by Daleen Berry
I told Eddie I was pregnant with the same lack of emotion and excitement I had with Trista. It seemed to make him happy and his attitude improved, reminding me that, in a weird way, it helped Eddie’s ego to be able to say he had gotten me pregnant. After all, he didn’t have a job and evidently couldn’t get one. But here, this was proof that he was a real man, or so he seemed to think.
I worked hard to not let my resentment show, keeping my feelings to myself. I had already learned the more I said, the less good it did. Besides, he never understood, anyway. I tried to make it easier, by staying away from the house. When I returned from visiting Mom or my friends, I knew I would have to deal with his anger, but I didn’t care. It was the only way I could keep from going insane.
Within a month, I began selling cosmetics, scheduling appointments for facials in women’s homes. It forced me to be outgoing, as I taught them how to care for their skin and apply make-up. I quickly excelled, holding several appointments a week. Eddie’s initial response had been hesitant. But because we were desperate for any extra money to help pay our bills, he accepted it. I knew he also felt guilty because I had to work. That was something he had promised would never happen.
But after Eddie learned it meant he would be left caring for our two young daughters, he grew resentful. I would be almost out the door when his verbal attack began. “When you come home, the house is going to look the same as when you left, because I ain’t gonna do your work. I’ve got stuff of my own to do, so you may as well know that ahead of time,” he snarled.
Another time while we were eating dinner, he complained again. “At least you get to leave the house. I can’t do anything other than watch TV with the kids, while you run around.”
I sighed and put down my fork, rested my elbows on the table, and laced my fingers together. His attitude was interfering with my digestion. “Fine, then, would you please just take care of the girls? Make sure their diapers are changed and they’re bathed before bedtime?” He said he would, but countless times I arrived home to find them sound asleep, filthy from playing, with dried food on their faces. I would just stand there and want to cry. How could he not bathe our babies and let them go to bed looking like little urchins?
The confrontation that followed was never pretty.
“What did you do tonight, Eddie?” We were in the kitchen and I tried to keep my tone neutral, so he couldn’t read any criticism into my question.
“While you were gone, having fun, I was here taking care of everything. We watched TV and then the girls went to bed” He shrugged.
I continued speaking in a low, calm tone. “Did you read them a bedtime story?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” he said. “I did just as you asked. I didn’t get to the dinner dishes, though. I’ll do them tomorrow.”
That was what he always said, but rarely did. So, resigned, I went to the kitchen and started them myself. By the time I was finished, I had made up my mind that I couldn’t leave the house a disaster, so I did housework until one or two in the morning. Eddie had gone to bed hours earlier, angry that I wouldn’t join him. If he did wake up when I crawled into bed, exhausted from a day that had begun for me eighteen hours earlier, he insisted on his marital due. Depending on how I felt at the time, I would either try to reason with him, asking if he would just let me get a few hours sleep first, or I would be compliant and do nothing. I had long ago learned that, either way, it was “damned if you do, damned if you don’t.” He always got what he wanted in the bedroom—even if he had to take it.
My prayers were answered the day Eddie returned to work, and I knew I could have some solitude without fearing his next outburst. It also gave me a chance to devote more time and attention to Mileah and Trista.
I held them and felt a deep sense of frustration and despair, knowing they were the ones who would suffer because of the unborn child I was carrying. Just as I had less time to give Mileah after Trista was born, so it would be once this baby was born—only more so. It was so unfair, and I hated it. At times I think I even hated their father. Then I reminded myself I shouldn’t hate him—just his selfishness. After all, wasn’t a woman supposed to love and respect her husband? Those were the Bible values I had been raised with, and I didn’t want to break God’s laws.
It was hard, though. Part of my time was spent trying to patiently reason with Eddie, helping him see that when I was too tired to have sex, I wasn’t rejecting him. Other times I ignored him and tried not to think about it. Then I was cold and distant, because I couldn’t trust myself to say anything. I locked myself away in a shell, refusing to let him penetrate it.
One late night after the girls were asleep, Eddie and I were sitting at the kitchen table together, eating a piece of my blackberry cobbler. Eddie was telling me how another miner almost got killed on the previous shift. “That mine certainly has its share of accidents, doesn’t it?” I asked.
“It’s nothing but a dog hole.” He shook his head. “Most of them are though, anymore.”
I looked down at my bowl, grappling with a thought rattling around in my head that had been specifically bothering me lately, a conclusion I’d come to about Eddie’s behavior and sex. And the thought finally won. “Well, at least you don’t have to worry about running across any porn down in the mine.” I looked directly at him now that my fears had formed into a question I actually asked out loud.
Okay Eddie, now here’s where you say, ‘That’s right, Daleen, there’s no pornography at this mine.’
Instead, he said nothing. I waited, but Eddie continued eating his cobbler.
“I think this is probably the worst place I’ve worked, as far as safety violations go. I tell you, we’re lucky someone hasn’t gotten killed yet.” Because Eddie blatantly ignored my comment, I had a feeling my suspicions were correct.
Eddie had been in such a foul mood lately, and prone to not coming home when he was supposed to. It was a behavior that had made me wonder, did the men in the mine have access to porn?
As in the past, whenever Eddie started acting out sexually, he would harass me first and when he grew tired of that, he would become distant. It was as if he knew what he was doing was wrong, that it was only going to create more problems for our family. And by doing those things, because they interfered with our relationship, he felt more guilty—and angry. I knew it answered several recent questions about his behavior. But I decided I didn’t want to jeopardize his good mood. Maybe I should just let it go.
“Why don’t they do something about it? I thought the inspectors came and fined them for things like that,” I asked, trying to focus on his concern about safety issues.
“They do, but only if they find out first. If, say, an inspector gets delayed at the face, and the men inside have advance warning he’s coming in, they can hide some of the violations before he ever makes it inside the mine.”
“Well, it’s always the same old story, isn’t it? Coal first, safety second.” I took a sip of my milk. Then, without any conscious thought, the next words out of my mouth flowed freely of their own accord. “They don’t, do they?”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t have Playboy or Penthouse lying around? You didn’t say anything earlier when I mentioned it.” Whether consciously or not, I’d opened that door. I looked right at him, and his expression told me the next words out of his mouth would be a lie.
“Well, I don’t know. I’m always too busy running my butt off to notice.”
Uh huh, I’ll bet you are.
I was certain he was trying to sidetrack my question. Time to walk through that door my question had opened.
“Eddie, I only mentioned the pornography because I know it’s a problem for you, because when it’s a problem for you, it’s a problem for us.”
“Well, since we haven’t had sex for about a month now, that should tell you it’s not a problem, shouldn’t it?” His words dripped with sarcasm.
“That’s only because you want me to do things I don’t
feel comfortable doing. Plus, I’m pregnant and working, too. Besides, that’s not the point—pornography is. Do you still read it?”
“Why do you continually badger me about this? Didn’t I tell you they don’t have any of that garbage at the mines?” He fumed, his face reddening.
“No, you didn’t. You merely said you were so busy you wouldn’t notice if they did.” I looked directly into his eyes. “So, do they?” Now I wanted a definitive answer.
“Yes! Are you happy now? Yes they do!” he screamed.
I refused to back down. He could give me a straight answer, because I deserved that much.
After several minutes of silence I gathered enough courage to ask my next question. “And do you read it?”
“I haven’t read any for awhile now. There, does that satisfy you?”
I was silent. To Eddie, that might mean a week or a year, and I would never know. But I was finished pressing the issue, and exhausted from the mind game we had just played.
During those early years I had several friends—but none close enough to confide in. Mom was my closest friend. By thirty-seven, she still had four children at home between the ages of fifteen and two.
But I never told her what was happening inside my home, especially anything sexual. I knew she’d be mortified if I even tried. Wanting to protect her, I couldn’t let her know how hard it was to live with someone whose moods changed like the wind. Besides, she adored her son-in-law. Continuing the pattern he began years earlier, Eddie still went out of his way to cut her firewood, haul her coal and do household repairs.
I only talked to God. And he kept me going, so I could get up each morning and care for my children, my house, my job and my husband. Eddie was last on the list because I was the only person who could or would take time to care for the other three. There was no choice, and Eddie contributed to that by not caring whether I became pregnant, by refusing to help with either the children or the housework, and by spending most of his time at work. I put the household chores first because someone had to do them; my family’s physical health depended upon it. And my daughters came first because I was all they had, and it was my responsibility to care for their emotional, mental and spiritual health. They had no one else.
Unfortunately, Eddie’s return to the mines hadn’t lasted more than a few months when he came home with another pink slip. His employment cycles seemed to coincide with my pregnancies, making the rollercoaster ride we were already on even bumpier. As time slipped by, and with it, any chances of available employment, he became more and more depressed. Little by little, Eddie’s depression began reaching out to those around him. Especially me—I just didn’t know it yet.
Gabriella was born in the middle of a hot, humid summer in 1983. She came into the world wrapped in the same burst of energy and excitement that would mark her own, exuberant personality. From the minute she was born, “Gabby” was different. She wasn’t quiet and content like her sisters; she was loud and vocal and let everyone know she was there.
The day after her birth I was lying in bed sorting through my clients’ cosmetic files, when my manager called. “Daleen, you’re crazy, do you know that? Don’t you think you should be resting?”
“I feel great. Besides, I need to figure out how to reschedule the appointments I had for this week. I hope you don’t mind, but I think I’ll wait a couple of weeks before I get back into the swing of things.”
She laughed so loud I had to hold the receiver away from my ear. I knew that would tickle her. “Only a couple of weeks? Don’t worry about the appointments you already booked; I’ll see that someone takes them for you. You just get some rest and take care of that little angel. I want to see her the first chance I get, so don’t forget to let me know when you’re up for visitors.”
We hung up and I finished jotting notes on the remaining files, before laying everything aside and closing my eyes.
I should just let everything go until I actually feel like doing it—after I’ve spent lots of time with Gabby. Why can’t I? Why am I so driven? Why does my every minute have to be filled?
I couldn’t see that I was frantically searching for anything that would keep me so preoccupied I wouldn’t be able to think, or feel, anything. I had no idea it would take another seven years and countless more acts of abuse before I found my answers. If I had known then how the violence would spill over onto my children—even the newborn daughter who lay sleeping just a few feet away from me—I would have taken my babies and run into the night.
Two weeks later, I returned to work and Eddie played babysitter. Only this time, it was three children, not two. For a while, I was pleasantly surprised when I returned home and found the house neat and clean, with dinner waiting. It was a relief to sit down and just relax while I ate. But even that wasn’t as pleasant as it could have been, because Eddie made subtle comments that implied he resented me working at a paying job while he was “stuck” at home caring for the girls.
I bit my tongue, knowing he felt threatened because I was earning a paycheck while he was being forced to play nanny and housekeeper. But inside, I kept wishing that he appreciated the golden opportunity he had, of being able to stay home and enjoy the time with our beautiful, intelligent daughters.
I hadn’t been back to work a month when I returned home one night and found the downstairs looking like a hurricane had struck. In that minute, the tiredness that tugged at every muscle threatened to overwhelm me. I went into the kitchen, which was even worse. Dirty dishes were piled everywhere. The kids had spilled some sticky substance on the floor, and it was in a big puddle. Crumbs of food were scattered around and under the table, and there wasn’t a clean spot in sight.
I cautiously yelled for Eddie. When he didn’t answer, I went upstairs. My steps were heavy and I sensed my resentment building. I didn’t feel like cleaning house any more than I did climbing the Empire State Building. When I reached the girls’ room, I saw him stretched out at the end of the big bed they shared. I stood just inside the doorway, watching them sleep as the pale light of the moon sneaked in through the window. I tiptoed over and kissed each girl softly. They smelled so nice and clean and had their nightclothes on. At least he’d bathed them. That was nothing short of a miracle.
I shook Eddie’s shoulder, trying to wake him. I was upset and I didn’t care if he knew it. His eyes opened and I turned and went out, going into our bedroom to put on some old clothes so I could clean. He followed me and lay down on our bed, half-asleep. I slammed a dresser drawer and his eyes opened.
“Are you upset or something?”
“Not at all,” I answered tersely.
“Yes you are. You’re mad at me because I didn’t clean the house, aren’t you?”
We had had the same discussion so many times before, but I never could make him see how I felt. Why try to get it through his thick head now?
I sighed and swallowed my anger. The last thing I wanted was an argument.
“No, Eddie, I’m just tired. That’s all.”
“So come to bed with me. We can get up and clean the house in the morning.”
“That won’t work. I have an afternoon appointment and there are other things I have to get done in the morning. I’ll just have to clean tonight. Just go to sleep.” I started to leave, but his voice followed me.
“Yeah, yeah, all I am is a stinking babysitter. No good for anything but changing dirty diapers and taking care of kids.”
I was just passing the door to the kids’ bedroom when he flew toward me in a rage and grabbed me. “I’ve had about enough from you! I may not have a job, but that’s no reason for you to think I’m lazy. I’m not, do you understand? I’m not lazy!” His eyes were wild, and I was afraid he was going to wake up the kids.
“Let go of me!” My voice was a low hiss.
“No, you’re coming downstairs with me and I’m gonna’ show you what a good worker I am.” He tried to pull me down the stairs and I clutched at one of the dowels in the staircase. I d
idn’t know what had set him off, but at that moment it didn’t matter. He jerked at me until I slipped on the stairs, falling as he pulled on my arm. I felt pain run through the upper length of my leg at the same time I heard the sound of my pants rip.
“Darn you, let me go! You’ve hurt my leg.”
He let go of my arm and watched as I twisted the pant leg around, exposing a long, ragged tear. Under the tear was a pencil-thin red cut on my leg, and it was starting to burn. He saw the cut and tried to touch my leg.
“Don’t you put one finger on me,” I glared at him with hatred. He looked like he might try to anyway, and the fear and anger gripped me tighter. Then he turned and slowly went down the steps.
“All right Daleen, if that’s the way you want it.” His voice became deadly calm, as he turned from Jekyll to Hyde in a heartbeat.
I heard the girls tossing and turning but somehow they slept right through the commotion. I sat and stared into the distance, seeing nothing. I wondered why Eddie had to get so angry.
Is it me? Do I do that to him?
He often accused me of provoking him, and sometimes I believed him, but deep down I knew I wasn’t to blame. I got angry, too, but I always controlled my temper. I knew he could do the same, if he would try.
The next few days were cool and tense. I tried to tell Eddie how hard it was for me to return from work, only to find the house a disaster. Besides, I was still nursing two babies. Pleading, I tried to reason with him, telling him I needed his help. But he didn’t want to hear what I had to say, and would only reply that “everything” was his fault.
“That’s all right; my shoulders are broad. I can take the blame.” His sarcasm wasn’t lost on me, and I knew he really thought I was the problem.
He took to sleeping in the girls’ bedroom, near the foot of their bed. I was torn between longing to have him near me in case I needed protection, and relief, knowing I would at least be free from his violent sex plus the distasteful sexual antics. My mind wandered to some of the nights when I had been too tired to have sex, when he had insisted anyway.