The Making of a Madam

By Patsyann Maloney

The Making of a Madam shares a tragic, yet ultimately victorious tale of one woman’s struggle to overcome a volatile father, poverty, sexual molestation, and life with a house full of siblings. Her struggles continue into adulthood as she makes ill conceived choices:

Accepted money for the use of her body at age eight,
Married five times,
Pregnant eight times in seven years,
Arrested for prostitution at age thirty-eight,
Madam of brothels in Cincinnati, Covington, and Newport,
Indicted by the FBI for violation of the Mann Act

The story of Patsyann Campbell-McCall-King-Thompson-Poon-Maloney’s life as a madam was formed by her unfortunate childhood. Her dismal life took a U-turn after she served time at the Federal Correctional Institution in Lexington, Kentucky.

The Making of a Madam introduces readers to a world of lasciviousness, greed, poverty, and corruption. Despite all the evil forces that worked against Patsyann Maloney, she triumphed. Her story gives hope to the most desolate and destitute.

Written in first-person narrative, the story examines a childhood that includes poverty, an abusive father, and an absent mother. Those experiences shaped her future and help explain the poor decisions and ill-conceived relationships that culminate in prostitution and a life as a madam.

The tragic events of the first two sections are balanced in the final section when Patsy discovers a spiritual existence. The happily-ever-after ending includes forgiveness, two reunions, and more than twenty-five years of living free from prostitution—not only of the body, but also of the mind and spirit.

Patsyann’s story teaches us that no matter how bad our childhood, we can choose to change the course of our destiny. We can rise above our circumstances and do something good with our lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patsyann Maloney
• Release date: Nov 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465855404

Patsyann Maloney

My writing credits include six books. My most recent, The Making of a Madam, tells the story of Patsyann Maloney who became a prostitute and eventually a madam in order to provide food for her children. The story leads the reader down some dark roads before Patsy finally finds her way home. Check out our online reviews.

Book preview

SECTION ONE: CHILD OF SHAME

Prologue: Bike Money

The first time I traded my body for money, I was eight years old. I made twenty-five cents that day. On that ill-omened occasion in 1946, it never occurred to me that what I was doing was an act of prostitution.

Growing up during the Second World War and the twelfth child in a family of fourteen, I knew what it meant to be poor. At times I didn’t have a decent pair of shoes, and in the summertime I went barefoot. With so many mouths to feed, we often went hungry. We didn’t have the necessities of life, let alone frivolous things like toys. So, when one of my older sisters, Vickie—short for Victoria—came home one day riding a bicycle, I was elated.

Where’d you get the bike? I asked.

From Mr. Zebar, she answered proudly.

Wow! He gave you a bike?

Not exactly.

Then how’d you get it? You borrow it?

I couldn’t believe my sister was riding a bike. Our father was thrifty. He had to be. Only eight years old, I didn’t understand why we didn’t have money to buy things like other families. My dad—we called him the Old Man, but never when he was within earshot—worked hard, but there was never enough money. I didn’t think to ask my father about our circumstances. He was the Old Man, and no one questioned him.

No, I didn’t borrow it, Vickie said.

Did you steal it? I didn’t think she had, but I was running out of possibilities.

I’m not a thief.

Then how’d you get it?

Vickie took her time before announcing proudly, I rented it.

I’d never heard of anyone renting a bicycle nor did I know what the word meant. I eyed her cautiously. Vickie must have seen my confusion because she explained, When you rent something, you give them some money and then it’s yours for the day.

Where’d you get the money? How much did it cost? Will you teach me to ride? The questions spilled out of my mouth like marbles rolling across a tile floor.

I rented it from the Zebars for twenty-five cents, she said. And, yes, I’ll teach you to ride. Then you can rent your own bike.

My sister was good to me. Being two years older but decades wiser, she helped me whenever she could, as if she were a young mother.

Good to her word, Vickie taught me to ride. It took a few days, but eventually I rode straight and true, just like Vickie. Because I was younger and short for my age, my feet barely reached the pedals. I wanted my own bike, one my size, so we didn’t have to share.

Where do you get quarters to rent the bikes? I asked. I knew she didn’t get the money from the Old Man. He would never part with that much money for a silly pastime like bike riding.

Do you know the blind man that lives on Snyder Street?

Fritzie? I asked.

As long as I could remember, blind Mr. Fritz had been a part of our community. He was a tall, big-boned man, easily six feet. His gray hair had tinges of black in it, and his hair line had retreated to the rear of his head. His thick gray eyebrows shaded deep-seated eyes.

I thought he was a construction worker. That seemed odd since he was blind, but he built things around his home—definitely a craftsman of some kind. Probably in his late fifties, his dark complexion, dirty bib overalls, and unfocused stare creeped me out.

What about him?

He gives me quarters to be nice to him. C’mon, let’s go see him. He’ll give you money too ‘cause he likes you.

All I have to do is be nice?

That’s all. He’s lonely, and he likes company.

I couldn’t believe my luck.

Let’s go. I want to rent my own bike, just like you.

We hoofed over to Mr. Fritz’s house. The excitement of the adventure kept me chattering until I reached the blind man’s yard.

This way, called Vickie. He wants us to come in the back. She led the way as I followed. I loved to go in through the back because Mr. Fritz had a grape arbor. Big juicy grapes hung from green stems, tempting us as we neared the door.

Want a grape? Vickie asked, as she picked several juicy ones and popped two into her mouth. She held out her hand and offered a couple to me.

Thanks, I said and gobbled the fruit.

Vickie knocked on the door. Even from the back porch the smell of heavy smoke permeated his home, but it wasn’t a tobacco smell. Mr. Fritz cooked on a coal-burning stove. He also heated his home with coal, and the aroma lingered all year long.

From within the house, melancholy music filled the air. When Mr. Fritz played his violin, the sound raised goose bumps on my arms and the nape of my neck. I wished the melody would never end, and I dreamed of a day when I could fill the air with the same heavenly sound.

Vickie seemed to pay little attention to the music. She rapped on the door until the violin quieted, and Mr. Fritz invited us in.

That was beautiful, I said as I entered the living room. He held the violin in his left hand while the bow rested on his lap. His unfocused eyes seemed to be peering at the ceiling behind and above us.

Who’s there? he asked.

It’s me, Vickie. And I brought my sister with me.

Which sister?

It’s Patsyann, I said. That was beautiful, Mr. Fritz.

He nodded. You like the violin?

Yes. A lot. It’s beautiful.

Mr. Fritz smiled and played a short refrain. The number was slow and sad, but rapturous.

Patsyann, he said after he finished and laid the instrument in his lap, would you like to play?

The music so enthralled me that I forgot about my mission.

Could I?

Sure. Come here and I’ll show you how.

I hurried across the living room and stood in front of him, waiting for him to hand me the instrument

Patsyann, if you've never played the violin before, it's easier—since I'm blind—if you sit on my lap so I can help you.

He held the violin and bow in one hand and patted his thigh—where he wanted me to sit—with the other.

I didn’t hesitate. I climbed onto his lap and sat with my back pressed against his chest.

First, you place the end of the violin under your chin, he said as he demonstrated the standard playing position. Carefully guiding my left hand, he showed me how to hold the violin under the instrument’s neck. He felt my face, located my chin, and then guided the violin so that it rested gently beneath my jaw.

In that moment, I felt all grown up—as if I were twelve, or even fourteen. This adventure far surpassed my hopes of renting a bicycle. I knew the room waited for me to fill it with heavenly music.

He handed me the bow. I held it by the end as instructed, and he wrapped his hand around mine. He glided the bow over the strings, changing its angle of attack to create different notes. Glorious music filled the air.

Now you try it, sweetie, he said.

He removed his hands from mine, and I shoved and yanked the bow, trying to imitate his movements. The instrument squeaked, squawked, and squealed, like the sound a cat makes when someone steps on its tail—only worse.

I didn’t care.

I thrilled at the experience and imagined the sound more lovely than a meadowlark’s song. When Vickie covered her ears and made a face as if she’d swallowed castor oil, I stuck out my tongue and ignored her, pretending not to notice when she left the room.

Because I was enthralled with the instrument, I paid little attention to the blind man’s movements. I didn’t notice that he laid his hands on my thighs. I didn’t notice, that is, until his hands took on a life of their own. At first I thought his movements were part of his handicap, like a nervous tic of some kind. But the activity spread and was obviously intentional. As I tried to master the violin, his hands caressed my thighs, crept toward the tender part of my inner thigh, and fondled me in my private place.

I lost interest in the violin. I was sickened. In my heart I knew his behavior was wrong, and I thought I was wrong to let him touch me. But he was big—and I was small. I respected and feared him as I did all adults. And he was blind.

I wiggled, squirmed, feigned boredom, slithered out of his grasp, and slid off his lap.

Thank you, Mr. Fritz, I said as I handed the violin and bow to him. I stood in front of him, uncertain as to what to do next.

I have something for you, he said.

I couldn’t imagine what, and I wasn’t sure I wanted anything he had to give. As he reached into his pocket, I heard the back door slam, and Vickie came back into the room. From the juice around her mouth, I could tell she had helped herself to more grapes.

Mr. Fritz pulled his hand from his pocket and held it out to me. When he opened it, two shiny quarters lay on his palm.

For you and Vickie, he said. Thank you for coming to visit me.

It didn’t take long for me to remember why I had come. He gives me quarters to be nice to him, Vickie had said. And now I knew what being nice meant. I wanted no part of it, but I didn’t mind taking his money. I had, after all, earned it. I allowed this old man to feel me—to touch me in places where, at the age of eight, no one should have touched.

I snatched the money, said a hasty good-bye, and left with Vickie. I didn’t say anything about what happened—not to my sister, Mom, the Old Man, or anyone. Not for years.

I don’t know if Mr. Fritz expected the same from Vickie. We never talked about it. That was her business. Not mine.

The impact of what happened faded after I ran out the door and headed toward the Zebar home. I couldn’t wait to rent a bike of my own, and since I had Vickie’s quarter, too, we would each have our own. I could have one just my size.

I should have stayed away from Mr. Fritz’s house after that day, but Vickie and I went back for more quarters. I never allowed him to touch me again—always kept my distance—but Vickie spent time with him and he rewarded her.

At times he invited me to play the violin, and I would, but never on his lap. On other occasions he invited me into his bedroom, asking me to lie with him, but I refused.

While Vickie spent time with Mr. Fritz, I played on his other instruments. Besides the violin, he also owned a piano and an accordion. I never asked my sister what happened when she was with Mr. Fritz. I didn’t want to know.

For two years, Vickie and I visited blind man Fritz, and for two years he paid Vickie in quarters. No wonder he wanted us to come through the back door. If someone had seen us visiting him, or caught Vickie with him, the course of our lives would have shifted drastically. But no one saw, and had we not moved away after two summers, I wonder how long it would have continued.

That event stands out as a pivotal moment in my mind, one that shaped my future. I learned that a man would pay money for the use of my body. I also learned to keep my mouth shut—a skill that would later be known as discretion.

I wish I could say it was the last time I was molested in my childhood—or that it was the first incident—but it wasn’t. The first time a man touched me, I was six years old. But with everything that happened when I was six, that episode became one in a series of life-changing events.

Chapter 1: Poverty’s Child

If it were possible for a house to hide from the world, I grew up in that house. Our four bedroom, two-story home sat obscured from view among unkempt fields, rock walls overgrown with weeds, a decaying barn, a dilapidated shed, wild berry bushes, and wooded areas. Only the upper section of the house could be seen from the road.

The feeling of isolation was furthered due to a lane that connected with a dirt road that weaved down a slight grade for a quarter mile. When it rained, the roads formed deep ruts and unearthed large rocks. An inattentive driver would do serious damage to his car, if he weren’t careful. Most drivers stayed in the center of the road unless a car approached.

Taking the dirt road to the right led to Route 29. That two-lane paved road, our umbilical cord to civilization, snaked its way to the small town of Perkiomenville, (pronounced perky-omen-ville) Pennsylvania. Every small town should be blessed with a quaint name like Perkiomenville. The name flows off the tongue much like Mercurochrome. As a child, it tickled my tongue whenever I said it. Being the center of nowhere and home to no one of notoriety, the town’s name—though fun to say—was about all the place had going for it.

The people who lived in and around Perkiomenville were embarrassed by their community. Considered behind the times by city people, we were looked down upon and called country bumpkins and hicks. My older siblings especially hated their place of residence. Because most of the people from these small farming towns ended their education around the eighth grade, the label of ignorant farm hicks was hard to shake.

Our home was constructed of stones carried from a shallow creek and field rocks cleared to make way for crops. Those stones created walls so thick an adult could park their butt inside a windowsill. My favorite spot in the house was inside the windowsill in the dining room. From there, I could watch the activity outside.

White plaster covered the stone and mortar mix, but did not altogether hide the gray stones. The roof was tin, but lacked rain gutters. During a light rain it sounded as if angels were tapping on the ceiling. When heavy rains came, it sounded as if thieves were hammering the roof, trying to break in.

That indestructible house was home to my childhood hopes. If its strength and protection had included what lay inside that mammoth structure, my growing-up years would have been different.

Long before the Campbell family occupied the grounds, the house had been part of a thirty-eight acre farm. Built before electricity and running water were commonplace, it hunkered down among remnants of a failed farming attempt. Evidence of that fact lay strewn around the property: a water pump, an outhouse, and an old cistern overgrown by a Swiss pine tree. An ancient barn also gave evidence of the farm’s former glory. Built on top of a natural slope, the two story structure could be accessed from both sides, allowing a tractor to be stored on top or bottom floors. The loft had held feed hay, and the first floor contained stalls for cattle, horses, and pigs. But no farm animals lived in the barn while our family managed the property. In fact, the only dangerous beast on the property lived in our home and slept with my mother.

Childhood should be an idyllic time in one’s life, but in the sixteen-member Campbell family, things were nightmarish—not dreamlike.

Still, not everything in the 1940s was bad. Children tend to make the most of life no matter their circumstances, and I was no different. Happy memories of those years abound, especially moments shared with my sister Victoria.

Vickie was two years older and two lifetimes smarter. When I had questions, she had answers. Because of our family size, individual attention from the Old Man or my mother rarely happened. Vickie played the role of buddy, teacher, and surrogate mother.

The wide age spread among my siblings made older brothers and sisters feel more like aunts and uncles. Not Vickie. We played together, worked together, attended school together, slept together, and got into trouble together. Life in rural Perkiomenville would have been drudgery had it not been for Vickie.

* * *

Patsyann, wake up, sleepy head.

Vickie straddled my six-year-old body on her hands and knees as she yelled into my ear.

Leave me alone, I said, as I pulled the covers over my head. I don’t wanna. It’s too early.

Come on, she said, yanking the covers off, flinging them to the floor. I’m hungry and there’s nothing to eat.

I buried my head deeper in my feather pillow and shut my eyes tightly. There’s bread in the breadbox, I said into my pillow.

No there’s not. We ate it last night, and if the Old Man finds out we got into the sugar again, we’ll be in for it.

The government rationed sugar because of World War II, and, because each family was only allotted a meager amount, the Old Man tracked what was used.

I raised my head from the pillow as I remembered our clandestine meeting the night before. With nothing to eat in the house except bread, mayonnaise, and sugar, we’d made ourselves mayonnaise and sugar sandwiches. We weren’t supposed to touch the sugar, but we didn’t think he’d find out if we only used a little. Unfortunately, a little bit turned into a lot.

Tilting the sugar bowl over the bread and giggling at our stealth, the sugar piled onto the bread before we realized how fast it poured. Being in the dark made it more difficult, but lighting a kerosene lamp posed too great a risk of discovery. We scraped off as much of the excess sugar as we could and put it back into the bowl, but too much of it had soaked into the mayonnaise. Still, we ate the sandwiches, laughed quietly so as not to wake anyone, and went to bed with satisfied tummies.

Fully awake now, I scrambled out of bed. Vickie was right. If Dad found out we’d used the sugar, we’d be in trouble. But if we took care of our chores and kept quiet and out of sight, he might let us slide with just a verbal attack. I sprang from the bed and looked for my clothes. They lay in a disheveled heap on top of the bedpost where I’d flung them the night before.

I grabbed the red and green plaid shirt-dress and pulled it over my pink panties and undershirt. My grandma made our underclothes from scraps of material she bought by the box load. On the floor next to the head of the bed lay my makeshift bottle, a coke bottle with a rubber nipple stretched over the end. The white remains of fresh-from-the-cow milk coated the sides. One of my older sisters, Ellie, Lilly, or Esther—I’m not sure which one—went to the back porch in the middle of the night to fetch the bottle from the icebox.

I liked sleeping with my three older sisters because they slept in a feather bed. Even though four of us slept together in one double bed, we didn’t feel crowded. Being short and undernourished, I was six but looked four. And my sisters were small, too, as they say, skin and bones.

I knew how to manipulate my sisters, so when I wanted a bottle, I cried. I knew one of them would get it for me because they didn’t want me to wake the Old Man. He’d be furious, and someone would pay.

Where are my shoes? I said.

Wherever you left them. I wasn’t here when you kicked them off, so how would I know?

Look under the bed, I ordered. Vickie frowned but fell on her hands and knees. She recovered them, stood, and handed them to me.

There. Now hurry up and let’s go. Everyone is up.

Where’s the Old Man?

Hunting. I think. At least I hope so or we won’t have anything to eat.

I sat on the floor and spread my black, high-top, lace-up shoe open and looked inside.

The cardboard’s gone, I said as I held the shoe to my face and stared through the sole. Vickie laughed. I knew she would, because she had taught me that game with her own shoes. Holding the shoe to her face and staring at me through the hole that had worn through the bottom, her eye was framed by the shoe, and it looked as if the shoe were staring at me. I held the shoe to my other eye and she giggled again.

Setting the shoe down, I poked my head under the bed. On the floor lay the cardboard inserts we had cut out a week before to help protect the bottom of my feet from mud, rocks, wild berry bushes, and anything else that might puncture my toughened skin. Modern shoes were low-cut and came in a variety of colors. Our family didn’t have money for modern shoes, so the Old Man would go to the auction and bid on a box of shoes. We never knew if any of them would fit, but we knew one thing for sure, they would not be fashionable. Instead, they would be high-top-lace-up shoes—black or dark brown. I didn’t mind so much, but my teenage sisters hated them.

Hurry, said Vickie. Let’s get the wood, and then we can play.

As I finished lacing my shoes, Vickie loped to the circular stairs and clomped down the oak treads to the first floor. I raced to catch her.

Wait, I yelled. But she was already opening the backdoor.

Hurry up! she yelled back.

What’s the hurry? asked Lilly, as she swept the kitchen floor.

I overslept and we have to get wood, I said.

Okay. But when you get back, will you get some water?

Sure, I said as I banged open the door. Lilly, the most tenderhearted of my family, seldom made requests. When she did I always tried to please her.

I rushed to catch Vickie. Cold air filled my lungs as the morning sun lapped up the dew. Shivering, I stopped running when I caught up with her and began skipping. I skipped past Vickie and forced her to jog to catch me. The quick pace warmed my body, and we quickly reached the woods.

Every weekend morning my father expected—demanded, actually—that I bring home enough wood to cook with. Because of school, Vickie was excused, but on weekends and during summer break, she had to help.

Lilly said she wants us to get water, I said. I’ll pump.

You’re too short. It’ll take all day.

I called it first.

Vickie shook her head and decided to change the subject.

Did you hear the fight last night?

What fight?

Patsyann, I swear you can sleep through anything. The Old Man was at it again.

With Mom?

Yes.

Is she all right?

The last time they fought, the Old Man threw a quart milk bottle at her. The heavy bottle narrowly missed cracking Mom’s skull. Instead, it cracked the plaster wall and thudded unbroken to the floor. My father’s only concern seemed to be how close the bottle came to his precious china closet. Had that been damaged, his tirade would have escalated to death-threatening proportions, as it did once with my sister, Jeanette.

I dunno. I didn’t see her this morning. We’ll check when we get back.

Mother’s absence wasn’t unusual. She often left the Old Man, only to return in a few days or weeks.

I hate hauling wood. Let’s run away and never come back. As usual, Vickie ignored my suggestion.

Having arrived at the woods, we searched for broken tree limbs light enough to drag to the shed. I spotted a fallen branch and picked it up, checking its weight and strength. Older branches broke easily and burned at a moderate pace. Fresh branches required cutting with an ax, a chore my father did in his spare time.

Vickie selected her own branch, and we dragged them to the shed. Placing the end of the branch on top of an old stump, I jumped onto the middle of the limb. It snapped and I barely felt the pressure against the cardboard in my shoe. Toughened by going barefoot most of the time, my soles were as thick as a baseball glove—except gloves smelled better. I continued the jumping and breaking until all the pieces would fit into the cook stove, and then Vickie repeated the process using the same tree stump.

You wanna get the water now, or finish gathering wood? I asked.

Let’s finish the wood. We’ll get the boring job done and then we can reward ourselves by pumping water. After that we’ll have the rest of the day to play.

I’m hungry. What are we gonna eat?

After we finish getting the wood, let’s go over to the Bantels. I bet they’ll give us something.

The Bantels, a childless German couple who owned the farm adjacent to ours, often fed us when we helped with their chores. In contrast to our property, the Bantel place was a textbook example of a well-kept farm. On occasion, Mrs. Bantel made cinnamon buns. I’ve never found anything that compares with the taste and aroma of Mrs. Bantel’s fresh-from-the oven cinnamon buns sprinkled with walnuts.

But I’m hungry now. I don’t want to wait. By the time we finish our chores and help them, I’ll be dead of starvation. I tried to look as pitiful as I could, but Vickie didn’t buy it.

You’ll live. We’ll check the strawberries before we leave.

No one tended the strawberry patch, but at one time a previous owner must have planted and maintained them because we had hundreds of strawberry plants. When they