by Daleen Berry
“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 t
o 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.
Linda assigned me to cover the murder trial, so as the date drew near, I sat down across from Deputy Stiles, who was the lead investigator, Joe told me how violent Toppins had been.
“Wanda was shot several times, up close. And even after she fell to the ground and couldn’t get back up,” Joe explained, “Toppins continued firing bullets into her body.”
I listened in rapt attention, but I had a hard time paying attention—especially when I realized that the day before Wanda was murdered, I had written in my diary about my own fear that I might be killed. That if Eddie didn’t kill me, his abuse would cause me to take my own life. Instead, Wanda was the one who was killed. Her husband, like mine, had a long history of being violent, and at least one previous wife of his had died under suspicious circumstances.
Toppins’ marriage to Wanda had been equally volatile as his others, and his son, Jerry Jr., had joined the military to get away from his father’s violence. When Joe told me Wanda had warned friends that if she died, it would be at the hands of her ex, I thought about my own situation. My own life.
I thought about Wanda’s children: her little boy, David, her daughter, Candy, from a previous marriage, and Jerry Jr. All of those children were going to be permanently affected by the violence. There was no way they could remain unscathed.
I considered my own children: Mileah had stabbed Gabby in the back with a fork, just a year or two ago. And more than once, Slade had chased his sisters with a knife. Too, they all argued about the smallest thing, which would then escalate into a battle, complete with hitting, pinching, biting and kicking. Our children—Wanda’s and mine—had lived through a war zone, fighting for survival. And they’d adopted violent behavior as a result.
“I know Linda’s story said Wanda had filed a battery complaint against Jerry, back in May, which was later dropped. What can you tell me about that?” I asked Joe.
Joe looked at his notes. “I can tell you the magistrate ordered him to stop abusing her, and she got temporary custody of her daughter, Candy, and their son, David, the three-year-old.”
“Yes, I remember something about that in Linda’s story. It said Toppins came home, crashed his motorcycle, and told her to leave. That he threatened to take the baby and disappear. Was there anything else? What’s his motive—well, other than being a jerk?” I heard the sarcasm in my voice.
Joe grinned. “You said it, I didn’t. Well, let’s see, you know about the new boyfriend, right?”
“Just that he was there with her, the day she was killed.”
“They were supposed to get married that day. He had been Wanda’s high school sweetheart. So that’s one motive—Jerry didn’t want another man to have what he still viewed as his.”
Joe turned a page in his notebook. “That would explain the statement her fiancé gave to police, since the last thing he remembers was Toppins yelling something about ‘the whore’s out here. I killed her. Come and look at her.’”
I wrote it down, trying to clearly focus on what he was saying. I kept thinking back to Eddie’s recent threats.
You’ll never be another man’s. If I can’t have you, no one else will, either!
I tore myself away from that horrible day, forcing myself to concentrate on Joe’s words. “These men are all the same,” I muttered under my breath.
I didn’t realize Joe had heard me. “Yes, they are. Batterers are all pretty much cut from the same cloth.”
“Were there any other complaints filed—and how di
d they even end up having contact, if there was an order in place?”
Joe looked squarely at me, his blue eyes intense. “Because she dropped it when the divorce began. And according to Toppins, he killed her because she refused to let him take the boy if he wouldn’t give her child support.”
I must have looked confused, for he continued. “Now, I’m not saying that she did or she didn’t. But that’s what Toppins claims happened. We did find a check there, on the ground beside her, and while that may have been a factor, I doubt it.” Joe ran his finger over his chin, deep in thought. I waited patiently.
“How often does that happen—that wives drop a battery complaint?” I asked Joe.
“It happens a lot more than I’d like.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s leverage, usually to get the man to pay the woman child support or alimony. The attorneys recommend it, and the man is only too happy to give up money or something else, in return for having the criminal complaint dismissed.”
I realized that Wanda had been in the same situation I was in—her ex used money as a weapon, to try to get what he wanted, too.
“I understand, but I don’t think that’s a good thing—to drop the charges in return for something else,” I said.
Joe looked up from his file. “You’ll get no argument about that one from me. While I was at Quantico a few weeks ago, we had a class about interpersonal violence, and discussed that very problem. The fact is, there’s always some give and take, but it often makes the situation much worse, because what we’re starting to see is a lot of women filing for protection, but then dropping the charges down the road, for one reason or another.”
I thought about how I had never tried to file for a protective order—not even after the most recent incident, which scared me to death. “It must be hard, knowing if you file, there’s a price to pay, in terms of facing his anger, and having to deal with him.”