“I can’t tell you how many hours I’ve sat in this spot, Lily.” Her mother looked around the room with a sense of wistfulness that might have been reserved for discovering the height markers of a growing child on a forgotten door jamb. “So many women have gone through what you’re going through, yet so many more have not because they are too afraid. I’m so proud of you. You are brave.”
“I don’t feel brave,” said Lily. “I feel nauseated.”
“Lily,” said her mother, shifting her body in her chair so that she was directly facing her. “You are not the one who should be worried. Joe broke the law - you’re the victim here. Remember that: You’re the victim.” She faced forward again. “I’m so glad that this didn’t happen until after New York State changed its laws. I’ve known women who were threatened at knifepoint by their husbands who still couldn’t get the police to do anything about it. They would call nine-one-one and by the time the police arrived, they would lose their nerve and wouldn’t sign the paperwork, or would recapitulate after their husbands calmed down and got all lovey-dovey.” She took a bite of a cookie, then brushed the crumbs from her lap. “Now with the new law, once the complaint has been filed, the police take over and it becomes a matter between the state and the abuser. A lot of women - including me - made a lot of sacrifices to make that happen. We paved the way to make it easier for abuse victims. Like you.”
“It doesn’t feel easy,” said Lily.
“I know, honey. I know.” Her mother patted Lily’s hands. “But your willingness to do this and to be strong when we go in there is going to make it easier for the women who come along after you.”
That probably should have meant something to Lily, but it didn’t. She didn’t care about those other women and their sorry-ass problems. All she cared about was getting through today. Often, Lily would catch herself holding her breath, and then realize that she was thinking about what lay in wait in the days, weeks, and months to come. Wrangling her awareness back to the present moment provided little relief.
“I think we should move over there to the corner, Mom,” said Lily. “Every time that elevator door opens, my stomach jumps. One of these times Joe is going to be standing there. I don’t want to see his face.”
“Nonsense,” said her mother. “That’s exactly why I chose this bench for us. The first thing I want him to see is us sitting here, unafraid and ready to fight.”
“But I’m not unafraid,” said Lily. “I’m not ready to fight; I don’t want to.”
“He doesn’t know you’re not unafraid,” said Lily’s mother. “And it doesn’t matter if you want to fight or not. You have to. If they sniff out ambivalence or weakness on your part, they will destroy you. Just sit up tall now. Throw your shoulders back and keep your chin up. Just like on that deodorant commercial: Never let them see you sweat.”
Lily followed her mother’s instructions, and as if on cue, the elevator chimed, the doors opened, and Joe emerged, walking and talking with a man who was carrying a leather briefcase and wearing a three-piece gray pin-striped suit.
“That bastard,” said Lily’s mother.
“Mom, please, don’t start calling Joe names. What if the judge hears you?”
“I’m not talking about Joe - although he is a bastard. I’m talking about his lawyer. That guy is a sonofabitch. He would rape his own mother to win a case.”
“Mom! That’s an awful thing to say.”
“Maybe. But it’s true. I was helping this one woman who didn’t have money for a lawyer, and that guy actually counseled the husband to perjure himself - right in front of me. He dared me to bring it up during the hearing, but I didn’t know the proper protocol. Since the wife didn’t have any proof that she was telling the truth, it became a case of ‘he said, she said,’ and was left up to the judge’s determination.”
Joe and his lawyer took chairs on the other side of the room, directly across from Lily and her mother. The lawyer leaned over and said something to Joe, and they both laughed.
“What happened?” asked Lily. “To your friend?”
“The judge slapped the husband on the wrist by assigning him to some ridiculous anger management program, and then sent everybody home. Since my friend didn’t have any money or family, she had no choice but to return to the marital home. That night, her husband beat her to within an inch of her life.”
“You’re kidding?” Why was her mother telling her this story? Lily didn’t need to hear more horror stories; she needed one with a happy ending. Or least one with an ending that didn’t cause her gut to clamp more tightly in fear.
“I wish I was kidding,” her mother replied. “Except this time, a passing neighbor heard the commotion and called the police. The husband was arrested and my friend got her Order of Protection.”
“That’s good,” said Lily, looking to her mother for some reassurance. “Right?”
“The only thing good about it is that he didn’t kill her first.”
Lily’s mother twisted her mouth into a knot, the vein at her temple swelled and throbbed. Lily wondered if her mother was quietly enraged at the memory of the story she told, of her own wounds, which she still tended, or at the fact that her youngest daughter was now facing a similar horror. Maybe they were all the same story, but with different endings. She shuddered at what her ending might be.
“I can’t face him, Mom. Every time I think of it, I just want to get up and run out of here.” Lily considered the option. She could just walk out of here and go home, couldn’t she? She could tell Joe it was all a big mistake, that she didn’t know why she was acting so strangely, but that she was sorry and just wanted things to go back to the way they were. Back to life as she knew it. It wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t the worst, either. There were lots of other women living in worse situations than she was. She could find a way to focus on the good things, couldn’t she? On her children, on their beautiful home, on the precious moments when they were all huddled around the wood stove watching a movie, or hanging out in the backyard, Pierce and Joseph playing tag with Wishes at their heels, chortling at the delight shared by dogs and their little boys. Were there enough of those moments to sustain her, to keep the sorrow and the fear at bay? Could she string them together and stretch them out long enough to get her past these difficult years? When the boys were grown, it would be easier to leave. The idea of facing this process and this place later on, when she would be a different person, maybe a stronger one, was certainly worth considering. Wasn’t it?
Lily was aroused from her reverie by the cries of a little girl who trailed along behind her mother, the two of them tethered to each other by hands and tears.
“Mommy!” cried the little girl. “No, Mommy, no!” Snot streamed from her nose and she paused her cry to lick it from her lips, her gaze briefly meeting Lily’s before she resumed her mission and her wails. She was a couple of years younger than Pierce. In ten years, the two of them might end up in the same high school. Maybe even go to a dance together. In twenty years, they could fall in love. In thirty years, they could be here, staring each other down from across the Family Court waiting room.
Lily suddenly understood that this was not just about her and Joe. It was about her boys, and what they would learn about being men and husbands in the years to come. It was about what Joseph and Pierce would come to think of her as they watched her endure the indignities and humiliation that were part of her relationship with their father. And it was about the two little girls out there somewhere who would one day share their beds, their homes, their lives.
“May I have your attention,” called the bailiff. “All those who have hearings at one o’clock, please come to the desk and check in.” One by one, people rose from their seats and took their places in line. Once everyone was checked in, the bailiff ushered them into the courtroom. The long wooden benches smelled of oil soap like the pews at St. Augustine’s; they creaked and groaned under the weight of each new person who sat. Uniformed officials stood post at a h
umongous desk, which sat on a platform at the front of the room. People spoke in whispers. Signs and statues and banners adorned the walls and all the trembling transgressors sat waiting to be heard and sentenced.
The judge entered the room. The people all stood; the people all sat. The judge spoke; the people answered. Two cases were heard prior to Lily’s: both of them were women seeking Orders of Protection from their husbands.
“What is it, an epidemic?” Lily whispered to her mother.
“It’d be considered an epidemic if the men were the ones getting abused,” said Lily’s mother. “Since it’s women getting hurt and killed, it’s treated more like the common cold.”
“Diotallevi vs Diotallevi,” announced the bailiff.
“That’s us,” said Lily’s mother. She grabbed her tattered attaché, popped up out of her seat, and nudged Lily toward the aisle.
Lily and her mother took their seats at the table at the front of the courtroom. Lily noticed Joe’s lawyer as he spun the combination on his briefcase and extracted papers from within, making three neatly stacked piles on the desk in front of him. Lily looked at her mother’s faux leather portfolio with the broken latch, and the manila folder that had been used and reused every time she’d had occasion to appear in Family Court on her own behalf or someone else’s. It bore the markings where names had been written and erased, where labels had been affixed and torn off, and upon which dribbling mugs of coffee had been rested. Lily found herself wishing she had a real lawyer - someone with a real briefcase and a success story or two to share. Since the initial separation, however, Joe had not been forthcoming with any financial help, the matter being completely voluntary in the interim between his arrest and the hearing. The last time Lily had used her credit card at the grocery store, it was rejected, and when she tried get cash from the ATM, the machine sucked her card up and displayed a phone number for her to call to diagnose the issue. There was no need to call the number. Lily knew what Joe was thinking: If she wouldn’t take him back for love, she might do so to keep from starving to death.
“Family Court is not a difficult thing,” Lily’s mother had told her. “I’ve been through this process so many times; I can do it with my eyes closed.” The only other option Lily knew of was to show up alone.
The judge addressed Lily. “Please state your name.”
“Lily Diotallevi, sir.”
She was pretty sure she got that one right. But what if he asked her a question and she didn’t know what to say? Lily thought of the story in the New Testament of Saint Stephen’s trial, and how he relied upon the Holy Spirit to inspire him with the right words. Of course, Saint Stephen was rushed by an angry crowd and stoned to death in the streets. Not exactly what she was going for.
The room fell away as Lily’s responses to the judge’s questions floated in the air around her, as if being spoken by someone else, or as if being answered from within a dream.
“No, sir.”
“She’s my mother, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Two children, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No, sir.”
The judge removed his tortoise shell glasses and set them on his desk. He raised his head up from reading the papers in front of him and looked directly at Lily.
“Mrs. Diotallevi, are you afraid of your husband?”
Lily looked at her mother, and then back at the judge. She didn’t want to turn toward Joe, but she caught sight of his form with a timid sidelong glance, and despite her will to face forward, her head betrayed her and followed suit. Joe’s gaze chilled her. She’d seen that look before - most recently in her rearview mirror that night after her recording session. There was a darkness in his eyes, a vacancy. In that moment, there was no other answer but the one she was terrified to utter in his presence.
“Mrs. Diotallevi?” the judge repeated. “Are you afraid of your husband?”
Lily’s mother nudged her in the ribs with her elbow.
“Yes, your honor,” said Lily. “He scares me.”
“You’ve gotta be freakin kidding me,” said Joe, throwing his hands into the air.
Joe’s lawyer leaned over and whispered something to him. This time, there was no laughter, just a single grunt. Lily enjoyed the idea that she could say whatever she wanted, and Joe had no choice but to stand there and take it. It was like jumping into the deep end of the swimming pool with one of those inflatable rings around your waist. What you were doing was technically dangerous, but you weren’t really scared. Is that what power feels like? Lily wished she had said more, wished she had told the judge not only that she was afraid of Joe, but that she sometimes stayed up all night, hovering on the couch, looking out through the slats of the mini-blinds that covered the front living room windows - just to make sure he didn’t try to break in while they were sleeping. And she wished she told him that Joe had driven past the house nearly every night - sometimes at midnight or one o’clock in the morning. One night, she dozed off and woke at four a.m., to find his car parked across the street, puffs of cigarette smoke spilling out a crack in the driver’s side window.
The judge turned to Joe’s lawyer. Lily had her attention trained keenly on them, and while she could hear the words being spoken, she struggled to discern their meaning, trapped as she was behind a haze of confusion and anxiety. She sure hoped her mother knew what was going on.
The judge gently tapped the gavel and called the next case. Lily’s mother squeezed her hand under the table and whispered to her, “Great job - you made it through your first court appearance.” The idea that she would have to attend more of them was at first softened by the realization that Lily had been awarded a six-month Order of Protection, and then magnified by the fact that she had reached the point of no return. Joe could forgive her crazy ideas and schemes. He could learn to overlook her occasional outbursts of indignation, and she could even imagine a world in which he might be able to forgive her infidelity; at least that would give him lifetime leverage against her. That was more plausible than him forgiving her for placing a court ordered injunction against him, keeping him from doing what he wanted with her when he wanted. From this moment on, she was on her own. She had no money, no means of support, and no one to watch the boys even if she could get a job. It would take weeks before a child support order could be processed. Assuming she could hang on until then, she had officially less than one year to get on her feet and put her life back together. Her saliva felt hot in her mouth. She looked around the room for a garbage can in case the cowboy cookie decided to make its way back up.
“Mom,” said Lily, gripping her mother’s sleeve as they walked through the parking garage. “Now what do I do? How are we going to survive?”
“You’ll have to get legal separation papers drawn up to protect yourself. Legal aid can probably help you with that, but one day at a time,” said her mother, patting her hand. “Today is a huge victory for us, Lily. For now, let’s get out of here, and go to my place.” Rubbing the palms of her hands together, she added, “We can brainstorm about next steps.”
Lily bristled at the way her mother seemed to be enjoying the whole process. It wasn’t a party, after all. If anything, it was more like a funeral. One for which it wasn’t completely clear who the corpse was.
“Mom, I really can’t stay to visit,” said Lily as she pulled her car into the parking lot of the condo her mother shared with Tom. “I have to get home before the school bus drops the kids off.”
“You have ten minutes for a cup of tea,” said her mother. “I’m sure Tom has been in there whipping up something delightful for us.”
“Here’s a little snack,” said Tom, placing a small blue plate of sliced banana bread in front of Lily. He patted her on the head. “It’s still warm.” Then he disappeared again into the kitchen.
Lily watched as globs of butter on the brown surface of the bread first melted into tiny glistening pools, and then disappeared. Except for half a cowboy cookie, sh
e hadn’t eaten since last night when she’d nibbled on Pierce’s leftover fish sticks. The aroma of the bread swirled its way up into her nostrils, arousing memories of Iris’ passion for making baked goods in the winter. Her best memories always included Iris. At least they always used to.
Lily’s stomach growled. She picked up a slice and bit into it. It collapsed in her mouth, sweet warm sponginess, laced with salty butter, the first communion of her freedom. In a good, small way, it renewed Lily’s faith that even now, when there was so much to be afraid of and worried about, even as the ground itself seemed to be disintegrating beneath her, there was this moment of respite and home-baked banana bread.
Lily offered a prayer of thanks for Tom, for her mother, and for the comfort of a hot cup of tea with milk and sugar. As she took a gulp from the mug that her mother had set before her, a faint groan escaped from her throat.
“I only have about an hour,” she said, picking up a second slice of bread.
The phone rang, and as was their custom, neither Tom nor Betty moved to answer it. They were staunch screeners - they always waited and listened to see who was calling and what they had to say before deeming the communication worthy of a trip all the way across the room.
When their recorded greeting finished playing, the voice on the other end was broadcast over the speaker, “Mom - are you there? It’s Violet. Pick up. Mom, there’s been an accident.” Violet’s voice disappeared into a muffled cry as Lily’s mother launched herself from her chair and lunged for the telephone. “Mom, please pick up the phone if you’re there.”
“Violet? Violet?” said Betty as she raised the receiver to her ear. “What’s happened?” She listened with a furrowed brow. “What?! Oh, dear... Uh-huh, OK, well, what... oh... uh-huh...” She plucked a tissue from the box next to the phone and dabbed at her eyes.
Lily froze, taking fragile shelter in her ignorance. For as long as her mother stayed on the phone, Lily would not have to face whatever news Violet was delivering. In this instant, Lily’s pain and sorrow would be limited to the demise of her marriage, the terror of her unknown future, and the reality of her poverty.
[Iris and Lily 01.0 - 03.0] The Complete Series Page 113
