Moving Can Be Murder

by Susan Santangelo

  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.

  “No, I want to keep going. Maybe my story will stop someone else from making the same mistakes I did.”

  She cleared her throat. “I’m all right now. Anyway, the first time he hit me, he accused me of lying to him about where I’d been and who I’d been with. I wasn’t waiting for him after school, like usual. I’d gone to study for a chemistry exam at the library with two girlfriends. Can you imagine anyone becoming violent over something so innocent?

  “Anyway, he said he felt terrible about hitting me, and promised he’d never do it again. I believed him. In some way, I felt I was responsible. Like I had done something bad, and deserved to be punished. I was so ashamed. And I couldn’t tell anybody.

  “Then one night, I did something really terrible. I didn’t mean to do it.” Marcia clamped her lips shut and shook her head at the memory. “I can’t tell you what it was. But he took the blame. He said he was doing it to protect me. But, of course, what he was really doing was finding another way to control me.

  “Then, he went away. You don’t need to know those details. Let’s just say his family packed up and moved away. I don’t know where they went.

  “I can’t tell you how relieved I was when he was out of my life. But I’ve always been afraid that he’d come back and try to hurt me again.”

  She started to sob.

  I didn’t know what to do. My maternal impulse was to touch her hand, hug her, do something physical to comfort her. I settled for taking a packet of tissues out of my purse and putting it within her line of vision.

  As she reached out to take one, I said, “Marcia, I am so sorry for what you went through. I know that’s small comfort to you. It was so brave of you to share your story with me. I guess I never realized that domestic abuse could start when the victim is still in her teens. I’m so lucky that it hasn’t happened to my daughter.”

  Marcia blew her nose, then wiped her eyes. “Sorry for breaking down like that in front of you, Carol. After all, we barely know each other. But I haven’t told anyone that story, except in therapy sessions. And believe me, I had a lot of those over the years.

  “And as far as your saying it hasn’t happened to your daughter, what makes you so sure about that? Maybe she’s been in an abusive relationship and you don’t know about it. After all, my family never picked up on the signs.”

  The encounter with Marcia Fischer rocked me to my core. All the way back to the apartment, I kept wondering if she was right about my daughter.

  Last year, quite unexpectedly, Jenny had broken up with her live-in boyfriend, Jeff, left California, and shown up at our door. She complained that he didn’t want her to finish her graduate degree, and insisted she stay home and take care of him, instead. She told Jim and me that she couldn’t take his trying to manage her life, so she packed up and came home to Fairport. I wasn’t sure if they’d had any contact since then. I knew she decided not to go back and pack up more of her things. She said she wanted to start fresh in Connecticut.

  Was there more to the story that she hadn’t told us?

  No matter what, I decided I couldn’t ask her about it. But I made up my mind, there and then, to write the best damn story I possibly could to shed some light on domestic violence. In all its ugly forms.

  Chapter 28

  Lead me not into temptation. I can find the way all by myself.

  As excited as I was about the show house preview party, that’s how much I was dreading the memorial service for Jack Cartwright.

  “You don’t have to attend,” said My Beloved. “In fact, you probably shouldn’t go. The family may be upset to see you there.” He gave me a look which translated to, “I think you’re nuts to go.”

  I had to admit, he had a good point. But my mother, and the good sisters, all said that paying your last respects to any deceased with whom you had even the remotest connection was a must. It may sound ghoulish, but that’s the way I was raised.

  I was determined to go to the memorial. Even if I went alone. I’d sit in the last pew in the church, I decided. Nobody would even know I was there.

  When Jenny heard about my plan, she pitched a fit, just like Jim had. Like father, like daughter, at least in this case.

  “Mom,” she said, “don’t you remember that phone call you made to the family, when Sara Miller threatened to sue you and Daddy for negligence? She practically accused you of causing Jack’s death.”

  Heavy sigh. From Jenny, not me.

  “But if you insist on going, you’re not going alone. I’ll go with you.”

  I didn’t admit that I was hoping she’d say that. But I was. I guess some of my “funeral guilt” had passed on to the next generation.

  “I’ve never been to this church before,” I said to Jenny. It was Saturday morning and we were circling the blocks near the Fairport Community Church, trying to find a parking place. “I guess we should have gotten here earlier. I never dreamed there’d be so many people.”

  “Some folks just can’t resist a good funeral. Or a chance to see some drama. Even pick up a little gossip,” Jenny said.

  “I hope you’re not referring to me,” I said as I finally spotted a parking spot five blocks away from the church and made it my own.

  “No, Mom. I’m not. But you have to admit that we really didn’t have to attend the service.”

  “On the contrary, I think we did. At least, I did,” I said as we walked briskly toward the church. “It’s my way of showing respect to the family, and also showing that I have nothing to hide. We’d better hurry. It looks like they’re about to close the doors.”

  An usher gave us each a program whose cover showed a beautiful picture of all four Cartwrights. Jack was holding the little girl in his arms, and Alyssa had her arms wrapped around her son. Big smiles on all the faces.

  Heartbreaking.

  We squeezed into the very last pew in the church. The place was packed, mostly with young people. (Meaning under age forty.)

  I spotted a few of the neighbors. Phyllis and Bill were sitting in a prominent place, along with Liz. I was surprised to see Marcia Fischer sitting a few rows up from us with Leon, her brother and business partner in Superior Interiors. Leon had his arm around Marcia’s shoulder, and she seemed to be wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. Curious.

  For a quick second, I wondered how they knew Jack Cartwright. Then I realized the Cartwrights had probably consulted the design store about decorating their new home. Which now they’d never move into. But it was still nice of Marcia and Leon to come and show their respects.

  “There’s no casket,” I whispered to Jenny.

  “It’s a memorial service. Usually there is no casket,” Jenny replied. “It’s more a celebration of a person’s life than a funeral.”

  I craned my neck and saw a table in front of the altar which was filled with photographs. The altar was decorated with a simple arrangement of blue hydrangeas.

  The whole congregation rose to its feet as the family walked down the aisle. Alyssa looked dazed, and was clinging to her father’s arm. Sara Miller was ramrod straight, and held both her grandchildren’s hands.

  I couldn’t bear to look at them. The reality of the situation hit me, and I knew, belatedly, that Jim and Jenny we
re right. I had no business being at this memorial service. I felt like a voyeur.

  But it was too late to sneak out without calling attention to myself. Jenny, sensing my discomfort, gave my hand a little squeeze. “Hang tight, Mom,” she whispered.

  Reverend Donaldson, the minister, led the congregation in singing “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” Then, after a few readings from scripture, he gave a brief eulogy for Jack. It was obvious from the impersonal nature of the eulogy that he didn’t know the Cartwright family that well.

  Another hymn – this time, “Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee.” Then Reverend Donaldson asked if any members of the congregation wanted to share a remembrance of the deceased.

  A young man, probably in his early twenties, rose to his feet and walked slowly to the pulpit. His voice cracked as he introduced himself.

  “Good morning. My name is Luke Saunders, and I’m here today to mourn the passing of my friend and mentor, Jack Cartwright. It’s no exaggeration to say that Jack Cartwright saved my life. I was a pretty wild kid about eight years ago, when Jack and I first met. I’d been in and out of juvy homes a few times for drugs. Both using and selling.”

  Luke cleared his throat, then continued.

  “I met Jack at the program for at-risk kids he started in Massachusetts. I didn’t want to go to it, but my probation officer told me it was either attend the program or serve more time in a juvy home.

  He allowed himself a small smile. “Of course, I chose the program.

  “Jack worked with me, one-on-one, for months. He treated me like a son. He told me how he’d made some pretty stupid mistakes when he was younger, and he didn’t want to see me, or any other kid, do the same thing. Thanks to him, I went back to school and got my G.E.D. I’m now working in a garage, paying my own way, and going to college at night.