city streets past where my father worked, all hell would break loose. She wheeled us past his work day after day just to taunt him. That’s the type of spitfire she was.

People would stare at us knowing good and well who we were. It was easy! We were the only set of fraternal twins in the county. Being pushed around in that double stroller made us stick out like a sore thumb. My brother and I would recline in our twin buggy and stare up at the people looking in.

There were lots of curious gawkers and lookie-loos. People who didn’t even know my mother or father. They had just heard the story and wanted to take a look at us for themselves. They would whisper facetious little comments that would hurt my mother deeply but she wouldn’t show it. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. They would say things like, So, these are the famous Carmon twins, or Out for a stroll without your husband today, Georgia?

People can be so ridiculous and immature. It was even obvious to me. My usual response was to throw my bottle at these people. My personality was already determined at a very young age. My twin brother would just lay there and be passive and coo and look cute. I guess that’s why he was somewhat more popular than I.

Dad was a tall, handsome, strapping dude with a pound of curly hair. He was as Irish as a native Dubliner. A classic playboy. He was a man’s man who liked to womanize. A real love em and leave em type if there ever was one. His guilt over having children out of wedlock was so great that he tried to act like we didn’t exist. Because of this, Mom would sashay into the jewelry store where he worked carrying my brother and me in her arms. Dad would always try and find a place to hide but there wasn’t a place small enough that Mom couldn’t find. She was a real blood hound when it came to sniffing out my father. She made sure she always got her man.

She would walk into the store with a smile on her face and throw my brother up into his arms. Naturally, she would wait until he was with customers. Then she would exclaim loudly, Say hello to your son! He looks just like you, don’t he?

Dad’s face would usually turn ten shades of red because he’d already told his female customers that he was single, with no children.

Mom was a spunky one. I guess I inherited mine from her. Dad would just grin, grunt and sweat until we left. The shocked customers would usually make a bee line for the exit and dad would fumble and stutter for an explanation trying to get them to stay.

After these awkward embarrassing moments, he’d become enraged. One day he couldn’t take it any more. He flew off the handle and screamed at my mother, Get these fuckin’ kids away from me. You’re ruining my life parading these little bastards around town.

What a horrible thing to say. The worst injustice society can bestow is blaming the children of an unwanted pregnancy. So many times, people blame the innocent children as if they are dirty and somehow at fault. This is the way I was treated when I was young and it hurt for a long time. It cuts right to the bone. I mean what the hell? Kids don’t know what’s going on. Children are brought into this world without a choice. Of all the people who are held accountable, they should be the last ones on the list. Unfortunately, far too often the anger gets vented at them.

My father changed jobs often in an attempt to avoid my mother and to avoid child support payments. He took a new job in a furniture store that was located on the second floor of a building downtown. It could only be reached by climbing some stairs and my father thought this would discourage my mother from hauling us kids up. Once again he underestimated Mom’s drive. He was right about one thing though, she didn’t climb the stairs. Instead, she made me climb them and this turned out to be one of my first traumas. I was at the ripe old age of five but I was going to start learning about life real quick.

Mom had a better plan than dropping in on him herself. Now that my brother and I were old enough to walk and talk, she decided to make us pay unannounced visits. I remember one day standing at the bottom of the stairs that led up to my father’s office. Mom kept pointing up the stairwell and saying in a firm voice, Go on! Go on. Get up those stairs and say hello to your father.

I was painfully shy and started to cry, No mommy! Please don’t make me go alone.

She just gave me a kick in the rear and ordered, You just get up those stairs and do what I tell you. Now when you see your father, jump into his arms, give him a big kiss and say as loudly as you can, ‘Hi Daddy, I missed you.’

Through my tears I whimpered, I don’t want to.

Mom gave me a stern look, pointed and commanded, You just do what I say.

I began to walk up the steps. It seemed like an eternity. There were probably only twenty steps or so but each one brought me closer to something I didn’t want to do. I was terribly afraid of him. Even though he was my father, I didn’t know the man and I didn’t want to know him. Even at the age of five, I could tell he didn’t like me nor did he want anything to do with me.

As I got to the top of the stairs my eyes were wide with fear. I heard some male voices inside the office and the creaking of a door as it shut. That was enough to send me running back down to my mother with tears streaming down my face. I was clinging to her leg and chattering through my tears, Don’t make me mommy. Please don’t make me.

Mom got angry, Get up those stairs unless you want the beating of your life.

I replied meekly, Okay Mom. I love you Mom, I love you.

I was hoping for an, I love you too honey, but she wouldn’t give me that reassurance. She just looked at me with fire in her eyes and said, Get up those stairs right now!

My face was wet with tears and I was still trying to cling to her leg when something came over me. I thought to myself, I can do this. Let me just do it quick and get it over with.

That reaction was probably my own way of protecting myself and dealing with something that has to be done. When it comes to the fight or flight response, I decided early on to fight. It is a trait that has stuck with me forever.

That day at the bottom of the stairs I also learned to act for the first time. In order to cover up my fear, I put on another face and pretended to be happy and confidant. I wiped away my tears and marched up the stairs as fast as I could. At this point, I just wanted it over and done with.

As expected, Dad was a total asshole. I jumped up into his lap, kissed his cheek and told him I loved him while all his co-workers gaped with open jaws. Dad didn’t want to make a scene at his new work so he played along and bounced me up and down a few times. He patted me on the legs and behind and even at that young age I knew there was something wrong about the way he was playing with me. I couldn’t define it but I just knew something wasn’t right.

Many years later, when I was nineteen and living in New York, I decided to search out my father to see what he was really like. I’d heard a lot of bad things about him but since I hadn’t seen him since I was a small child, I wanted to find out for myself.

I had always thought about him over the years. He was an obsession. His name was always on my mind. Even though I hadn’t seen him in a long time, I would write him letters every now and then. He never answered them though. I guess I knew he wouldn’t but I always hoped things would change one day. I used to lie to myself and say that he was writing me back but his letters were getting lost in the mail. Because of this, I gave the poor mailman hell whenever he came by. Then a few days later I’d apologize to him. He’d just smile and say, It’s okay kid. I was going to great lengths to convince myself that my Dad cared but deep down inside I knew what the truth was. I hadn’t faced up to it yet but I was soon going to.

Growing up, I asked a lot of questions to people who knew my Dad. I wanted so badly to know what he was like. I had heard such conflicting accounts that I didn’t know who or what to believe. Some people said he was an asshole and others said he was a great guy. I had to find out for myself.

One spring day at age nineteen, I left New York City and returned home to Arkansas. I was going to track my father down and find out what he was really like. I thought that because I had developed into a pretty young girl and was working as a model, he would be impressed. I thought it would make him love me. Unfortunately, the only thing it did was make him want to love me but not in the way fathers and daughters are supposed to love one another.

I had signed with a modeling agency in New York and was appearing on numerous magazine covers in various glamour girl and pin-up poses. I wrote my Dad a letter telling him I wanted to see him. I wanted to let him know what I was up to so I sent along one of the glamour shots I’d recently taken for a magazine. A week later I received a telephone call from my Dad. I was so excited I began to cry. He said he’d been trying to reach me for years and that he’d been sending letters all along but they must have gotten lost in the mail. Looking back, I now realize how naive I was. But at the time I wanted to believe so bad that I overlooked all the warning signs.

I booked a train home and could hardly stand to wait the two days until it left. My husband was very worried about me and realized that a man who would abandon his children could not be very moral. I refused to listen and even refused to let my husband accompany me home. I felt I had to do this on my own. Back then I had a stubborn streak a mile wide. It made me learn life’s little lessons the hard way but it also gave me the strength and resiliency to get the hell out of Arkansas and make something of myself.

I remember arriving in town and going home to see my Mom along with my large extended family of siblings that were related through marriage. Everyone welcomed me back to town like I was a movie star. Hell, I wasn’t even close to being a movie star. I had been on dozens of magazine covers and had appeared in a Broadway show though. That was more than anyone from my home town had ever accomplished. To them I was a superstar and I ate up every minute of it.

My twin brother Don had no idea why I’d come home in such a flash. The rest of my brothers probably wouldn’t have cared less because my father wasn’t theirs. I think my Mom suspected what I was up to because she took me aside and asked me if I was going to try and see him. It struck me funny how she always referred to my father as him. Like he was some mythical figure. I smiled, feigned ignorance and told her I wasn’t interested in seeing him anymore. My acting sure was coming in handy because she fell for it hook, line and sinker.

The next day I said I was going to visit some girlfriends and headed over to my fathers house on the other side of town. The farm I had grown up on was about twenty miles away so it took me a half hour or so to get there.

When I pulled up to the house my heart started to race. I didn’t know what to expect. A hundred thoughts raced through my mind. Would I recognize him? He had an advantage because I’d just sent him a picture of myself. But I hadn’t seen him since I was a small child. I knocked on the door and there was no reply. In an instant my heart sank. How could I have been so foolish? I thought to myself. Of course he doesn’t want to see me. He stood me up. He’s trying to hint to me and I’m too stupid to get it. I wanted to run and hide when suddenly the door swung wide open.

There standing before me was a tall heavy-set man. His hair was a little thinner than I remembered and he had distinguished lines on his face. He looked pretty young.

Maybe in his mid to late thirties. I’d heard he was just a kid when he had me. That’s not too uncommon down in the South. I noticed that same cockiness and twinkle in his blue eyes that my brother had. He was wearing a robe and told me that he had just gotten out of the shower. He looked me up and down and said, Honey, You sure have grown up real pretty.

Blushing, I said, Thank you.

Why don’t you come on in where it’s cool, he said.

I went inside and sat down. He said we would go to town for lunch in a bit but he wanted to talk first. I started to tell him about Mom and New York and how I got my start modeling. He interrupted me and asked me if I wanted a drink. I told him I didn’t drink and continued rambling on about my life and the turns it had taken so far. He kept nodding and grinning and pouring himself drinks from a bottle of booze that was sitting on the table. I couldn’t believe that I was actually sitting here with my Father and talking to him. He was paying real close attention to me and was very concerned about my welfare. God was I naive! I didn’t even get suspicious when he closed the drapes to the living room, locked the front door and turned the radio on.

Looking back, I should have run when I saw the robe and the leering looks and the bottle of booze. But how was I supposed to know what was coming down. As far as I knew, a girls Dad was supposed to protect them and watch out for them.

My father came back over to the couch and sat down next to me. He was sitting practically on top of me and I could smell the booze on his breath. I was starting to get concerned but was denying to myself what was happening. He put his hand on my thigh and said, You sure are pretty. A lot prettier than your mamma.

I pushed his hand away and didn’t answer. I was getting scared and wanted to leave. My eyes darted around the room and I suddenly realized what the drawn curtains and locked door meant. I think he could read my mind because he tried to soothe me by saying, Don’t be scared, I want to show you that I love you.

He put his hand on my leg again and I shoved it off. I said angrily, Don’t do that.

This infuriated him so he grabbed my arm and pulled me towards him and tried to kiss me. Yuck! This is nauseating! I thought to myself. This is not the way it’s supposed to be.

I resisted and jumped up like a wild cat. In his drunken state he could barely stand.

He tried to grab me and we both fell over the coffee table. Dad started hyperventilating as he struggled to his knees. Trying to catch his breath, he began sucking in large gulps of air. It looked like he was about to have a heart attack. At that point I was hoping he would have one. I crawled to the other side of the room and sat against the wall. I felt pity and disgust for him as he sat there wheezing. I finally saw him for what he was. Not some imagined ideal.

I couldn’t believe what had just happened. I thought back to the time when my mother made me climb the stairs to my fathers work and sit on his lap. I remembered that he had been looking at me strangely even then. I hadn’t understood what it meant then. Now that I knew, I was devastated.

I never even realized that something like this could happen to daughters. Fathers are supposed to love and protect their daughters from the bad guys. Aren’t they? Like Hell! Sometimes they are the bad guys. Unfortunately, I found it out the hard way.

After the struggle was over, my father finally caught his breath. I kept waiting for him to say something. After what seemed like an eternity of silence, the most profound thing he had to say was, Honey, don’t tell your mother about this. Nothing really happened and besides nobody will believe you anyway. I’ll just say you’re a liar. Now you go on and don’t be coming round here again. We should best just leave it the way it was.

What an asshole! To tell the truth, I didn’t give a shit about him. As I drove back to my mother’s farm I realized that I had never known him. So it wasn’t like he was my real father. I’d had an image in my mind that had just been shattered. I knew right then that I would never tell my mother. It would be just one more hurt that she’d have to live with. She’d been hurt enough by him already. I wasn’t about to hammer another spike into her heart.

I didn’t even think of telling my brother. He had a wild temper and disliked the old man to begin with. If he knew what had happened, he would have roared over to Dad’s house, tied a rope around his balls, hooked it up to the back of his truck and peeled out of the driveway at 80 mph.

I stayed in town a couple of more days visiting family and friends and then got on a train back to New York. I was going back to face my husband with the knowledge that a part of my life and dreams had been shattered. At the same time, I was wiser and stronger. I could quit dreaming about something that never existed in the first place and get on with my life.

The part that was the hardest to deal with was that there was no one to talk to about these things. I couldn’t tell my mother, I couldn’t tell my brother and I was too embarrassed to tell my husband. In 1949 there were no support groups to go to. Most subjects were still taboo to openly discuss. Infidelity, alcoholism, rape, homosexuality, you name it, America couldn’t deal with it. It was an incredible time of censorship. Most people who have grown up today can’t imagine in their wildest dreams how cloaked and hidden social problems and sexuality were back then. In the early fifties, when television first exploded onto the scene, married couples couldn’t even be seen in bed together. It was a time when pimply faced teenage boys with glasses were still suffering the trauma of being stigmatized by their classmates. They were labeled chronic masturbators and promptly ostracized. So in this repressed climate there was no way I would ever try to discuss the fact that my father tried to sexually abuse me.

However, all that was way in the future. At the age of five, all that I knew was that I didn’t like my Dad and I just wished my mother would stop forcing me to see him. She must have read my thoughts because after that day on the stairwell, she finally grew tired of taunting him and married another man a short time later. She spent a lot of time working in the cotton fields with her new husband. This was the most common form of work in Arkansas because cotton was the biggest commodity our state had to offer. My brother and I were still too young to be put to work so we were sent to live with my grandparents who lived close by.

We were as poor as dirt. I only had about two dresses and they were made out of flower sacks. They really were, no kidding. On the farm, everything is recycled. My granny would buy huge sacks of flour to cook with and make biscuits. When the sacks were empty, she used the material to sew me a dress. It embarrassed the hell out of me at school because the other kids would laugh at me.

My first day in school was a bitch. I pissed my pants in front of the whole class while writing my name on the blackboard. That was the first and last time I ever had the piss scared out of me. I can still hear the laughter when I think back on it. I was so humiliated, I ran to the out house and locked myself in until I couldn’t stand it any longer. Finally, I emerged with my head held high and ignored the snickering.

In order to make us feel like we had more of a normal home, my grandparents began to have us call them Mommy and Daddy. After a couple of years we became completely brainwashed into believing they really were our parents. The time I spent with my grandparents whom I had come to believe were my parents were some of the happiest years of my life.

That bubble was burst when my real mom waltzed into the house one day after we hadn’t seen her in a long time. She was tired and upset because she’d been fighting with her husband. She started throwing orders at me like a general. Being the rebellious little kid that I was, I snapped back, I don’t have to do that unless my Mommy says so.

My real mother was offended by the remark and said, I am your mother you dumb little kid.

I began to wail and pointed at my granny who was walking in the door. Sniffling, I said, No, she’s my Mommy.

My real mother shot back, No, I am and you’re coming back to live with me.

My granny turned red with anger and cut her daughter off. She said, Shut up Georgia! What have you been telling this child?

I ran to my grandmother who I thought was my mother and clung to her leg. Then I looked at this other woman claiming to be my mother and screamed, I don’t want you. Go away! I don’t want you to be my mommy.

With that, she lashed out and smacked me. My grandma pushed her away and yelled, Georgia, go outside, leave us alone so I can talk to the child.

My real mother stormed out onto the porch and lit up a cigarette while my grandma sat me down and explained the situation to me. She said, "When you and your brother were little ones, your momma didn’t have any way to support you. She needed to start a new life with her new husband so we decided it would be best if we raised you two. Grandpa and I loved you so much that we wanted to protect you and give you a normal family. So we decided to have you call us Mommy and Daddy. But we still love you and your momma loves you too. She just has a hard time showing it sometimes.

It was quite a shock but one I eventually got over. I did remember my real Mom from those early strolls through town so it wasn’t like I was going to live with a total stranger.

It did however take a long time to emotionally make the switch though. Changing mother’s mid-stream in life is not the easiest thing to do. The word Mom never fit my mother and the word grandma never fit my granny. Regardless of who I called what, my granny was the great love of my childhood. She was the one who cared for me the most and showed me the most love. She is always the one I was the most affectionate to. In fact, I still cry to this day when I think of her.

Moving back in with my Mom and her husband and their slew of kids was a nightmare. My brother and I were immediately put to work picking cotton in the fields. We were told we had to earn our keep. Living with other siblings was also a shocking adjustment. Suddenly, we had to fight with other kids for our share of food, blankets, attention, you name it. We were also introduced to new types of punishment. Whereas granny would scold us for mischief, Mom would reach out and smack us across the face. We also got used to being beaten with a switch pulled from a tree. My step dad would always take his time pulling the leaves off the branch. Then he would inspect the switch, bend it back and forth to make sure it was limber and then swat it through the air so it would make a swishing sound. This was all done in front of us before the actual beating. This ritual was used to heighten the terror before the blows were inflicted. He would then beat us on the backs of the thighs with the switch. He would administer hit after hit until our legs would bleed. I hated him. I’m sure he was a sadist because he would use any excuse to beat us and he seemed to enjoy the whole process. He even beat my mother on occasion. But she would never leave and she would never defend us. My step dad was just a big bully and a coward. Always proving how tough and fearsome he was with women and children.

As I got older, the torments I was subjected to became more unique and ingenious. They could only have been carried out on a farm in the rural backwoods of the South. Mom had more children with her new husband and before we knew it our family had expanded considerably. There were dozens of brothers, half-brothers, half-sisters, stepbrothers, and cousins. Everywhere you looked there were kids. One of my brother’s favorite torments was to grab me up with the help of the other kids and catapult me from a tree. The trees were about ten feet tall with thin rubbery trunks. They could literally be pulled down to the ground. When released they would snap back up with such force that anything in the tree would be ejected into the air. Of course, I was the one who was put in the tree and launched like a missile. My brothers laughed their asses off while I cried my eyes out. It really hurt like hell. I quickly realized that I was going to have to get tough if I wanted to survive without being used as a punching bag.

Another one of their favorite torments was to put me on a bull backwards. Then they would twist its tail and give it a crack in the ass. The hurt and frightened animal would take off running across the field while I held on for dear life. As I grew older and tougher, they could no longer harass me so their bizarre sense of humor went in a new direction. The boys seemed to get a kick out of hurting and tormenting animals as well as people. They would torment just about anything.

One of the funny tricks they loved to pull was when strangers came to visit. The boys would sneak outside at night and put a humongous bull frog in the outhouse toilet. Sometime in the middle of the night, the innocent visitor would make a dash for the toilet. Once there, they would sit down in the dark and relieve themselves. The disturbed bullfrog would let out a croak that would send a chill down the victim’s spine. Then the bull frog would leap up in the air causing the bewildered victims heart to stop. Imagining some grotesque horror below, they would leap off the potty in a panic forgetting their pants were at their ankles. As they stumbled out the wooden door, they would proceed to fall flat on their face. My brother and his accomplices would howl with laughter as they watched from their bedroom window. Meanwhile, the terrified visitor would run into the house and wake everyone up screaming, There’s something alive in the toilet! Stuff like this really cut down the number of guests we had but the boys didn’t seem to give a damn. They had their laughs and that was all that mattered.

My next great trauma occurred just a few years later. Probably around age eight or nine. For such a young kid I was racking up harsh blows that would have crippled most adults. If I hadn’t kept a positive attitude, I would have ended up a bitter cynic. But to me that is the worst state anyone can ever fall into. It’s the end. Once people reach this point they should end their lives because they just spread their misery around and make the world a little colder than it already is.

I remember playing at a neighbor girl’s house one afternoon when her mother came home in a state of rage. I have no idea what she was angry about but for some reason she decided to take it out on me. I was standing in the kitchen when she suddenly screamed at me, Get out of here you little bastard.

I froze stiff not knowing how to respond. The women just continued with her wicked tirade. She yelled, You’re a bastard you know? Your mother was never married to your father. No one wants a bastard around. Now get out. I was wide eyed with fear and ran out the door so fast I tripped and fell flat on my face. I didn’t know what the word bastard meant but I knew it must be bad. I had to find out.

I knew Mom would be picking cotton out in the fields so I started running down the dirt road that would take me to her. Even though it was miles away, I wouldn’t stop running because I had to know what this horrible woman was talking about. I finally arrived at the field where my mother was working. I was exhausted and drenched in sweat from the long run. I fell to my knees next to Mom’s cotton sack and cried out, Mom! Mom! Angie says I’m a bastard. She says I don’t have a father like other kids.

As I cried out, tears mixed with perspiration streamed down my face leaving a salty taste in my mouth. All of a sudden, Mom’s face turned red. Her blood pressure skyrocketed. She had waited too long to tell me and I had found out in an ugly way. The frustration, guilt and confusion were more than she could handle. She started to shake and suddenly lashed out at me in violence. Her hand flew out and slapped me across the face so hard it knocked me down. I fell hard on the ground and my head hit a rock causing it to bleed. I passed out cold and Mom fell to her knees and cradled me in her arms. She was hysterical and screamed out, I’ve killed my kid. I’ve killed my kid! Somebody help her.

It was obvious to everyone around that she was dazed and confused. I don’t think she meant to hit me. It was just a reaction to a situation she didn’t know how to handle. Some field hands nearby threw down their cotton sacks and ran over to help. The field foreman was a big, burly chested man. When he saw the commotion, he blew his whistle and yelled for a fifteen minute break. Then he ran towards us. He was a gentle and honest man who could be tough on his workers but was always fair. He had taken a genuine liking to me when I worked in the fields and he would always bring me water and a piece of candy when I was worn out.

By the time he ran over I was beginning to come around. When I looked up into his dark brown eyes I thought I was in Heaven. The sun was behind him causing his body and face to be in silhouette. He looked like Jesus with his long brown hair hanging down to his shoulders. I thought he was an angelic apparition.

A moment later the foreman threw cold water on my face and I snapped out of my trance. I heard crying and looked over to see my mother sobbing and muttering, I’ve killed my daughter. Dear God, I’ve killed my daughter.

In this situation the foreman proved that he was a real prince. He gently sat me up, took off his shirt and placed it against my head where it was bleeding. The muscles in his chest and arms were bulging. His tan was deep and bronze from working in the sun day in and day out.

He walked me over to his truck and we sat on the back hatch. I drank some cold water and he peeled an orange and handed me a slice. Then he talked to me for a long time and explained what a bastard was. He assured me it wasn’t bad and most importantly it wasn’t my fault. Then he said, If anyone ever tries to make fun of you, just knock them down. They’ll leave you alone after that.

Why didn’t my mom tell me? I asked.

Your momma’s a real good lady. She just didn’t know how to tell you, that’s all. She gets emotional and her heart gets her into situations that her mind should keep her out of.

Sometimes she’s mean to me and I hate her.

Don’t hate your mom honey. In the end, your family is all you’ve got. And before you know it, they’re gone as well. So try to be close while there’s still time.

Why doesn’t my dad come and visit me?

He paused for a moment and said, You should best forget about him. He’s not really your family. If you ever have a problem, you can always come and talk to me.

I threw my arms around him and hugged him so tight I almost crushed him. What an incredible man. I was in love. Of course I was too young for it to be any more than a school girls crush. Nevertheless, he made me believe and trust in people. What a saint! For a long time, I didn’t understand why he’d been so good to me. Finally, years later it all made sense.

I had been living in New York for quite some time and returned home for a visit. While shopping in town, I bumped into a lady who had known him. She said he had moved to Texas a few years back. Bought his own cattle ranch and became quite wealthy.

Is he coming back for a visit anytime soon? I asked.

She looked stunned for a moment and then said quietly, Haven’t you heard the news, Jeanne?

I shook my head no and replied, No, what happened?

He died in a plane crash last year.

I was stunned by the news and tears welled up in my eyes.

Was he with his family? I asked.

You know, it was the funniest thing. It turned out he was an orphan. Didn’t have any kin at all. Isn’t that sad. I guess he just kept it to himself all those years. Never told a soul.

I finally understood why he’d been so gentle with me. It made me love him even more. He was truly a giant of a man and I’ll never forget him.

After that day when that woman called me a bastard, my personality went through a distinct change. I became withdrawn, introverted and shy. I felt I was different than other people and that made me timid. Suddenly I couldn’t identify with anyone. My father might have been anyone. How did I know? Just because my mother won the trial and forced Dad to let us use his name didn’t mean a damn thing as far as I was concerned.

When all this was coming down on me, it was the same period in which Hollywood was turning out dozens of movies about half-breeds. I began watching these movies intently and I panicked. I was sure that my lips were too big, my skin was too dark and my hair too wild. I wanted to pull it all out. I screamed. I yelled. I threw wild temper tantrums and even broke furniture. I was sure there was an even darker secret that was being kept from me. I was convinced I was part Cherokee Indian. I had even heard rumors within the family of Indian blood. It was a definite possibility because there had been many native tribes in this part of the country.

I hated Mom for putting me in this position. I didn’t want to go to school. I was failing in my grades and I wanted to die. Of course, while all this was going on, I certainly wasn’t endearing myself to anyone. Especially Mom. This obsession with being part Indian worried me sick. It was crazy for me to think that way. Nothing could have been further from the truth. I wasn’t an Indian but when kids pick up on ideas it’s hard to let them go. During this time in my life, my positive thinking went to hell. It had been pushed so far back with all the negative shit that I could no longer find it.

Most of the other stuff that happened to me between the ages of seven and twelve I don’t remember. I guess it was just too painful for me to deal with. The things I’m able to recall from that period are all negative. I’ve never been able to tap into anything good. Later on in life, I spent hours in analysis with various shrinks trying to work out my childhood. I remember beatings by my stepfather that left my legs bloody. I remember suffering bruises and a dislocated jaw from my brother. Another time I got into a rock fight with a couple of cousins. They smashed me in the head and it bled something terrible. Southern redneck boys are always trying to prove to each other how tough they are. And they had no problem using me as their punching bag. I quickly learned to fight back. The only way to survive was to be meaner than they were.

I learned the art of self defense at an early age because of all this. Most bullies want an easy pushover. They’re looking for a victim. If you stand up to them, they will usually back down. Even from a woman. Nobody wants to take the chance of dealing with a nut. male or female.

I remember two incidents where I scared my brother so bad he decided to lay off me once and for all. He was hassling me once out in the front yard so I picked up a rusty tin can and gave him his first geometry lesson. I hit him right in the stomach with the open