by Lynne Hinton
Iris glanced toward the clock. It was just before six. “Yes, Sister,” she responded, and then went back to her food preparation.
Charlotte took in a deep breath. Receiving new clients was always hard for her. The endless line of abused and broken women, the scared and brutalized children clutching the backs of their mother’s legs, the fear and the unnecessary shame, it was all so overwhelming to the executive director. The arrivals were always the hardest part.
Charlotte had been a parish minister before taking this job, and she had seen some heartbreaking things in that position. She had sat at deathbeds and been in emergency waiting rooms to hear of horrible wrecks and unsuspected illnesses. She had visited prisons and been in homes where sorrow was a regular guest. She had dealt with anger and sadness and grief as heavy as clouds. She had fought battles and lost wars and been so dog-tired that she would sometimes stand in the pulpit without a word of comfort or kindness. But nothing in that line of work ever prepared her for the depth of the pain and agony and the level of desperation she experienced at St. Mary’s.
Every woman was unique. Every woman had a story that was unique. And yet the fundamentals were always the same. The woman had left an abusive relationship. She had nothing but what she was wearing or what she could carry. She had no idea of what she was going to do beyond run for her safety and get out of her relationship. After that was when the women and their stories diverged. After those basic facts, the women and how they handled their situations were as different and as unpredictable as storms in winter.
Some of the women made it, finding new housing, finding new employment, being able to make a real break from their abusers and their abusive lives. They were the success stories. They were the ones Charlotte spoke of when she gave her report at the board of directors’ meetings. They were the ones she recited to herself over and over, and especially when she found herself feeling defeated and despairing. The success stories were what kept her going, and kept her at St. Mary’s.
Many of the women, on the other hand, didn’t make it. A lot of the women went back to their former lives, simply unable to imagine any other way of life for themselves. They went back into the arms of their tormentors and back into a violent cycle that eventually, one way or another, killed them. That aspect of her work, that choice of destruction that was often taken, that decision to go back to a violent way of life, those stories, those and the children, were the hardest parts of the job.
No matter how long she worked at St. Mary’s, the way the children cowered and played in silence, the way they flinched if someone came too close, the tiny ways violence broke them, that was something Charlotte could never get used to. She looked for signs of hope, possibilities for change, but no matter how she learned to deal with domestic abuse, she could never find a way to be resigned to what happened to the children.
She slid her shoulder-length hair behind her ears and stopped in the hallway bathroom to take a quick look in the mirror before moving to the front door. Usually not a woman who cared too much about her appearance, since meeting Donovan she found herself applying a little more makeup in the mornings and taking a bit more interest in the clothes she decided to wear. This whole new way of being, of thinking about how she looked, was foreign to her, but so were the feelings she had for the Gallup police officer.
She was in the hallway just as the doorbell rang, and she opened the door and stood just inside the landing. Donovan was in front and a woman, one she couldn’t yet see, stood behind him in the shadows.
“Hey,” Donovan said as he dipped his head at Charlotte. He was wearing his uniform, minus the hat, which was securely placed beneath his left arm, which was at his side, while the other rested across his chest.
Charlotte had never seen him in his uniform. When they first met, when her car had a flat tire and he stopped to help, he was off duty and was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. When they went out for the one date they shared, he was in his civilian clothes as well. She was surprised at how authoritative he looked standing in front of her in the standard Gallup police uniform.
“Hello,” she responded, and stepped aside so that the two of them could walk in.
Donovan moved inside and the woman followed him. Charlotte could not get a very good look at her even in the light because she kept her shoulders hunched over and her head to the ground. Once she was in, Charlotte closed the door behind them, and they stood in the landing for a few awkward moments.
“Carla, this is Charlotte. This is the woman I’ve told you about, and this is St. Mary’s.” He spoke softly.
“Hello, Carla,” Charlotte chimed in. “It’s nice to meet you,” she added, holding out her hand to shake.
Carla reached her hand out, and immediately Charlotte noticed the large bruises around her wrist. She had seen marks like that before. It usually meant the perpetrator had held the woman down. It usually was a sign that a rape had occurred. It appeared as if her thumb, swollen and blue, was broken. Charlotte shook the extended hand carefully. The woman didn’t speak but she did look up, and Charlotte tried not to react to the terrible markings on her face.
Both of her eyes were swollen shut. Her bottom lip was split and had been bleeding. Her nose had been smashed. Everything on her face was cut or bruised, and it was easy to see why Donovan had said that she needed to be at a hospital.
“Oh my.” Charlotte sighed, trying not to react too strongly. She shook her head. “You’re going to need a couple of stitches on that lip,” she noted. “Are you in a lot of pain?” she asked.
Carla shook her head slightly. It was obvious that more than a slight movement hurt a great deal.
“Laurie, our nurse on staff, will be here soon and she’ll take a good look at you, and we’ll do what we can for your injuries here. But you may need an X-ray of your nose and cheeks.” Charlotte had gotten very good at her initial assessments of battered women. She had learned who needed medical attention and even what tests would be appropriate.
Carla shook her head again and dropped her face.
“Her husband works at the hospital,” Donovan said. “She won’t go because she’s afraid he’ll find out where she is.”
Charlotte nodded. “We can take her down to Grants to the clinic there or even to Albuquerque, if we need to.” She had run into this problem before and taken women to hospitals or medical facilities out of town. Often the abuser knew the damage he had done, and if the victim wouldn’t press charges or if the police couldn’t find him, the hospital in Gallup was not a safe option.
Carla shook her head again. “Nothing’s broken,” she said. “Except maybe a couple of ribs, and there really isn’t anything they do for those anyway,” she added.
“Carla is a nurse tech,” Donovan explained.
Charlotte smiled. “Okay,” she responded. “No hospitals or urgent care facilities. But you will let Laurie, our nurse, take a look, won’t you?”
Carla nodded and lowered her head again.
“What would you like to do right now?” Charlotte asked. “Would you like to wash up a bit or lie down? Or if you’re hungry, we can fix you a plate for supper.”
There was a pause. Carla seemed to be trying to figure out what she wanted most at that moment. Charlotte waited for her to respond.
“I think I’d like to take a shower,” she answered. “Yes, I’d just like to take a shower,” she convinced herself.
Charlotte nodded. “It’s helpful, Carla, if we take some pictures of your injuries. I know it’s a terrible thing to do, but we’ve found that having these photographs when you first come in, as evidence of the crime, it’s just helpful.” She tried to make the request as easy and kind as she could. She hated this part of the intake procedure, but she had found over the years that by the time court cases rolled around, judges and lawyers had a difficult time believing the extent of injuries without photographic evidence.
Carla glanced up at Donovan.
“We did that already,” he replied, speaking fo
r her. “One of the women officers took them,” he explained. “Since she came to the station, we had to file a report, and so it’s just standard procedure to take pictures.”
“Good,” Charlotte noted. “So, now you can take your shower.” She gestured toward the hallway and escorted Carla to the bathroom. She pulled out a towel and cloth from the pantry and handed them to Carla. She showed her where the soap and shampoo and lotion were. She explained the hot and cold water and how she needed to be careful because the hot water could get very hot. She also found a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, a new pair of underwear and socks, and handed them to Carla. The newest resident of St. Mary’s glanced down at the clothes.
“We have a lot of new and used clothes here,” Charlotte said. “Most of our residents don’t have anything when they come. You’re welcome to use whatever you need. The clothes are in the bins and hanging on the racks in the back room.” She gestured down the hall.
Carla nodded. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“You’re welcome,” Charlotte replied. “Take as long as you need.” And she closed the bathroom door and headed back up the hall.
Donovan was still standing near the front door. By this time, Maria and the other women had come in the back door, but out of respect and because of their recollections of their own arrivals at the shelter, none of them had come into the front room. Even Maria had not come in the front area. She had just gone into the kitchen, grabbed a dinner roll, and left. Charlotte was surprised to find out later that her volunteer had not stepped inside to meet Donovan.
“You want to sit down for a minute?” Charlotte asked Donovan as she walked back into the room. She could hear the women talking quietly in the kitchen and dining room.
“Sure,” he replied. And he took a seat on the sofa while Charlotte sat across from him in one of the overstuffed chairs.
“She was beaten pretty bad,” Charlotte commented.
Donovan nodded.
“I’m glad she felt like she could come to you,” she added.
Donovan nodded again. He seemed embarrassed about the situation.
“He’s hit her before,” he responded. “But never like this,” he added. He shook his head and slid his hat in his lap. He fingered the edges and then glanced up at Charlotte.
Charlotte didn’t respond.
“We’ve been divorced eighteen years,” he explained. “We got married right out of high school. We were young, stupid. And we lasted about six years when she realized she didn’t want to be married to a cop and I realized that she was still interested in being young and, well, stupid.” He paused. “Carla has always been a bit on the wild side,” he added. “I’m more, well, I’m a little on the boring side.” He managed a smile.
Charlotte nodded and returned the smile. “But you’ve stayed friends?” she asked.
Donovan shook his head. “Not really,” he replied. “She tends to show up when she’s in trouble,” he added. “It’s not usually this kind of trouble.” He shrugged. “Money, usually. She’s come to me from time to time because she’s needed money.”
Charlotte settled into her seat. She studied Donovan. He was a big man, broad shoulders, stocky and yet still tall. He had dark hair and eyes, and skin that was brown, like he stayed in the sun all day. He seemed nervous, and Charlotte understood that this was uncomfortable for him.
“Do you know her husband?” she asked.
“I know of him,” Donovan replied. “He’s been in trouble before. He’s known to have a violent streak.”
Charlotte nodded.
“A few bar brawls, a bunch of skirmishes with some other drunks. A few arrests. I tried to tell Carla before she married him but she wouldn’t listen.”
“How long have they been married?” Charlotte wanted to know.
“About six years,” Donovan answered.
“And there’s somebody out looking for him?” Charlotte asked, wondering if the other police officers had succeeded yet.
“We sent a unit over to their house. I suspect he’s still there.”
“Why?” Charlotte asked.
“Carla got one good swing at him before she ran out,” Donovan replied.
“She doesn’t look like she could do much damage,” Charlotte noted. “She’s very petite,” she added, thinking about the small woman she had just met.
“She had an iron skillet,” Donovan said with a slight smile.
“Well, that does help if you don’t match up,” Charlotte responded.
“She said he was knocked out when she left.”
Charlotte nodded. She knew that some of the battered women she met were able to fight back. Some of them were quite strong and could hold their own in a fistfight. Some of the others, most of them, in fact, were generally too scared and too weak. Charlotte had noticed that violent men seemed to be drawn to the smaller, meeker types.
There was a pause in the conversation. They could hear the women talking and eating in the dining room. There was some laughter, which always made Charlotte smile. There was not usually a lot of laughter at St. Mary’s.
“Thank you for taking her,” Donovan finally broke the silence. “I didn’t know where else for her to go.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Charlotte responded. “You know, it’s funny that we’ve never met before,” she added. “I know most of the police officers in Gallup.” She thought about all of the men and women she had met in her line of work. She knew all the emergency room staff at the hospital, many of the local clergy, social workers, school counselors, police officers, and, unfortunately, funeral directors. When she discovered that Donovan served on the force in Gallup, she had been surprised to find out that he had never brought a woman to St. Mary’s.
Donovan nodded. He wasn’t sure why he had never come to the women’s shelter. He had certainly handled domestic violence calls, but in his experience, most of the women wouldn’t leave their homes.
There was another pause. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I was married before,” he finally confessed. “I wasn’t hiding it,” he added. “I just didn’t tell you.”
“We’ve only been out once,” Charlotte noted. “We hadn’t really had the chance to go into a lot of detail about our lives.”
“You don’t count the tire change as a first date?” he asked.
Charlotte grinned. “Well, there was a little more to it than just roadside assistance, wasn’t there?”
“Coffee,” he replied. “And we did talk awhile that night,” he added.
Charlotte blushed even though she wasn’t sure why. She glanced away from Donovan and cleared her throat. “So, does Carla have family she can go to when she’s stronger?” she asked.
Realizing that the conversation had changed directions, he answered the question. “She has a couple of sisters and her mother is still living. I suppose I should let them know what has happened,” he said.
“I’d let her make that decision,” Charlotte advised.
They both noticed the lights of the car pulling into the driveway of the house.
“That’s probably the nurse,” Charlotte guessed. “I better go meet her at the back and tell her what to expect.”
Donovan stood up, understanding it was his cue to leave. “Thank you again,” he said. “Can I call tomorrow?” he asked.
Charlotte wasn’t sure whether he meant her or the shelter for Carla but she answered positively regardless. “Of course.” She thought for a moment. “I did give you my card, right?” she asked.
Donovan smiled and pulled it out from the front of his shirt pocket. “Reverend Charlotte Stewart,” he read. “Call me day or night,” he added.
“It doesn’t say that,” Charlotte responded, knowing that he was teasing her.
“No, but it probably should,” he said. He stuck the card back where it had been and headed for the door. “You’d take a call anytime, wouldn’t you?”
She nodded. “Probably,” she replied.
“I’ll call
tomorrow,” he said.
“We’ll be here,” Charlotte replied, still unsure whom he was intending to talk to.
She opened the door and he headed down the steps, and when Charlotte turned around, the women from the shelter were all gathered in the hallway watching.
Clam Dip
1 6½-ounce can minced clams
1½ cups sour cream
1 teaspoon onion salt
¼ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
Drain clams; reserve 2 tablespoons liquid. Combine clams, reserved liquid, and remaining ingredients. Chill 3 to 4 hours. Serve with crackers. Makes 2½ cups.
—Eldon Macintyre
Chapter Eight
Beatrice saw the mailman as he rounded the corner. She threw on her coat and met him at her front gate just as he was about to bring the mail to her box on her front porch. “Eldon,” she said, studying the man who had delivered her mail for almost twenty years.
“Mrs. Witherspoon,” he acknowledged. “How are you today?” he asked.
“I’m as perky as a peach,” she replied. “And how are you?”
He handed her a small stack of letters. “I am fine.”
She took the stack and kept watching the man. “How is Lily?” she asked, sounding as if she knew the answer.
“Lily is fine.” Eldon appeared as if he really wasn’t interested in a conversation. “Have a good day now.” And he turned to walk away.
Beatrice stopped him. “Eldon,” she called out before he had taken a step.
He turned back around. “Yes, Mrs. Witherspoon?”
“This spring Jessie and James Jenkins are renewing their vows. The Farmers’ Almanac reports that the weather this year will be particularly kind for outdoor events, and I think it’s high time you marry that woman.” Beatrice was needling Eldon to propose to the woman he had been dating for as long as he had been a mailman. For fifteen years she had pestered him about his lack of commitment.
Eldon sighed a heavy sigh. “Beatrice,” he said, remembering that the older woman had told him years ago to call her by her first name, “Lily broke up with me about nine months ago. I didn’t tell you like I didn’t tell anybody because I can’t stand the questions and the look of pity that is starting to form on your face right now.”
