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FIVE DAYS LATER I returned to my daughter's house, this time for a casual dinner to celebrate Marilyn Alcott's birthday. I’d assembled my good-enough-for company meat loaf at home, a glorified cheeseburger, really—and presently it was in Chelsea's oven along with roasted red potatoes and a something involving corn.
When all the guests had drinks, Bobby lifted his glass, "To my mother, may she have a happy year and many more."
Marilyn's hazel eyes beamed at her son while Didi, Will, Eric from next door, and I all clinked glasses and murmured birthday sentiments. Chelsea emerged from the kitchen in time to kiss her mother-in-law and add her best wishes. "Just a couple more minutes on the meat loaf," she said as she sat down.
Eric turned toward me. “You left a note and some books for Gram the other day,” he said. “That was nice of you.”
Never happy living with an ill opinion of anyone, I’d visited the hospital with some paperbacks for Maisie hoping to erase my doubts about her grandson. With luck she would be lucid enough to share more details about her fall. For instance, where had Eric been when it happened—upstairs or down?
Since my agenda hadn’t been completely altruistic, I swallowed a dose of guilt along with a sip of water.
“Unfortunately, your grandmother was so sound asleep I didn’t get to talk with her. How’s she doing?”
"Not as good as yesterday." With his lowered brow and stiff demeanor, I couldn’t quite gauge how Eric felt about that.
I murmured my regret about Maisie’s downturn.
“Yeah, me too.”
Again, that little pin prick of distrust, which I forcefully brushed aside. This was a birthday party, after all, not an inquisition.
After dinner was served, I took the opportunity to ask Chelsea if she'd spoken to Cissie since the incident.
"I've seen her in the yard with Caroline a couple times,” my daughter replied. “She didn't seem hurt or anything, just unhappy. I can't imagine what it must be like to be her." She made a point of addressing the latter to Will, the psychologist in our midst.
Compassionate guy that he is, he took the bait. "What's your neighbor’s problem exactly?"
Chelsea explained, then redirected her sympathy toward Eric. "He knows," she said with a gesture. "Ronald attacked him, too."
Will’s professional countenance invited honesty, and Eric responded without hesitation. He waved his head in wonder as he said that Ronald had accused him of "being with" his wife.
"But we just talked," Eric insisted with obvious frustration. "I know it was stupid to go there. I wish to heaven I hadn't, but my grandmother was in trouble, and..."
"...and you didn't want to be alone." Marilyn patted his hand. "We believe you, darling. Don't blame yourself. Bullies like Ronald Voight will use any excuse to throw their weight around, isn't that right, Will?”
"Yes, actually, it is," Will agreed. "Abusers are a rather interesting sort. Not at all what most people think." He peered at the bit of potato on the end of his fork then popped it into his mouth.
I leaned toward him from across the table. "Why aren't abusers like most people think?"
Will sent a glance around the group. "First, I'll tell you what an abuser is not," he began with practiced timing. "He is not mentally or emotionally ill. He was not necessarily abused as a child, although he may have learned from such an experience. Alcohol doesn't trigger the violence...”
Marilyn's mouth dropped open. "Then what does?"
Will contemplated the valance over a window before meeting her eyes. "He simply gives himself permission to lose control."
"But...?"
"Why?" Will asked back, gesturing with his fork. "Because the man is entitled, don't you know? His desires are the only ones that count, and everything he does is calculated to make the world deliver the privileged life he is absolutely positive he deserves."
"That's why he hurts his spouse?"
Will nodded so hard his sandy hair flopped onto the top of his glasses. "Since he's so superior in every way, anything that goes wrong for him must be her fault. If he loses his job, it was because her nagging distracted him. The car runs out of gas? She didn't fill the tank. He'll even twist her complaints around until he convinces her she’s to blame for them, too."
We all expressed outrage until Will held up his hand. "And," he continued, "although the problem has nothing to do with his feelings, the woman will go overboard trying to make him feel better about himself. She'll walk on tiptoe to keep from setting him off and worry obsessively about what he'll do next. It's diabolical, really. The abuser has her fixated on meeting his needs first and foremost. Then to obscure his egocentric motives, he deliberately keeps her off-balance."
"Like how?
"Large ways and small. He demands dinner promptly at five. Then when it's ready, he goes out to mow the grass. He demands sex whenever he wants; but if she initiates it, he's not interested. Most likely he's cheating, but God forbid if she does. The woman literally can't win."
I had to whisper over the lump in my throat. "Why does Cissie stay?"
Will's voice softened. "Because her husband's dramatic apologies and spates of good behavior are extremely convincing. And before you ask, yes, it’s all been calculated to avoid any inconvenience to him.
"He also goes to great lengths to make sure everybody else sees him as a swell guy. That way, if his wife ever works up the nerve to tell the world what a bastard he is, nobody will believe her."
To put the topic to rest, Chelsea stood. "Anybody want their dinner reheated?"
The microwave was employed, the main course consumed. Much to everyone's relief, the conversation traveled far from the minefield of domestic abuse to topics like interest rates and how to grow tomatoes.
Bobby stuck multi-colored candles—one for each guest rather than for each of his mother's years—into the ice cream cake. Then lights were lowered and "Happy Birthday" sung as he carried it to the table.
Chelsea and I had been looking forward to everyone else's amazement when they heard Eric Zumstein’s voice; but he simply folded his hands and listened.
What's that all about? my daughter’s raised eyebrows inquired, and I answered with a shrug.
When the singing stopped, Bobby instructed everyone to make a wish then choose a candle by putting their ring around it, if they were wearing one. "The person whose candle burns out last gets his or her wish," he explained.
Marilyn blew out the seven flickering flames, and one by one the orange wicks blackened. Eric's ringless one held out longest, and the rest of us clapped and cheered over his impending good luck.
"Don't tell the wish," Marilyn warned, "or it won't come true."
Eric flicked her an uncomfortable glance. In spite of Will's cautionary "cheating" remark, the young man's desires were transparent. I believed him when he said his friendship with Cissie Voight had been platonic—so far; but how long that would last depended on willpower and prudence, two very unreliable virtues when hormones are involved.
I tagged Will to help clear the dishes; and when we were alone in the kitchen, I returned to the topic that preyed on my mind.
"Is it typical for an abuser to withhold sex?" I wondered. Cissie's confidential complaint seemed to be at odds with the behavior he’d described earlier.
The psychologist nodded as he set a plate in the dishwasher. "I'm afraid so," he said. "It's another power play, another way to assert control and insure the woman's best efforts."
With my lips in a grim line, I covered a bowl with plastic wrap. "It started when Cissie was pregnant."
Will nodded again. "Some men have a mental ideal, and when the woman's body no longer matches up..."
I closed the refrigerator hard. "How do you convince a woman to break away?"
The psychologist rinsed another dish. "It's easier when the relationship is new," he said. "After a while the pattern becomes so entrenched it's almost as if she's a prisoner."
"So much for Women's Lib."
"Preaching to the choir," Will murmured sadly. "Reasonable men got it. The others prefer not to."