God, Brian Jones & Me: The Sixties & the Rolling Stones Murder

book.

CHAPTER ONE

Birth to Age 6

Free at last, Free at last, Thank God almighty I’m free at Last. In the midst of committing suicide at age forty-four, my mind paraphrased those famous words, spoken long ago by Martin Luther King, Jr.

I’ve intentionally used the phrase, committed suicide, as opposed to attempted suicide because I actually succeeded. Both EMT’s and hospital doctors declared me dead, and I vividly remember Seeing the Light. That Light definitely came from the Heavens, since it appeared in the distinct shape of a cross—not simply a bright light.

The Light frightened me. I wanted to escape or back away from it, as it kept getting closer. The final recollection I had was of my eyes fluttering, then slowly opening, and the ability to see returning. The Light then evaporated. The feeling that remained was of God’s being angry with me for trying to take my life and making that final decision my own, and not His.

Despite believing God was angry or disappointed with me, I felt rage at the fact I was still alive. I planned my demise for almost two years, and believed I’d taken care of any possibility that may prevent its completion; but I was wrong. I never imagined my elder daughter would intervene and decide she had no choice but to save me from myself. Her interference only added to the rage I exhibited for many days.

I’d wanted to die since a toddler, born to parents who never wanted a child. To them, I was an inconvenience and an object that continued to get in the way of the lives they actually wanted to live. In order to make me pay for being alive, they chose over the years to abuse me in every imaginable—and some unimaginable—ways.

* * * * *

I was born on March 20, 1945 with the given name of Gloria Josephine Pecoraro. The Sicilian name, literally translated into English, was Shepherd. My first address was 125 Vanderbilt Avenue, Brooklyn, New York. The building was a three-story attached brick, similar to most all the buildings that surrounded us.

The main floor consisted of a garden level dwelling, approached from the outside by four or five cement steps that led down. Once there, one entered through the front door onto a tiled entryway, followed by a comfy, indoor floor plan.

After passing through a good-sized living room, the kitchen area opened onto the back garden. My maternal grandmother lived there, since the house was in her name. Grandma Josephine loved her backyard garden, which overflowed with fragrance-filled flowers, followed by an assortment of various fruits and vegetables that she grew seasonally, such as tomatoes, lettuce, radishes, grapes, and apples.

Originally, Grandma came by ship from Sicily to America, together with her husband and several children in the year 1905. Back then, female immigrants typically learned to speak no English, while their husbands—who had to obtain jobs in order to support their families—learned English as quickly as possible.

Their last name was Rao, and Grandpa Rao obtained a job as a sanitation worker. I don’t believe he and I ever met, since he died from a heart attack shortly after I was born.

My memories of the first few years of my life were almost non-existent when it came to either my mother or father. The only memory I do have was one evening when my parents came home late and were both drunk. I must’ve still been a toddler, since I recall standing up in a crib with my hands grasping onto the railing for support. My mother ran to the bathroom and vomited. While vomiting, I could hear her swearing vile names at my father—as if it were his fault she was sick.

I began to cry while my parents continued screaming at one another; actually it was my mother (who never knew when to shut up, especially when talking to a drunk) who was doing most of the yelling. The shouting scared me, since at that tender age I had no idea what was taking place.

Mom turned to me in a rage and with a bitter, contorted face screamed at the top of her lungs. You want to cry? Well, keep it up, and I’ll really give you something to cry about! She raised her hand to hit me while saying those menacing words.

I don’t remember anything after that.

As a matter of fact, the only solace and love I ever remember during those first six years came from Grandma Josephine. She was patient, kind-hearted, and naturally loving.

She always kept a couple of cats in her home. One kitten she named Giuseppe, which is Sicilian for Little Joey. Giuseppe was my only friend and constant companion. He’d sit on my lap for hours and suck on a small blanket that usually lay across my lap. He’d purr and purr while I stroked him.

I learned that little Giuseppe lived to be around nineteen years of age. Good for him; I was happy to hear my little friend led a long, comfortable life.

I must return to the hell house that my parents provided me. They lived on the second floor of Grandma’s three-story home. I remember nothing about the layout or anything else about those rooms. For me, they were non-existent. I only remember Grandma’s apartment, which was warm and inviting.

One snowy winter day, when I was around five years old and making my way down the few, icy outdoor steps to Grandma’s apartment, I slipped and fell straight into the building’s brick face. My forehead hit the brick, and I apparently passed out for a while. I woke up to my forehead’s being swollen.

Mom never took me to see a doctor or bring me to hospital. Back then and seemingly forever, she worked as a seamstress in a sweatshop, and her career was more important to her than I or anyone else.

Apparently, the crash into the brick wall caused the vertebrae in my neck to twist to the left and consequently, during all the following years of bone development, led to my spine growing twisted from my neck down to my tailbone. But that conversation and its dire consequences will be left for later….

Another incident that I remember stemming from my mother was when, closer to six years of age, several houses up the street from us lived a girl named Linda T. Linda was about 1 ½ years older than I, and quite large and strong for her age. For whatever reason, Linda decided to bully me and not allow me to pass her house during the few times I wanted to walk up the street.

She’d push me and hit me until I ran back home. One time in the late afternoon when mom was home, I ran to her crying and told her what Linda was doing to me.

Instead of being sympathetic or putting her arm around me to comfort me, mom screamed, You go up that street and beat Linda worse than she’s hit you! Until you do, you are never to come home again.

So much for loving parenting.

Having no other choice, at least while working with the brain of a five year old, I marched up the street, really not knowing how in the world I was going to beat Linda, who was so much bigger, stronger, and older than I.

I remember Linda’s having a grin on her face as I approached. I recall hitting her with all the strength I could muster, until Linda ran into her own home crying. I don’t know how I did it, but all I can imagine was that my fear of my own mother was stronger than my fear of Linda T.

The last remembrance I have was entering first grade, or the equivalent of what today is called kindergarten, at a Catholic grammar school run by Nuns. I particularly was fond of Sister Regina, who I thought to be especially pretty.

I made the mistake of confiding to my mom that I thought Sister Regina was pretty and asked her to be sure not to mention that to the nun, since there was a parent/teacher meeting approaching.

My mom promised me she wouldn’t tell and, true to her nature that continued over the decades, she immediately—right in front of me—told Sister Regina how pretty I thought she was. I felt so embarrassed that I just wanted to fall through the floor. Sister laughed politely, but I could never forget nor forgive mom for having broken my trust. I could tell she got extreme delight in making me feel peculiar, as if she were trying to prove her dominance. Mom was certainly powerful over a five-year old.

No other memories exist of the first six years of my life. What does remain was the fact that my father’s face was non-existent to me, my mother’s hating the sight of me from the day I was born, and the warm, loving feeling I got when I spent my days alone, with only Grandma and Giuseppe for company.

CHAPTER TWO

The Invisible Child

At age six, my parents moved to a different part of Brooklyn. The residence was a 2 1/2 story detached house located at 708 Ditmas Avenue. Earlier that year, Grandma sold her house and moved—together with one of my aunts, uncles, and their son, Sal—to a wonderful house around the corner and up two blocks from what would later be my parents’ home on Ditmas Avenue.

I referred to Aunt Isabelle and Grandma’s new house as wonderful because it was a home, warm and friendly. My new house never was a home, but instead a domicile from which I continued to serve my life sentence.

The neighborhood where both my Grandmother’s house and my parents’ house was located was basically middle class, and mainly inhabited by Italians and Irish—all Catholic. Most of the children went to the neighborhood Catholic School named in honor of St. Rose of Lima.

According to school records, it appears I was extremely bright, and I was placed in the first grade, skipping over whatever months of kindergarten remained. The school was separated into two portions. Only girls comprised the front of the massive stone building, while the back portion was for boys. Alongside the school was the rectory, home for the local Priests, plus a separate building that housed the Nuns. All in all, a very impressive group of structures.

At first, school started at 9 a.m. and ended at 3 p.m. My mother worked, as usual, as a seamstress in a factory that made men’s suits. No other women in the middle-class neighborhood worked back then. They all were housewives, which was the norm. Each day kids would come home to their sisters or brothers and receive a warm welcome from their moms. But not I.

I was the only child who had no one to come home to, and was the only child who had to learn to use two keys to enter her own house. Once home, I was alone, having no siblings whatsoever. There was no Grandma Josephine there; not even a cat named Giuseppe. I remember playing with cutout dolls and some real dolls—mainly what were called Ginny dolls (now a collectible item). I sang songs to myself, and my voice was the only one to be heard in that lonesome house.

Mom arrived home around 5 p.m. or so, depending upon how the subways ran. I remember her coming home and immediately beginning to swear at how miserable her life was, and how sorry she was that she ever married my father.

I thought, Okay, but what does that have to do with me? I was the forgotten child, the unwanted child, and the child who was in the way….

After a few months of school, the Principal announced that the class schedule had permanently changed. There were now so many students attending the grammar school—or wanting to attend—that the Diocese decided to add the new students by splitting the school day into two separate sessions. The morning session (which would be my session) was from 8 a.m. to 12:30 p.m.; the afternoon kids would attend from 1 p.m. until something like 4 or 5 p.m. I can’t imagine what the exact schedule was, but it didn’t really matter.

What did matter was that I’d have to go home and be alone from 12:30 in the afternoon until mom would come home at 5. However, the nuns did announce that for those who had no one at home during the afternoons (I believe I was the only one) they could remain in the schoolroom until the afternoon session was over.

The only hitch in the plan was that, with the classrooms being so overcrowded, the extra child (me) would have no seat in which to sit, but would have to remain standing in the back of the classroom for all those hours.

And those hours proved to be the first time in my memory that my back problems surfaced with a vengeance. The back problems resulted from the horrible fall I took down the icy stairs at age five, when my head smashed into the brick wall, and I passed out. On top of that, I realized that I’d be the only student standing alone in the back of the classroom. I would feel like a clown or some other alien being.

I decided not to tell my mother that the option existed of my staying after hours at school each day. I only told her that she’d have to quit her famous career and stay home afternoons—same as the other mothers stayed home—and not go to work because I’d be alone each and every day.

Despite my young years, I was bright enough to put two and two together and realize it was completely unrealistic—not to mention unsafe—for any six-year old child to be alone for so many hours. Naturally, mom began swearing at me and reminded me what a burden I was to her, adding that my existence on this earth was unwelcome.

A few days later, a school friend of mine was at the house when my mother came home. She began complaining, in front of my friend, about how she’d have to quit her job just to baby-sit me. The girl, innocently blurted out, Oh, no. That’s not right. The Sisters said that anyone without a parent at home could stay in school for the entire day.

I felt my world come apart, knowing my mother would jump at any chance to keep on working and not have to look after me. You may wonder why mom believed she had to work. Well, there are two reasons she gave.

First, my father was a longshoreman by trade at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. He was a Navy veteran of World War II and located aboard a destroyer during most of the War, until its very end. The destroyer saw much action in the Pacific Ocean, and he was lucky to come home alive and in one piece.

PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder) was neither named nor recognized back in the early 1940’s; but looking back, I’m sure he suffered from it. I never heard him speak of his experiences, but wish I’d had the opportunity to do so.

When he returned from the war, he took the most convenient and well-paying job available to someone with no college education—that of a longshoreman. For those who’ve seen the Marlon Brando film, On the Waterfront, some of what you’ll observe was what my father experienced. His first name was Alphonse, but everyone called him either Al or The Silver Fox (which I’ll explain later).

Back then, there were so many veterans out of work and not enough jobs available for all the men. The work consisted mainly of loading and unloading heavy cargo from merchant vessels, and was backbreaking, to say the least. Men didn’t last long at that work and, for those who did, their years were filled with intense, continuous back pain with no remedy available, other than alcoholic drink to soothe the misery.

The pay was good enough, but back then, the waterfront was run mainly by organized crime, with the average policeman also taking his share (under the table, naturally) of the profits. Only men who knew someone on the inside were given daily work—with a payback expected to be given the bosses. Fortunately or unfortunately, my father knew men on the inside, but had to pay them in cash a certain percentage of each day’s salary. Still, that was better than no work or no income at all.

At the end of each workday, it became the custom for the longshoremen to spend some time going to the local bars to have a few drinks. They needed to unwind and to have something, anything, to mask the back and shoulder pain that increased with each passing week, month, or year.

Sadly, and I can only view Dad’s problem now through hindsight, my father was susceptible to alcoholism. Soon his drinking overcame any clear thinking that may refer to how much money he should bring home to pay the bills. He had a monthly home mortgage to pay, but as time passed that thought escaped him.

Second, as to why mom thought she had to work (but really didn’t, as I’ll explain soon enough) was because she’d worked since a teenager and didn’t marry my dad until she was 28 years old. She told me she was still a virgin until then, which spoke volumes, and never had a serious boyfriend.

She was pretty and maintained a nice figure. Supposedly, she had many suitors over the years, including a couple of Brooklyn guys that became known in the motion-picture industry. As the story goes, she had no interest in the opposite sex and told me the only reason she married my father was because her family had put so much pressure on her to marry—calling her a spinster. And so, my dad became the victim of her disdain for men and the idea of having sex with any man, in general. She was quite happy with living her life as a single woman, having only close female friends, and working in a factory. Therefore, the idea of giving up her career to care for a daughter was abhorrent, in her deranged mind.

* * * * *

I’ll return to what would become of my school days…once my friend blurted out that I could remain in school all day through both class sessions, and mom’s eyes brightened. She told me that would answer all her problems—the nuns could baby-sit me.

After my classmate left, even though I was only turning seven years, I had the fortitude to engage mom in verbal battle. I tried to explain that no one else had a mother who worked, and I’d be a misfit standing alone in the back of a classroom all day. She told me I was being a crybaby and feeling sorry only for myself. And what about me and my life? she yelled. "And who do you think you are, Lady Jane? she continued. I should give up my job for you!"

That said it all, didn’t it? I meant nothing to her other than a wart or some other entity that wasn’t welcome in her life. I was a nothing, a zero, a nobody.

But, who was "Lady Jane" as she’d called me? Mom was Sicilian, born of immigrant Sicilian parents, and I can guarantee you that, in those days, she’d in no way be familiar with names of any members of British royalty (except perhaps for the Kings and Queens). Her reference to my being Lady Jane would continue for years to come—much to my confusion.

Eventually, as soon as the new class schedule took effect, I became the immediate outsider and stand-alone kid in class, who didn’t fit in anywhere.

I’ll switch to the subject of basic human cleanliness. Mom went to work around 6:30 a.m., while I wasn’t expected to be in school until 9 a.m. (or when the new class schedule began, at approximately 8 a.m.) I stayed in bed, while mom left for work, and got myself up in time to wash, get dressed, and carry my books, since there were no backpacks at that time. Students carried all their books, no matter how many, in their arms; normally dropping a few along the way. If it rained or snowed—oh, well, there were no additional hands with which to carry an umbrella and walk the five blocks to school.

Mom never had the time or inclination to teach a six or seven year old proper hygiene. My hair was long and very thick, extremely curly, especially in the midst of New York City’s damp weather. Under the best of circumstances, I really didn’t know the proper way to get the darn brush or comb through it. So, I simply winged it and brushed it through the best I could.

I was never shown how to properly wash and rinse my face; consequently, soap residue often remained. I didn’t know how to brush or floss my teeth, or how often it was necessary to do so. Even though we wore uniforms in the Catholic school, while the other girls had clean, ironed skirts and blouses, not to mention clean socks each day, I had to contend with whatever clothes I’d worn the day before—whether cleaned, ironed, or not.

Shampoo and hair conditioner were available to me sporadically. Mom said we couldn’t afford conditioner, and I desperately tried explaining that, with my hair being as thick and curly as it was, I needed a good conditioner. That logic didn’t impress her.

She normally spat words at me, such as, "You need a ‘good shampoo and conditioner?’ Who do you think you are, Lady Jane?"

Her spiteful remarks were followed by a stern slap across the mouth for defying her. Defying became her favorite word whenever I disagreed with any of her nonsensical statements.

At times, the slaps drew blood from the side of my mouth, and in short order I developed a nervous stammer from trying to avert her blows.

Regardless, the only compromise she allowed regarding the proper maintenance of my hair was the purchase of what was ridiculously called a combination of shampoo and conditioner in one bottle. Now, that might work for someone with straight, thin hair, but not for someone whose hair was as defiant as my mother’s approach to parenthood.

She never showed interest in helping me manage my hair by sitting down and brushing it through and perhaps braiding it, so I’d look at least halfway normal. But, of course, by the time I’d get up in the mornings for school, she’d already be gone a couple of hours, so who had the time to braid my hair?

Good, absorbent towels were another necessity to drying one’s hair and body that we didn’t have the luxury of owning. I remember all too clearly how the middle of our towels were worn down to nothing, similar to a big hole in their center. And, if I dared to cry or complain to mom, well—you guessed it—that complaint was met by another smack across the mouth, adding to my increasingly bad stammer.

I’ve forgotten to mention the usual lack of deodorant and, whenever we did have deodorant, it would be the cheapest brand available. Additionally, I’d never been taught how to use it, or when and how often to use it.

Yes, I did have school friends, but after a while I noticed they shied away from me. I realized, as I grew a bit older, that I often had body odor, my hair was very greasy-looking, and my clothing looked shabby and dirty. But at the ages of six through eight, I remained oblivious as to why I appeared different from the other girls, or why they ignored me.

I looked upon the clean, neat, sweet-smelling classmates of mine as something special, to be envied. I couldn’t understand why they seemed so different from me, and I began to look at them from afar. I started to pretend I was invisible, and I was a foreign object who studied how real girls were meant to look and smell. I couldn’t understand why I didn’t fit in that category. I would look upon those lucky girls and think how young and innocent they were, and envied the fact they could laugh and play without a care in the world.

I hardly, if ever, laughed. Nothing was funny or amusing to me. To me, those girls were young, but not I. I started to believe I was born 100 years old and would never be young. Now, that thought is referred to as being an old soul. And old I surely was….

I became the alien being who was put on this earth only to study what I should have been, but could never be because I wasn’t wanted by anyone.

* * * * *

While still attending the regular school schedule of 9 a.m. to 3 p.m., I was home alone with nothing to do, no one to speak with, and no one to make any sort of breakfast. I normally ate a couple of cookies and drank some milk, but nothing else. I then walked myself to school much earlier than necessary, arriving there in time for the 8 a.m. Mass.

The Catholic Church was alongside the school playground and very large; an old-fashioned church built with stone and gorgeous stained glass windows. I loved the smell of burning candles and incense that always seemed present.

I was the only child to attend the 8 a.m. Mass. I’m sure the priest, who said Mass each weekday morning, must’ve thought it strange that such a young girl would pray the Mass, alone, together with him. But no one, even the priest, ever took it upon himself to come over to that unwanted child and ask her why she was there and looking so sad.

I know I looked sad because many times I’d sit and cry while listening to the beautiful words of the Mass that were said mainly in Latin. I learned the entire Mass in Latin and was content to say the words together with the priest.

Years later, the thought occurred to me why no one, especially the nuns who taught our classes, ever asked me why I looked so sad, why I cried to myself most every day, and above all, why the heck I was so dirty and shabby looking compared to the other bright, clean, smiling girls….

As the new schedule took affect and class began at 8 a.m., I couldn’t go to Mass any longer and missed talking directly to God each morning.

When my session ended around 12:30 p.m., I ate a quick lunch in the cafeteria before the next, new group of students began their afternoon classes. Normally, my lunch consisted of whatever mom had thrown together the night before (of course, while cursing to herself aloud about how miserable her life was). The usual lunch was either a bologna or peanut butter sandwich.

I didn’t know enough to wash my hands after eating, since I never had anyone explain that process to me. So I went to the afternoon session with dirty fingers smelling of bologna or whatever I may have eaten. I was then told to stand in the back of the classroom, since no extra seats were available.

I could hear and see some of the strange, new students looking at me and giggling to one another, since I was the only girl standing alone. Of course they didn’t know, nor could they possibly understand what my life was all about—and no one ever asked. Once again, I found it easier to consider myself invisible, and make myself believe that I really wasn’t there standing alone, looking stupid. I was the invisible child who no one cared to get to know.

Now was the time I first became aware of the fact I went into stress blackouts, although the phrase wasn’t used or even understood back in the early 1950’s.

From standing for hours in the classroom and told not to wander around so I could at least exercise my legs, my back soon felt as if it were crumbling. The feeling emanated from my neck, shoulders, down my mid-back to my hips, and lower extremities. I’d hop on one leg occasionally, to ease the strain and numbness I felt.

Since mom always told me I was being a big baby whenever I complained about anything, I couldn’t allow myself to enunciate the words necessary to the nuns that I was in terrible pain and couldn’t stand any longer.

Finally, after a few months of bearing the physical torture, the principal of the school—an older Sister of the Order of St. Joseph—phoned my home and told my mother that her daughter had been walking around the back of the classroom on her own, while singing aloud. I have no memory of ever doing so and have no idea what songs I could possibly have sung. However, I must believe that did happen, and the Sisters reported the strange episodes to the Principal.

Naturally, and according to her true form, mom at once chastised me at home, yelling about what an embarrassment I’d become to her, so that the Principal found it necessary to phone and tell mom I was basically a nut. The subject always turned around to her, her needs, her feelings, and her desires.

I must again emphasize that PTSD, or severe trauma, were not yet recognized by the medical or psychiatric communities.

During recess, I’d jump rope with a few of the girls or played catch with a rubber ball. Sadly, one of our classmates was born with a deformed arm and hand, and she only had use of the other arm with which to do everything. I could never understand why the schoolgirls made fun of her and called her dumb, stupid, or worse.

The handicapped youngster would simply answer, You know why I’m like this, while looking down at her deformed hand.

Yeah, because you’re an idiot! they’d yell back at her.

During those times, I never took part in the melee, but quietly walked away, pretending I heard or saw nothing. I didn’t have the fortitude to defend the hapless girl as, way in the back of my mind, I instinctively knew I was in no better position than she. I was also a cripple, not a physical cripple, but an emotional cripple and an outsider.

CHAPTER THREE

The Stray Dog

The nuns decided, because I continued to interrupt the additional class by singing and walking around the back of the room—and because I was academically so bright—that they could put my resources to use by having me tutor girls who were slower in learning.

To do so, I was allowed to take my schoolbooks, together with whichever girl I was to tutor at the time, and sit on the cold, cement staircase, and teach. I wasn’t provided a chair in which to sit and relax my sore back. The cement steps only allowed me to hunch over and stoop to alleviate the stress of not having the back of a chair upon which to lean. Oh, well, who was I to complain about anything? I thought. I was nobody.

Tutoring was great fun, though, and my students learned their lessons at a good, rapid rate. The Sisters gave me credit and some much-needed respect for achieving that goal. I believe they were amazed that I could do anything right.

As summer approached, a new hitch presented itself. Without any school to fall back upon, what was my mother to do with me for all those months when I’d be home alone? Not that my being on my own without supervision actually bothered her. What bothered her was what people in the neighborhood might think of Saint Camille—as I called her to myself. Yes, in her mind, Camille (her first name) was a saint.

She didn’t drink, smoke, swear in public, or act unladylike in public and—most importantly to her—didn’t have sex with men. My, what great accomplishments.

What almost no one saw or knew was the real Camille that she didn’t allow the world to see. However, as I grew closer to ten years old, I determined to finally let some of Saint Camille’s private secrets escape.

I want to explain why I was so bitter that my mother went to work. The reason was not that my dad wasn’t bringing home most of his pay each week. The reason for my bitterness was that she really didn’t need to work.

As I approached eleven or twelve years of age—and I believe somewhat younger than that—I began to realize that if Camille absolutely refused to work and stay home, my father would have no recourse other than to bring home his entire pay. Otherwise, he’d suffer the consequences of losing the house we lived in, having the heat and electricity turned off, having no money for groceries, and such. That made perfect sense, did it not?

Sadly, perfect sense was not part of Saint Camille’s vocabulary. She preferred playing the part of martyr in front of her family and friends. Oh, yes, having people pity her was of great satisfaction to her ego.

To me, the role of martyr was a total embarrassment. I learned to keep all my trials and tribulations to myself and tried, as best I could, to pretend everything was normal in my life.

Additionally, I’d hear several of my aunts and uncles tell mom to date the many men who were still attracted to her, divorce my father, (if he didn’t change his alcoholic and gambling ways) and marry a better man.

To me, that sounded like a marvelous idea. I might have a real father figure in my life; possibly even a stepfather who had his own children. I’d then have sisters or brothers to rely upon and have as friends, and not be a solitary figure in an empty house.

But, no, Camille would not listen to any of that. Her answer, and she thought nothing of repeating it in front of my cousins, who were around my age and a bit older, was always the same, I don’t need any man in my life. I want no part of men. I only want to associate with my own kind.

Well, after a few times of hearing that same refrain, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize what she meant by my own kind, and that was female companionship. Back then, no one discussed aloud the subject of a woman being a lesbian, but Camille certainly brought the subject to the forefront for the entire world to hear. Even my cousins began to snicker at her words. My aunts and uncles sat mutely, while listening to her comments. What could they say? She outed herself and was damn well proud to do so.

To further humiliate me in front of others, whenever we’d attend a wedding, party, or any social function, as soon as the band started playing, mom would pretend Dad wasn’t present, go over to a woman, put her arms around the woman, and slow dance.

Whenever I begged her to please consider remarrying—at least so I could finally have a stepfather and possibly siblings as companions—Camille said the usual, "What? I should marry another man for you! Who are you, Lady Jane? Just mind your own business and shut up."

I yelled back, This is my business! I want a father and a home. (Who’s Lady Jane? I continued to think.)

Big mistake to answer Saint Camille with the truth. The truth was also not in her vocabulary, and my defying her in that manner only caused—from now on—not a slap across the mouth with her hand, but the use of a broom handle across my mouth, which certainly drew blood.

Actually, Saint Camille became so secure in her heresy that she let some of her secrets escape. For example, the tenants who lived on the second floor of our house were an older couple from Boston. Mr. & Mrs. Smith became close friends of mine. They saw in me something that was very wrong with the way I was being treated.

Eventually, each afternoon, when I came home to my empty house, Mrs. Smith would invite me up to her apartment and give me freshly-baked cupcakes and hot tea with cream. Freshly-baked anything was unique to me, since Camille was too busy with her famous career to ever do any baking.

Mrs. Smith and I would talk about anything and everything. She even asked me to watch TV’s soap operas with her. Back then, the usual daytime fare on TV for housewives was either game shows or the Soaps, as they were called. I’d never seen those before, and Mrs. Smith would bring me up-to-date on whatever was occurring. Watching daytime TV was my first peep into what was considered real, everyday family life, and I became engrossed with the knowledge.

Reading also was a large part of my life. I didn’t care for fiction, but read all sorts of history, biography,