by Leslie Meier
“Hi, Sara. I need to ask a big favor. I’ve got an interview at three o’clock so could you please be home by three-thirty to meet Patrick’s school bus. I don’t want him left alone, so if you can’t make it, send me a text, okay. Thanks.”
Somewhat uneasy, Lucy buckled down and wrote up an account of the selectmen’s meeting, and another including the finance committee’s projected town budget. At ten to three she checked her phone and found no message from Sara, so she packed up and left the office to go to the police station across the street.
Sally met her in the anteroom, where the dispatcher sat behind a solid sheet of thick plexiglass and communicated to visitors through a speaker system.
“I thought I’d greet you myself,” said Sally. “The station isn’t very welcoming.”
“Better safe than sorry,” said Lucy, giving the dispatcher a smile and a wave. It was Jodie Kirwan, a young member of the Kirwan clan that filled most of the jobs in the town’s fire and police departments. Lucy had seen Jodie at the soccer field, cheering on her son Angus, who was on Patrick’s team.
Sally led her into a conference room, where they took seats at the end of the long table. Lucy was quick to thank Sally for making time to see her.
“No problem, Lucy. I’m glad you’re doing this story. Family violence is on the uptick; families are under so much pressure these days. Wage stagnation’s a big part of it; a lot of folks are working two or three jobs and they’re not quite making enough to pay all the bills. All it takes is a broken-down car or an emergency room visit, and they’re thrown into a tailspin. Then you throw in opioid addiction and mental health issues, it’s a toxic mess, and it’s usually the wife or the kids who pay the price.”
“So what’s the department doing? What services are available?” asked Lucy.
“First of all is education. I spend a lot of time speaking at the high school, and for all sorts of groups: schools, church groups, clubs, organizations. A lot of people, kids especially, don’t recognize abuse for what it is. They think it’s okay if Dad loses his temper once in a while, or a young woman thinks it’s a sign of affection when her boyfriend wants to keep her all to himself and discourages outside relationships. There’s a misconception that it’s only abuse if the victim is physically injured, but there’s also emotional abuse that’s every bit as damaging.
“Secondly, I’m working with the other officers in the department to set up protocols for dealing with victims and abusers. There’s been a lot of focus on supporting victims of rape, and that’s important, but other victims need support, too. We’re developing ways of intervening in domestic situations that de-escalate the event, we’re starting to rethink some of our approaches to the accused abusers, too.
“And finally, we’re partnering with other towns in the county to establish a shelter for victims of abuse. Up ’til now the best we’ve been able to do is advise victims to get restraining orders or to move in with relatives, which sometimes only makes things worse. This shelter will provide protection for abuse victims, provide meals and comfortable accommodations for women and their children, and will offer counseling and legal assistance. We hope to have it up and running by the new year.”
“That sounds great,” said Lucy. “One last question: What should a person do if they suspect someone, a neighbor or relative perhaps, is being abused? Should they report it to the police?”
“That’s a tough one,” replied Sally, as Lucy felt her phone vibrating in her pocket, announcing an incoming text. “Making a police report about someone, whether it’s a neighbor or relative, is really a last resort. It’s preferable to reach out to the victim in an unthreatening, non-confrontational way to let them know that help is available. And they need to know that this is a process; it can be very difficult for a victim to overcome denial and recognize what’s really going on. It’s important to remember that victims may love their abusers, in spite of the abuse, and they may not want to get the abuser in trouble.”
“Wow, I hadn’t thought of that,” said Lucy, pulling her phone out and discovering that Sara had sent her a text. Sorry, I’ve got a meeting.
Lucy checked her watch: three twenty-five. “Oh, gosh, I’ve got to run. School bus.”
“Give me a minute. I’ve got some information for you, I’ve just got to pull it out.”
“Can’t,” said Lucy, her heart beating furiously. “My daughter let me down and I’ve got to get home to meet the school bus.”
“No problem. I’ll drop it at the Pennysaver on my way home,” said Sally.
Lucy was overcome with gratitude. “Thanks a million,” she yelled over her shoulder. Then she was through the door, down the hall, out to the sidewalk, and dashing across the street to her car. “Please, please, be late today,” she prayed, as she slapped on the turn signal and pulled out onto Main Street.
She was lucky and just hit the town’s single traffic light on orange, sailing beneath as it switched to red. Then seeing that the highway was clear she merely tapped the brakes at the stop sign and zoomed ahead, cruising along at ten miles above the speed limit. Ten was okay, right? She wouldn’t get stopped for ten; people did it all the time. And she knew all the cops; they’d understand that she was in a hurry to get home for Patrick.
It was three thirty-five when she reached the cutoff for Red Top Road, but that was only minutes from the house. She whizzed round the curve, braking as little as possible, until she spotted the huge dump truck that was laboring up the hill and slammed them on, causing the SUV to shimmy. This was going to take forever, she realized, noticing that the dump truck was only going eight miles per hour. Could she pass? She pulled out to get a peek and was almost creamed by a pickup truck; passing was clearly not an option on the winding, hilly road.
She was growing frantic at the slow pace, hoping against hope that the school bus was late today. There was a new policy requiring that all students under ten years of age be met by an approved adult at the bus stop, or the driver was not to let them off. They would be returned to the school until an approved adult could pick them up, and the incident would be reported to the child welfare authorities for review.
She could just imagine Molly’s reaction if that happened. And of course it would have to be included in the weekly police report that was the Pennysaver’s most popular feature. “Spare me,” moaned Lucy, as the truck finally made it over the hump at the top of Red Top Road. From there Lucy had a clear view of her house, and the school bus that was approaching from the opposite side of the road. The yellow lights were flashing; it was almost at her driveway. They switched to red, and Lucy pulled into the oncoming lane and approached it, with her own hazard lights on. Reaching her driveway she pulled in, braked, and got out of the SUV.
The doors of the bus opened, and Patrick stepped out. “Close call,” said the driver, Nancy Sullivan, with an amused smile.
“I was terrified you wouldn’t let him off,” she said, taking Patrick’s backpack.
“How long have I been driving this route?” asked Nancy.
“Like forever,” said Lucy, remembering Toby’s first day of school, and how anxious she’d been when he boarded the big yellow bus.
“I know there’s a reason for that new policy, but I intend to use my judgment. I knew you’d be home soon. And Patrick’s a good kid; he wouldn’t get himself into trouble.”
For the second time that day Lucy felt a surge of gratitude. “Thanks. Thanks for trusting me.”
“No problem.” The doors closed, and the bus went on its way.
“So, Patrick, how was school?”
“Okay,” he said, as they walked to the house. “And I have a project. It’s for the whole family to do. We’re supposed to make up a Halloween board game. That’ll be fun, won’t it?”
“Tons,” said Lucy, who didn’t think it would be fun at all.
Chapter Six
“So when is this project due?” asked Lucy, as they climbed the porch steps.
“For the class
Halloween party, on Halloween, of course.” Patrick’s tone implied she really ought to be aware of this bit of information.
Lucy wasn’t about to defend herself to an eight-year-old. “Do you have any ideas for this game?” she asked, opening the kitchen door.
“Oh, yeah!” he replied, shrugging out of his jacket and dropping it on the floor, and then kicking off his shoes. “There’ll be monsters and witches and vampires.”
“Sounds great,” said Lucy, pointing to the jacket and shoes.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, quickly scooping them up. He dropped the shoes in the basket on the floor by the door and hung his jacket on one of the low coat hooks, which Bill had installed at child height years ago for their own brood.
He sat at the kitchen table, waiting for his snack, while Lucy flipped through the papers in his folder. She found several worksheets for homework, and an orange-colored sheet enthusiastically announcing the game contest as a “fun family project.” What exactly did that mean? she wondered. So, all of a sudden, was it okay for parents to help with projects? Was it expected?
She poured a glass of milk, filled a plate with several chocolate-chip cookies, and sat down opposite him. “How about something based on Chutes and Ladders?” she suggested.
Patrick took a cookie. “That’s boring.”
“You could make it three-dimensional, with pop-up stairs. . . .” Despite her initial resistance, she was becoming somewhat interested in the project.
“And hidden rooms!” he added, giving her a clear view of his chocolate-chip-filled mouth.
“We’ll work on it later,” she said, presenting him with the math sheet. “But first, fractions.”
Patrick took a big swallow of milk, and took another cookie, fortifying himself for the ordeal.
Lucy was watching her weight, but halfway through the sheet of math problems she found herself nibbling on a cookie. It was frustrating, and boring, to try to help Patrick understand the concepts that seemed so obvious to her. It seemed ridiculous to have to keep explaining about halves and quarters and thirds over and over. Why couldn’t he remember?
And while part of her brain was occupied with fractions, another part was fretting about Heather Moon. Officer Sally had given her good advice about reaching out in a friendly, non-threatening way, but it was hard to see exactly how she could do that. Visitors certainly weren’t encouraged at the house, and whenever she had encountered Heather she hadn’t seemed eager to chat. In fact, thought Lucy, the couple had resisted any and all neighborly efforts to welcome them.
Patrick was done with homework and was watching TV when Bill came home. Lucy was bent over double, plucking silverware from the little slots in the dishwasher’s silverware rack, and he grabbed her by her hips and pressed himself against her bottom. She responded by twisting around and waving a serving spoon in his face.
“Is that any way to greet a man when he comes home from a hard day’s work?” he grumbled, opening the fridge and grabbing a beer.
“You took me by surprise when you grabbed me from behind,” she said, glaring at him. “Is that any way to treat a person? I’m not just here for your pleasure, you know.”
“I sure do know,” said Bill, giving her a meaningful look. “There hasn’t been much pleasure around here at all. You’re always too tired, or have a headache, or have to run a load of wash or pack a lunch for Patrick. . . .”
“Uh, yeah,” said Lucy. “I do have to do all those things, and more, and it does make me tired and sometimes, most of the time, I’ve got a headache.”
“Well, maybe you should see the doctor,” suggested Bill, popping the tab on his beer.
“Well, I would, if I could find a spare minute, but I seem to spend an awful lot of time at the soccer field,” countered Lucy, ripping open a package of pork chops. She grabbed a black cast-iron skillet from its hook and slammed it onto the stove, twisting the knob and lighting the burner. “It would be a big help to me if you could take over soccer duty, at least some of the time.”
Bill took a long swallow of beer. “Gee, Lucy, I wish I could, but I’m really stretched to the limit finishing up this addition by Thanksgiving.”
Lucy sighed. “Well, Patrick has to make a Halloween board game for a school project; it’s supposed to be a family fun project. Maybe you could help him with it? Sort of a spooky three-D version of Chutes and Ladders. You’re clever with your hands, and I really don’t want him using a box cutter without supervision.”
“No can do, Lucy. I’ve got to work on some plans tonight and call some subs, and the Celtics are playing the Nuggets. . . .”
Lucy considered pointing out that he could DVR the basketball game to watch later while she shook some Tater Tots onto a pan and shoved them into the oven, but decided it wasn’t worth the fight. She needed to save her energy. She knew from past experience that she’d be wrestling with cardboard, folding construction paper into stairs, and cutting out ghosts and goblins late into the night.
* * *
“Rough night?” asked Phyllis by way of greeting when Lucy got to work on Wednesday morning.
“School project,” said Lucy, yawning.
“Those are the worst,” agreed Phyllis. While she and her husband, Wilf, had married late in life and didn’t have any children of their own, the couple had recently taken in their niece Elfrida’s brood when she had been wrongly accused of murder. Elfrida had eventually been cleared of all charges, but Wilf and Phyllis were still recovering emotionally from the experience of caring for five kids.
“Officer Sally dropped this off for you,” said Phyllis, handing her a manila envelope. Opening it, Lucy found it contained the promised information about abusive relationships. Fueled by coffee, she quickly wrapped up that story and went on to recap a couple of meetings, wrote up the Town Hall News roundup, and came up with some clever headlines and captions for her Halloween photos.
“Good work, Lucy,” said Ted, offering her a rare word of praise when he pressed send and shipped the paper off to the printer a few minutes shy of the noon deadline. “Your interview with Officer Sally was really fine. Her passion for her job really came through. She really wants to make a difference.”
“The statistics were shocking,” said Lucy. “I had no idea it was such a big problem because the police don’t list domestic incidents in their weekly log for the paper. They say it’s because of their policy to protect the victim’s privacy.”
“Maybe this will make more people aware of what’s going on, and if they suspect a neighbor is being abused they will reach out,” said Phyllis. “I know I wish I’d done more when Elfrida was with Angie’s father. She only told me about it after he got killed in that motorcycle accident.”
“It’s hard to know what to do if all you’ve got is a feeling that something isn’t quite right,” agreed Lucy, thinking of Heather Moon.
“The neighbors even called and told me they were always fighting; there were raised voices and curses. . . .”
Lucy thought of the noises the neighborhood kids had reported hearing from the Moons’ house, and how Heather seemed to be controlled by her husband. Impulsively, thinking she’d give it a shot, she called directory assistance and, much to her surprise since landlines were going the way of the dodo, was given a phone number for the Moons. Sensing that she might be on a roll, she dialed it, but only got voice mail. The voice inviting her to leave a message was the standard one that came with phone service; the Moons hadn’t bothered to make their own personal recording.
Lucy was tired and had a small headache when she left the office, and considered using her free afternoon to take a nap. But if she went home, she knew she’d end up doing laundry and scrubbing the bathtub and most probably putting the finishing touches on Patrick’s family fun project. Then there was grocery shopping; it seemed that even if she shopped every day she couldn’t satisfy Patrick’s enormous appetite. Come to think of appetites, she realized she was hungry. Really hungry, which was probably why she had that
headache. She hadn’t had time for breakfast; so far today she’d had nothing but black coffee, and lots of it.
Lunch, she decided, was what she needed. And why not treat herself to a quarter-pounder and a shake at McDonald’s? Maybe even with fries. She really shouldn’t, but she knew she was going to. She deserved a break, she thought to herself, looking forward to enjoying a guilty, high-calorie, pleasure. She was zipping along School Street, on her way to McDonald’s when the Moon house loomed into sight.
Everything people said was true, she thought, slowing the car. No improvements had been attempted. If anything, the house looked worse than ever since it now had a pile of soggy moving cartons left in the driveway, as well as a few pieces of unwanted furniture: a broken chair, a bulky old TV, and a coffee table with a cracked glass top. There was also a pair of brand-new plastic garbage cans in front of the dilapidated old garage. Sometimes, she knew, it came as a surprise to newcomers to learn that the town did not provide trash pick-up service. Residents were expected to take their trash to the disposal area themselves, and woe to those who didn’t separate cans from glass bottles, or mixed magazines in with their newspapers. Someone ought to tell them that those cartons and bits of furniture would not be collected anytime soon.
Now that she thought about it, maybe she should be that someone. It would be a good excuse for stopping by the house, and maybe she could even drop off one of Officer Sally’s pamphlets. Or even better, she thought, maybe she could invite Heather to join her for lunch at McDonald’s.
By now she’d stopped the car and pulled up to the curb, a few feet from the Moons’ driveway. Maybe it was kind of pathetic, inviting someone to lunch at McDonald’s. The Moons had lived in Portland, known for its foodie scene, where every block had a trendy restaurant or a microbrewery. Maybe she should suggest the diner down the road, known far and wide for its walnut pie? Or maybe she should just feel out the situation and see what happened?
