Sister of Silence (19 page)

He didn’t look at me while gathering up his tools. “After your letter, I figured there wasn’t anything to say. Seems like you’ve just about said it all.” He still wouldn’t look at me and would have turned and left, had I not called out.

I was confused. “What do you mean, Eddie?”

He shrugged, finally meeting my gaze. “Well, I just got the idea that I have to shape up or else. And since I never could meet your standards, I pretty much know what I need to do. So I’ll get out of your way as soon as I can.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! I wasn’t giving you an ultimatum. I was just telling you how I felt, hoping you might understand me.”

“Well, that’s not how I heard it,” he said sourly.

“Maybe you only hear what you want to, Eddie.” My voice was quiet in the large hallway.

“Yeah, it’s always that way, isn’t it? It’s always me—never you. You don’t do anything to cause problems, do you?” He snarled
the words.

“Yes, I do. I make mistakes, and I try hard not to repeat them. I’ve tried to make a lot of changes, but I get the feeling you don’t want to show me the same consideration.” I wanted to say more, but he cut me off.

“Look, I’m already late for work. I’ll see you later.”

“What time will you be home tonight?” I managed to ask.

He didn’t look back. “I don’t know. Probably late. We’re doing a government job and it’s been delayed because of bad weather.” With that, the heavy old door swung closed behind him.

I sat on the stairs until his truck was out of sight and earshot. I stared out the window, my mind blank, until rays of pink and grey lit up the morning sky.

What a copout. How easy it must be, to blame me for all his problems. What would he do if I wasn’t here? Who would he blame then?

Until then, my thoughts about leaving him had been vague. But what before had been just a dream solidified into a concrete plan
. I was leaving and my children were coming with me. I just didn’t know when or how.

I slowly stood and went back to bed. The clock said five a.m. I had more than an hour before Mileah would be up for school. I closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come so I grabbed my journal from the nightstand and began writing.

“For years, I’ve thought I was a horrible person—for getting into bed with Eddie, for having sex, for letting God and my family down, and for getting pregnant. Because I believed I was horrible, I felt like I deserved to be treated badly. That’s why I always took the blame for Eddie’s abuse. But something has happened that makes me realize it’s not my fault he’s got a bad temper. He had his temper long before I came along and anyway, he does things that make me angry—but I never take it out on him.

I don’t deserve any of the things he’s done to me—the bruise on my leg, the wounds on my heart, and the way he refuses to let me have any say over our sex life. And I’m tired of feeling like I’m not worth anything. Because I am, and I’m going to keep telling myself that until I know it’s true… and then I’m going to find a new life, for all of us.”

I yawned. Putting the notebook down, I slid under the covers and began tossing and turning, trying to get a few minutes of sleep. Finally, just when I thought I might as well get back up, I dozed off, into a fitful sleep where the demons and ghosts that chased me were pleas and promises and ultimatums, flowing from the pages of a spiral notebook.

Making a new life for my children and I was more difficult than I imagined. My own mother had stood by her man during similar trials, following my father from the West Coast to the East, bringing her two young daughters to the perfect state for such things. She couldn’t have known it all those years ago, when she drove from Wyoming to West Virginia, but that’s what women here did—regardless of whether he cheated on you, beat you, or hurt your babies. Because that attitude had permeated generations of Appalachian families, it left me feeling uncertain and dubious about my own capacity for being both a mother and a breadwinner.

You know, if you’re ever going to have a better life, having a job—a real job—is crucial,
the voice in my head declared,
and it’s the only way you’ll ever escape, the only acceptable way.

I knew many single mothers who lived on welfare, but I didn’t want to be one of them. Besides, I
knew I had more than enough energy and stamina to hold down a job while rearing my children
.

Still, I put off looking for work. What would I do? I was an accomplished seamstress, and had tried doing that when Eddie was out of work. I placed an ad in our local paper, which was answered by a woman who wanted me to make her a linen jacket. The garment took hours longer than I planned, leaving me little profit. So even though she raved about it, I knew I couldn’t make a living as a seamstress.

Not having gone to college, all I had to fall back on were the sewing and typing skills I learned in high school. Because of being a wife and a mother, I could also cook, clean and take care of children. But none of those jobs paid well, unless I became a legal secretary. Even then, I wasn’t sure anyone would hire me without legal experience.

I knew I just had to get a job—but doing what?

I continued to carve out my own time, and spent it doing all the things that made me feel proud of myself. I embroidered, baked, sewed, worked in the garden, canned food, played piano, exercised, studied all kinds of topics, and wrote—in my diaries and journals, on scraps of paper and in notebooks. I had at least four short stories taking shape so in January I queried several popular women’s magazines. They were rejected, though, and all I received for my work were form letters. But I kept trying—hoping, wishing and dreaming that someday my efforts would pay off.

Perhaps all the writing and recent submissions unlocked something within me, for one day while searching for linens, I knew what I should do. Opening the door to the dining room china closet, I saw my notebooks, piled high in a tall stack. That’s when it hit me.

I can write.

Not only that, I’m a good writer
. I remembered my high school journalism and English classes, when my teachers had nothing but praise for my writing. I wondered if I could write for a living. Like the seeds we had planted in the soil, the idea took root and began growing stronger by the day.

Before I could even try, though, Eddie and I had a confrontation unlike any other. We tried to go out on a date one Friday night, but Eddie came home two hours late, so I was in a bad mood. He still wanted to go, so I played with the kids while he showered and dressed. Afterward, he came into the living room and stood there watching the television. I called his name twice and when he didn’t answer, I picked up my keys and said I was going for a drive. I didn’t even think he heard me, and was already outside when he suddenly came up from behind, grabbing the keys from my hand. He demanded I talk to him.

“Don’t move. You stay right here and talk to me,” he shouted, grabbing and shaking me, his hands around my throat. I managed to get loose but he came after me.

“I said get back here!”
he screamed, grabbing me around the neck again as he began dragging me back toward the porch. I tried to go limp, so he would let go of me, but instead of breaking free, he drew his fist back and threatened to hit me.

“You better leave now, or I’m calling the police and getting a
restraining order,” I said coldly. “Do you understand me? I want you to leave. Now!”

His hands fell to his sides as I stumbled and tried to stand, before he turned away. That’s the last thing I remember. I wasn’t sure how I came to be there, but my hands were turning blue from the cold air when I found myself sitting on the porch trembling, hugging myself, afraid to even move. I absently reached up and rubbed my neck, which was sore and tense, and knew I should go inside.

When the door opened I froze, but Eddie walked past me without a word. He was carrying a duffel bag, and as he headed for our little pop-up camper, I prayed he would stay there. Only then did I go inside, to access the damage in the bathroom mirror. My neck was red, but there were no bruises. I thought about calling the police, but I was too embarrassed.

What would I tell them anyway? That my husband just blew a gasket and went off on me, for no apparent reason?
Would they believe me? Besides, he’s not even in the house now. He’s outside, sleeping in the camper. And we’re in here, safe and sound.

When I picked up my pen long after the kids were asleep, I realized he could have killed me.

“I might be dead now, if not for risking even worse
violence by speaking out for myself. Tonight has opened my eyes, and I won’t close them again. Yes, I enjoy being a homemaker and a mother, but I need to feel like what I do matters. Like I’m appreciated. I don’t get that at home. So I need to do something that keeps me preoccupied. I need to get busy and make that life for us, so we can get out of here before it’s too late.”

Eddie didn’t like staying in the camper but I think my threat to call the police scared him enough he didn’t try to coerce me into letting him return to the house. Instead, he went to stay with his sister. That incident propelled me to walk into the local newspaper office and ask if they were hiring. I was afraid of failure, afraid of being laughed right out the door, but I knew I had to try. It was a small family business, so I spoke with the publisher. He introduced himself as Delbert Benson, and said a reporter’s position had recently opened. He chuckled at one of the old high school newspaper articles I had brought along, before picking up the phone.

“
Linda, there’s someone here I think you should meet. She’s interested in the reporter’s spot.” He hung up and turned to me. “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen anyone write like this. Come on, I want Linda to see your clips.”

“Thank you,” I said, beaming.

We went upstairs to where a petite woman sat behind a large desk. Her long blond hair lay in soft waves around her face. She smiled generously, and Delbert introduced us. “Daleen, I’d like you to meet the editor of
The Preston County Journal
, Linda Benson, who’s also my wife. Linda, this is Daleen Leigh. She’s here to see about the reporter’s position.”

“How do you do?” I returned her smile.

“So you’ve brought some samples of your work,” Linda said, taking the papers from Delbert. She was soon absorbed in them and I sat there, trying to be patient, but anxious for her to finish. I relaxed as soon as Linda started to laugh. “This is absolutely wonderful. Where did you learn to write like this?”

“Well, I took a few journalism classes in school, and I wrote for the school paper. I even wrote a few pieces for your paper, as a correspondent. I went by Berry then,” I said, embarrassed. “I just love to write. I spend any extra time I can writing.”

Again, that direct gaze glanced across the desk at me. “Yes, I remember your work now. You didn’t go to college then?”

I started to answer, hoping it didn’t affect whether I got the job. “No, I’ve been married since shortly after high school, and we’re raising a family, so there was never any time for college. Is that bad?”

Linda laughed, and I could see Delbert smiling from the other side of the room. “No, not really. I happen to think that life experience counts for something, especially when you already have the raw talent to write. And that seems to be something you do have.” She handed the papers back to me before continuing, “So, when do you think you can start?”

I was stunned. They wanted me to start working right away—and as a reporter! “Well, how about next Monday?”

“All right, it’s settled then. Next Monday it’ll be.” It was their turn to be embarrassed, when they said the pay wasn’t great.

“But your byline will appear below each article you write, which is a nice bonus
.” Delbert grinned.

I was ecstatic and told them I’d be happy with whatever they gave me. I practically sailed out of the building, barely able to contain myself.

I’m going to work as a reporter.
Wait until I tell the kids.

I st
ill couldn’t believe that Linda remembered my work. I had just been a correspondent. I replayed the interview beginning with the moment I walked into the tall, unpretentious building. It looked, smelled and sounded like a newspaper office. I recalled the tall piles of old newspapers and inserts, as well as the long line of printing presses that stood taller than me. While giving me a quick tour, Delbert had told me that’s where everyone gathered twice a week, manually putting the sections together in assembly-line fashion, while the paper rolled off the press, hot and fresh.

I floated down from my cloud long enough to wonder how the kids would react when I left for work each morning. I wouldn’t know until I tried, but I also knew it would depend on how I presented it. I tried to think of various approaches, but finally settled on telling them that I needed to be able to work at a job so I would feel better about myself. That was certainly true. Making a living as a reporter would be good for my self-esteem, too, as long as people enjoyed what I wrote.

And we could use the extra money, no doubt about that. Even though Eddie’s new job was steady, we were still living apart and he only gave me as much money as he thought the kids and I needed to get by on. Which was also the motivational point. I had to learn how to be a breadwinner for the kids and me.

In the end, it was much easier than I imagined. The girls were excited and Slade was too young to understand. They danced around the living room happily, and told me we should have a party. All they really understood was that our friend, Tammy
, would babysit them while I was at work. That was a bonus, since it gave them someone fun to play with.

The following Monday, I practically ran up the stairs to my office. There it was—my desk—with an Apple computer on it, waiting for me to begin writing. I took off my coat and hung it up, going over to the computer. I lovingly stroked it.

“Good morning,” a voice said.

I was so engrossed, I didn’t even notice when Linda appeared. I turned around and grinned. “Oh, hi Linda. I mean, good morning.”

She laughed. “Why don’t you give me a few minutes and then come back to my office and we’ll decide what assignments you should start on.” She disappeared and I sat there, nervous at the prospect of having my first talk with the boss.

I walked down the corridor. Linda’s door was open, so I went in. She was on the phone, but gestured for me to sit. Her desk was buried beneath piles of paper: opened and unopened envelopes, photographs, and two huge mounds of newspapers stacked so high they might topple over any minute.

“I’
m so happy we hired you,” Linda grimaced as she hung up. “See this mess? Now maybe I can get you to sort through it, so I can find my desk again. Here, you can help me by taking these papers and looking through them. Just look for anything that looks like it could tie in to a local angle.” She handed me a large stack.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen your desk?” I smiled as I took the papers.

“Oh, at least a month. It seems I can never get ahead of the game.” She laughed. “They’re from all over the state. Normally I go through them to keep abreast of what’s happening. But I haven’t had time to do that for, oh…”

“Let me guess, about a month?”

“Yes,” Linda spread her arms wide. “Now all of this can be your job. I’ll let Nancy know that from now on when the papers arrive, they’re to go to you. But I have to warn you, they’re habit-forming, and you should exercise care they don’t take over your desk, too,” she said as she laughed.

“Now, let’s see, Marianne—our photographer—she’s been covering the sheriff’s office, but why don’t you handle that? That will free her up to do more photography. And we’ll let you report on local city and county government meetings, once you learn the ropes. Concentrate on settling in and after you’ve done that, start with getting the police news. How’s that sound for starters?”

“Wonderful. Oh, and I wanted to say that Marianne’s a distant relative.”

“Great, that’s even better. You shouldn’t
have any problems then,” Linda said.

I was hesitant to show my ignorance, but knew I had to ask. “Do you have any pointers about collecting news from the sheriff’s department?”

“Yes, you can either call or run across the street to pick up any accidents or crime reports. Try to go in person whenever you can, or just hang out there. It’s a great way to pick up a lead on a story you might not get otherwise. As for what to get, check with the sheriff or the dispatcher, if the sheriff’s not in. Find out what’s happened overnight, and ask them to direct you to the right people. Write down all the vital information, and then type it into the computer.” Linda’s smile was full of confidence. “You’ll do fine—you have a natural instinct for what makes a news story. Just remember to answer the five W’s in the first paragraph or two of each story: who, what, where, when and why. Try to explain “how” after that. And don’t use too many big words, because no one will understand them.”