Read Online This Family of Mine: What It Was Like Growing Up Gotti by Victoria Gotti - Free Book Online Page B

silverware, with a centerpiece of white daisies; and a bottle of Cutty Sark whiskey to be placed at every table. But when Angelo arrived two hours before the party, he discovered not Cutty, but some cheap alternative on the tables. My mother vividly remembers Angelo’s reaction when he discovered this transgression and confronted the club’s owner. At first the owner refused to change it. It meant less money in his pocket if he had.
    “Your uncle grabbed the poor guy by the throat and threatened him,” Mom said. “He said, ‘There better be bottles of Cutty onevery table or there’s gonna be a problem—a
big
problem, if you know what I mean!’ ”
    Needless to say, within a few minutes, the rotgut had been removed, and Cutty Sark was being unloaded by the case.
    The ceremony and reception took place at a rented hall in Brooklyn—a private two-room lounge owned by a neighborhood guy. Dad would tell me years later that the entire event was a break-even proposition, with wedding gifts basically covering the cost of the ceremony. Whatever was left over—and there wasn’t much—was stashed away for a rainy day. Clearly, this was not like something out of
The Godfather,
with the bride and groom enjoying an elaborate spectacle and walking away with enough cash to buy a mansion and put all of their future children through college. There was, instead, a simple gathering of family and friends.
    That was enough for Mom and Dad.
    I N THE WEEKS that followed, my father did his best to find steady work. The Gotti financial situation was bleak, and with a second baby on the way, about to get even bleaker.
    My mother busied herself most days trying to master the skills of a traditional housewife. This was not a small task for her, since she’d had little training for the job. Having been raised at a school for girls and not by her own mother, Mom had not learned even the basics of cooking, cleaning, and sewing. She took her new role seriously, even going so far as to register at the local library and take out several instructional books for the budding homemaker. They were guides, mainly—cookbooks, sewing manuals, and the like. Try as she might, though, Mom’s culinary skills were frustratingly slow to develop.
    “She couldn’t boil water,” Dad often joked. “Even soft-boiled eggs came out wrong.”

    Frustration, combined with the hormonal swings of pregnancy, often drove Mom to tears. The crying jags came without warning, and at all hours of the day and night. There wasn’t much my father could do, and the helplessness tore at his pride, as well as his heart.
    One night, while Dad was out at the social club, playing cards and messing around with the guys, a man came around with a cardboard box—inside was the cutest little dog Dad had ever seen. The man was trying to find it a good home. Dad, who had quite the soft spot considering his well-earned reputation for toughness, took one look at the puppy and fell in love; he decided immediately to take the dog home.
    Dad was sure that the dog would do wonders for my mother’s emotional state. He also thought, quite correctly, that this adorable, tiny puppy would distract Mom in times of depression. How could you look at the little guy and not smile?
    Dad was correct—to a point. Mom had always wanted a poodle while growing up. “The kind that the rich and fancy ladies paraded up and down the wealthy blocks of Manhattan,” she’d say. Also, poodles were the “it” dog of Brooklyn in those days.
    So Dad put a big red bow around the dog’s collar and took him home to Mom. He handed her the box proudly and explained that the little pup wriggling inside was actually a baby poodle, rather than a mutt. Mom eyed the dog curiously.
    “Why doesn’t he look like a poodle?”
    Dad hesitated.
    “Ummm, he will,” Dad stammered. “Give him some time, until his hair grows out, or his fur. He just needs one of those fancy haircuts and a few curlers in his hair. We’ll take