by Nancy Geary
They were silent. Even so, Frances felt comfortable. They often spent time together without speaking. They could read, sit in front of the fire with their own thoughts, or work in her garden without a word passing between them, but she never felt isolated or alone. Sam managed to put her at ease with his ability to share in her privacy.
“How does vegetarian chili sound for dinner?”
“Is that my only choice?”
Sam laughed. “Aren’t we getting picky? I’ll see if I can come up with something else.”
“Thanks. See you tonight.”
“I love you,” Sam added just before the line went dead.
Frances smiled to herself as she caught his words. Her romance with her widower neighbor had evolved after seven years of friendship, weekly Wednesday night bingo games, and many hours of gardening. Two misfits, perhaps, but they had a mutual adoration and a shared affection for her two dogs and a reclusive life. The small-town quietness of Orient on the North Fork of Long Island suited them both.
In the grocery store parking lot the previous fall, Sam had first told her he loved her. Why here? Why now? “I figured if I could make a shopping plaza feel special, if you could feel swept away even amid bags of toilet paper and laundry detergent and dog biscuits, you’d trust me to fill the other parts of your life with romance.” Since that first time, Frances craved hearing him say the phrase, and he didn’t disappoint. He never ended a conversation or turned off the light at night without washing her with those words.
She had assumed that the magnetism of his smile, his voice, and his touch would pass or that she’d discover a dark side, as she had with past relationships. But it hadn’t happened. There were days when Sam seemed so kind that she asked herself whether he was a figment of her imagination, an idealized man whose sensitivity and insight she’d scripted in her mind. Wasn’t romance a predatory dance, a mixture of hunting and mating, hurting and courting, until one creature emerged the stronger and the other was destroyed? It wasn’t supposed to make you feel confident, was it? She wanted to relax, to feel safe in his embrace, to trust that nothing would change. But at moments her nerves flared. Was Sam really different?
Frances checked the “will attend” line on the reply card, sealed it in its prestamped envelope, and tucked the various components of the wedding invitation away in her desk drawer. Then she turned her attention to a legal pad covered in handwritten notes. The almost illegible scrawl formed the outline for her lecture to area law enforcement on how to respond to, and handle, domestic abuse cases. As president of the Long Island Coalition Against Domestic Violence, a job she had accepted shortly after leaving the Suffolk County District Attorney’s Office, she regularly gave public awareness and educational seminars, and she could recite her key points by rote: how to take a thorough history from the victim, document physical injuries, obtain temporary restraining orders, and work through the morass of social services to determine what state-funded food, shelter, and other aid could be available. Occasionally, especially when the administrative responsibilities of her new job seemed overwhelming or she was forced to attend another fund-raising luncheon, she missed the adrenaline and excitement of constant court appearances, presentations before the grand jury, all the stages of investigations and prosecutions of criminal cases. But most of the time she was satisfied. Although her work consumed her week and a good portion of her weekends as well, the coalition and its mission were causes she believed in. That made the bureaucratic headaches and long hours worthwhile.
She made a note to herself in the margin: “Emphasize emotional abuse/psychological battery.” Police officers, prosecutors, and even judges needed a black eye before they were willing to intervene in personal matters, to punish a husband or a boyfriend for losing his temper, but there was more to domestic violence than bruises or blood. It was her job to explain that. Insults, verbal abuse, and threats could be just as frightening as a broken bone.
The intercom buzzed and Frances heard her secretary’s nasal voice announce, “Kelly Slater is here to see you. She doesn’t have an appointment, but she says she’ll only take a minute of your time.”
“Send her in,” Frances replied into the speaker box. She slipped her feet into the loafers under her desk, stood up, and tucked her gray blouse back into her pleated pants.
The door opened slowly and Kelly stepped inside. Wearing tight mauve leggings, thin-soled canvas sneakers, and a T-shirt emblazoned with the New York Giants logo, she stood in the threshold with her arms crossed over her chest. “I’m sorry to bother you,” she said in a voice that was barely audible.
“It’s good to see you.” Frances extended a hand in greeting. Then she pushed a stack of coalition brochures onto the floor and indicated a chair. “Please have a seat.”
“That’s okay. I can’t stay long.” Kelly averted her gaze. Her stringy black hair, parted in the middle, looked wet, and her skin hung loose around her jaw.
“You’ve lost so much weight!” Frances said in surprise. Although she knew it was none of her business, the difference in Kelly’s appearance was dramatic. “I hadn’t realized it had been so long since we’d seen each other.”
“Eight and a half months.” At that time, Kelly had been so heavy that, after one meeting, the folding armchair had stuck to her hips when she stood up. Now her frame had shrunk beneath its dermal covering. “I’ve dropped over a hundred pounds. I didn’t know there was a smaller me inside,” Kelly added.
“Smaller maybe. But no less courageous.”
Kelly forced a smile and then cleared her throat. “I thought I owed you an explanation,” she almost whispered.
“For what?”
She hesitated before answering. “I’ve gone home. Matt and I are back together.”
Frances barely contained her gasp. It wasn’t possible.
Kelly had been a client of the coalition’s for years before Frances ever met her. Her husband’s violence went unpunished because she’d distrusted the young lawyer initially assigned to her case. Coalition lawyers fit a definite mold: fresh-faced women, mostly graduates of Fordham or Brooklyn Law School, who were willing to work for a meager salary because they felt they could make a difference but were naive about the workings of the courthouse and unable to withstand the aggressive persistence of defense attorneys. Kelly’s lawyer had been no different. Without the constant buttressing she needed, each time the date came for a hearing on her application for a restraining order, Matt’s intimidation prevailed, Kelly backed down, and the case had been dropped.
As the new president of the coalition, Frances had intervened when Kelly’s husband broke her collarbone against a newel post and pushed her down the stairs. Perhaps Kelly had been impressed by her twelve years of experience as a prosecutor. Or perhaps it was the countless conversations over cups of coffee at a remote diner that finally won her confidence. But Frances had attributed her willingness to proceed to the evening Matt’s temper turned on their daughter, Cordelia, a nine-year-old with a heart-shaped face, auburn pigtails, and a bucktoothed smile.
“That was no spanking,” Kelly had whispered over the telephone. “I knew from the look in his eyes. He wanted to hurt her. Hurt her bad. How could anyone do—” She’d broken off and started to cry. “Cordie’s just a little girl. Worst thing she’s ever done is spill cranberry juice on the carpet. If you’d seen her face, her tears.” There was silence as she’d composed herself. “She doesn’t deserve this.”
You don’t either, Frances had wanted to say, but she’d known the words were pointless. All the encouragement in the world couldn’t give Kelly the self-esteem she lacked. As long as something finally mattered enough to compel her to leave, she’d be safe. And that was the goal.
Several weeks and dozens of telephone calls later, she’d finally agreed to proceed. After obtaining the necessary restraining order, Frances, Kelly, and a police escort had hurried to Kelly’s house in Riverhead. Frances remembered the apparent normalcy of the ranch-style home
with its painted mailbox, automatic garage door opener, satellite dish, and balloon valences in every window. As Cordelia waited in the back of the cruiser with a female officer who’d been dispatched to pick her up from school, Frances shoved toiletries, clothes, photograph albums, toys, and, at Kelly’s insistence, her wedding dress into garbage bags while her husband stood in the corner next to a framed embroidery of the Twenty-third Psalm. As Matt ranted, Frances couldn’t help but notice the blue-scripted letters beside him: The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want…
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he screamed. “You can’t even see your feet over that fat. You’ll never find anyone else. No one wants a moose.” When he got no response, his tone softened momentarily, and he begged her to return.
“You’re doing the right thing,” Frances said under her breath to Kelly, who stood immobile beside her.
“Shut up, you bitch,” he snapped. “Stay out of my life.”
Looking at Kelly’s tearstained face and trembling body that day, Frances wanted to confront Matt, but she forced herself to stay quiet. There was no point in arguing the merits of a wife’s departure with the husband who beat her.
The counselors and social workers got Kelly and her daughter settled in an apartment. Nothing fancy, but they were safe in a one-room studio. Cordelia enrolled in a new school district, and Kelly got a job, an assistant at a day care center. She had always loved children.
“I… I… we’re in counseling…,” Kelly stammered, now seeming anxious to avoid her gaze.
Frances knew from experience that battered women often returned to the men who abused them. Despite her fear, the relationship was familiar, and the known held a powerful attraction. Once the particular cranial paths got imprinted, the recurring behavior was reassuring, even if frightening. Such relapses, the principal reason that many of the coalition lawyers and volunteers left in frustration for less emotional work, enraged Frances and fueled her determination to broaden the coalition’s reach. But she had never expected Kelly to be one of the many who went back. Not after all her struggles.
“Well… let’s just say there’s a lot I’m coming to learn about myself. I didn’t think I could make Matt happy, but I was wrong. I was just going about it the wrong way. Things are better. Really. He’s changed.”
“I hope so. For your sake.” Her voice was flat. “And Cordelia’s, too.”
Kelly’s gaze seemed to stare past Frances and out the window beyond. “She’d surprise you, how grown-up she’s getting—almost an adolescent. But she needs a daddy. And Matt loves her. He says that to me over and over, you know, that the hardest part for him of my going away was not being able to be with her. He wants to take care of us both.”
“You can take care of yourself. You’ve got options, other possib—”
“I don’t want you to think it wasn’t my choice,” Kelly interrupted.
Frances rested a hand on her shoulder. She knew Kelly could sense her disapproval and wished she could be supportive, but it was impossible under these circumstances. Kelly had a master’s in English literature, a family in Minnesota who would take care of her and her daughter if she returned home. But that wasn’t enough to offset Matt’s pleas, his promises. He had seduced her yet again, and Frances would have to steel herself for the call late some Sunday night, a call that could be days or even years away, but one that would be inevitable: Kelly is hospitalized. Or dead.
“Our door is always open if you need anything,” Frances said. “Just remember that. Anything at all.”
“I won’t need it. This time I’m sure.” She paused for a moment, seemingly uncertain whether to continue. “But thanks. I appreciate all you’ve done.” She nodded quickly before turning to leave.
Frances watched the door shut. Please let her survive, she thought. And spare Cordelia, too.
2
Hope Lawrence poked at the mound of tunafish salad with one prong of her silver fork. The heavy sterling was Tiffany’s Hamilton, the same pattern she had chosen for her bridal registry. “It’s important to pick something classic,” her mother, Adelaide, had advised as they’d stood in front of the velvet-lined glass tables studying place settings. Although she rarely followed maternal advice, Hamilton seemed a good choice.
She stared at the pinkish lump in the middle of the gold-rimmed plate. Rather than replace the more informal Spode china that had broken over the years, her mother now used her wedding service at every meal, and the gilt was already starting to wear off. Using luncheon china that had to be hand-washed seemed ridiculous, but it wasn’t her problem. Kathleen, the plump, uniformed cook who had lived with the Lawrences for as long as Hope could remember, cleaned up.
“Please eat something.”
Hope looked up and met her mother’s worried gaze. “I’m not hungry.” Why did her mother insist that so much mayonnaise be added? If she ate it, it would be more calories than she should consume in an entire day. No number of treadmill miles would make up for that amount of fat. She ran her fingers along her side, feeling the spandex of her black bodysuit, and counted her protruding ribs.
Hope’s eyes wandered to stare at the portrait of Adelaide Lawrence that hung on the wall behind her. Painted years earlier, it depicted her mother on a damask settee, her fingers interlaced in her lap, her ankles crossed demurely, and her knees together pointing to one side. A large bouquet of peach roses in a cobalt vase was positioned on a table beside her. The setting seemed contrived, but the image served its purpose. No one would forget that her mother had been a beautiful woman.
“You’re going to make yourself sick,” Adelaide murmured. “Again.”
“It’s not like that,” Hope lied, recalling the night before. She had locked the bathroom door, turned the hot water of the shower faucet on full blast, removed the filter on the drain, and, as the steam filled the room, repeatedly jammed her fingers down her throat. Chunks of partially digested pasta and tomatoes spilled out and disappeared down the pipe, pushed along by the scalding water. Her nails scraped the roof of her mouth as she persisted until all that came up was bloody bile. Her throat still burned from her purge.
Adelaide rested her silverware against the left side of her plate and reached for her daughter’s hand. “Darling, I know you’re nervous. Everyone is. But you’ll be a beautiful bride. It will be a wonderful wedding. I promise.” She opened her eyes expectantly. “This is what you want, isn’t it?”
Hope didn’t know how to answer. She had no doubt that Jack Cabot would make a good husband. He was that kind of person: reliable, kind, protective. She had known him since childhood. They’d attended sports group together at the Field and Hunt Club and won the twelve-and-under mixed doubles tennis tournament. Although she didn’t sail, she’d often go down to the dock of the Yacht Club to watch him race in C class on Saturday afternoons. They’d dated since Jack’s senior year at Groton, when she’d written copious letters in an effort to make the distance between Manchester and his boarding school disappear. She’d driven to watch his lacrosse games and felt filled with adoration when, after the clock had run, he’d scan the crowd, searching for her in the stands. She’d liked the way he looked with his sweaty jersey and black smudges of sunblock under his eyes, and she’d sometimes hesitated before running down the bleachers into his arms so that she could just watch him, his tall frame and muscular thighs. After his games, she’d snuck into his dorm room and then lain perfectly still as they’d made love in his narrow twin bed.
She had gone to Pomona to be near him at college, had sat with his family at his graduation from the University of Southern California, and even then had been treated like the daughter-in-law she would soon be. Jack’s mother, Fiona, invited her to go shopping in Boston or to matinee performances at the Wang Center and had sponsored her for membership in the Daughters of the Mayflower Society.
Even during their two-year breakup, she knew this marriage was her fate. It was the virtuous course for her life to take. Jack was good and hon
est, and he made her feel that way, too. Their courtship had the support of both families. The Cabots and the Lawrences were social friends, members of the Field and Hunt Club, and parishioners at the Church of the Holy Spirit. Fiona Cabot and Adelaide Lawrence co-chaired the New England Horticultural Society’s annual flower show. The Cabots invited them on vacations skiing in Waterville Valley, snorkeling at Leyford Cay, and, most recently, watching Jack play polo at Palermo in Buenos Aires. When Jack finally proposed, the families had toasted with a magnum of Taittinger and talk of two birds of a feather.
With her right hand, she twirled the brilliant-cut diamond on her left finger. Her engagement ring had been exactly what she wanted: four carats, a platinum setting, all wrapped in a velvet box from Shreve, Crump and Low. A ring everybody noticed. But despite the seemingly perfect union, she felt hesitant. She needed to isolate certain feelings, relegate them to a place deep within her where they couldn’t resurface, and all would be fine. She’d be the proper wife she wanted to be. She knew Jack was her way out of her past, and she wanted that salvation. But she couldn’t deny that the thought of life as Mrs. John James Cabot III made her shudder.
Adelaide appeared to take her daughter’s silence as assent. Because her mother rarely pushed to find out what lay behind the failure to respond or what might be the import of an omission, Hope never had to disagree. Nor did she have to be totally honest. Silence was easier when the chasm between them was so enormous that it was impossible to bridge. Words were a waste of breath.
Adjusting her reading glasses on her thin nose, Adelaide reached for a typewritten sheet of paper next to her. “The band is confirmed. It’ll be five-piece rather than seven-, but the woman I spoke to assured me we wouldn’t hear the difference. Bess from Artistry in Flowers comes tomorrow at nine to finalize table arrangements and your bouquet. I’ve decided to go ahead with a sprinkling of baby’s breath in the centerpieces to make them fuller, but don’t worry. The overall effect is still roses.” She furrowed her brow. “Do you want to ask Reverend Whitney to join in the discussion of the altar flowers?”
