Moving Can Be Murder (26 page)

She peered at me through her designer
eyeglasses.

“Don’t I know you? Of course, you’re Carol
Andrews. You and your husband are letting us stage your beautiful
home for our show house. Are you here to talk to Sister about the
event?”

I resisted reminding her that when she was
in the house before it went on the market, she’d found thousands of
things to criticize about it. And made me so mad I wanted to slug
her.

Sidestepping the question, I said, “Sally’s
Place seems like a wonderful program, and Jim and I are happy to
help in any way we can.

“Is Sister Rose in? I’d just like a few
minutes of her time.”

“For you, of course she’s in,” said Marcia.
“And I know she’ll be glad to see you.”

I was amazed at the change my inadvertent
foray into philanthropy had made in Marcia’s attitude. I guess
people like Bill and Melinda Gates were used to this kind of
treatment, but it was new to me.

Marcia led me down a silent hallway to an
office at the rear of the building. For a brief moment, before she
knocked and opened the door, I had a kneejerk flashback that I had
been called to the principal’s office to be disciplined. Again.

But that feeling passed.

Sister’s back was to us as we walked into
the room. She was hard at work on the computer and didn’t look our
way.

Marcia cleared her throat. “I’m sorry to
disturb you,” she said, “but Carol Andrews is here to see you.”

Sister whirled around in her chair, her face
wreathed in a big smile. I was afraid she was going to hug me. But
she didn’t. Thank God. I was still adjusting to our new
relationship. Maybe she was, too.

“It’s so good to see you, Carol,” she said.
“I don’t think you’ve ever been to our office before. Are you here
to talk about the preview party? Or the show house? I never got a
chance the last time we spoke to thank you for your wonderful
generosity.

“Please, sit in this chair,” Sister went on,
gesturing me toward an oversized wing chair. “It’s the most
comfortable one in the office. Would you like some coffee? Tea?
Perhaps Marcia could….”

But Marcia had made a discreet exit.

“I don’t need anything to drink,” I said.
Then, remembering my manners, I added, “Thank you. And I’m not here
about the show house.

“I want to talk to you about domestic
violence.”

Sister’s expression instantly changed from
upbeat to serious. “What is it you need to know, Carol?” she asked
me in a gentle tone I’d never heard from her before. “How can I
help you?”

“Thank you, Sister,” I said, unsure of
exactly where to begin.

Oh, Carol, for heaven’s sake grow up and get
on with it already.

“You may not know that I’ve done quite a bit
of freelance writing over the past several years. Since our home is
being used as the fundraiser for Sally’s Place, I thought that the
event would make a great backdrop for a feature story on domestic
violence in Fairport. I’d like to write an in-depth piece, and sell
it to our daily paper, perhaps even go national with it. You know
the angle, ‘Idyllic Suburbs Mask Dirty Secret.’ ”

I stopped myself. “I sound like exploitation
journalism. But do you know what I mean?”

“As I told you when we had coffee, Carol,
I’m the keeper of many secrets,” Sister Rose said. “Many of them
break my heart.”

“That’s exactly what I want to know,
Sister,” I said. “I know you can’t reveal names. But perhaps you
can share some stories? Or at least tell me how Sally’s Place
started? Was there really someone named Sally?”

Sister Rose looked thoughtful. Then she
apparently came to a decision.

“I’ve been working to raise the public’s
consciousness about this for years,” she said. “Perhaps this is one
way to do it. We can work together. But you must promise me that I
will have final approval of the story you write, and no names or
any other references to clients will be used that could in any way
identify them.”

I raised my hand.

“I solemnly promise,” I said, crossing my
heart.

“I hope you’re not being facetious, Carol.
This is serious business.”

“Honestly, Sister, I know I have a
smart-alecky mouth at times, but I’m not kidding around now. I
really want to help.”

Sister seemed satisfied.

I took out a small notebook and a pen.
Waited. And tried not to fidget in my chair.

“All right, Carol,” Sister Rose finally
said. “I’ll tell you how the program started. Domestic violence has
been a problem for years. I know for a fact that, years ago, when
someone reported a domestic assault and the police were called to
investigate, they frequently looked the other way and just gave the
abuser a warning. The old boy network at its worst.

“Of course, one of the many problems about
domestic abuse, even today, is that the victim often feels it’s her
fault. She’s done something to provoke the violent behavior. Or
she’s ashamed of being abused. So she’s reluctant to press charges
against her abuser. Or, she’s afraid of retaliation against
herself. Maybe even against her children.

“I say ‘she,’ but we sometimes see men who
have been victims of domestic abuse as well. That’s even more
complicated, as men are embarrassed to admit that the abuse is
going on. But it does happen.

“You have to understand that domestic abuse
isn’t always physical. Sometimes it’s emotional, like constant
criticism, isolating the victim from family and friends, sexual
abuse.”

I opened my eyes wide at that one.

“What did you think, Carol? That because I’m
a nun, I’d never heard of sex?”

Sister laughed, then her expression
immediately became serious again.

“Several years ago, a woman in town came up
with the idea of starting a local program to help victims of
domestic abuse. She got together with some others and together they
brainstormed the idea, raised some seed money to open a shelter,
then came to us and presented the idea. The timing for us was
perfect, as Mount Saint Francis had just closed down due to low
enrollment, and the sisters were looking for a worthwhile project
to spearhead.

“The name ‘Sally’s Place’ was chosen to
represent all women. There is no ‘Sally.’ Or, rather, everyone whom
we serve here is ‘Sally.’ ”

“This woman who had the original idea,” I
asked, “is she still in town? Do you think she’d talk to me? Was
she a victim of domestic violence herself?”

Sister frowned at me, then said in the icy
tone I remembered so well from high school, “Apparently you weren’t
listening to me, Carol. This is all confidential information. The
original donor has chosen to remain anonymous. And as for whether
she was a victim herself, well, there’s no way I can speculate on
that. Nor would I tell you if I knew.”

Oops.

“Sorry, Sister. I completely understand. I
just want to write the best story I can, to bring attention to
domestic violence in Fairport. I think most people believe that
abuse is much more common in low-income families.”

“That is absolutely not true,” Sister said.
“In fact, you’d be shocked at how many women from our so-called
‘respectable’ families have turned to Sally’s Place for help.”

“I respect your insistence on
confidentiality. But it’s going to be very difficult for me to
write a story with any substance to it without getting more
personal information. You do want me to write an accurate story,
don’t you?”

Sister stood up like she’d been shot out of
a canon. Clearly, our little chat was over. I had blown the
conversation big time. She took my arm and steered me toward her
office door.

“I have to give this some thought, Carol. I
see your point, and I want you to be able to write the very best
story you can. But my primary responsibility is to the clients we
serve.”

I started to reiterate that I knew that, but
I found myself on the other side of the office door, which Sister
then shut in my face. My cheeks flamed red, and not from a hot
flash, either. I had been disciplined like a ten-year-old.

Unfortunately, Marcia Fischer was still at
the reception desk and witnessed my humiliation. Great. Just what I
needed to add to my woes.

“Sister get to you a little, Carol?” Marcia
asked me, a slight smirk on her face. “She can be a real piece of
work sometimes. Believe me, I know. Some days I leave here after
she’s chewed me out over some trivial thing, and decide I’m not
coming back to volunteer ever again. But, of course, a week goes
by, I forget how angry I was at her, and come back to do my usual
stint.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what’d you get
in trouble for? She can’t be too mad at you, after all. She needs
your house to raise money for the program.”

I laughed. “You’re right, Marcia. Sister
Rose does need me, and my house. I want to write a story on
domestic violence in Fairport. I’m hoping to time the local story
with the opening of the show house, to bring it even more
publicity.” I’d just thought of that idea, but it sounded like one
of my best.

“She was giving me background information on
how Sally’s Place started. I started to ask questions about the
woman who’d come up with the original concept, and Sister clammed
up. Said she couldn’t reveal her name. Or anything about her.

“And when I asked her about the possibility
of interviewing some clients the program has served, she got really
angry. Said I had to respect the confidentiality of the clients. No
interviews. Period. It’s going to be difficult to write a story
that will grab readers without some sort of personal information.”
Much less sell it to the media.

“I may be able to help you, Carol,” Marcia
said. “I know someone who was in an abusive relationship when she
was in high school, but managed to escape from it. She wasn’t a
client of Sally’s Place, though. Does that matter?”

“Marcia, that’s wonderful,” I said,
immediately putting my foot in my mouth. “I don’t mean it’s
wonderful about someone being in an abusive relationship. That’s
terrible. But do you think she’d talk to me? I promise to keep her
confidence. It doesn’t matter if she wasn’t a client of Sally’s
Place.”

“You’re already talking to her,” Marcia
said.

I blinked at her. Say what?

“I’m the person.”

Wow. Talk about being hit by a bolt of
lightning. In all my wildest imaginings about domestic violence, I
never dreamed it could happen to someone I actually knew.

I know. Stupid.

“Marcia, I don’t know what to say.” I
laughed nervously. “If you knew me better, you’d realize that
doesn’t happen to me very often.

“If you’re willing to share your story with
me, I promise to respect your privacy. And I’ll let you read my
finished piece before I submit it. You can trust me.”

“We can’t talk here,” Marcia said. She
looked at her watch. “It’s time for my afternoon break. Let’s go
into one of the private conference rooms. Nobody will bother us
there. But just in case…” she fished around in her desk drawer and
found a sign which read, “Confidential Session in Progress. Do Not
Disturb.”

“Let’s do this now, before I change my
mind.”

“I’m going to set some ground rules about
this interview,” Marcia said. “I’m going to tell the story, my way.
If there are questions I don’t want to answer, I won’t. And you
have to be satisfied with that. And I get to see what you write
before it’s shown to anybody else. Do we have a deal?”

“Deal,” I said.

I held my breath and waited for her to start
talking.

“The relationship started years ago, when I
was a freshman in high school. I started dating a guy who was in
his junior year. He was one of the stars of the football team, and
all the girls had crushes on him. I couldn’t believe it when he
asked me out the first time. It was like a dream come true for
me.

“At first, we used to hang out with some of
my friends, but then he decided they were too immature. I was blown
away by his attention. He told me he loved me and he couldn’t live
without me.”

I was writing furiously, trying to take neat
notes so that I could read them later. But, so far, it all seemed
pretty innocent.

“He started to control all my activities.
He’d pick me up and drive me to school, and then pick me up and
drive me home. My parents thought it was sweet, that he doted on me
that way. Even my brother thought he was cool.

“But I was feeling more and more boxed in.
He wouldn’t let me see my friends, except in class. He wanted to be
alone with me all the time. He tried to talk me into running away
and getting married, even though I was only fifteen. When I tried
to break it off, he threatened to kill himself.”

Marcia paused, and her voice trembled. “I
remember the first time he hit me.”

“Marcia, you can stop now if this is too
hard,” I said.