The Night We Met (20 page)

"He'll tel us when he's ready."

I wondered when that would be.

The older I got, the more confusing life became. I'd given up control years before, but my need for it still got the better of me now and then.

I was forty-five years old and sometimes I just didn't understand life. My perspective was clouded, I know, by the women and children I saw going in and out of the shelter. It was hard to reconcile myself to the untenable situations from which they'd come, the horror stories they had to tell, especial y when I felt helpless to do anything about them. The shelter offered a great service. It couldn't fix the world.

But that didn't stop me from trying. To that end, in the spring of 1994, with Lori's long-distance help, I contacted all the local law firms in Boulder, as well as the college of law at UC, asking for volunteers to offer free legal advice to the women at the shelter.

"It's incredible," I told Nate over a meat-loaf-and- baked-potato dinner one night. "I was hoping for three or four responses—you know, thinking we'd do one

night a month or something. As it turns out, I've got so many lawyers offering to help, including Roger Kempton, that defense attorney who handles so many of Denver's high-profile cases, that we'll be able to do two sessions a week."

Nate picked up a rol . Broke it and arranged a pat of butter in the middle, just like he'd been doing for the twenty-six years I'd known him. "Might be good if you could do one night and one day," he said. "That way women who work in the evenings can stil get help."

"And private lawyers could do the day hours," I added. I'd started out thinking only government attorneys would be volunteering and they were committed during the day.

"Mom, can I have the other half of your potato? Coach says I need the carbs."

"Of course." Passing the foil-wrapped potato from my plate to hers, I got up and sliced the cake I'd made for dessert while Nate, who was no longer coaching now that Beth was on an all-star city team, discussed defensive strategy with his daughter.

We had a soccer game that night. I'd completely forgotten.

A week later, I asked Keith to bring his girlfriend to Beth's eleventh birthday dinner. We were going to her favorite restaurant on the 16th Street Mall in downtown Denver.

Ten months after I'd first heard about her, my son still hadn't mentioned this girl to me.

"That's okay, Mom. It's Beth's big day. She doesn't need a bunch of strangers hanging around."

What struck me was that he hadn't denied the girl's existence.

"Who is she?"

"Nobody."

He was sitting behind his desk at the resort. I'd stopped by to have lunch with Nate.

"I wonder how she'd feel if she could hear you refer to her like that?"

He had the grace to look ashamed. "Let it go, Mom, huh?"

I agreed. What else could I do?

But I didn't like it.

I asked Nate about her over lunch.

"He's never said a word to me."

"Have you met her?" She'd only worked at the resort for a couple of months the previous summer. I'd learned that from Beth.

"Don't you think I would've told you if I had?"

"Yeah."

"He's playing this one close to his chest, Liza. You just have to leave it alone."

I was pretty sure I couldn't. I'd tried.

"Doesn't it bother you?"

He shrugged, his eyes a little tired-looking as he glanced up at me. "I can't imagine telling my mom about the girls I dated. It's not something a guy usually wants to discuss with his mom."

"Jimmy does." He and Sherry had split. Brenda had been next. Now it was Kaylee.

"Because with him, it's never gone very deep."

That bothered me, too. I was worried about both boys.

"So you think he's serious about this girl?"

"This is Keith we're talking about. What do you think?"

Keith didn't do anything lightly or without reason.

Kind of like his mother, Nate had said more than once.

But a person had to be prepared.

"Is she going to be working here this next summer?"

"Not so far." Nate didn't seem concerned one way or the other.

I couldn't share his complacency.

Depending on just how serious my son was, the girl could become part of my immediate family' And I'd never even met her.

I longed for the days when I was in control of every bite the kid put in his mouth and knew every single time he went to the bathroom.

The summer of '94 brought another challenge my way. I was in the common room at the shelter, supervising a man who was installing a more intricate security system—one that would go off at the first sign of movement anywhere near the windows—when the front door opened. The security man and I were the

only two people in the room. Our current residents were all having lunch.

A woman wearing sunglasses peeked inside but didn't enter.

"Come in," I said to her, leaving the technician to his job. I opened the door farther.

She looked over her shoulder, then quickly stepped inside, moving out of view of the still-open door.

She was a pretty woman—in her early thirties, I guessed, and probably Hispanic. She was also, in midsummer, wearing a long-sleeved turtleneck shirt with a pair of lightweight cotton slacks.

"I've only got a minute," she said, speaking perfect English. "My sons are playing T-ball and I don't want to leave them for long."

"What can we do for you?"

I had two counselors on staff that day. And a housemother who, just at the moment, was having her lunch.

The woman shrugged, her sunglasses stil perched on the bridge of her nose. "I heard about this place last week and I've been thinking about it ever since. I wanted to stop by."

Our address wasn't common knowledge. It had to be that way to protect those we served. Usually women found us via referrals—through a hospital emergency room, more often than not. Or the police station when doctors reported suspected abuse.

"I'm Eliza Grady," I said, holding out a hand.

"Nice to meet you." The woman took my hand, gave it a steady shake. I thought the top of her hand was bruised, but couldn't tel for sure. She didn't tel me her name. She was looking around and I couldn't tell if she liked what she saw or not.

I just knew she'd been led to me and I wanted to help her.

If I could.

"Would you like to come to my office?"

"Maybe for a minute."

I ushered her to the small room that served as my office before she could change her mind. Offered her a cup of coffee, which she refused. She was slim, a bit tal er than my five foot five.

"This is a private facility and I'm the owner." I said the words that came to me. "There are professionals on staff who can assist you with just about any problem you might have. There's no charge for our services, but we do ask for donations if you're ever in a position to help us."

The woman's nod was jerky. But she said nothing, and, by her own admission, we had little time.

"Would you like me to get one of the counselors to speak with you?"

"No." Wringing her hands, she raised her head. And then removed her sunglasses. As I'd suspected, they'd been hiding a black eye. The fist-size bruise was stil blood-red in parts. This wasn't an old injury.

"Who did that to you?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters."

"Listen, I don't think you can help me. I don't think anyone can, but...um...I was wondering if I could tell you some things—confidentially—just in case...."

"Of course. Whatever you say won't leave this room. Unless you authorize me to take it elsewhere."

She nodded. Glanced at her watch and frowned. "My youngest guy is only four. He gets upset if I'm away from him for very long."

I smiled, remembering when my own sons were little.

"My name is Maria. My husband's name is Robert. We've been living in the States for seven years.

Robert's a mechanic and has been at the same job ever since we came here. He makes good money. And.. .I'm pregnant."

I nodded. Waiting. That perfect little story wouldn't have brought her to me. It also didn't explain the bruises I could see—or the ones I couldn't but suspected were there. Ninety-degree weather didn't usually cal for long-sleeved shirts.

"Robert came here with the help of his older brother. That's how he got his green card. Juan runs guns. And probably drugs, too. Because it's his brother, Robert sometimes helps him."

"Did Juan give you those bruises?"

She seemed about ready to nod, but at the last second shook her. head. "Robert did that." The words were bitter. "He doesn't get mad often, but when he does, he's got a horrible temper."

I sat forward, possible solutions already tumbling through my mind. "How long has he been hitting you?"

"About five years."

A few years ago that might have shocked me.

"I'm used to it." She winced as she shrugged. "But last night, he threatened to hit our oldest boy."

I swallowed. Maintained calm when my stomach was roiling.

"We have a room available right now," I told her. "It's got a twin and a set of bunk beds. You and your sons are welcome to it."

For a moment it seemed as though hope passed through her expression. Then her face fel .

"Robert and I are not legal y married," she said. "I mean, to us, we're husband and wife, but technically we aren't."

"That should make it easier for you to get away from him."

She shook her head, and I decided to let her finish before I said another word.

"You don't understand," she said. "Robert is here legally. I'm not. He's the father of American-born children. He's got a job—an income. I do not. If I leave, he'll get the kids and I'l get deported."

I was out of my league.

But a name came instantly to mind.

"I know someone who might be able to help," I told her. "If you'll give me your permission to talk to this person—no names, I promise—and then come back here tomorrow, I'll see if there's anything we can do."

"I don't have any money."

"I understand that." That was a concern I could handle for her. "It won't cost you anything." Maria stood. "You promise no names?" I did. And with a tentative smile, accompanied by a frightened nod, she hurried away.

Chapter 17

As soon as Maria left, I tried to call Nate. Her story had left me shaken. I was desperately afraid I wouldn't be able to help her. I needed his reassurance— and advice.

He didn't pick up.

I didn't have any time to waste.

I looked up a number, dialed and waited, hoping that I was doing the right thing.

"Roger Kempton, please," I said to the receptionist who answered.

"May I tell him who's calling?"

"Eliza Grady."

"One moment, please."

I was sure she'd come back and ask to take a message. Roger had much bigger fish to fry than me.

A high- powered defense attorney and partner at one of the most prestigious firms in Boulder, he couldn't be expected to give priority to philanthropic activities.

"Eliza? Good to hear from you! Everything okay?"

I heaved a smal sigh of relief. He'd taken my call. "Yes, of course, Roger. How are you?"

"Fine. Busy as usual. What's up?"

I explained my predicament. Apologized for cal ing on him like this, and asked if he had any advice I could give the woman. Knew of anyplace I could send her for legal counsel.

"I'l need to meet with her before I can give you any answers," he final y said. "I'm just looking at my calendar. Could we meet someplace outside the city the day after tomorrow? Around noon?"

"I don't know, but I'd guess so. This guy works during the day. She'd probably have to bring her kids."

"That's not a problem. I'd like you to be there, Eliza. She'l feel more comfortable."

"Roger, I never intended you to take this on yourself. You already give some of your very valuable time to the shelter."

"I want to do it." His voice was quiet. Serious. So I didn't question him further. "But be warned, I might not get anywhere with this."

I'd expected that.

"There are a lot of questions here and I'll need to research case law, but I should get some specifics from her first."

"What are her chances? Do you have any idea?"

"I honestly don't know, Eliza." Every time he said my name, his voice was warm, almost like a caress. I'd never noticed that before. But then, I was pretty susceptible today. I was probably imagining things. "I'l get one of my clerks to do some case research. I can only promise you I'l do anything I can...."

At that moment, I could've hugged him.

I had the same thought two days later when—after he'd spent half an hour putting Maria at ease—

he'd agreed to help her. Gratis. The first step was to move her from her trailer outside town to the shelter.

I asked Nate to help with that and he readily agreed. Keith came, too, and I was glad to have my husky son shadowing the slim woman as she moved quickly about her home, gathering essentials and a few of her children's favorite toys. Within an hour, we had Maria and her two boys safely ensconced in my last available room.

Roger called the next day. And the next. There were some things he wanted to discuss with me before he spoke to Maria, he said, asking if I could meet him for a cup of coffee midafternoon. I did.

Without hesitation.

He was waiting for me at a coffeeshop near the campus. Because it was summer, the place was nearly deserted. He'd chosen a booth in the far back corner.

I would've thought one of the tables more appropriate, but was so thankful for his help, I didn't question his choice.

"Slide in over here," he said, moving next to the wall and patting the bench beside him. "I have a contract to show you."

Seeing the tiny print on the long form, I sat down as he asked, careful to keep a distance between us.

Or as much of one as I could.

He put the contract down, sliding closer to me as he did so.

And I remembered his voice saying my name the other day. His willingness to help a woman he'd never met, without any hope of reimbursement.