“I have to get home, too,” Carrie said. “Eli likes supper on the table at six.” Ruth had heard this before. Eli left at eight in the morning. Eli ate dinner at six. Carrie had told her several times. Perhaps it was an occupational hazard for vice-principals. Having to stick to a tight schedule with so many students to take into account. The drizzle stopped and Carrie turned to Ruth.
“Let’s catch up to the other girls,” Carrie said. “Harriet walks right by my house.”
It occurred to Ruth that Carrie might be avoiding a private conversation with her. Was it something Ruth had said? Had she come on too strong about women’s intelligence in the lesson? After all, Carrie was smart. She’d been a nurse.
Ruth was hungry for more female conversation at the moment. Shirley was her only other source, and that was usually awkward, to say the least. In a year, things would change. Today she wanted to meander home, even in the rain, admiring the shiny, wet colored leaves and the pots of mums on the steps and patios. The pumpkins waiting to become jack-o’-lanterns. She wanted to revel in the cool air. She wanted to do that with Carrie. Tomorrow she had to get back to her studies.
She yearned for anything but polite conversation about being polite.
She wanted to talk to her friend.
As Carrie sped up, Ruth waved. “Slow down, it’s slippery out here.”
Carrie was already a step ahead, so Ruth reached out to slow her, get her attention, but as Ruth skimmed Carrie’s gloved hand, she yanked it away.
“Don’t grab at me.” Carrie hissed, caressing her left wrist like it was painful.
“I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?” Ruth asked.
“No, no. I’m sorry. I just don’t like being touched.”
“Let me take a look. Promise I won’t touch you. You might need medical attention.”
Carrie pulled her sleeve down even further. “You’re crazy!”
“Listen, I’m your friend. I think you need help.”
“You think I slit my wrists?”
Ruth stared at her. What had prompted that random remark? Why would she say that for no logical reason? Had she slit them?
“You’re safe with me.” Ruth reached a hand toward Carrie and, as Carrie batted her hand away, Ruth’s fingers grazed her wrist again.
“Ow. Cut it out.” Carrie winced.
Ruth held up her hands like a crossing guard holding up a stop sign, though a crossing guard probably didn’t have a prickling chill creeping up her neck. She shrugged her shoulders to squelch it, to no avail. The buzzing jumped to her arms as if to empower them.
Trust your instincts.
Ruth had to make a move. If she was wrong, she could apologize.
She grabbed Carrie’s hand, rolled down the glove, and gently pushed Carrie’s cuff up past her wrist to look. The skin was mottled purple and green with yellow edges.
Ruth worried that she was coming on too strong. A lawyer should ease up, consider all the evidence. That type of mark could come from multiple sources. Had Carrie worn a cheap metal bracelet that had dyed her skin?
“I banged it on the edge of the counter,” Carrie said, looking away.
Ruth pitched her voice lower, trying to express concern without judgment. “Is that true?”
“Why would I lie?” Her voice held an air of indignation.
Ruth shrugged, but there was an unseeing look in Carrie’s eyes.
Carrie lifted her chin, her expression defiant. “I’m accident-prone. That isn’t a crime.”
Accidents happened. And attacks happened. Ruth had seen so many victims of violence—they still haunted her. Tender young children with black eyes, broken ribs, missing teeth. Women who had been punched so hard their bones had shattered when they bounced against cement or metal. Ruth had worked with girls who had despicable boyfriends and husbands, and she helped them extract themselves when she could.
But those women weren’t like Ruth and Carrie. They were the disenfranchised, the poor, the laborers, the tenement residents. Not the wives of vice-principals. Of educated people.
Ruth had sat on Eli’s patio, imbibed his coffee, listened to his wife relate tales of his job. Eli had golfed with Asher.
Ruth leaned closer to Carrie. “I can help you.”
“I don’t need any help. I need to make dinner.” Carrie walked faster, but Ruth kept up, determined to not let this go. “It was an accident, I swear. He just doesn’t know his own strength. Drop it, Ruth. It won’t happen again.”
Ruth’s stomach clenched as if she had been punched. Carrie had admitted it.
“He apologized, Ruth. Forget what you saw.” Carrie shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m even telling you this. He bought me flowers and he’s going to manage his temper, he promised. No matter what I do, okay?”
Heartbroken for her friend, Ruth wanted to wrap her arms around her.
She didn’t dare. Carrie didn’t like to be touched, of course not.
Not all markings showed. Many women had hidden trauma. Beaten verbally and emotionally, they had also been brutalized.
Most of those women had been beaten by their husbands or boyfriends. Black eyes, broken ribs, bruised backs. Carrie’s mark had been mild in comparison. Still.
A few had unfairly lost jobs or housing because of it. A few had been unjustly arrested, as if they weren’t the victims. Ruth had scoured New York laws that would protect them. There were very few.
“There is nothing you’ve done or could do that makes this okay. You know that, right?”
Carrie’s eyes flashed. “Did you not hear me? He said he’ll stop. You need to mind your own business.”
Ruth had seen this before—women protecting their men, even their bad men.
She plowed on. “What do you mean, ‘he said he’ll stop’？ How long has this been going on?”
Carrie turned on Fifty-Second Street. “You’ve got it all wrong. He will stop. It’s under control.”
How had Ruth not seen this right away? Here she had thought she was gaining new friends, and she hadn’t been one herself. Of all of them, Ruth was the one who had experience with victims of abuse. How did she not know this was happening to Carrie? She’d been at her house. She’d seen the bruise on her neck. Ruth had told Carrie her deepest secret, and she didn’t know about Carrie’s.
Was this type of abuse among respected, educated people simply a lone, isolated case, or were there more women like Carrie, suffering in silence? A dirty little secret that was never discussed in polite society. If it could happen to Carrie, it could happen to anyone.
Carrie’s voice softened. “Trust me. Everything is fine, Ruth. Or it will be.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’m expecting.” Carrie stopped walking and touched her belly. She looked longingly at her abdomen for a moment, as if she were receiving a gift that would anoint her with special powers, a golden touch that would right the world and keep her safe.
Ruth fought a feeling of nausea. She wanted to scream. A baby was the last thing Carrie needed. Experience told her that this was a setback for her friend, because it stopped a woman from taking action to get help. She swallowed, and camouflaged her fear with a smile.
“Eli has been frustrated since we got married because I wasn’t getting pregnant fast, but now, that’s not a problem.”