Caught in a Bind (20 page)

“Rob,” his mother cautioned.

Speaking of tall, blond and shy, where was he? I looked back to the office and watched as he came sailing out, laptop in hand, unaware of the ambush awaiting him.

“Hey, wait for—” He slammed to a halt as he saw Sherrie.

Sherrie went absolutely still too.

Randy swallowed a couple of times. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Oh. I don’t—” She looked at her mother for help, then back at Randy. “You weren’t at school today.”

He brightened because she’d noticed. “We brought my mother home.”

“How is she?”

“Fine. She’s at home now, resting.”

Sherrie fell silent. As the silence lengthened, she grew embarrassed. She lowered her head, her black hair falling forward to guard her face.

“Can we talk?” Randy asked again, probably trying to not sound like he was pleading, and failing. “Just for a minute?”

There was no sign she heard him except for perhaps a more rapid rhythm to her breathing.

He accepted her silence as a no. “That’s okay.” He tried not to let his hurt show. “I understand. I wouldn’t want to talk to me either. I was pretty awful.”

Her head came up, her eyes uncertain. “It’s not… I don’t… You’re not…” She looked at Stephanie again.

Stephanie stepped into the breach. “Sherrie, I know you’re supposed to talk with Merry this afternoon. Why don’t you two take the office? Randy, why don’t you come upstairs with Rob and me, and I’ll get you guys something to eat while you wait for Merry.”

“You’re here with Merry?” Sherrie asked, her head once again lowered.

Randy nodded jerkily, then realized she couldn’t see him. “Yes.”

“I thought you came to see me.” Her voice was a whisper, and I couldn’t tell if she was relieved or disappointed that Randy had come with me.

“I’d always come to see you if I thought you’d see me.” It was a declaration straight from the heart.

Stephanie and I looked at each other and smiled. It was so sad and so sweet. This time Rob saved further awkwardness.

“Come on, Randy. Mom and Sherrie baked snickerdoodles last night. It was their mother-daughter ritual to help Sherrie cope.” He started toward the stairs. “You might as well benefit from their activities.” He stopped and grinned impishly over his shoulder. “After all, if it hadn’t been for you, there’d be no cookies.”

Sherrie gasped, but she didn’t look up. Randy flushed at the gentle, precise jibe.

“Rob,” Stephanie cautioned as she stood at the foot of the stairs and waited for Randy to precede her. With a last look in Sherrie’s direction, Randy resigned himself to cookies instead of his love and followed Rob.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Sherrie led the way to her mother’s office. I took the sofa again and she the easy chair. I got out my tape recorder and my note tablet.

She sat and stared at her clasped hands for a minute, and I let the silence continue. She needed time.

“I still like him.” She said it as if she was admitting she liked Internet porn.

“So do I. He’s a nice person with lots of possibilities.”

She looked at me then, clearly confused with herself. “But you saw what he did.”

I nodded. “And he scared himself very badly.”

“Badly enough to change?”

“I think there’s a good chance.”

“Can he do that without Jesus?”

“Maybe.” I rubbed at the stain Randy had noted earlier. “Some people do.”

“But lots don’t.”

“You know what that means, don’t you?”

She thought about that for about two seconds, then grinned. “We’ve got to pray he finds Jesus.”

I smiled at her. “I’d already been thinking about inviting him and his mom to church on Easter to hear you sing. Now I know I will. You pray that they come, okay?”

She nodded, excited. “I will. Oh, I will.”

“Good girl. I knew I could count on you. Now let’s get to work.”

We talked for almost a half hour, and she did have some very good ideas for my story.

“Kids in an abusive home have one of two experiences,” she said as she tucked her legs under her. “Either they end up getting hit too, or they observe it happening. Mom calls it ‘pointed behavior’ when the abuse is leveled at the child and ‘modeled behavior’ when the child only sees the abuse. Each
has its own special terror. But either way, they think this is normal. They don’t have any other gauge for family life, especially when they see it from a little kid on up.”

“So you thought your dad’s temper and beatings were normal?” I couldn’t quite keep the surprise out of my voice.

“Sure. It scared me, but I thought that was just the way life was. I’d wake up to Mom screaming and begging and him roaring and cursing. I’d cry in fear because I didn’t understand what was happening. I hid under the bed more than once, terrified I’d be next.”

“Did your father ever hit you?”

She shook her head. “He never hit either Rob or me. And he hit Mom most when he’d been drinking or had a real bad day at work. Then he’d apologize and fall all over himself saying how he’d never do it again.” She blew out a disgusted breath. “What a lie.”

“What would you like to tell parents in abusive homes?”

She didn’t have to think for even a moment. “I’d tell the moms to get out before the kids are scarred any worse. Every day you remain makes it harder for the kids to be normal adults. I’d tell the fathers to think what they’re doing to their kids. They’re making them scared and full of fear and teaching them that violence is an okay way to live. Go get help for the kids’ sakes.”

I smiled at her appreciatively. She was a good interview, her ideas organized and clear. “Why do you think moms stay?”

“They keep hoping it’ll be different. They’re ashamed. They don’t have anywhere to go. They don’t have any money. They don’t have any job skills. They think God wants them to stay. Their pastor tells them they should stay.” She shrugged. “All or any of those, and there are probably more reasons I haven’t thought of. Take Mom. She’s an optimist. She wanted to believe
my father every time he said things would be different. She’s a fixer-upper. She wanted to fix him. So she stayed.”

“What would you tell girls your age to help prevent them from marrying someone like your father?”

“I’d tell them to be wary of anyone who has a temper. I’d tell them not to think they can change someone just by loving him. So many of the women my mom works with had a savior complex. They were going to love this man so much he’d become emotionally healthy. Love would make everything fine.”

I looked at her earnest young face. “But that sounds good.”

“The trouble is that he doesn’t know what love really is. He only knows what control is. Love yields. Love cares. Love desires that the other person be happy or comfortable or pleased.”

“But some guys are frauds, able to play the game until after the marriage.” I wanted to hear her answer to that familiar problem.

She readily agreed. “Some guys are frauds. And the younger you are, the more likely you are to be taken in by a fraud. But in the long run there are no guarantees about anyone.”

“How’d you get to be so smart?” I asked.

“Around here,” she said, “all you have to do is listen.”

“If there are no guarantees, what hope can you give a young woman?”

“Make certain the guy’s a Christian. That’s not a guarantee either, but it’s the best I can offer. Make certain the guy loves God because God’s love will change his heart, just like it’ll change yours. Make sure he’s dealt with any problems in his background. Make sure he’s kind to his mother. I kid you not. The way he talks to his mom and grandmom is probably the way he’ll talk to you. And he should be nice to animals and to old people too.”

She fell silent, looking at me expectantly.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Nope.” She uncurled from the chair. “I think I said everything I wanted to.”

I stood and collected my equipment. “Shall we go upstairs and get a snickerdoodle? I hate to think of those guys getting them all.”

Sherrie immediately became hesitant.

I smiled gently. “Life’s a lot harder than theory, isn’t it? My suggestion is that you be pleasant but distant. Sort of like he’s your pesky though handsome brother. He likes you a lot, which shows he has good taste.” She blushed. “But right now he needs to take care of his own problems, not focus on you. Maybe in a year or two.”

“Or three or four?”

“Or three or four,” I agreed.

Slowly she relaxed. “A brother. Three or four. I can handle that.” She nodded. “Let’s go get some cookies.”

FOURTEEN

I
started when the doorbell finally rang and glanced at my watch. Ten p.m. Curt was only three and a half hours late getting back from Philadelphia.

Randy looked up from the TV we had been pretending to watch. “I’ll get it.”

I nodded.

Okay, girl
, I said to myself for the thousandth time.
You have a choice. You can be a shrew or you can be kind. Like you told Randy this afternoon, don’t assume
.

Randy had just reached the door when the phone rang. I picked it up as Curt crossed the sill. He smiled slightly in Randy’s direction, but his eyes immediately sought me out. They were filled with the unlikely combination of excitement and apprehension. I didn’t know why the excitement, but I sure knew why the apprehension. I hadn’t been exactly understanding recently.

Choice.

I smiled a welcome. After all, there might have been a giant pileup on the Schuylkill Expressway and he’d been held up while they cleared the roadway of the myriad bodies or the oil slick or scores of little pigs freed by the collision.

Or he’d been with Delia.

My smile soured somewhat.

“Merry?” The word in my ear was so soft I almost didn’t hear. It was also slurred, indistinct.

“Who is this?” I asked. The last thing I wanted was another threatening phone call.

“It’s me, Tina.”

I could barely make out the words. “Tina? What’s wrong?”

Her answer was a ghastly, gurgling sob.

“Tina!” Curt and Randy were both at my side, reacting to the horror in my voice.

“Help me. Please.” Then more sobs.

“Are you at your house?”

“Yes.”

“Is your husband there?”

“He went out to get some booze. Help. Before he comes back. Please.”

“Are the kids okay?”

“Scared. Crying.”

Poor little mites. I’d be scared and crying too. “I’ll be right there.”

I disconnected and reached for my purse even as I dialed 911. Curt’s tardiness for our special dinner had become the unimportant item it was.

“You’re not going alone,” he said clearly and with authority. “We’ll take my car. It’s parked behind yours.”

For once I didn’t argue. I wanted his size and protection. We raced out the front door, and it wasn’t until we were pulling out of the parking lot that I realized Randy was with us too.

“She sounded bad!” I was shaking so hard that I had trouble getting my seat belt on. Finally I heard the click.

Curt took my hand. “She’ll be okay. We’ll get her out.”

I nodded, but I felt overwhelmed with guilt. If I’d argued more effectively, if I’d somehow been able to convince her of her danger, this beating wouldn’t have happened.

Randy leaned over the seat. “It’s not your fault, Merry. You tried. You told her all the right stuff. She just didn’t listen.”

“Thanks, Randy.” I patted his hand resting on the seat by my shoulder.

When Curt pulled in to Tina’s drive, I sighed with relief when I saw there was no sign of another car. Her husband was still out.

The front door opened even before Curt turned the motor off, spilling yellow light onto the little front porch. Jess, looking small and vulnerable in his pajamas, threw open the storm door as I ran up the sidewalk.

“Merry!” He launched himself down the steps and ran toward me. I reached for him.

He froze midstride as he became aware of Curt and Randy coming up behind me. I thought how two tall men must appear to a little boy who was already afraid.

I knelt on the sidewalk. “It’s all right, Jess. This is Randy. And this is Mr. Carlyle. They’re my friends, and they’ve come to help me help your mom.”

“Hi, Jess.” Curt went down on his knees beside me. “Are you all right?” He laid a gentle hand on Jess’s head.

The boy flinched as he saw the hand coming in his direction, glanced at me doubtfully but stood his ground. When he felt the gentleness of Curt’s touch, something in him gave way. He started to cry.

“It’s my mom,” he sobbed. He wrapped his arms around me and buried his face in my neck.

“Where is she?” I asked, standing with him still held close. He wrapped his little legs about my waist.

He mumbled something into my neck, now wet with his tears and, I suspected, the phlegm from his runny nose.

“Say that again?”

“I’ll show you.” He wiggled to get down.

I set him on the ground, and he led us into the house,
across the living room with its toppled lamps and upended coffee table and upstairs to a bedroom. That room was a shambles too, with shattered fragrance bottles and wall mirrors, a bed with the linens ripped off and thrown helterskelter, a closet with clothes ripped from hangers and thrown on the floor. Shards of what had once been a porcelain figurine lay at the base of one wall beside a library book with its spine broken.

But the most terrible sight was Tina, lying on the bed with her eyes closed, a wide-eyed, apprehensive Lacey curled beside her, holding her hand.

One of her eyes was swollen shut and already turning black. The other was ringed with green and purple from the shiner she’d gotten in the skirmish between her husband and her father Sunday evening. Her nose was bleeding slowly, and she sniffed periodically, gagging as she swallowed the fluid. Her lip was split and swollen, and she couldn’t shut her mouth. Saliva kept sliding out, and she was too despairing to care. It ran down her cheek and pooled by her ear next to the raw spot where hair had literally been pulled out by the roots.

The kids had drawn a comforter over her, covering her other injuries, but I knew there must be more.