by Jenna Brooks
“You tried to divorce him more than once, right?”
“Yeah,” Jo sighed. “He got this daddy-has-all-the-rights lawyer, and–to make it short–they accused me of parental alienation. Turning the kids against him. So I let him come back until the boys got older.”
Max shook her head, pursing her lips as she sighed. “What happened New Year’s Eve?”
“It was all in the timing,” she said. “Good story–but I won’t tell it if you turn it into a reason to feel sorry for me.”
Max didn’t know exactly what she meant, but she agreed. “Deal.”
“See, the boys were finally getting old enough to have a say in custody, but that parental alienation thing would’ve still hung over my head if they didn’t want to be around Keith, and they didn’t. I probably would have lost custody if I complained about his violence in front of the wrong judge. Know what I mean?”
“Kind of.”
“The way these dad’s rights groups–and lawyers–work it, it really doesn’t matter what a guy does to a woman, once she has his kid. They believe that even if the kids are terrified of a violent father, it’s only because the mother brainwashed them to hate their father, not because the father is scary.”
Max frowned. “Get out.”
“That’s how it is.” She stood. “I’m making some coffee. Want some?”
“Yeah.”
“Anyway, after having him back for a few months, I was done with having him around. Plus, I needed to ease into the actual divorce–start with a separation.” She was quiet while she counted out the scoops of coffee. “I needed to work out a way to get Keith away from us, but still postpone the divorce for another year or two until the boys were older–and so I hatched a plan.” She lit a cigarette with perfectly steady hands, appearing to relish the memory.
She turned on the coffeemaker and came back to the table. “I told Keith that I was going out that New Year’s Eve. I hadn’t been out–not socially, I mean–in years at that point, and so I was too agoraphobic to go anyway. But he didn’t know that. So, I bought a skin-tight red dress with a slit up to here,” she pointed to her upper thigh, “did a perfect makeup and hairdo, and sent the boys to a party their friend was having down the street. Then…” She looked beyond Max, off in the distance, lost in thought.
“Then what?”
She refocused on her. “I rubbed his nose in the fact that I was going out alone. Told him I needed to find a real man–one who could cut it in the bedroom. See, he was impotent for almost the entire time that we had any physical relationship–which was very briefly. I was lucky to have my boys.”
Max whistled softly, reaching for a cigarette. Her stomach was in knots.
“It took no time at all to get him to attack. He cracked right after I called him ‘dickless’.. Beat the living hell out of me. By the time he was done, I looked like I had been run over by a truck.”
“I…Wow.” She knew that Jo’s marriage had been awful, but she wasn’t at all prepared for the nightmare she was hearing.
“I remember looking at myself in the mirror after he left…It’s mind-bending, being all fixed-up and then …” She stopped.
Max could picture it. She didn’t want to ask, but she did so anyway. “How bad?”
“The worst was a gash in my head, right about here.” She pointed to the crown of her head. “My hair was a bloody, gory mess.”
Max was quite certain that she couldn’t handle any more of the story–but she couldn’t seem to pull away, either. She was both fascinated and horrified.
“Now at this point,” she lit Max’s cigarette for her, “he was up for a director’s position at the firm he worked for. Very important stuff, this.” She grinned. “So, I waited until he stormed out, then I got out the camcorder.”
Max lifted an eyebrow. “You got it on tape.”
“I did. I made a video of what he had done to me. Then, I cleaned myself up the best I could before John and Matt got home–he didn’t do much to my face, so I was able to hide a lot from them–and I called the crisis center.”
“Manchester?”
“Yeah. The one Victoria works for.”
“You wound up working there, right? I assumed that from what she said that day, about you being back on board.”
Jo nodded. “But that night, that was my first contact with them. I was a client. I gave the video, and a letter, to a woman named Rebecca Lowenstein–she was on duty that night. When Keith came home the next morning, I sent the boys to their friend’s house again, and confronted Keith with the telephone in one hand and the camcorder in the other. I told him I had videoed my injuries and written a letter about it. Then I gave him the choice to either tape a full confession, or I was calling the cops–and then, I would get a detailed restraining order which, being a public document, would somehow wind up circulating all over his workplace.”
“Jo, he could have killed you.”
“He said he would. He looked like he might.” She smirked. “He demanded the tape and the letter, and I told him that a nice woman at the crisis center had it, and that she was waiting to hear from me.”
Max leaned back with a shaky sigh. “That was quite the chance you took there.”
“Not really. These guys are all the same. They think they’re omnipotent, but they’re easily manipulated. Anyway, he taped the confession.”
She still sounded to Max like she wasn’t even talking about herself. “Jo, you actually engineered all that?” she asked softly.
“Hey, you do what you have to. I needed to get the boys and me a new life. He never allowed me to build one outside of him, you know.”
Her head was spinning. “So he records a full confession, and then…”
“He moved into the in-law apartment. We went to a judge, had a legal separation done, and the boys and I didn’t have to deal with him too often after that. Then a couple of years later, we converted it into a divorce decree.” She looked well-satisfied, even pleased. “The main reason I moved to New Hampshire was because this place is one of only a couple of states left that have fault-divorce statutes. No fifty-fifty stuff–I got a good settlement.”
“Oh my gosh.”
“Trust me, I know how to flush these guys out.”
“Well…” she struggled for something to say. “I guess you thought of everything, didn’t you?”
Her face fell then. She looked down at her hands. “Not really.”
Max leaned forward, her hand on her chin. “Why?”
“It never occurred to me, at least not until after we separated, that Johnny would abandon us the way he did. He took off as soon as he possibly could.” She looked away. “He ran pretty wild for a few years. Matthew couldn’t deal with it–he blamed me that his brother was gone.” Her hands fell to her lap, and her voice became a monotone even as her eyes widened with the memory. “We fell completely apart.”
Not sure she should comment, she did so anyway. “That had to be devastating, Jo.”
She recalled the day that John had slammed out of the house, running for the car that had pulled up across the street for him. “Yeah. He had a fight with Keith, and said he was out of there. Threw some things in a duffel bag, called a friend. I stuffed a couple hundred dollars in his pocket, and he was gone.” She swallowed hard. “I remember the look on Matt’s face. He turned hard. And bit by bit, I realized that I had survived all those years for…Never mind.”
Max saw the agony reflected in Jo’s face, the way her heart must have broken at that moment. She looked at Jo’s hands, busily rubbing her thighs, and she reached out to cover them.
“If you go back to Wellsboro sometime, can I tag along?”
She looked up, surprised. “How’d we shift to that topic?”
Max didn’t know how to answer. All she knew was that her friend needed something. What that was, she had no idea. “I was just thinking it would be good for you, you know, to maybe reconnect with…I don’t know. You, I guess.” She was starting to fe
el like she was in over her head. There was something going on with Jo, something growing inside her, and she couldn’t reach it. She had wondered–more than once in recent weeks–if she was standing there powerless, watching her slip away.
“If I go back, I’ll time it so you can be there, too. Promise.”
“Good.”
Jo smiled at her then, and Max was aware of her own need, an almost desperate one, for her friend to smile like that–like she used to, years ago when they first met. Perhaps, Max thought, Jo still had hope then. “We should go next summer.”
“Mmm. We’ll see.” She was staring at her bowl. “We blew it.”
“Blew what?”
“We have marshmallow topping in there, and we didn’t use it.” She scooped more ice cream into their bowls. “Let’s get it right this time.”
They assembled their second helpings, and Max was relieved that Jo seemed more centered again; at the same time, she felt a twinge of guilt, wondering if a better friend for Jo would be someone who didn’t depend so much on her being centered.
She came out of her reverie as Jo broke the silence. “You know, Bim, these women–these females–like Shelly…” She paused, considering her words. “It’s like they give aid and comfort to the enemy. No. It’s even worse than that. They encourage guys like Keith.” She scraped the last of the marshmallow from the jar with her finger, leaving a trail of it on her lips as she said, “You old enough to remember ‘the sisterhood’?”
“Yup. Don’t do unto another woman what he already did unto her.”
“That’s the credo.”
“I’m often amazed–no, disgusted–at what a woman will do to feel superior to other women. By the way, did they get married in a church?”
Jo rolled her eyes, sighing. “From what I hear, yes.”
“How did they manage that? Keith’s divorced.”
“You mean a church wedding?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, please. Like churches don’t ignore the Bible when it defies their homemade theology? I’m sure they found a way to redefine it as biblical.” She turned to look out the window, her face slack.
Max had a flash of memory of their first visit to the house, and the look of childlike joy on Jo’s face as the seagulls flocked around them, scrambling for the chips she tossed in the air. The contrast between the two moments made clear to her the heavy regret she felt that day: once upon a time, her friend had been a happy, loving person, with dreams, and ideas–and hope. Someone’s sister, daughter, mother, friend. But she had also been Keith’s wife. The person that Jo once was, and the woman she might have been, were gone.
In a rush of anger–which felt strangely, vaguely familiar–Max saw that the woman sitting with her now had been beaten down to this place she was merely existing in, where she looked forward to nothing, anticipated nothing, just beaten to…
Beaten to death.
“No.” It went through her with a jolt, and Max said it out loud before she could stop herself. But the idea had revealed itself to her now, and she didn’t know what to do with it.
Jo glanced at her, curious. “No, what?”
Max clasped her hands under her chin, leaning on the table. She was trembling slightly. “No, I don’t think that’s possible.” She hoped that would cover for her outburst.
“I’m sorry, Bim. You look really upset.”
“No, it’s okay. Really it is.” She rubbed her eyes, buying a few moments to compose herself by taking the towel off of her hair. “I’m going to hang this up. Be right back.”
“I’ll watch the ice cream. It’s safe in my hands.”
“I’ll bet.” It was unnerving, the way Jo could change tempo like that–from the depths of despair to cracking a joke. Max hurried to the bathroom, closing the door most of the way and hanging the wet towel on the hook that was there.
She leaned her head against the back of the door for a moment, wondering if she was overreacting. She went through the recent, more troubling moments with Jo, rapidly putting together snippets of her friend’s behavior–especially in the weeks leading to their getaway–and she knew with a searing certainty that she wasn’t imagining it: Jo didn’t care about living anymore, and that was only a brief step away from dying.
Max thought of her father. One of his favorite lines had always been, “If your conclusion makes the pieces fit together, then you’ve arrived at the truth.”
The truth was, Jo needed one of those heroes she so often despaired over.
Catching her reflection in the mirror, she decided it was time to stop kidding around. To stop needing so much for Jo to be some kind of mentor to her; perhaps, to try to shield her, when she could, from becoming everyone else’s protector. It was well beyond the time to help her friend.
As she looked into her own eyes, she wondered how, exactly, people became heroes.
Dave sat at the foot of the bed, hands clasped between his knees, his head down. “How far along are you?”
“I don’t know.” She had been direct, almost brutal in telling him about the baby. “I’m figuring, about twelve weeks.”
He nodded, burying his face in his hands. “Wow.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.” She bit her lip, turning to look out the window, as she shook her head a couple of times to stifle the tears. She had again made a mess of what should have been a joyous thing, and she wasn’t going to manipulate mercy from him. “I really am.”
“I know why you didn’t. You were confused. Scared, I’m sure.”
She felt a flash of annoyance, and pushed it down fast, keeping her voice level. “No, Dave. Don’t do that. That’s not true. I knew exactly what I was doing.”
He looked up, surprised.
“I don’t want anyone excusing me anymore. It’s enough. I’ve cost everyone enough.” She turned from the window, meeting his eyes. “Tyler needs a mother who acts like an adult, not a reckless, thirty-eight-year-old teenager. I was going to have this fantasy here with you, then take off for Strafford, and figure the rest out later. Or rather,” she sat at the small, mahogany table by the window, looking at him with the defiance of someone who was going for broke, “I was going to let you figure it out. Because that’s what I’ve always done, and by the way, I’m fed up with myself.”
“I see.”
She couldn’t read his eyes as he studied her, but she hated the disappointment in his voice. “No matter what else happens, I promise you that with everything in me, I’m going to make sure this is the last time I screw you over. You, Ty, anyone.” She looked at her hand, at the ring that sparkled there, knowing that her heart would break when she took it off.
“When did this epiphany happen?”
She thought he might be mocking her, but his expression was authentically concerned, even kind. “Just over the past week or two. It occurred to me that day I left Mom’s house.” She stared out the window again, wanting him to yell, or throw something, or at least regard her with the contempt she felt for herself. “Too bad it didn’t take hold until now. This is going to be an absolute disaster for Ty.” She thought she couldn’t look at him, but she forced herself. “And for you–you deserve so much better.”
He tensed. “That’s enough, Samantha.”
His tone was harsh. It was an unexpected rebuke, and she stared at him silently.
“Better than you.” He chuckled, a short burst of sarcastic laughter. “Better than you? Okay, you don’t want to be coddled?” He stood; his effort to control his anger was obvious. He took the chair across from her. “Then I won’t coddle you. Sure, you’ve been a handful for the past few years, and we’ve had a tough time of it. But better than you? Look around.” He leaned back in the chair, folding his arms, taking in the opulence of the spacious room, the antique furnishings, the paintings she had picked herself, years ago. His gaze rested on the picture of Tyler on the nightstand. “Everything I have, I have because of you.” He ran his hands through his hair, clasping them on top of hi
s head. “So for a little while, you were gone. And it hurt. You messed up–but so did I, you know. And now you’re back. We’re back, and there’s something here that we need to deal with. But…” He leaned in close to her, holding her eyes on his, “don’t sit there and erase the entirety of your life, and all that you are–all that you gave me–just because you’re angry at yourself. How is that any different than what you’ve been doing?”
She looked down at her hand again.
“Don’t touch that ring.”
Her head snapped up. She wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly. “What?”
“You’ve decided you want to do things differently. Is your first move going to be that you break your word?”
“Break my word…?”
“You made a commitment. You promised to marry me. Are you walking away?”
“I don’t see how we can…”
“Then damn it, Samantha, let’s figure it out.”
She thought that she couldn’t accept it–that the baby was, to him, just an issue that they simply needed to work out.
“Answer me. Are you walking away? Because I’m not. If you really want to change your life, this is a great time to show it.” His heart was pounding; he knew how precarious the situation was at that moment. “Remember what I said? A little faith. You make your decision, and we work the rest out from there.”
He held his hand out, determined–and more frightened than he could remember being–as he waited for her to decide whether or not she would take it.
As she took his hand, she wondered how she had ever left the man.
Jo was standing on the deck with a cigarette, looking out at the lake when Max came back. “Got the pack out here?” she asked.
Jo pointed to the table. “I didn’t like upsetting you, Bim. I know it’s a bizarre story. I’m sorry.”
“I’m fine.” She lit one for herself, turning the chair to face the water and propping her legs on the table. “Chilly tonight.”
