by Jenna Brooks
The alarm jolted her awake. She turned off her phone, staring blankly at the picture of Johnny and Matt on her nightstand. They were laughing, their arms around each other. Jo had taken the picture on Johnny’s seventeenth birthday.
Her favorite picture was beside it, taken over ten years before: Jo, seated in an easy chair, with Johnny and Matt each perched on one side. They were thirteen and eleven then, Jo was forty-one. They were smiling. Happy. It was just before Keith had moved back in.
She picked up the picture of the three of them, kissed it, and gently placed it in her vanity drawer.
“Yeah, I’m done.”
She was taking Max’s pink mug out of the cupboard when Daisy trotted to the front door of the apartment, sniffing at the bottom and wagging hard.
“Hey Jo, get up. I want my coffee.”
“It’s unlocked.”
Max opened the door a few inches, sticking a dog biscuit through the opening. Daisy snatched it and galloped to the bedroom.
“Thanks for spoiling her, Bim. What you got for me?”
Max plopped a small, white box on the counter. Lu’s Uncommon Bakery was stenciled on top. “Here ya go. Spoiling us today, too.”
“Yum. What’d you get?”
“Cranberry-orange muffins. Jumbos.”
“I just love you, Maxine.”
“Yeah, but it’s a shallow kind of a thing.” She took the cup Jo held out, wrapping both hands around it and drinking deep. “Ooh, good coffee.” She said the same thing every morning.
They sat at the glass-topped table Jo had put in what was intended to be the living room. It was a tiny space, so she had decided to use it as a dining room, fashioning the large bedroom into a studio apartment-style living and sleeping area. The dining room looked out over the fields of the state conservation land. It was a rarity, having that view from a city apartment, and it was much of the reason that Jo stayed where she was.
Jo’s favorite vista was open fields. She rarely made the short trip–the “summer pilgrimage,” she called it–to the New Hampshire coast. She found the ocean to be tedious. Predictable. Even high and low tides could be timed to the minute, unless a storm turned it violent. Other than that, it was just constant back and forth, ebb and flow.
Yet, she also feared that flip side, how treacherous the ocean could be: it pretended to be peaceful, and that was its lure; yet, it could swallow someone up in a moment, dragging them by their feet into silent oblivion. And sharks hid there. It seemed like every summer, some poor soul, somewhere on the New England coast, was fast food for one of those things.
Fields, though, and farmland–those were always changing, always showing their different colors and textures, always responding to the season. Dependable. Deer wandered there, living peacefully. Your feet were on solid ground–you could run through fields, and stop whenever you wanted. Wide-open spaces were where life could be lived.
“Beautiful day,” she said.
Max was refilling their cups. “I know. And I’m working at eleven.”
“’Til…?”
“Eight.”
“Wow. Long day.”
“You’re in at noon, you said?”
Jo nodded.
“’Til eight?”
She was spooning sugar into her cup, smiling faintly. “I suppose.”
“I’ll finish my muffin, then I need to head back down and shower. I’m so tired.”
“Tough night.”
“Heard from Sammy?”
Jo shook her head. “She’s in at noon too.”
They were quiet again for a few minutes, then Jo’s phone rang. “It’s her,” she said, flipping it open. “Hey, sweetheart, how are you?…Yeah…? Well, she should be upset, Sammy. You show up at her door…Okay…Hold on, she’s right here. I’ll ask her.”
“What?”
“Barb called her in for eleven instead of noon, and she needs a ride.”
Max sighed. “All the way to Bedford and back. Sure, tell her I’ll be there in an hour, and be ready.”
“Sam…? Okay. See you later.” She closed the phone. “She heard you–said she’ll be waiting outside.”
Max gulped the last of her coffee, grabbing her muffin as she stood up. “How’s she sound?”
“Okay. Tired.”
“What a mess.” She frowned. “What do I say to her?”
“Just ask how she’s doing. She’ll talk if she wants to. And if she does, just nod a lot.”
“Yeah. Gotta go.” She scratched Daisy’s neck as she left.
Jo put the cups in the sink and turned on the small TV on the counter. The Manchester station was broadcasting a special report.
A young, blonde reporter was staring wide-eyed into the camera, gesturing anxiously with her microphone, using it to emphasize every other word she spoke. She looked over her shoulder, and the camera followed her sweeping hand to the house behind her.
“It was here, in this quiet cul-de-sac off of North Lewis Avenue, that Culverson is alleged to have shot his wife, Cassandra, and their two-year-old daughter, Brittany. Both victims died at the scene, despite paramedics’ best efforts to…”
Jo felt her throat closing. She reached to turn it off, but the old TV didn’t work well. After she had jabbed the power button several times, she pushed the channel up.
Channel eight was the regional news station, and they were covering the same story. “A tragedy out of Londonderry, New Hampshire, late last night. Thirty-eight year old Samuel Culverson is alleged to have gunned down his wife and daughter as the woman ran from the couples’ home, carrying two-year-old Brittany in her arms…”
Jo yanked the plug out of the wall, and stared out the window for a minute.
“I’m getting in the shower now, Daize.” She dropped her nightclothes on the kitchen floor, ignoring the fact that all of her curtains were open, and walked naked across the apartment to the bathroom.
She had refused the counseling they had offered her after May Walker was murdered. Jo stood in the shower, letting the water massage the back of her neck, wondering now if perhaps she had made a mistake.
You’ve done this stuff before, Max had said. Jo considered telling her about working for the crisis center, and then throwing in with the DV Underground–which of course was just the moniker for an organization that technically didn’t exist; but even now, three years later, she couldn’t bring herself to talk about it. May had proven herself to be right about the saddest lesson that Jo had ever learned: that there are no heroes left in the world.
May was forty-two years old when she became Jo’s client through the center. Hers had been a worst-case scenario: her husband was an anesthesiologist, with a great reputation, tons of money, and a large circle of supporters. Jo termed them “fans” in her private thoughts, because they were mostly guys who were too smart to be truly ignorant about the reality of their buddy, but who pretended not to know anyway. Jo believed that they also wanted to be able to get away with beating their wives, just like Walker could.
Jo had been manning the crisis line the night that May called for the last time. She had finally gotten Earl out of the house a week earlier; however, it took a concussion and a dislocated shoulder to get the judge to finally take her seriously, and grant her a protective order. That night, Earl had crossed the order: he phoned May, and told her to “get ready.”
Jo turned her face to the shower, letting the water run on her legs, holding her hands palms-up.
When she squeezed her eyes tight shut, the cascading water felt like tears. She had never been much for crying, but she hadn’t shed a single tear since May Walker died in her arms that night, and she wished that she could cry sometimes. She felt like she needed to cry, like her entire existence needed some kind of cleansing.
She recalled how others had talked about the night May was murdered. They never called it that: “murder.” They called it a lot of other things, but not that. Not what it really was. Just like the times Earl had beaten her–those were
“Domestic Incidents.” “Family Violence.” Sanitized labels for the felonies the good doctor committed any time he wanted to.
She thought again of all the players in the tragedy, any one of whom who could have been May’s hero, but they didn’t bother.
Well, I didn’t save her, either.
Jo thought it was just too precious, that the press had dubbed Earl “Doctor Death” for what Jo called the “movie-of-the-week” effect. There had been no trial; in the end, he bargained down to voluntary manslaughter. Jasmine, fourteen at the time, went to Albany to live with May’s parents, and Jo had no idea what became of her after that.
She opened her eyes. Her heart was pounding too hard. She could feel it skipping every few beats. She turned off the shower, thinking again that the counseling would have done some good. Life–and her mind, if she was honest with herself–shifted somehow after that night. She had asked for a leave of absence from the crisis center two days later, after Becca, the Community Affairs Coordinator, debriefed her. “You were on the clock here, Jo, and if you don’t want to talk to the press, then of course you don’t have to. Cite the RSA statutes to avoid them. And definitely, don’t talk to them until the case is resolved.”
Jo assured her that she had no intention whatsoever of talking to the media. She cleaned out her desk that day, and never went back.
She started at The Crate a few weeks later. After a couple of weeks of cringing under Barb, she often thought that she had gone from being abused to helping the abused, to being abused again. As she stepped out of the shower, it occurred to her that still, she too often regarded her life as being measured and timed by Keith and After-Keith.
Standing naked in front of the long mirror on the back of the bathroom door, she made a face. “Old. You’re getting old.” She knew that she was too thin, or at least that’s what others told her. Max said they were simply jealous because she was past fifty and still had a great figure.
Whatever. I got old. Whatever.
She rubbed moisturizer onto her face, hard enough to hurt, and put on her makeup. She reached for a lipstick, and twisted the cylinder–it was a red shade, dark red, the one that she never used.
She put it on heavy, hard enough that it broke. It tumbled into the bathroom sink, marking the white porcelain with glassy red streaks. Her reflection in the mirror, with the bright red so stark against her paleness, looked ghastly to her. She hurriedly wiped it off, and picked up a pink frost.
Daisy, as always, started barking when Jo turned on her hairdryer. She switched it to low and yelled, “Yo, dawg!” For some reason, Daisy always responded to that, much better than “no.” Jo grinned at her, feeling some calm returning, and the dog laid down just outside the bathroom door to watch her dry her hair.
“You’re the best friend I ever had, baby.”
Daisy wagged her tail.
“You know, Daize, I was actually thinking about getting my hair cut, until Big Barbie made that nasty comment yesterday. ‘Cheerleader hair?’” She reached to dry the back of her head, which was always difficult: her hair, she knew, really was too long to be stylish, at least for someone her age. Too blonde, too. Usually, she simply pulled it back to keep it out of her face. Sam had once offered to pay for a cut and style if she wanted it, but Jo could never bring herself to cut her hair. Not very often, anyway, and even then she would just trim it herself.
In the kitchen, she poured the last of the coffee, thinking about the day ahead; then, it occurred to her that this was the first day in a long time that she looked forward to.
She turned on the transistor radio on the counter, and groaned when she heard the voice of Delbert R. “Doc” Baker, a shock-jock out of Boston. She reached to change the station, then stopped.
“…and so here I am, sitting at the bar minding my own business, you know–checking out the merchandise…”
His sidekick, a guy they called “Shotgun Seamus”, piped up. “You mean the available young ladies, Doctor Del?”
“Young, yes. Available, obviously.” They both guffawed.
“Scantily clad?”
“Very few clothes, that would be correct, Seamus.”
They laughed again. Jo thought about picking up the phone and advising them to emerge from the locker room someday. She decided against it.
Daisy was licking her foot, and she reached absently to scratch her neck. “You know, Daisy, it just isn’t worth saying anything anymore, is it?”
“…and these two girls are trying to talk intelligently about that feminist chick, the one who’s in all that hot water for saying she’s glad she’s staying at home with her kid now.”
“Helena something-or-other…Helena Stillman-Gates, Doc.”
“Hyphenated, of course.”
“Yessir.”
“The Feminist Nation is all up her butt for betraying the sisterhood…”
“Personhood, you mean.”
“Forgive me, Seamus. ‘Personhood’…And Conservatives are swooning because she’s a Liberal.”
Pouring a glass of orange juice, Jo groaned out loud. Maybe she’s a woman who thinks for herself, ‘Doc.’
“So for our last hour here, we’ll talk about it. The Feminist Nation. Feminism in general. Any aspect of it that interests you.”
Feed off her, go ahead.
“Harry in Waltham, go.”
“Mornin’, Doc. Best show on the radio.”
Another sycophant.
“What’s up, Harry?”
“My blood pressure.” Laughter, too raucous for the lame quip.
Wow, Harry, that’s an original.
“These fem-nists have wrecked this entire culture. Kind of entertaining to watch them turning on their own now.”
“Making popcorn as we speak, pal.”
“Seriously, they sexed-up the country, brought us abortion, get married like it’s nothing more than a shopping spree– just like the one they go on, right after they divorce the poor guy who’s left holding the bag…”
“And all the bills,” Baker chimed in.
Ah, yes–Harry got the short end of the divorce stick.
“You got that right, Doc. I’m Exhibit A.”
I knew it.
Her cell was ringing. She sighed as she saw Matthew’s name come up, and the very feeling of wanting to avoid her son made her stomach grip again.
“Mom?”
“Good morning, Matthew.”
“I can’t make it for dinner again this week. Busy.”
“That’s fine…” She thought better than to say what she was thinking, taken off-guard by her sudden flash of anger. She glanced at the clock. “Hey, I need to get ready. We’ll chat later. Just wanted to say good morning.” She pressed her lips together. “Love you.”
She paused, waiting.
“I’ll be over to see you soon.”
“Have a good day at work, honey.”
He snorted. “Yeah, whatever.”
As she snapped her phone shut, Jo noticed that like last night on the phone with John, she felt no pain from the awkward exchange. She felt relief that the call was done.
“You said it, son. Whatever.”
chapter 3
THE DINGY MAROON apron, with Berry Crate embroidered on the bib, always felt like a noose around her neck. She decided to wait until she got into the restaurant to put it on.
She reached for an elastic band to pull her hair back, then stuffed it into the fraying pocket of her black trousers. Barb had warned her, several times and always at full voice, to get new work clothes; but there was no way that Jo was spending that kind of money on anything for The Crate.
“Daisy, c’mon. Out.” The dog was a bit slow getting off the bed, and Jo wondered if the arthritis she had noticed in her lately was getting worse.
Daisy decided to take her time outside. Jo stood under the towering oak tree out back, wrapping and unwrapping the leash she held loosely on her wrist, thinking about how odd life seemed lately. It felt like something was h
appening, shifting, like her life was in motion. She’d had that feeling many times before, and it would make her feel disjointed, even panicked; but this time, it was more like floating someplace, deep and safe, where nothing could touch her.
She thought again about Matt’s call, and the defiance she felt afterwards–and that, toward her own child. She didn’t feel troubled by it, at least not as much as she was detachedly curious about her reaction. Ten years ago, she wouldn’t have believed that kind of scorn to be even a possibility.
She had felt that same flash of anger toward John the night before, when he called her on her way to work to let her know that again, he wouldn’t be seeing her–not this week, either. He had promised, several times; but still, she hadn’t seen him in over a month, even though he lived only ten minutes away.
Matt appeared every two weeks or so to have dinner with her. It was logistically more difficult for him, as he lived forty minutes away in Laconia; but Jo knew that it wasn’t for love that he made the trip. It was his sense of duty, one that Matt–always the steady one, “the good one,” he liked to say–imposed on himself. Jo, like all solitary, aging mothers, could sense his resentment toward his feeling of obligation, and she withered under it.
In those last few years before the boys left home, Jo understood that with as close as the three of them had always been, bonding under the trauma of Keith’s abuse, the split would come because it had to–and it would be emotionally violent, as much so as their childhoods had been when Keith was anywhere near them.
But in the two years since Matt moved out, and in the four since John left, Jo had struggled to stay close to them. It was a losing battle, one of ever-increasing misery from the futility of the fight that she waged alone. She knew, from the time Keith sauntered smugly back into their home, that the future was a hopeless place.
The contempt that she endured from her sons built quickly in them after Keith moved back in. It wasn’t hard to understand, not at all, because they didn’t want him back. Jo hadn’t wanted him back any more than the boys did; but they couldn’t comprehend, not then, that Jo had as little power in the situation as they did. They didn’t know that if the divorce went forward, Keith and Counselor Pit Bull would destroy them all. And Jo couldn’t tell them. She couldn’t allow herself to be accused of turning the kids against Keith, and then have them given to him as a result. “Parental Alienation Syndrome,” the Pit Bull had called it, and Jo became something of an expert on the subject in the months that followed.
