CHAPTER 8

 

Baltimore, Maryland: April 3, 1942

Marie Dameski was sixteen years old. She was poor, not particularly bright, and the only child of a widower father who drank. However, she had several things going for her – she was extraordinarily good looking and she had a great body. With it she was able to get any boy she wanted, and she wanted them all. There was a lot smoke, but no fire, none that is until Jack Curran came along and lit the flame.

Jack was the neighborhood Errol Flynn. He was a hard-drinking Irish youth whose sexual appetite was well known. Marie’s father had forbidden her from seeing the boy and even threatened to throw his daughter out if she ever so much as spoke to him.

Right now, it was the sixteen-year old girl’s mind, not her body, which was working overtime as she shifted her firm buttocks against the rough, uncomfortable back seat of Jack’s 1936 Ford sedan. The two of them had been seeing each other on the sly for almost a month. So far, Marie had been able to hold off Jack’s advances with promises and excuses, but it was becoming more difficult. She found herself trying half-heartedly not to become another of Jack’s conquests, just as her father had predicted she would be.

Jack Curran’s breath reeked of cigarettes and whiskey as he pleaded in Marie’s ear, “Come on, Marie. Let me do it. You know you’ll like it.”

“What if I get pregnant?” She knew her father would throw her out if she did. She couldn’t take a chance.

“Marie, come on. You know I love you.” He quickly added, “We’ll even get married if we have to.”

Maybe he really would marry her. Maybe at last she could get away from her crude, abusive father. She lay trapped beneath Jack’s sweaty body, her skirt around her ankles. Her blouse was unbuttoned, and her head was spinning from too much whiskey. Jack rubbed her thigh with his callused hand, and she thought of her father, who often touched her like this when he returned home after drinking all night. Her cheeks flushed even further. She felt an overpowering tingling between her legs, and her resolve weakened. It would serve her father right if she got herself knocked up. She relaxed for a second and Jack took this as a sign of encouragement. Soon there was no turning back, and the awkward coupling had taken place.

Afterward, Marie popped several Sen-Sen tablets into her mouth in an effort to mask the scent of the liquor on her breath. Jack drove her home. He pulled the Ford to the curb, a half block short of the rundown tenement on Quincy Street, and reached over and pulled the girl toward him. She allowed herself to be cuddled. They sat like that until Jack broke the uneasy silence.

“Marie, I gotta tell you something.”

The girl swallowed hard and felt her lips grow dry. “What is it, Jack?”

“I got my notice today.”

Marie shut her eyes and covered her ears with her small, slender hands. The war was heating up and she understood the significance of what Jack had told her. She did not want to hear anymore.

“ I gotta get goin’,” she said.

“Marie,” said Jack. “Did ya hear what I said?”

The young girl shook her head up and down, tears coursing down her cheeks.

“I’m leavin’ a week from tomorrow.” Then, he added, “I want ya to marry me.”

Marie was shocked. She liked Jack a lot, was crazy about him, in fact. But marriage, well that was something she really had not been ready for—not yet, anyway. Jack gripped her arms firmly and repeated his awkward proposal.

“Marie? Did ya’ hear me? I said I want ya’ to marry me. Please?”

Gradually, the girl regained her composure. She loosened her boyfriend’s hold on her arms and turned to face him. With a deep breath, she gave him her answer. “Do you really think I’m gonna marry you and then watch you go off and get yourself killed?”

Jack winced. The image of himself being blown to smithereens overwhelmed him.

“I don’t think so!” continued the girl. “Thanks a lot! Thanks for nothin’!”

Rebuffed, Jack replied, “Hey, fine. I don’t give a shit. I’m only tryin’ to do the right thing, you know. I mean…Hell, I’d marry ya’ …I mean, if you really wanted me to...”

“Look, just take me home, okay?” said Marie.

“Sure, fine, whatever you say,” he answered, the relief evident in his voice.

Jack put the car into gear and advanced the remaining half block to Marie’s apartment house. Before the vehicle had rolled to a complete stop, Marie was out the door and up the stairs into the hallway of the tenement. The apartment was dark as Marie closed the heavy door quietly behind her. The smell of her father’s breath arrived along with the first punch, which caught her completely by surprise. She put up her hands in meek self-defense. After that, it didn’t matter.

Marie and Jack were married the following day. After the brief civil ceremony, they moved into a furnished apartment. Six days later Jack went off to fight the Japanese. Marie was left to fend for herself. At first, she enjoyed the change. Living on her own was sort of fun, and, with World War II in full bloom work was easy to find. Marie got a menial job on an assembly line making hand grenades in a defense plant, where she earned more than enough to pay for her room and board. Her father, relieved to be free of the responsibility, never bothered her again.

After seven weeks, Marie’s worst fears were realized. She visited an outpatient clinic, and confirmed that she was pregnant. She continued to work right up until her eighth month, but was finally forced to quit when her swollen belly would no longer allow her to sit at the assembly line. On December 31, 1942, exactly two-hundred and seventy-two days after her initiation into womanhood in the back seat of Jack Curran’s Ford, Marie gave birth to John Curran, Jr. Happy New Year!

 

From the start, Marie hated motherhood and her baby. He cried from morning to night, never giving her a minute’s rest. Most of all, she hated feeding him. Her breasts ached continually; heavily swollen with milk, their weight was a constant reminder of her unwanted offspring and his absent father. She would tease the hungry baby by holding his mouth an inch or so away from her distended nipple. Then she would watch with fascination as his little lips sucked voraciously at thin air. His arms would wave frantically until she finally allowed him to partake of the watery milk—and only then to alleviate her own discomfort.

 

In March, she received a telegram informing her of Jack’s death in the South Pacific. There would be some insurance money, said the communiqué, and a monthly support check. Good riddance, she thought. Now if she could only get rid of the kid.