Sister of Silence

by Daleen Berry

  Some things never change.

  I squared my shoulders because, in reality, he had just made it much easier for me to drain the savings account. If I’d had doubts before, he had convinced me there was no way to save my marriage, and I was better off without him.

  We’re all better off!

  I casually glanced back and saw him turning a corner. Then he was gone. I forced myself not to run into the bank.

  What if he did it? What if he just took the money? What if that’s why he had that smile plastered all over his face?

  I pulled hard on the bank door and walked over to a cashier. I was shaking and my insides felt jittery. I was afraid that any minute Eddie might figure out what I was doing and come back to confront me. After our little exchange, I believed anything was possible. He hadn’t said so, but he wasn’t giving up that easily. I saw it written all over his face.

  The teller recognized me. “Hey there, girl. How’ve you been?”

  “Oh, hi Donna.” I pulled myself from my self-induced fog. “I’m sorry, I’m having one of those days. I’m fine, thanks.”

  Always friendly and helpful, Donna was Deputy Haney’s wife.

  I rummaged through my purse, trying to find my passbook. “How’s Charlie?” I asked absently.

  “He’s fine. He and Joe are away on another of their training trips.” Donna smiled and I placed my passbook on the counter.

  “Yes, they’re quite a pair.” I smiled. “Have they always worked together??

  Donna nodded. “Yes, for as long as I can remember, where Charlie was, so was Joe.”

  Just then I realized we had no time to chat, in case Eddie did return. “I need to withdraw some money from savings. Actually, I’d like to withdraw the entire amount, please. The last time I checked there was about $3,700 in it,” I said, praying Eddie wasn’t sneaking up behind me that very minute.

  Daleen, get a grip! Stop being paranoid. You’re safe in here. No one is going to let anything happen.

  Then another, equally alarming thought occurred.

  What if he has to sign for it, too? What if it’s already gone and they call the bank president? What if they try to arrest me?

  Ridiculous thoughts flew through my head as I stood there, praying Donna would return with the money. I waited, trying to act nonchalantly. “How would you like that?” Donna asked. “There’s $3,718.00 in the account.”

  “A cashier’s check. Oh, and can you please tell me what’s left in my checking account?”

  Thank you, dear God. Thank you.

  I let out a long, slow sigh of relief, feeling the sweat droplets running down my back. A moment later, Donna returned with a slip of paper she pushed towards me. It read: $346.07.

  So that’s why he was here! Taking the money out of that account so I wouldn’t have access to it. Well, at least he forgot about the savings account.

  I thanked Donna and turned to the desk where new accounts were handled.

  “May I help you?” Andie Jacobson asked.

  “Yes Andie, I want to open up a savings account.” I handed her the cashier’s check, not feeling a single shred of the outward confidence I wanted to project.

  “I haven’t seen you in awhile. Have you been busy?” Andie said as she typed.

  “Yes, I’ve been too busy.” I signed the paper Andie pushed toward me and prayed she would hurry.

  “I read that last column you wrote. It was hilarious. I swear you live my life,” Andie said, then chuckled.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much!” I smiled at her and as she handed me the passbook, I slipped it into my purse and said goodbye. I waved at Donna, who waved back. “Tell Charlie hello for me.”

  That was the good thing about living in a small town—everyone knew everyone else. I’d been banking there since I got my first checking account, at sixteen. That was so long ago it seemed like another lifetime, when I was a naïve and trusting young girl.

  I hurried out of the bank into the bright sunshine. Eddie was nowhere in sight, and as I turned the corner I knew I was safe. I unlocked my car door and sank down onto the seat, locking the door behind me. I grabbed the steering wheel and rested my head against it.

  “Yes, I did it! I did it!” I yelled triumphantly into the empty vehicle.

  The next day, Eddie called to harass me about the money I took from the savings account. “Just what do you think you’re going to do with that money, Daleen? It’s for house repairs.”

  “Calm down, Eddie. If you don’t quit yelling, I’m going to hang up.”

  “Then I’ll just call back again. Who do you think you are, taking that money? It belongs to both of us!” he yelled.

  “Yes, just like the money in the checking account, which you cleaned out—so I couldn’t use it to support myself.” I countered smoothly.

  “That’s right, because I wasn’t going to let you get your hands on it,” he snarled through the phone line.

  “Well my attorney advised me to take the money from the savings account after you said you weren’t going to give me any. I have to support the kids somehow, and I don’t have any income right now. Besides, you’re legally obligated to support them, whether you want to or not.” I wasn’t backing down, and I wasn’t going to play his game and give in to his angry demands.

  At first, living without another adult in the house at night wasn’t easy, and I heard every sound the old house made during the nighttime hours. But prayer worked wonders, usually helping me to get a decent night’s sleep.

  That changed after the bat.

  It was pitch black when I awoke to a soft whirring sound. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I screamed, realizing I wasn’t alone in the room. I jumped out of bed and ran out, slamming the door behind me. I came awake enough to realize what I had heard was a bat. I ran to get the kids, waking them up from a sound sleep as I scooped them into my arms and carried them out into the warm, summer night. Not quite awake, they were crying and fussing, unaware of what was happening.

  Returning to the house, I heard the creature flying around my room, and cold chills ran up and down my spine. I hated bats! I was afraid it was rabid, but even if it wasn’t, the house wasn’t big enough for the both of us. I grabbed my purse and pulled a jacket on over my nightgown, wondering how to get rid of the bats that had made their home in our belfry.

  The next morning, I told myself my fear was irrational. But it seemed symbolic of all the fears we had been living with during the last ten years. And our fear, once released from captivity—just like the furry grey mammal trapped in my bedroom—wasn’t going anywhere on its own. So we stayed at Mom’s for the better part of a month, before I summoned enough courage to return. Once I did, I felt strong enough to face anything, even the bats. Besides, instead of running off myself, if it happened again, I would make sure the bat left. I wasn’t going to be run out of my own home again.

  That night was the first time I had been there after dark since we left in the middle of the night. It felt good to be back, but even after reassuring the kids everything was fine, and reading them stories until they fell asleep, I knew I wasn’t as confident as I should have been when I crawled into bed. I left the nightstand light on as a precaution, but I kept worrying a bat would fly into the kids’ room and terrify us all, until I finally fell into a fitful sleep.

  A couple of days before what should have been our tenth wedding anniversary, I went to the car and found a letter in a sealed envelope on the front seat. With a start, I saw my name scrawled in Eddie’s handwriting, and realized he still had a car key.

  I need to get his key back so he can’t get in any time he pleases.

  I was already nervous, looking over my shoulder at the odd moment, fearful he would jump up from the back seat to assault me. I tore the envelope open, not even wanting to read what he had written.

  Dear Daleen,

  I realize I no longer have any reason to hope for a favored position with you. It’s not sex, really. It’s the whole thing. I’m stuc
k off by myself without you and the kids. I really don’t understand. Why did you marry me, why did you date me, why did you keep on coming to stay with Kim, why didn’t you tell your mom I was molesting you—raping you, if you must—when I stayed there? Were you afraid to talk, or afraid of the consequences? I’m just in the dark.

  I thought about it and realized our anniversary, if we celebrated it, will be a farce—just like the rest of our marriage. Even if this situation was solved, I’m sure that if I touch you or try to make love to you, it will cause flashbacks and will be useless anyhow. Why waste our energy fooling each other, when we need something else, whatever that is?

  It is so hard knowing that you did wrong and have no way of ever righting it satisfactorily. I don’t even know why I’m wasting your precious time reading this junk mail.

  —Eddie

  Anger, pain, disgust, and disbelief—I felt each emotion as I read and when I finished, I began to crumple it up. Suddenly, I decided it might be wise to save it. Just in case.

  I was glad I had because the following Sunday, Eddie broke in while we were at our Bible meeting. He took the most incriminating piece of evidence I had against him—a letter he had written to me in one of my journals several months earlier. I had planned to use it if I had to.

  The kids found the envelope first, lying near the front door. I opened it and found $160 cash inside—and suddenly got a sick feeling in my stomach. There was only one reason Eddie would leave me money: to assuage his guilt. I ran to get the journal from my desk drawer, knowing even before I opened the drawer what I would find. The entry on the first page was in my handwriting—but the six-page letter he had written was gone. He had torn it out, and I could still see the imprint left by his words, on the page that had followed his letter.

  If only I had gotten the locks changed on the doors.

  Trying not to cry, but shaking inside and out, I called Shirley and told her what had happened. She was just as angry and indignant as I was. I felt like I had been violated—again—and longed to get even.

  I’ll get you. I’ll pay you back.

  That was the first time I had been without the notebook, because I kept it with me wherever I went.

  Why, oh why, did I leave it behind?

  I had no answers, and only a growing sense of anger and injustice. The anger could have been harmful, since it would have suffocated me, had I let it. Instead, I fought back. After talking to Shirley, I made a second call, to the sheriff, who said he would do whatever he could to help. But after realizing I had already touched everything that Eddie had touched, Jim said there was no reason to send someone out to dust for prints. He told me to stop by his office and he would take a look at the notebook, to see if anything could be done.

  When I walked into Jim’s office Monday morning, I recalled countless other visits there. I had always come with a notebook in my hand, used to take notes as he gave me the latest news from the sheriff’s department. Woven between the detailed threads about criminal matters, were tidbits about our families.

  But this visit was different, because I was there as a victim. It felt different, too, leaving me vulnerable and nervous. After a big smile and a handshake, Jim got down to business.

  “Let’s take a look at that notebook, Daleen.” I handed the yellow book across Jim’s desk. He opened the cover and looked at the inside page.

  “The first six pages, front and back, contained the letter. He tore them all out. There, in his own handwriting, was absolute proof of what he did to me.” I sat back and waited, with little hope he could help.

  “I’m not sure what we can do. It looks like some of the print may have come off on the inside of the front cover. You can see faint markings here.” He pointed at the ink left behind. “I’ll have Joe take a look at it. I can’t make any promises, but I’ll see what we can do.”

  I shook my head. “I really appreciate it, Jim. If I’d just had a chance to have those deadbolts installed . . .” I left the sentence unfinished.

  “What’s this guy’s problem, anyway? Is he a drinker?”

  Until yesterday, I had never confided in Jim about my personal life, so he didn’t know anything about Eddie. “No, he doesn’t drink. Or do drugs. He has an addiction…” I forced myself to spit the words out. “He’s addicted to sex. He’s been into pornography since he was a teen and in the intimate aspect of our life, the word “no” means nothing.

  I wasn’t sure why, but I couldn’t just tell Jim: “He raped me.”

  “Is he abusive in other ways? To you or the kids?” I had Jim’s full attention.

  “Yes, that’s one of the reasons I had to leave. I could take it when it was just me, but when he began abusing the kids, too…well, I just couldn’t let them, or us, live like that.” I shrugged, trying to smile.

  Jim was reaching into his desk and when he handed me a small business card a few seconds later, I took it from him and looked at the number he had written on the back. “That’s my personal office number. You can call me here or at home any time—day or night—and I’ll do whatever I can to help you. In my book, a man who hits a woman isn’t a man and I won’t put up with it.”

  “Thank you, Jim.” I stood up, ready to leave.

  “Just remember, if you think he’s come into the house again, don’t touch anything. Just get out and call the police from a neighbor’s house. That way we can dust for fingerprints and have him charged with breaking and entering.” Jim stood up and came around the desk as I went towards his door. His look was solemn and direct. “You also know, unless he half-kills you, not a whole lot will happen to him, legally. That’s the way the law works, and I’m just as disgusted with it as you are.”

  I nodded my agreement. “I know. I remember only too well the cases I’ve covered for the paper, when the guy only got a slap on the wrist. But it means a lot, just knowing you’re on my side.”

  “You bet I am. Take care of yourself, you hear?”

  Outside in the bright sunlight I realized I felt stronger. I had someone who would enforce the law, or who would at least try to help me help myself. It felt good knowing someone like the sheriff was on my side.

  The summer passed, sometimes quickly, other times as if it was in no hurry to go. We kept busy, which was a blessing, because I didn’t have time to think. The nights were hard enough, when I would go from bed to bed, listening to each child’s fears.

  What if Daddy doesn’t love us anymore?

  What if I made him leave?

  How come he doesn’t come to visit us?

  Mommy, you won’t ever leave us, will you?

  The never-ending questions were heart-wrenching, leaving me feeling so powerless and sad that many nights I would just crawl into bed and cry myself to sleep. In front of them, I could be strong, pretending like everything was all right, but in the privacy of my own bedroom my guard came down and their pain became mine. I knew Eddie didn’t care about them. If he did, he would at least visit them. Not that I wanted him to, because I knew that was just as harmful. It had always been like that, in one of those “damned if you do, damned if you don’t,” ways. I thought of all the stories I had covered, where a parent—usually a father—abused his son or daughter, and then tried to excuse his actions, blaming the child for the abuse.

  I thought about several girls I had grown up with, abandoned by the fathers of their babies, or who later divorced for reasons similar to mine. Those men cared more about their trucks, their paychecks, and even going out to a local beer joint, than they did their children who were often left behind, with only a mother to tend to them. Or, as I was beginning to see more and more in our little community, for the grandparents to rear—since the mother was usually left without any child support, forced to eke out a meager existence for herself and her children, working some low-paying job. If she wasn’t doing that, she was living on welfare, and it wasn’t long before a stream of men began going in and out of her life, like so many worn-out pairs of shoes.

  On
e warm evening after the kids were tucked in, I sat down with my journal and wrote about the problems, including my own vow not to live on welfare. I knew I could support my children, and that’s what I was going to do. As for Eddie not taking the time to show an interest in his children, well, there was nothing I could do about that. It wasn’t my fault, and it was out of my control. Besides, I was afraid to be around him, and I didn’t want to take any chances. So him not visiting, or making any effort to do so, was a mixed blessing. For all of us.

  But it was still hard to listen to my children and hear their voices filled with doubt, wondering if “Daddy” didn’t come to visit because they had done something wrong. I tried to give them more love and attention than usual, in an effort to make up for what their father wasn’t, and really never had given. I put down my pen, and prayed it was enough.

  When the phone rang a few seconds later, I thought it might be Mom, checking in as she usually did each night, just to make sure everything was all right. Instead, it was Eddie.

  After a curt hello, I got to the point. “What do you want, Eddie?”

  “Just to hear your voice, I guess.” He sounded despondent.

  At one time I would have felt pity, and allowed him to reel me in. But no more, not after all he’d done to hurt our children.

  “Fine, you’ve heard it,” I said, laying the receiver back into its cradle. I wanted nothing to do with him, not even to hear his voice.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  When Eddie called about what he’d done, to feel me out and to gloat—as I knew he would—I stood up to him, knowing I had the sheriff covering my back.

  “Yes, I’d like to talk to you about that. How dare you break into this house and take the pages out of my notebook. What did you do with them anyway?” I was trying to remain calm, and not scream at him.

  I could predict the smugness before he even spoke. “I guess you could say they’re ashes now. They were as soon as I took them. Did you really think I’d let you keep that letter, knowing what it could do to me if anyone else ever read it? Not on your life,” Eddie said.