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NATALIE SAID she liked to keep the shelter’s pantry full, so on the way to deliver Cissie’s necessities, I stopped at Produce Junction. The earthy smells, the colorful displays, the simple, urgent transactions all stimulated my senses—and reminded me of Jack.
The night before I’d texted Susan my lame, “terrible cold” excuse and hinted that George might babysit in my place. Susan did not write back. Now, as I waited my turn at the rough wooden counter, it occurred to me that I might never see her step-son again.
Heart-heavy and bordering on tears, I managed to deliver my, “Double potatoes, tomatoes, string beans, lettuce, onions, avocados, and oranges,” spiel with dignity. Even so, the clerk seemed to distrust my composure because he gathered my order with remarkable haste.
When I arrived at the shelter, Natalie was trotting toward the green van, but she stopped and waited for me. Overhead, clouds the weight of elephants lumbered across the afternoon sky. A damp breeze messed with Natalie’s long, black hair.
“Any trouble getting Cissie’s stuff?” she inquired, her hands tucked in the back pockets of her jeans.
“I took a bodyguard.”
“Good move.”
“Yeah, well. Ronald was probably at work, but...”
“Or in jail.”
My eyes widened. “I thought Cissie had to...”
“Press charges? Nope. Her injuries were clearly no accident. The hospital took pictures, and I think a police officer was already there for something else. Bottom line—the District Attorney doesn’t need Cissie’s testimony to prosecute.”
I savored that thought as I hoisted the first box of vegetables out of the trunk.
"Wow," Natalie exclaimed. "Have you been reading my mind?"
"Just eavesdropping,” I admitted. “I wish I could do more."
“Here. Let me get that.”
I handed her the box and hoisted the other. “Weren’t you going somewhere?”
“It can wait.”
I didn’t know how to begin, but Natalie didn’t require words. She set her box on the ground and gestured for me to do the same. Then she leaned against the car as if she had all the time in the world.
"You want to know why some men think it's okay to beat their wives."
I nodded.
She flipped a hand toward the sky “They feel entitled,” she said.
The degree of anger that welled up surprised me. I glanced away.
"Society still condones the abuse, Ms. Barnes.”
I met her gaze.
She shook her finger as if beginning a list. "Religion," she stated. "Many of them still tell women to submit to their husbands."
A second finger. "MTV. A rap singer won an award for an album with a song on it about a man murdering his girlfriend—you can hear her screams in the background."
Another finger. "The legal system—a wife-beater usually gets off easier than a guy who beat up a stranger." She ticked off examples even faster. "Magazines, movies, comedians, stage plays all still depict abuses perpetrated against women; and, I’m sorry to say, most people don't even notice. Watch for it," she suggested. "You'll see what I mean."
My face was surely red, my breathing shallow.
"Even children's books have mom and the kids pampering dad to keep him from getting angry. And pornography!" Natalie snorted. "Everybody knows porn demeans and objectifies women, but ask most men and I bet they’ll say it was their first exposure to sex."
She looked into my dumbstruck face and frowned. "And then there's what I call the great Get Out of Jail Free card. They’re not responsible for their aggressive behavior, don’t you know. Violence is in their nature." Natalie threw up her hands. "That’s enough. You shouldn't have gotten me started."
"But we have laws..."
Natalie wagged her head and settled back against the car. "Not until the late nineteenth century we didn't, and then only the worst offenses were addressed. Anyhow, nobody enforced anything until the 1970s, and nothing consistently until 1990."
"So we’ve still got men out there who feel entitled."
"Yup. Maybe their fathers beat their mothers. Maybe they were abused themselves. Vicious cycle." She lifted the box of vegetables.
I followed suit. "But...but why do women put up with it?"
She began to walk. "Batterers are devious smart, Ms. Barnes. They know what they're doing, and they know how to get away with it,” she glanced over her shoulder, “starting with the right victim."
That last statement hit me right between the eyes. Cissie’s insecurities did complement Ronald’s inflated opinion of himself. Perhaps a major ingredient to the whole mess.
Yet there had to be a way someone could tilt her toward the Common Sense side of the fence. Just maybe it would help to determine whether Eric Zumstein was the good guy Cissie, and also my daughter, seemed so confident he was. Or, was he actually the selfish, greedy schemer part of me feared he might be?
Either way, it was information Cissie desperately needed. God forbid she should make the same mistake again.
***
NURSING CAROLINE, Cissie smiled up wanly from the attic rocking chair. The afternoon’s humidity caused the room to smell like dusty wood, while the air wafting in through the open window smelled of ozone. Most likely I would be driving home from the shelter in a storm.
“How are you?” I opened, as I lowered myself onto the edge of the bed.
Cissie averted her eyes, angled her head to the side. “Been better.”
I nodded. Joked that I hoped so.
She smiled at that, but in an older, worldlier way. No more ditzy, “Oh, Mrs. B! Can you help me with this?” Now I was the younger, lighter one.
“Do you mind if I ask you something personal? It’s about Eric.”
“I guess,” she said with a tiny shrug. What was privacy to her now?
“Did the two of you talk about his grandmother?”
She shifted the child in her arms and smiled. “We talk about everything.”
On the phone, or in person? Best not to ask.
I lifted an eyebrow. “Did Eric tell you why the doctor thought he had something to do with his grandmother’s fall? The one that broke her hip?”
“Not really. Mostly he sounded off about the doctor. He was really pissed.”
“Was it the attending physician or the surgeon? Do you remember?” Always good to be sure.
“Dr. Quinn, whichever one he was.”
I allowed myself to breathe. “How about you? Do you think Eric could have hurt his grandmother?”
“No. No, never,” she protested, but I’d already caught a quicksilver flash of doubt. In that respect Cissie was no more sure of Eric than I was.
“I hope not,” I responded, but both of us were just tossing pennies into a fountain.
While Caroline burbled and burped, while a gust of cool air fluffed the curtain and tickled my chin, I pondered my daughter’s impression of the silent sidewalk exchange between Ronald and his wife. Chelsea seemed to view the threat of reporting Eric for mistreating his grandmother as another way of controlling his wife.
“What do you think Ronald might know about Eric that we don’t?” I wondered aloud.
Cissie’s head jerked with alarm. “Nothing!”
“I’m not so sure, Cissie. How do you think Ronald knew about the doctor’s misgivings?”
Cissie’s shoulders twitched. She rolled her eyes, tossed a hand, pressed her fingers to her forehead. “I dunno. Sometimes it feels as if he’s inside my head.”
“How do you mean?”
“As if he hears my thoughts.”
“You realize that’s impossible.”
“Yeah, I know, but...”
“Where were you when Eric told you about his run-in with the doctor?”
“Upstairs, I guess. On the phone.”
“Did Eric call from his house?”
“From wherever he was. He wasn’t with me. We’re just friends. Ronald’s wrong about that.” Her embarrassment seemed to underscore her honesty, up to a point.
I felt my shoulders relax a little. Very little. I was thinking about bugs that monitor live phone conversations, even store them in the cloud if you have the right gadget. Also motion-activated nanny cams that catch your babysitter pilfering pocket change. Or your wife with another man. Who needs a nosy, unemployed neighbor to inform you when you’ve got Wi-Fi, a cheap gadget, and a mobile phone?
“What’s the newest appliance in your house?”
“Appliance? I don’t know. What does it matter?”
“Trust me. It matters.”
“Our alarm clock, I guess. The old one broke.”
I bet it did.
“Do yourself a favor. If you go home, drop the thing from a second-story window.”
Cissie got it quicker than I expected.
“Not necessary,” she informed me. “When I go home, I won’t be talking to Eric ever again. Break the news to him, will you? I’m tired of ignoring his calls.”
On my way out, the teenager who’d been dusting before caught up with me on the porch. “You’re Ms. Barnes, aren’t you? Natalie left this for you.”
A paperback titled Why Does He Do That? by Lundy Bancroft. My new bedside reading.