We Can Be Heroes

by Kyrie McCauley

  “Okay,” Merit said. “I have everything I need to move forward. Thank you. Really, thank you for agreeing to talk to me. I know it’s not easy to trust anyone right now.”

  Merit stood, began packing up her things.

  “Wait,” Vivian said. “I have a question for you.”

  Merit waited.

  “Why are you here, really?”

  “Why do you think?” Merit asked, a sad twist of a smile on her face. “I’m back here for the same reason neither of you can leave yet. Vengeance.”

  “Vengeance against who, Merit?” Vivian asked.

  “The Bells,” she said. “They aren’t going to get away with hurting girls anymore.”

  We Can Be Heroes

  Season 2: Episode 18

  “The Advocate”

  MERIT LOGAN: Welcome back to We Can Be Heroes, listeners. In the United States, women are twenty-one times more likely to be killed by a gun than women in peer countries. Firearm access and intimate-partner violence converge violently in the US, where on average, fifty-three women are shot and killed by an intimate partner every month. To gain a little insight into the work behind this data, and what direct service agencies do to address it, I’ve invited Margaret Swift, director of the local domestic violence clinic, Sarah’s Place.

  MERIT: Welcome, Dr. Swift.

  DR. SWIFT: Thank you, Merit.

  MERIT: Tell me about your organization.

  DR. SWIFT: Sarah’s Place was founded in the mid-1980s. There was a major shift in the decade prior concerning domestic violence—but it took a long time for the laws to catch up with what women knew was going on. In the meantime, a lot of shelters started in homes, providing survivors a place to sleep that was safe. Sarah’s Place is named after the founder’s daughter, who was murdered in 1983 by her husband.

  MERIT: Do you see that a lot in victim advocacy? People getting involved in activism for personal reasons, or to honor victims they knew?

  DR. SWIFT: Absolutely. Unfortunately, it often takes that personal tie-in for people to become aware of how devastating the impact of intimate-partner violence is, and to see how those situations can turn quickly from uncomfortable to fatal.

  MERIT: Have you been following what’s happening with the murals in Bell?

  DR. SWIFT: I have. We’ve watched the story gain some traction, some notice from our congresswoman, for one.

  MERIT: Do you have any thoughts on it?

  DR. SWIFT: Only to say that it feels in line with the work we do at the clinic. The spirit of it, at least.

  MERIT: How so?

  DR. SWIFT: Well, those women who took others into their own homes in the seventies? They were going against society and the law, helping women leave their husbands at a time when marital rape and abuse wasn’t even considered illegal in many places. Sometimes what’s legal and what’s right aren’t the same thing.

  MERIT: Does your clinic work with the Bell Police Department?

  DR. SWIFT: We have a close working relationship. We provide annual training on violence for their officers. They call us in for domestic violence cases, filing protection orders, victim compensation services . . . things like that.

  MERIT: Was your agency contacted about Cassie Queen?

  DR. SWIFT: No, we were not.

  MERIT: Dr. Swift, how often does Bell contact your clinic for help with their cases?

  DR. SWIFT: I thought you might ask this, so I pulled our statistics for the county, and for the town of Bell.

  MERIT: I pulled that data for the town, too.

  DR. SWIFT: And you saw that there were nineteen temporary protection order requests filed in Bell last year?

  MERIT: Every one of them included the request to temporarily relinquish firearms.

  DR. SWIFT: We try to always include that, and advocates from our organization assisted with all those requests.

  MERIT: You were contacted for every single one?

  DR. SWIFT: Last year, yes.

  MERIT: Tell me about your training program for the officers. They understand the seriousness of domestic violence . . . the potential danger?

  DR. SWIFT: Of course. For their safety, too. Domestic calls are some of the most dangerous that police respond to.

  MERIT: What about teen dating violence? Did you discuss that, too?

  DR. SWIFT: We did. But only to say that, pattern wise, it looks very similar to what we see with married or dating adults. The ages don’t matter, so much as the risk factors. That’s why we recommend all officers screen for lethality.

  MERIT: Can you explain that further?

  DR. SWIFT: A lethality screening is a series of questions that we encourage officers and advocates to ask to determine the severity of the case—meaning the likelihood that a fatality could occur without meaningful intervention.

  MERIT: What kind of questions are in that screening?

  DR. SWIFT: Well, threats to kill, threats using a weapon, access to a gun—

  MERIT: Sorry, excuse me, but access to a gun specifically is one of the questions?

  DR. SWIFT: Yes.

  MERIT: Why is that?

  DR. SWIFT: Studies show that access to a firearm makes it five times more likely that a woman will be killed by an abusive partner.

  MERIT: If Cassie had been referred to an advocate, would they have gone through a lethality screening with her? Would Nico’s access to guns have been a red flag?

  DR. SWIFT: Undoubtedly. We can never predict which cases will become as severe as Cassie’s did, but the history of violence, the way it was escalating, and Nico’s access to firearms all would have led us to believe that Cassie was in danger.

  Cassie

  I was crying before

  we got off the stage

  our last performance

  March of senior year.

  It felt like grief—

  leaving that stage behind.

  Like some part of me knew

  it’d be the last time I’d sing.

  The whole drama club

  gathered backstage

  half-undressed, hurrying,

  eager to go, to celebrate.

  I was fresh-faced and out of there

  in about seven minutes flat.

  They were waiting for me.

  Beck, Vivian, Betty,

  and the lake in March,

  a horrible,

  freezing thing.

  But it was tradition.

  When I rounded the corner,

  he was waiting for me.

  Matteo,

  holding sunflowers.

  Brilliant gold splashes

  in the drab hallway.

  It was new. That us.

  It had only been weeks.

  Weeks of gentle words,

  weeks of gentle touches,

  a hand graze in the hall.

  We kept it quiet,

  because it was new,

  and because I didn’t know

  if he was still watching me.

  The texts had finally stopped.

  The I want you back texts,

  the How dare you leave me texts,

  the I can’t believe you

  went to the police

  are you trying

  to ruin

  my life

  texts.

  We’d kept our secret,

  but there was no one left backstage,

  so when Matteo leaned in

  and kissed me

  in a spot that might

  be called my cheek

  but was also the edge

  of my smile,

  I turned into it

  and caught him full-on.

  I kissed him

  like I’d wanted to

  like I wasn’t scared anymore,

  and it was sweet.

  He was sweet.

  But in a moment,

  Matteo was gone,

  thrown against the lockers

  and it was Nico there

  in his place,

&nb
sp; towering over me,

  red-faced, and when he spoke

  he was so angry that flecks of spit

  hit my face and neck

  and when I backed away

  he followed

  his hand finding my shoulder

  sliding up to my neck,

  squeezing.

  I heard Matteo’s shout,

  and felt when he slammed into Nico,

  who released me, gasping.

  He called me a name,

  before turning and leaving.

  Walking away.

  Like he had no reason to hurry.

  No reason to worry.

  I hit the floor sobbing,

  and Matteo held me,

  until Vivian and Beck

  came looking for me.

  And then their arms

  took over for him.

  Vivian talked to me

  in hushed, urgent whispers,

  We’ve got you.

  We’ve got you now.

  Beck’s anger was quiet.

  But sometimes quiet

  is a violent thing, too.

  Beck

  BECK TRIPPED OVER A PAIR OF legs on the porch as she tried to sneak in.

  “What the—”

  “Language,” came a gruff voice from the rocking chair. Beck hadn’t even seen him there.

  “Grandpa. It’s two o’clock in the morning. What are you doing out here?”

  Her grandfather sat up in the chair, looking around the dark porch. “Did you say two? Why are you leaving at two in the morning?”

  “I’m not leaving,” Beck said. “I’m coming back.”

  “I’ve been out here since ten,” he said with a soft laugh, standing up and stretching. “I wanted to catch you sneaking out after you said no more murals for a while.” Grandpa rested his hand on the top of Beck’s head as he spoke, a gesture he’d always done in affection.

  “Well, you did catch me,” she said. “You caught me getting home, Grandpa. I left the house early tonight, around sunset.”

  “Sunset?” he repeated. “I must have not realized. Just assumed you were upstairs painting. Didn’t see Betty.”

  “She was over by the field,” Beck said. “I’ve been parking over there the last few weeks.”

  “Right, right,” Grandpa said. “Were you painting?”

  Beck dropped her gaze, unable to lie to him, but unable to tell him she went back on her word.

  “All right, Beck. It’s all right. Well, like I said before, you are an adult. You get to make your own choices. But Bell is a powerful man. If he thinks what you’re doing will hurt his company, he’ll come after you hard.”

  “I don’t want to hurt his company,” Beck said. “I want to destroy it.”

  Grandpa shuffled over and held the screen door for Beck.

  “Things’ll get ugly in town,” he warned. “And Cassie is gone.”

  “She’s not gone,” Beck said. “I mean. I feel like she’s still here. I feel like I have to fight for her. And things are already ugly.”

  Grandpa didn’t argue with Beck any more. He nodded his understanding, squeezed her shoulder. He said a soft good night at the stairs. “Be careful.”

  Beck sat up for hours in her window, her eyes fixed on the van across the yard.

  Her eyes fixed on Cassie standing next to the van.

  She looked almost alive.

  That blue glow of hers could be mistaken for moonlight on her face. But Beck knew better. She knew Cassie wasn’t alive. No matter how she wished it. And she knew Cassie was almost ready to go.

  Beck slept terribly, plagued by nightmares. Rather, one nightmare, on repeat, again and again. A familiar one. She dreamed she was in that classroom that day. Dreamed it was her leg ruined, her body next to Cassie. She dreamed it over and over, and each time, she tried to move fast enough. She tried to stop him, or at least get in front of Cass before the first shot rang out across the desks. But she was never fast enough. That moment in the classroom wasn’t the moment that anyone could have saved Cassie. The chance to save her had come earlier, with the police. At the hospital. When Cassie had asked for help.

  So Beck slept terribly, and in the morning she woke with more guilt than the day before.

  She would never blame Vivian for not saving Cassie.

  Why couldn’t she stop blaming herself?

  It wasn’t quite sunset the following evening when Beck’s phone started to buzz in her pocket. She was elbow-deep in an engine, covered in oil and grime.

  “Shit,” she said.

  She cleaned off quickly and checked her messages. A voice mail from an unknown number.

  Beck, this is Merit. Merit Logan. I got a call from a friend of mine. The police just brought in some kid for questioning about the murals? I guess he got caught posting to the social media account for the murals, over at the Tannersville library.

  Shit. Matteo was in trouble.

  The kid’s name is . . . Matteo. Do you know him? Is he helping you? My friend says as far as she knows he was not arrested. The police just asked him to come in and talk to them, but, Beck, he could be in serious trouble if they can link him to the murals in some way. I’m on my way over there now. Maybe you and Vivian can meet me in the town square? I’ll try to get him out of there.

  Beck ran for the van, shouting a quick goodbye to Grandpa through the kitchen window. She called Vivian, who had just talked to Merit and was already on her way.

  Beck didn’t know what to expect in town, but it wasn’t the scene that greeted her as she parked Betty. The sun was slipping over the horizon, and Cassie appeared in the passenger seat, but she was quiet, taking in the scene.

  There were people filling the town square, shouting, carrying signs.

  “What the hell?” Beck asked, jumping at a rapping sound on her driver’s side window.

  Vivian.

  “Cass, we’ll be back as soon as we can.”

  Beck didn’t wait for Cassie to answer. She was out and moving with Vivian toward the crowd. On the edge was Lola Talbot. She was holding a sign.

  FUCK BELL GUNS.

  “Lola,” Vivian said, reaching for Lola’s arm. “Lola, what is this?”

  “Hey, glad you two made it,” Lola said, hugging them both.

  “Made what?” Beck asked. She started to recognize more people in the crowd. Friends from school. Some teachers, too. “When did this start?”

  “Just an hour ago,” Lola said. “I’ve been following Merit’s podcast—and her social media. When I realized it was Matteo they brought in, I called the drama club, and they called the chorus club, who called debate, who called the teachers’ phone line, and . . . well, everyone wanted to show up. For Cassie. For Matteo. They’re questioning him over nothing. All he did was post the photos online. And he did it for Cassie. This is bullshit.”

  Beck started reading the signs around them.

  Gun Control Now.

  For Cassie.

  Bell Guns KILL.

  Protect Our Girls.

  “These people are all here . . . in support of Cassie?”

  “Not all,” Lola said, gesturing to a group on the other side of Town Hall. They didn’t have signs. And they were silent. But they were all armed. “They say they’re here to protect the peace.”

  “They’re here for Bell,” Vivian said, her eyes going dark with anger.

  Then the door to the police station opened, and Merit Logan was walking down the steps with Matteo. Everyone surrounding Beck started to cheer, and across the town square, the others began to yell.

  Matteo made eye contact with Beck over the crowd, lifted his hand in a jerky wave.

  “He sees us,” Beck told Vivian. “We need to get out of here.”

  Matteo made his way through the crowd, but he was stopped often by people telling him to keep going. To keep talking about Cassie. How much they missed her. Beck wanted to stop and appreciate this—this outpouring of love. Of acknowledgment.

  But ther
e wasn’t any time. Beck turned to say something to Vivian, but she wasn’t there.

  Beck scanned the town square, searching for her, and finally spotted her near the gazebo. What was Vivian doing? She could just barely see her, walking right toward the other group—the armed group. Then Vivian dropped out of sight.

  When she finally broke through the crowd, Beck found Vivian heading right for one of the armed men, the look in her eyes wild and far away.

  She was being reckless.

  Beck grabbed for her, pulling her back and down.

  “Vivian. Vivian, you can’t start anything with them. Vivian.”

  One of the armed men had a loudspeaker and was addressing the rest of them.

  Beck only caught the tail end of his words. “. . . all because a good kid made one bad choice.”

  At first Beck thought he meant Cassie, and she felt a surge of anger that he would blame her for any part of it. And then she realized. A good kid.

  They were talking about Nico.

  Beck turned, thinking she would need to physically restrain Vivian from going after that man, but Vivian had frozen next to Beck, her eyes trained on the man closest to them—on his gun. Beck watched as Vivian’s face turned ashen, and she started to shake. Suddenly her legs buckled, and Vivian was kneeling on the ground.

  That’s where Matteo found them.

  He knelt beside Vivian, one hand finding her pulse on her wrist, the other gently tipping up her face to look at her eyes.

  “I think she’s having a panic attack, Beck. We really need to get her out of here.”

  Beck and Matteo worked together, getting Vivian onto her feet and each wrapping an arm around her middle. They made their way around the crowd this time, instead of through it.

  Down the street, back to Betty. Back to safety.

  There was a shout behind her, and Beck turned.

  The gazebo was on fire—Beck could see the flames climbing fast against the dark sky. Heard a siren start to wail in the distance from the fire hall.

  It was chaos.

  They finally made it to the block where Betty was parked, and Beck stopped short.

  She saw Cassie, once again beside the van instead of inside it. And in front of her, facing a store window, was Steven Bell.

  Beck watched as Mr. Bell looked at his reflection in the glass window of the gun shop. A streetlamp flickered on. He straightened his tie, and the smug smile curling on his face made Beck sick to look at him, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away as Mr. Bell’s gaze shifted, so slightly, to the reflection beside his own.