For Better or Worse

by Donna Huston Murray

  As we hustled back through the hedge and approached my car, naturally, my inquisitive nature forced me to ask, “So. How's it going?"

  Eric stopped short. "What do you mean ‘it?’"

  I tilted my head. Breathed. "Oh, just everything in general."

  Eric dropped the bags into the trunk. "Like am I depressed about my grandmother? Or how do I like going to a shrink?"

  I fixed him with a stare. "Just trying to break the tension. If I'm getting too personal, why not say, 'Everything's fine,' like everybody else."

  "Everything's fine," he snapped, stepping into my space. "My grandmother's still dead; and Cissie, the sweetest woman I ever met, has bruises all over and three broken ribs from that sonovabitch she married. I can't find a job doing jack shit; and you and your daughter want me to sing, for God's sake. So, yes, everything's fine. Thanks for asking."

  Eric slammed the trunk shut. Then he surprised me. “You know what he calls her at work, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “The Blonde Bitch.”

  “That’s...that’s...How did she find out?”

  “Company party. Somebody’s wife pulled her aside and told her. Cissie said she’d been having a really good time up until then.”

  Waving his head, Eric set off across Chelsea’s front yard toward home, and I just managed to thank him before I would have had to shout it for all the block to hear. He was still shaking his head when he disappeared inside.

  I went in to say a quick good-bye to my daughter. Best to leave before the spy came home and saw it again. Ronald would connect my car with Cissie’s missing clothes in a heartbeat.

  Chelsea seemed to have something to say, but when I asked, “What?” a little too abruptly, she waved me off.

  We hugged good-bye, but then she told me to wait a second and ducked back into the kitchen.

  When she returned, she handed me a brown lunch bag. “Here. Eric left this for you.”

  Inside were the mysteries I’d bought for Maisie.

  “Thanks.”

  Chelsea still seemed preoccupied, so I asked again, “Anything else?”

  “No. Never mind. Go!”

  I went.

  Chapter 43

  NATALIE SAID she liked to keep the shelter’s pantry full, so on the way to deliver Cissie’s necessities, I stopped at Produce Junction. The earthy smells, the colorful displays, the simple, urgent transactions all stimulated my senses—and reminded me of Jack.

  The night before I’d texted Susan my lame, “terrible cold” excuse and hinted that George might babysit in my place. Susan did not write back. Now, as I waited my turn at the rough wooden counter, it occurred to me that I might never see her step-son again.

  Heart-heavy and bordering on tears, I managed to deliver my, “Double potatoes, tomatoes, string beans, lettuce, onions, avocados, and oranges,” spiel with dignity. Even so, the clerk seemed to distrust my composure because he gathered my order with remarkable haste.

  When I arrived at the shelter, Natalie was trotting toward the green van, but she stopped and waited for me. Overhead, clouds the weight of elephants lumbered across the afternoon sky. A damp breeze messed with Natalie’s long, black hair.

  “Any trouble getting Cissie’s stuff?” she inquired, her hands tucked in the back pockets of her jeans.

  “I took a bodyguard.”

  “Good move.”

  “Yeah, well. Ronald was probably at work, but...”

  “Or in jail.”

  My eyes widened. “I thought Cissie had to...”

  “Press charges? Nope. Her injuries were clearly no accident. The hospital took pictures, and I think a police officer was already there for something else. Bottom line—the District Attorney doesn’t need Cissie’s testimony to prosecute.”

  I savored that thought as I hoisted the first box of vegetables out of the trunk.

  "Wow," Natalie exclaimed. "Have you been reading my mind?"

  "Just eavesdropping,” I admitted. “I wish I could do more."

  “Here. Let me get that.”

  I handed her the box and hoisted the other. “Weren’t you going somewhere?”

  “It can wait.”

  I didn’t know how to begin, but Natalie didn’t require words. She set her box on the ground and gestured for me to do the same. Then she leaned against the car as if she had all the time in the world.

  "You want to know why some men think it's okay to beat their wives."

  I nodded.

  She flipped a hand toward the sky “They feel entitled,” she said.

  The degree of anger that welled up surprised me. I glanced away.

  "Society still condones the abuse, Ms. Barnes.”

  I met her gaze.

  She shook her finger as if beginning a list. "Religion," she stated. "Many of them still tell women to submit to their husbands."

  A second finger. "MTV. A rap singer won an award for an album with a song on it about a man murdering his girlfriend—you can hear her screams in the background."

  Another finger. "The legal system—a wife-beater usually gets off easier than a guy who beat up a stranger." She ticked off examples even faster. "Magazines, movies, comedians, stage plays all still depict abuses perpetrated against women; and, I’m sorry to say, most people don't even notice. Watch for it," she suggested. "You'll see what I mean."

  My face was surely red, my breathing shallow.

  "Even children's books have mom and the kids pampering dad to keep him from getting angry. And pornography!" Natalie snorted. "Everybody knows porn demeans and objectifies women, but ask most men and I bet they’ll say it was their first exposure to sex."

  She looked into my dumbstruck face and frowned. "And then there's what I call the great Get Out of Jail Free card. They’re not responsible for their aggressive behavior, don’t you know. Violence is in their nature." Natalie threw up her hands. "That’s enough. You shouldn't have gotten me started."

  "But we have laws..."

  Natalie wagged her head and settled back against the car. "Not until the late nineteenth century we didn't, and then only the worst offenses were addressed. Anyhow, nobody enforced anything until the 1970s, and nothing consistently until 1990."

  "So we’ve still got men out there who feel entitled."

  "Yup. Maybe their fathers beat their mothers. Maybe they were abused themselves. Vicious cycle." She lifted the box of vegetables.

  I followed suit. "But...but why do women put up with it?"

  She began to walk. "Batterers are devious smart, Ms. Barnes. They know what they're doing, and they know how to get away with it,” she glanced over her shoulder, “starting with the right victim."

  That last statement hit me right between the eyes. Cissie’s insecurities did complement Ronald’s inflated opinion of himself. Perhaps a major ingredient to the whole mess.

  Yet there had to be a way someone could tilt her toward the Common Sense side of the fence. Just maybe it would help to determine whether Eric Zumstein was the good guy Cissie, and also my daughter, seemed so confident he was. Or, was he actually the selfish, greedy schemer part of me feared he might be?

  Either way, it was information Cissie desperately needed. God forbid she should make the same mistake again.

  ***

  NURSING CAROLINE, Cissie smiled up wanly from the attic rocking chair. The afternoon’s humidity caused the room to smell like dusty wood, while the air wafting in through the open window smelled of ozone. Most likely I would be driving home from the shelter in a storm.

  “How are you?” I opened, as I lowered myself onto the edge of the bed.

  Cissie averted her eyes, angled her head to the side. “Been better.”

  I nodded. Joked that I hoped so.

  She smiled at that, but in an older, worldlier way. No more ditzy, “Oh, Mrs. B! Can you help me with this?” Now I was the younger, lighter one.

  “Do you mind if I ask you something personal? It’s about Eric.”

  “
I guess,” she said with a tiny shrug. What was privacy to her now?

  “Did the two of you talk about his grandmother?”

  She shifted the child in her arms and smiled. “We talk about everything.”

  On the phone, or in person? Best not to ask.

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Did Eric tell you why the doctor thought he had something to do with his grandmother’s fall? The one that broke her hip?”

  “Not really. Mostly he sounded off about the doctor. He was really pissed.”

  “Was it the attending physician or the surgeon? Do you remember?” Always good to be sure.

  “Dr. Quinn, whichever one he was.”

  I allowed myself to breathe. “How about you? Do you think Eric could have hurt his grandmother?”

  “No. No, never,” she protested, but I’d already caught a quicksilver flash of doubt. In that respect Cissie was no more sure of Eric than I was.

  “I hope not,” I responded, but both of us were just tossing pennies into a fountain.

  While Caroline burbled and burped, while a gust of cool air fluffed the curtain and tickled my chin, I pondered my daughter’s impression of the silent sidewalk exchange between Ronald and his wife. Chelsea seemed to view the threat of reporting Eric for mistreating his grandmother as another way of controlling his wife.

  “What do you think Ronald might know about Eric that we don’t?” I wondered aloud.

  Cissie’s head jerked with alarm. “Nothing!”

  “I’m not so sure, Cissie. How do you think Ronald knew about the doctor’s misgivings?”

  Cissie’s shoulders twitched. She rolled her eyes, tossed a hand, pressed her fingers to her forehead. “I dunno. Sometimes it feels as if he’s inside my head.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “As if he hears my thoughts.”

  “You realize that’s impossible.”

  “Yeah, I know, but...”

  “Where were you when Eric told you about his run-in with the doctor?”

  “Upstairs, I guess. On the phone.”

  “Did Eric call from his house?”

  “From wherever he was. He wasn’t with me. We’re just friends. Ronald’s wrong about that.” Her embarrassment seemed to underscore her honesty, up to a point.

  I felt my shoulders relax a little. Very little. I was thinking about bugs that monitor live phone conversations, even store them in the cloud if you have the right gadget. Also motion-activated nanny cams that catch your babysitter pilfering pocket change. Or your wife with another man. Who needs a nosy, unemployed neighbor to inform you when you’ve got Wi-Fi, a cheap gadget, and a mobile phone?

  “What’s the newest appliance in your house?”

  “Appliance? I don’t know. What does it matter?”

  “Trust me. It matters.”

  “Our alarm clock, I guess. The old one broke.”

  I bet it did.

  “Do yourself a favor. If you go home, drop the thing from a second-story window.”

  Cissie got it quicker than I expected.

  “Not necessary,” she informed me. “When I go home, I won’t be talking to Eric ever again. Break the news to him, will you? I’m tired of ignoring his calls.”

  On my way out, the teenager who’d been dusting before caught up with me on the porch. “You’re Ms. Barnes, aren’t you? Natalie left this for you.”

  A paperback titled Why Does He Do That? by Lundy Bancroft. My new bedside reading.

  Chapter 44

  GAME ON. I didn’t believe Cissie’s never-going-to-speak-to-Eric-again proclamation for one second. Why? The tears in her eyes.

  Also, I had just delivered her phone charger. She hadn’t been ignoring anything; her phone was dead. Consequently, I had no qualms about learning whatever I could about Eric Zumstein on her behalf, especially how his grandmother died.

  How to proceed was the question. Chewing on that while I was driving home, what I remembered about that Serenity Prayer by Reinhold Neibuhr came to mind. Have the courage to change what you can, accept what you can’t; and good luck figuring out which is which.

  The summer rainstorm held off until Fideaux and I were strolling up our street. Then with her tongue in her cheek, Mother Nature pelted my umbrella and the dog’s hide until the gutters ran like mini rivers. Fideaux dispatched his business with grit and efficiency, and we hastened back home to our dinners.

  All the while, my brain alternately poked at the Eric problem and ignored it.

  With my evening decaf, I concluded Dr. Quinn was key.

  By bedtime I finally quit procrastinating and picked up the phone.

  His answering-service person sounded unusually perky for the hour, as if she was in a western state and had just finished supper.

  I said I needed to speak to Dr. Quinn.

  “Is it an emergency, because...?”

  “No.”

  “This is his answering service,” she stated from memory. “For an appointment you need to phone the office during business hours.”

  Since I’d procrastinated too long already, I let it all pour out. “I don’t want a regular appointment. I need to know whether a woman might be leaving her violent husband for a murderer.”

  “Listen, lady...”

  “Ginger Barnes. You can call me Gin.”

  “Whatever. This is an answering service. I have real people calling with real emergencies. If you don’t hang up right now, I’m going to use another line to give the police your number.”

  She had Caller ID. Of course, she did. Who doesn’t?

  I pointed out that bothering the police would delay getting the information I needed from Dr. Quinn, “and I’d really like his input before my friend goes home, which might be tomorrow.” I put the odds of that happening at 50/50; but it was possible, especially if Ronald hadn’t yet been released on bail.

  “Where are you?” I asked but didn’t wait for an answer. “Never mind. Wherever it is, I bet your hospital’s ladies’ room displays the phone number of a women’s shelter. Am I right?”

  Silence, but she didn’t hang up.

  “I just took a woman named Cissie to our local shelter. Her husband broke three of her ribs and inflicted plenty of other damage. She has a baby daughter. She also met a neighbor, a man who is attracted to her and would love to get her out of the abusive situation. However, there’s a cloud over his head regarding how his grandmother died. Dr. Quinn was the grandmother’s attending physician. I need to know whether my friend would be leaving a batterer for a murderer. Got it?”

  “Yes, ma’m. I think I do.”

  “Will you please relay my request for a brief meeting with Dr. Quinn at your earliest convenience?”

  “Yes, ma’m, I will.”

  Considering the week I’d had, I should have fallen asleep in my soup, but no. Anticipating a nasty call from Dr. Quinn, I twitched like a nervous bride until Fideaux left me for the living room sofa.

  Too stressed to read the book Natalie lent me, I hunted down the lunch bag of mystery novels I’d bought for Maisie.

  Back in bed, I propped myself against a couple of pillows, tucked my feet under the covers, and peeked inside the bag.

  The pages of all four paperbacks looked tighter than crackers in a sleeve. Maisie hadn’t read one word.

  Or else she didn’t live long enough to start. Not the sort of thought that invited sleep.

  I didn’t dare start a lengthy page-turner, so I pinched the skinniest book with my fingertips and slid it out of the bag.

  Ick. The bottom edge had a small, dark smear, maybe breakfast jam or gravy from Maisie’s dinner. Or, considering where she was, it might be blood. I set the short read aside and tried another.

  Pristine. The cover depicted a sunny beachside cottage festooned with flower boxes. As advertised, the first page was charming and light, not too ominous...

  I tossed the novel aside and curled up under the covers. Staring into the dark, I played and replayed an imaginary scenario in my head until
finally I fell asleep.

  Five hours later my phone rang.

  Chapter 45

  WITH DAWN a mere hint on the horizon, I nearly swept my cell phone to the floor before I managed to say hello.

  “Who are you?” Dr. Quinn demanded in a hostile, whiskey voice that slapped me wide awake.

  “Somebody who wants to exchange information about Maisie Zumstein. Critical information.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Ms. Barnes. You told my messaging service an elaborate story about an abused woman I never heard of. I fail to see what that melodrama has to do with Maisie Zumstein’s death.”

  “Give me ten minutes this morning, and I’ll tell you.”

  “Tell me now.”

  “Do you do your diagnoses over the phone when you’re half asleep?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well, neither do I.”

  A huffy silence followed while I visualized a Napoleon wannabe narrowing his eyes and grinding his teeth.

  “Nine A.M. outside the hospital chapel,” Quinn capitulated. “If I’m late, wait.”

  He was a physician. I expected to wait.

  ***

  THE GOOD DOCTOR towered over me by about three inches and exceeded my weight by a mere forty-five pounds. He had a round, doughy face and straight, black hair that scarcely covered his broad pate. I suspect some personality might reveal itself in his smile, but I did not experience that at 9 A.M. outside the hospital chapel, or even at 9:20 when he arrived.

  We did not enter the chapel, nor did we sit down anywhere else.

  I extended my hand. Quinn didn’t notice, so I slipped my arm behind my back and lifted my chin to match his.

  “Eight minutes,” he said, cheating me by two, so I skipped straight to my first question.

  “Did you order a psych eval on Maisie Zumstein?”

  “I can’t tell you that. If that’s the only reason we’re here...” He began to turn away.

  “Doctor!” I said, folding my arms across my chest and moving to stop him. “Eric Zumstein believes you think he tried to kill his grandmother, an accusation that has impacted a real, live woman’s life. I have evidence that may clear up what happened, but first I need some information from you.”