Sister of Silence (31 page)

I nodded my agreement. “I know. I remember only too well the cases I’ve covered for the paper, when the guy only got a slap on the wrist. But it means a lot, just knowing you’re on my side.”

“You bet I am. Take care of yourself, you hear?”

Outside in the bright sunlight I realized I felt stronger. I had someone who would enforce the law, or who would at least try to help me help myself. It felt good knowing someone like the sheriff was on my side.

The summer passed, sometimes quickly, other times as if it was in no hurry to go. We kept busy, which was a blessing, because I didn’t have time to think. The nights were hard enough, when I would go from bed to bed, listening to each child’s fears.

What if Daddy doesn’t love us anymore?

What if I made him leave?

How come he doesn’t come to visit us?

Mommy, you won’t ever leave us, will you?

The never-ending questions were heart-wrenching, leaving me feeling so powerless and sad that many nights I would just crawl into bed and cry myself to sleep. In front of them, I could be strong, pretending like everything was all right, but in the privacy of my own bedroom my guard came down and their pain became mine. I knew Eddie didn’t care about them. If he did, he would at least visit them. Not that I wanted him to, because I knew that was just as harmful. It had always been like that, in one of those “damned if you do, damned if you don’t,” ways. I thought of all the stories I had covered, where a parent—usually a father—abused his son or daughter, and then tried to excuse his actions, blaming the child for the abuse.

I thought about several girls I had grown up with, abandoned by the fathers of their babies, or who later divorced for reasons similar to mine. Those men cared more about their trucks, their paychecks, and even going out to a local beer joint, than they did their children who were often left behind, with only a mother to tend to them. Or, as I was beginning to see more and more in our little community, for the grandparents to rear—since the mother was usually left without any child support, forced to eke out a meager existence for herself and her children, working some low-paying job. If she wasn’t doing that, she was living on welfare, and it wasn’t long before a stream of men began going in and out of her life, like so many worn-out pairs of shoes.

One warm evening after the kids were tucked in, I sat down with my journal and wrote about the problems, including my own vow not to live on welfare. I knew I could support my children, and that’s what I was going to do. As for Eddie not taking the time to show an interest in his children, well, there was nothing I could do about that. It wasn’t my fault, and it was out of my control. Besides, I was afraid to be around him, and I didn’t want to take any chances. So him not visiting, or making any effort to do so, was a mixed blessing. For all of us.

But it was still hard to listen to my children and hear their voices filled with doubt, wondering if “Daddy” didn’t come to visit because they had done something wrong. I tried to give them more love and attention than usual, in an effort to make up for what their father wasn’t, and really never had given. I put down my pen, and prayed it was enough.

When the phone rang a few seconds later, I thought it might be Mom, checking in as she usually did each night, just to make sure everything was all right. Instead, it was Eddie.

After a curt hello, I got to the point. “What do you want, Eddie?”

“Just to hear your voice, I guess.” He sounded despondent.

At one time I would have felt pity, and allowed him to reel me in. But no more, not after all he’d done to hurt our children.

“Fine, you’ve heard it,” I said, laying the receiver back into its cradle. I wanted nothing to do with him, not even to hear his voice.

When Eddie called about what he’d done, to feel me out and to gloat—as I knew he would—I stood up to him, knowing I had the sheriff covering my back.

“Yes, I’d like to talk to you about that. How dare you break into this house and take the pages out of my notebook. What did you do with them anyway?” I was trying to remain calm, and not scream at him.

I could predict the smugness before he even spoke. “I guess you could say they’re ashes now. They were as soon as I took them. Did you really think I’d let you keep that letter, knowing what it could do to me if anyone else ever read it? Not on your life,” Eddie said.

“Fine, you got what you want. But let me give you a word of advice, Mr. Leigh. When I left Sheriff Fields’ office, he was very interested in you. I’m to let him know if you ever try to harass me again, so I’d advise you to never set foot on this property without my permission. Do you understand me?” I hissed
the words.

When no sound came from Eddie’s end, I realized that for once, he was speechless. I returned the receiver to its cradle and started dancing around the room. I had rarely taken up for myself, and I realized it made me feel
…powerful!

I’m the only person who can control my life, and I’m the one who has to make changes
.

Right then
I decided I would no longer be a passive observer on the sidelines, merely hoping for more. For better or worse, I was going to fight back.

I
was going to fight for my children, for myself, and for my right to be treated with respect and dignity!

But it was going to be a long, hard battle, because my children kept expressing their pent-up pain. I tossed and turned in bed one hot, late night. Sometimes I felt their discord was all directed at me and I wasn’t sure how much more I could take. Especially when little Slade unleashed the enormous amount of anger he had been carrying around inside: “You made Daddy go and I don’t like it!” he had cried.

“Sweetheart, I didn’t make Daddy go,” I said, cradling him on my lap and smoothing his blond hair. “I really didn’t. Daddy and I just can’t live together anymore, but we both still love you and your sisters very much. That won’t ever change. We just can’t stay together, and Daddy knows it’s better for him to live somewhere else.” I pulled him close, his tears falling on my blouse as I fought hard to blink back my own.

Even in spite of my own reassurances and our weekly family therapy sessions with Trudy, Slade’s accusations were becoming more frequent, not less.

I was pretty sure Slade’s behavior could be explained by the few visits Eddie did have with the kids, which he was using to an unfair advantage. They returned from their father’s home saying things like, “If you let Daddy come back, we’ll be so good. We’ll never do anything wrong again.” Or, “Daddy really loves you, but he says you don’t love him anymore. He said he would come home tomorrow if you would let him, but you won’t.” I was horrified at his emotional manipulation.

He’s playing mind games with them, trying to get to me through them. How dare he do this to our children! What kind of a father is he, anyway?

I knew I needed to have a serious talk with him about it, and prayed it would make him stop and think about how wrong it was to use his children. Before I could, though, Eddie showed up unannounced at the house one day. We had gone to get groceries, and upon our return, Eddie was inside, repairing a window in the kids’ bedroom. The kids grew excited when they saw his truck parked there, but I was appalled that he had gotten in, since the locks had been changed the day after he destroyed part of my journal. I knew the old house had other “entrances,” including the small coal bin door, and I was just thankful that he hadn’t decided to drop in during the nighttime, while we were sleeping.

I knew
Eddie probably could hear them all the way inside, and it was only a few minutes before he appeared in the doorway. The kids went running to him and threw themselves at him, and I tried to ignore him by loading the groceries into my arms. I knew I was just buying time; the sheriff had told me to call if he went inside the house again, and while a part of me wanted nothing more than to call Jim, another part of me dreaded making a scene in front of my children. Besides, I knew he would twist it to his advantage, and make me look like the bad guy, and the children would most likely act up even worse than they already were.

I brushed by him and went into the kitchen, trying to ignore him completely. But he followed, and offered to help get the rest of the groceries. “No thank you, I’ve got it,” I said coldly. I wanted nothing more than to berate him for what he was doing—trying to put on a good show in front of our children—but that would hardly do any good. So instead, I asked him what he was doing there.

“I knew the window in Slade’s room needed to be replaced, and I had some free time, so I decided to stop by and fix it. That’s all. I know the bats have been a problem, so I thought this might help. I don’t want any trouble.” He seemed sincere and even a little apologetic.

“Fine, but then you need to leave.” I kept my back to him as he spoke, hoping I would turn around and he would be gone.

“Sure, but there’s one small thing I could use some help with. I need someone to hold the window in while I anchor it inside the frame. Would you mind to help me?”

I was uneasy and suggested he get a neighbor to help instead.

“No, that’s all right. I’ll just figure out how to do it myself,” he said, and turned to go.

Disgusted with myself for being afraid, I stopped putting away the groceries and went upstairs to help him.

Why is it he can make me feel so guilty, like he’s done nothing wrong and I’m a nasty shrew?

I walked over to the window, intent on assisting him
only as long as was necessary. I drew a deep breath to calm my nerves. “What do I do? I just have a few minutes, because I need to make dinner,” I said abruptly.

Eddie showed me how to hold the window steady, and then began nailing it in. The second it was in place, I turned to go. That’s when he turned around and grabbed me.

I tried to pull away, but Eddie wouldn’t let go of me.

“Let go of me, this minute! How dare you?” I jerked and pulled away, trying to escape his embrace, but the next thing I knew, I was sitting on Eddie’s lap on
Slade’s bed.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “Just hold on a minute. I just wanted a kiss, that’s all.” His arms were wound tight around me, and he was kissing me anywhere he could reach: my face, my lips, my neck.

As I struggled against him, the account of a recent murder victim pleading for her life flashed through my mind, just before she was shot three times. Then I pictured Tonya Wolfe, lying sound asleep on her living room couch, oblivious to the gun her husband had pointed in her direction. Then I saw the woman whose husband had raped her in front of her children.

Oh my God, he’s going to rape me. Right here. Right now.

I tried to turn my head, hating every touch, every kiss. My heart was pounding, and as I looked at him, I saw the desperation in his eyes. They were wild with desire.

“Let go of me! Right now. Do you hear me? The kids are downstairs and if they come up here and see what you’re doing, they’re going to be afraid. Do you understand?” I hoped if I appealed to him on their behalf, he would stop, but Eddie paid no attention at all. It was as if the words didn’t even register, he was so intent on getting what he wanted.

“You’ll never be another man’s. If I can’t have you, no one else will, either!” He pinned me between the wall and the bed, and at the sound of those words, I became like a wild animal, fighting for my life.

“We’re going to work things out. And we’re going to start right now! Do you understand?” Eddie yelled at me, and I began sobbing.

“Please, please let me go,” I cried.

“The only way I’ll let you go is if you call the cops or if you kill me.”

In desperation, I began hitting him, trying to pry his fingers from me.

“I just want to hold you, to love you,” he cried.

“Daddy?” a voice from the doorway said.

We both froze, and I turned and saw Gabby standing there, unsure of what to do.

“It’s okay Honey. Daddy and Mommy are just making up, that’s all,” he said smoothly. “You go run and play now, and we’ll be down in a minute.” Obediently, she turned and ran down the steps, leaving us alone together again.

I knew then he was going to rape me. I knew it with every fiber of my being, and it was going to be just like the woman I had written about: my children were going to come back up and see him raping me.

Only this time, I’m going to be the victim, and someone else will write the story for the paper.

In that minute, all the rapes I had endured during the past thirteen years flashed past, as if being fast-forwarded, through my brain, and I saw clearly everything he had ever done to me. It felt like it was all happening over again, and I began praying.

Please, dear Father, not again. Please, help me. Help us all. I beg you, please don’t let him do this to me.

I knew then I wasn’t giving up—not without a fight. He might have me down, but I wasn’t out. Not by a long shot.

A few seconds—or maybe it was minutes—later, Gabby came bounding up the stairs again. Yelling for me. She hadn’t even made it to the top, when I heard her words.

“Mommy, they’re here. Mickey and John are here. They want to know if they should come inside,” she said.

I was breathing very hard, twisting and trying to get away from Eddie. I had completely forgotten we had guests coming over for dinner. “Yes!” I yelled. “Tell them to come in. Now! Go get them, Gabby, please!”

Thank you, God, thank you!

Immediately, Eddie let go of me. It happened so quickly it seemed like he’d been burned with a hot iron. I just lay there, stunned and in shock, as he jumped up off the bed.

“I’m going to kill myself. You’ll never have to see me again, or worry about me bothering you,” he said.

Then he was gone and I was alone. I managed to sit up, trying to smooth my hair and straighten my rumpled clothing. I needed to compose myself, but I couldn’t stay there and chance Eddie changing his mind. As I neared the stairs I found myself running and crying at the same time. I had to make sure Mickey and John came inside—that they didn’t leave us alone with that madman.

Somehow my knees didn’t collapse beneath me as I went down the stairs and when I reached the doorway, I motioned my friends inside. They turned from talking to the kids and I saw Eddie’s truck begin to back up. I realized he was inside it.

God answered my prayers. They got here just in time to keep him from raping me.

I was a mess for the rest of the evening. I told them what happened, careful my children couldn’t hear what I was saying. While cooking and then again during dinner, I suddenly found myself in a daze, and heard nothing that was said. By the time dinner was over, Mickey made plans to stay with me for the night, just so another adult would be there. John said he was sure Eddie wouldn’t return, but if he did, to call 911 first, then to call him. For the next few nights, different friends came over and stayed with us, offering me comfort and support, and giving me a feeling of protection, since there was safety in numbers.

It took a long time to recover from that incident, but in a way it was good, for it helped me to face the fear and anxiety that I had locked away for all those years. The bats—living in our attic, and occasionally getting free, flying around our bedrooms at night—had started me on the road to feeling the cold, raw emotion of fear. But that day in Slade’s bedroom, held captive against my will in a madman’s arms, I felt fear on a deeper level than I ever had before. It protected me, because I never let down my guard again or allowed myself to be in a situation with him where I didn’t feel comfortable.

Eddie didn’t commit suicide, either, and by then, his ploy of saying he would had grown old—helping me to see right through his empty threat. It allowed me to see him for what he was: a coward who manipulated me by making me feel like I had to protect him from himself.

A few miles away, in the little town of Arthurdale, another mother was playing out a similar scene in her own mind. Wanda Toppins was just a few years older than me. At
thirty-four, she had recently divorced her husband, a big, mean man who worked as a foreman for a local coal company. Taking her small son, she moved into a trailer a few miles away from the big, beautiful home they had shared.

I didn’t know her, but the day after I
acknowledged and wrote about my own fears, Wanda was murdered in cold blood in front of her son, a three-year-old little boy. She had been so worried about taking him away from his father that she had allowed herself to remain in the danger zone. Wanda had gotten caught between her concern for her child, and her fear for her own life.

I wasn’t
working the day she was killed, so I wasn’t on scene to cover the story, but I heard about it from Brad afterward. He told me a SWAT team had been deployed because after the shooting Jerry Toppins fled, taking his youngest son with him. Law enforcement had surrounded the house, blocking off all access and evacuating nearby neighbors.