by Patricia Kay
Elise fisted her hands in her lap. The alarm had been replaced by anger, an anger so deep and so strong, she was trembling with the force of it. Why had Penny gone back to her husband? Why? He had refused to get help. He had done nothing to change his life. All he had done was cry and plead and promise he’d never hit Penny again. The same promise he’d made dozens of times before and never kept. And still Penny had gone back to him.
“Elise, I know you’re upset, but—”
“Yes, I’m upset! I talked and talked to her, Meg. I told her what was going to happen. Why didn’t she listen to me?”
Meg gave her a rueful smile. “For the same reason you didn’t listen when people tried to talk to you. You thought things would change. And you were afraid.”
“Yes, but I didn’t have someone like me as an example. I didn’t have a place like the shelter to fall back on. Penny does.” Elise ran her hands through her hair. “I keep thinking this is somehow my fault.”
“Now stop that! You can’t blame yourself. You did everything you could, but the choice was Penny’s to make. You know that.”
Elise sank back into the chair in wordless defeat. Yes. The choice was Penny’s to make. But why hadn’t she listened?
“I also told you not to get so personally involved, sweet pea,” Meg said kindly. “That soft heart of yours has got to be toughened up a little.”
“I know, but—”
“Penny reminded you of yourself, didn’t she?”
“Yes,” Elise whispered. But they all did. And Meg knew they all did.
“How many times have I told you that the work we do here is very like being a nurse or a doctor? You never want to lose your compassion, but you’ve got to stand back just far enough so that what happens to these women doesn’t affect you to the point you can’t function. When that happens, you’re no good to anyone.”
“I know.” But Penny. There had been something special about Penny; Elise had felt it the first time she’d met the waiflike young woman with the huge, frightened gray eyes. “I want to go see her.”
Meg sighed. “They’re not letting anyone but family see her right now. She’s on the critical list.”
“Family! You don’t mean her husband?”
“No, of course not. He’s in police custody.”
“For a minute there, I was afraid maybe he’d managed to get away with beating up Penny. After all, he’s done it before.”
“Yes,” Meg said, “but not this time. This time the next-door neighbor heard enough to tell the police exactly what happened. And the oldest boy corroborated what she said.” For the rest of the day, Elise thought about Penny and wondered if there had been anything else she could have done to prevent this latest episode. Intellectually she knew she’d done everything possible to help and counsel the other woman. Emotionally was another story.
By the time six o’clock and the end of her shift came, Elise had a pounding headache. She had planned to attend a lecture at the university that evening, and until she’d heard the news about Penny, she’d been anticipating it with pleasure. The campus had been buzzing lately about tonight’s lecturer, a Professor Devereaux. He’d arrived in mid-May—right before the summer session, which had begun the first week of June—on a year’s grant from the Acadian Society of America. Elise knew that the professor was a noted anthropologist who, while enjoying visiting professor status at USL, would study Cajun culture in Louisiana.
Tonight’s lecture on Cajun family life particularly interested her. Although she wasn’t an anthropology student, she had a keen interest in her roots and a growing appreciation for the values and moral fiber of the Cajun people.
Oh, shoot, she might as well go. If she went home, she’d just sit and think about Penny, and inevitably, about her own past. Going to the lecture would be a good way to take her mind off her sometimes depressing job and the always-depressing subject of abused women and children. She’d just grab a quick sandwich, take a couple of Advil to relieve her headache and head for Griffin Hall and the lecture.
At five minutes to seven, Elise gratefully sank into a seat in the last row of the lecture hall—one of the few seats still available. She glanced around. Good. The professor had drawn a nice crowd. Elise was pleased. She was proud of her school and wanted them to make a good showing.
The lecture hall hummed with conversation. Elise settled back in her seat and waited expectantly. She was glad she’d come.
A few minutes later the head of the sociology and anthropology department walked out to the podium. He welcomed everyone, then began reading an introduction of the speaker. “... highly acclaimed for his work... received his doctorate at Columbia University.. .we feel privileged to have Dr. Devereaux with us this coming year..
Elise half listened. She wasn’t really interested in credentials; she wanted to hear what the man had to say about her heritage.
“Let us please welcome Dr. Sloan Devereaux.”
Elise clapped along with everyone else as a tall man dressed in an olive-green jacket, khaki pants and an open-necked yellow shirt walked out and took over the podium. As he adjusted the microphone, Elise studied him. He was nothing like she’d expected. She’d pictured someone older, maybe in his sixties, with gray hair and spectacles. Someone scholarly looking, who perhaps wore a beard and crumpled, nondescript clothing.
This man was nothing like that. He appeared to be in his early forties, and he was tanned and good-looking, with thick brown hair worn a bit longer than the current style and a loose-limbed body that looked as if it belonged on the tennis court or ski slopes. As she watched he put on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, but rather than detracting from his appeal, they added to her overall impression of a casual sophistication.
He shuffled through his notes, cleared his throat and raised his face to look out at his audience.
Why, I know him! she thought with a jolt of surprise.
He was the man she’d been seeing in the park, she was sure of it. The man with the green eyes, as she had begun to think of him. The man who watched her so intently, yet covertly. The man she had pretended she didn’t notice. Flustered, she lost the drift of what he was saying and missed his opening remarks.
Settle down, she told herself. So he’s the man from the park. So what?
But she couldn’t help feeling a little unhinged by her discovery. And if she were being completely honest with herself, she’d admit that this man, with his dark intensity, had stirred something in her from the first time she’d noticed him.
Gradually, as he talked, she managed to put aside her personal awareness of him and became caught up in what he had to say. He had a pleasant speaking voice, crisp and authoritative, but low-pitched. With a nice flair for drama, he talked about the evolution of the Cajun family in America, covering areas Elise was already familiar with. Since discovering her father, she had done a lot of reading about Cajuns, wanting to understand him and the rest of her family.
Professor Devereaux moved from the early history of Cajuns to their eventual migration to Louisiana. He talked about their work, their traditions, their superstitions and their music. “The fais-dodo on Saturday night was the brightest spot in the week. Cajun men and women would toil in their homes and their fields all week long, but on Saturday night they would don their finest and head for the community dance hall.
“Many a courtship was conducted at the fais-dodo, and the rules for courting were strict, especially where the girls were concerned. A girl could accept a boy’s attention as long as she was inside the dance hall under the watchful eyes of her mother and father. Under no circumstances was she allowed to leave the dance hall without her mother. If she did, she couldn’t come back because her reputation had been tarnished. This rule was strictly enforced.” He smiled. “Many Cajuns regret that those old rules no longer apply.” Elise smiled, too. She was glad times had changed. Perhaps those old rules sounded romantic, but she liked the freedom of her life today.
The professor continued to
talk about the differences between how boys and girls in Cajun families had been treated in the early days. “It was normal and even expected that the boys would sow their wild oats, but the girls were expected to behave with propriety at all times, and from a very early age they were taught how to care for the household and family.” His voice took on an amused note. “This was, of course, in addition to their work in the cotton patch.”
He continued to describe early Cajun family life. “Although many things have changed over the years, some things have not. Cajuns have an expression—lache pas la patate, or don’t let go of the potato. Figuratively translated, that means ‘hang in there,’ or ‘fight for what you believe in.’ And one of the things they strongly believe is worth fighting for is family. In a recent survey of one hundred Cajun families, the Acadian Society found that without exception, all were very close, up to and including third and fourth cousins.”
Elise grinned. That was certainly true. She’d discovered so many cousins, she’d never keep them all straight. One of her cousins, Lianna, had now become her best friend. Elise’s mind wandered again as she thought about Lianna and how much she treasured their friendship. How Lianna’s cheerfulness and independence had been a welcome foil to the misery and helplessness Elise encountered in her work at the shelter.
“...but Cajun families are suffering the pressures of modern-day life just like other American families. The divorce rate is climbing. The family is no longer sacrosanct. The reasons are varied, of course, but there is a commonly held theory that the fabric of family life unravels in direct proportion to the number of women holding jobs outside the home.” He raised his eyes from his notes.
“Statistics show the decline of the American family began after World War II, when Rosie the Riveter found she liked playing a man’s role in society. That decline was accelerated in the sixties, during the birth of the women’s movement. All subsequent studies have indicated that women abandoning their traditional roles and heading into the work force in ever-increasing numbers has been the single most important contributing factor to the destruction of American family life.”
Elise frowned. She wasn’t sure she liked the turn his talk had taken. Wasn’t he kind of veering from his subject?
Dr. Devereaux cleared his throat and hesitated. “I know this won’t be a popular viewpoint with the women in the audience, but many theorists believe that until American families—and, of course, that includes Cajun families—are willing to put family welfare ahead of material concerns and until women are willing to once again consider their traditional roles of wife, mother and caretaker as important as they did in earlier decades, all families will be more and more at risk.”
Elise’s frown deepened. Didn’t the professor realize at least half the women in today’s work force worked because they had to?
“I’d like to quote directly from an article that appeared in The Family Journal several years ago. The article was written by Dr. Johan Freidberg, director of the American Family Council.” He picked up a piece of paper and began to read. “As the numbers of women in the work force increase, society will see a corresponding increase in incidents of alcoholism, drug dependency, child abuse, wife battering, depression and an overall breakdown of the family. Statistics show that although many women must work, many work by choice. These women want to have it all. No one can have it all. Something or someone must suffer. Unfortunately it is our children, our families, who are suffering.” He laid the paper on the podium.
Elise could feel the hairs on her arms rising. What was he saying? That if women didn’t work, all those social ills would disappear magically? That it was the fault of women that families had succumbed to the pressures of modern-day living? That women got beaten up because they had somehow failed their husbands? The unfairness of his statements infuriated her. What he had just said was so typical of the obtuseness of the male point of view. She was so tired of this kind of antiquated thinking.
She glared at the professor. Whether what he had read were his views or the views of the author of the article didn’t matter. Because of who and what Dr. Devereaux was, more importance would be attached to what he had just read. As far as Elise was concerned he was just as guilty as the unknown Dr. Freidberg.
The more she thought about Dr. Devereaux’s remarks, the more angry she became. Elise wasn’t the kind of person who enjoyed calling attention to herself—in fact, she rarely did—but at this moment she felt like leaping to her feet and challenging Dr. Devereaux, who made his statements so decisively and with such authority.
She didn’t, but only because she knew there would be a question-and-answer period at the end of his lecture. She could wait. For the remainder of the lecture, she fumed silently, hardly hearing the rest of his talk.
Finally the lecture was over.
After the applause died down, he removed his glasses, laying them on the podium. “Are there any questions?”
Elise stood. Before anyone else had a chance to say anything, she said, “Dr. Devereaux, I take exception to the conclusions you presented concerning the theory about why so many families today are dysfunctional.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”
The raised eyebrows acted like a lighted match thrown on dry wood.
“I’m shocked that any educated and thinking person can really believe all of our social ills are the fault of women.” She heard the quaver in her voice and fought to keep it steady. She would not become emotional.
“Uh... I don’t believe I said that, Miss... ?” He picked up his glasses and put them back on. Even though Elise was seated at the rear of the lecture hall, she could see him frown.
“Miss Cantrelle,” she said firmly. “And you did say that. I heard you, and I’m sure all the rest of the women in the audience heard you, too.”
There was a smattering of applause, which emboldened Elise. “I’m currently working in the area of family counseling, in particular with battered women, and I can tell you unequivocally that not only are you wrong in your conclusions... you’re dead wrong!” Elise clasped her hands in front of her to keep them from trembling. She was so angry she could feel herself shaking. “Your insinuation that if only these women had been more traditional, they might not have been battered—that it’s somehow their own fault they got beat up—is irresponsible and untrue, and I think you owe them—and us—an apology.”
She stared at him defiantly and waited.
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ALSO AVAILABLE for your Kindle, Patricia Kay’s first mainstream romance, WITH THIS RING. Here’s an excerpt:
Houston, Texas - Friday, October 28, 1992
Pregnant!
Amy Carpenter couldn't stop smiling. She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel in time to Bonnie Raitt's "Let's Give 'Em Something to Talk About" and grinned from ear to ear.
She knew she shouldn't be so happy. After all, this pregnancy was a bit premature since her wedding wasn't scheduled to take place until the start of her Christmas break—still eight weeks away.
But she didn't care. Joy, like champagne, bubbled inside, giddy and irrepressible. She felt like shouting from the rooftops.
And her parents! They would be thrilled. They wanted grandchildren more than just about anything. Of course, they would have preferred she wait until she was married—especially Amy's mother—but she didn't think the fact that she and Sam had jumped the gun would matter much in the end. It was the baby that was important.
A delicious shiver raised chill bumps on her arms as she thought of her fiancé. Sam. Oh, Sam, please be happy, too. She told herself he would be. He wanted kids, and even though he'd said "someday" the one time they'd discussed the subject, Amy didn't think he'd mind if that "someday" was sooner than they'd anticipated.
She wished she could call him and tell him immediately. Unfortunately, where Sam was, there were no phones. Amy would have to wait until she heard fr
om him again.
He'd originally expected to be back in Houston by now. Sam was a staff photographer for World of Nature magazine, and he'd thought this assignment to shoot the elusive snow leopards who made their home high up in the Himalayas would only take a couple of weeks, a month at the most. But the snow leopards had proven more elusive than ever, and Sam had been in Nepal more than two months already.
It might not be so bad if she could at least talk to him regularly, but he was in such a remote area that his base camp was a three-day hike, so she'd only talked to him twice since he'd been gone.
If Amy thought her married life would be like this—a long series of absences with no communication—she might not have been so eager to marry Sam, no matter how much she loved him. But he'd promised her he would do his best to avoid assignments that would keep him away longer than a week or two, and he had also promised he would take her along with him whenever he could.
Now that she was pregnant she wouldn't be able to travel with him as planned, at least not until the baby was old enough to go, too, but that was okay. The trade-off was worth it. She was going to be a mother.
A mother. Imagine.
Less than four months ago she'd despaired of ever finding the right man, and now she'd not only found him, but she was going to marry him over the Christmas holidays and have his baby in May. Some days she could hardly believe her good fortune.
She smiled contentedly, her momentary unease gone. As she braked for a red light, her big emerald engagement ring sparkled in the afternoon sunshine slanting through the windshield. Amy twisted her hand a little, admiring the rich color and fire of the stone, which was surrounded by tiny diamonds.
She loved the ring. It was so like Sam: out of the ordinary, a bit larger than life. She hated removing it, even to wash her hands.
She was still smiling as she pulled into the driveway of her parents' home, punched in the security code that would open the electronic gates, and drove around to the back of the property where she lived in an apartment over the garage.
