Moving Can Be Murder (27 page)

“No, I want to keep going. Maybe my story
will stop someone else from making the same mistakes I did.”

She cleared her throat. “I’m all right now.
Anyway, the first time he hit me, he accused me of lying to him
about where I’d been and who I’d been with. I wasn’t waiting for
him after school, like usual. I’d gone to study for a chemistry
exam at the library with two girlfriends. Can you imagine anyone
becoming violent over something so innocent?

“Anyway, he said he felt terrible about
hitting me, and promised he’d never do it again. I believed him. In
some way, I felt I was responsible. Like I had done something bad,
and deserved to be punished. I was so ashamed. And I couldn’t tell
anybody.

“Then one night, I did something really
terrible. I didn’t mean to do it.” Marcia clamped her lips shut and
shook her head at the memory. “I can’t tell you what it was. But he
took the blame. He said he was doing it to protect me. But, of
course, what he was really doing was finding another way to control
me.

“Then, he went away. You don’t need to know
those details. Let’s just say his family packed up and moved away.
I don’t know where they went.

“I can’t tell you how relieved I was when he
was out of my life. But I’ve always been afraid that he’d come back
and try to hurt me again.”

She started to sob.

I didn’t know what to do. My maternal
impulse was to touch her hand, hug her, do something physical to
comfort her. I settled for taking a packet of tissues out of my
purse and putting it within her line of vision.

As she reached out to take one, I said,
“Marcia, I am so sorry for what you went through. I know that’s
small comfort to you. It was so brave of you to share your story
with me. I guess I never realized that domestic abuse could start
when the victim is still in her teens. I’m so lucky that it hasn’t
happened to my daughter.”

Marcia blew her nose, then wiped her eyes.
“Sorry for breaking down like that in front of you, Carol. After
all, we barely know each other. But I haven’t told anyone that
story, except in therapy sessions. And believe me, I had a lot of
those over the years.

“And as far as your saying it hasn’t
happened to your daughter, what makes you so sure about that? Maybe
she’s been in an abusive relationship and you don’t know about it.
After all, my family never picked up on the signs.”

The encounter with Marcia Fischer rocked me
to my core. All the way back to the apartment, I kept wondering if
she was right about my daughter.

Last year, quite unexpectedly, Jenny had
broken up with her live-in boyfriend, Jeff, left California, and
shown up at our door. She complained that he didn’t want her to
finish her graduate degree, and insisted she stay home and take
care of him, instead. She told Jim and me that she couldn’t take
his trying to manage her life, so she packed up and came home to
Fairport. I wasn’t sure if they’d had any contact since then. I
knew she decided not to go back and pack up more of her things. She
said she wanted to start fresh in Connecticut.

Was there more to the story that she hadn’t
told us?

No matter what, I decided I couldn’t ask her
about it. But I made up my mind, there and then, to write the best
damn story I possibly could to shed some light on domestic
violence. In all its ugly forms.

Chapter 28

Lead me not into temptation. I can find the
way all by myself.

As excited as I was about the show house
preview party, that’s how much I was dreading the memorial service
for Jack Cartwright.

“You don’t have to attend,” said My Beloved.
“In fact, you probably shouldn’t go. The family may be upset to see
you there.” He gave me a look which translated to, “I think you’re
nuts to go.”

I had to admit, he had a good point. But my
mother, and the good sisters, all said that paying your last
respects to any deceased with whom you had even the remotest
connection was a must. It may sound ghoulish, but that’s the way I
was raised.

I was determined to go to the memorial. Even
if I went alone. I’d sit in the last pew in the church, I decided.
Nobody would even know I was there.

When Jenny heard about my plan, she pitched
a fit, just like Jim had. Like father, like daughter, at least in
this case.

“Mom,” she said, “don’t you remember that
phone call you made to the family, when Sara Miller threatened to
sue you and Daddy for negligence? She practically accused you of
causing Jack’s death.”

Heavy sigh. From Jenny, not me.

“But if you insist on going, you’re not
going alone. I’ll go with you.”

I didn’t admit that I was hoping she’d say
that. But I was. I guess some of my “funeral guilt” had passed on
to the next generation.

“I’ve never been to this church before,” I
said to Jenny. It was Saturday morning and we were circling the
blocks near the Fairport Community Church, trying to find a parking
place. “I guess we should have gotten here earlier. I never dreamed
there’d be so many people.”

“Some folks just can’t resist a good
funeral. Or a chance to see some drama. Even pick up a little
gossip,” Jenny said.

“I hope you’re not referring to me,” I said
as I finally spotted a parking spot five blocks away from the
church and made it my own.

“No, Mom. I’m not. But you have to admit
that we really didn’t have to attend the service.”

“On the contrary, I think we did. At least,
I did,” I said as we walked briskly toward the church. “It’s my way
of showing respect to the family, and also showing that I have
nothing to hide. We’d better hurry. It looks like they’re about to
close the doors.”

An usher gave us each a program whose cover
showed a beautiful picture of all four Cartwrights. Jack was
holding the little girl in his arms, and Alyssa had her arms
wrapped around her son. Big smiles on all the faces.

Heartbreaking.

We squeezed into the very last pew in the
church. The place was packed, mostly with young people. (Meaning
under age forty.)

I spotted a few of the neighbors. Phyllis
and Bill were sitting in a prominent place, along with Liz. I was
surprised to see Marcia Fischer sitting a few rows up from us with
Leon, her brother and business partner in Superior Interiors. Leon
had his arm around Marcia’s shoulder, and she seemed to be wiping
her eyes with a handkerchief. Curious.

For a quick second, I wondered how they knew
Jack Cartwright. Then I realized the Cartwrights had probably
consulted the design store about decorating their new home. Which
now they’d never move into. But it was still nice of Marcia and
Leon to come and show their respects.

“There’s no casket,” I whispered to
Jenny.

“It’s a memorial service. Usually there is
no casket,” Jenny replied. “It’s more a celebration of a person’s
life than a funeral.”

I craned my neck and saw a table in front of
the altar which was filled with photographs. The altar was
decorated with a simple arrangement of blue hydrangeas.

The whole congregation rose to its feet as
the family walked down the aisle. Alyssa looked dazed, and was
clinging to her father’s arm. Sara Miller was ramrod straight, and
held both her grandchildren’s hands.

I couldn’t bear to look at them. The reality
of the situation hit me, and I knew, belatedly, that Jim and Jenny
were right. I had no business being at this memorial service. I
felt like a voyeur.

But it was too late to sneak out without
calling attention to myself. Jenny, sensing my discomfort, gave my
hand a little squeeze. “Hang tight, Mom,” she whispered.

Reverend Donaldson, the minister, led the
congregation in singing “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” Then, after
a few readings from scripture, he gave a brief eulogy for Jack. It
was obvious from the impersonal nature of the eulogy that he didn’t
know the Cartwright family that well.

Another hymn – this time, “Joyful, Joyful We
Adore Thee.” Then Reverend Donaldson asked if any members of the
congregation wanted to share a remembrance of the deceased.

A young man, probably in his early twenties,
rose to his feet and walked slowly to the pulpit. His voice cracked
as he introduced himself.

“Good morning. My name is Luke Saunders, and
I’m here today to mourn the passing of my friend and mentor, Jack
Cartwright. It’s no exaggeration to say that Jack Cartwright saved
my life. I was a pretty wild kid about eight years ago, when Jack
and I first met. I’d been in and out of juvy homes a few times for
drugs. Both using and selling.”

Luke cleared his throat, then continued.

“I met Jack at the program for at-risk kids
he started in Massachusetts. I didn’t want to go to it, but my
probation officer told me it was either attend the program or serve
more time in a juvy home.

He allowed himself a small smile. “Of
course, I chose the program.

“Jack worked with me, one-on-one, for
months. He treated me like a son. He told me how he’d made some
pretty stupid mistakes when he was younger, and he didn’t want to
see me, or any other kid, do the same thing. Thanks to him, I went
back to school and got my G.E.D. I’m now working in a garage,
paying my own way, and going to college at night.

“Jack Cartwright did that for me. And for
lots of other kids, too. He was a stand-up guy, and I’ll miss him
every day of my life.”

Wiping tears from his eyes, Luke went to the
family pew and gave Alyssa a wordless hug, then took his place in
the row behind her.

Wow. “I had no idea,” I whispered to Jenny.
“He must have been quite a guy.”

The next person to speak was one of Jack’s
fraternity brothers. He, too, extolled Jack’s virtues. I had never
heard anyone spoken about in such glowing terms, living or
deceased.

Two more young men, former neighbors of the
Cartwrights, also spoke about Jack. How he coached the local Little
League team, what a wonderful husband and father he was, etc.
etc.

Finally, the tributes were over. I heard
muffled sobbing from the front of the church in the direction of
the family pew.

Then Reverend Donaldson introduced the youth
choir director from the Cartwrights’ former church in
Massachusetts, who led a chorus of angelic-looking children in a
beautiful rendition of “Amazing Grace.” From his brief remarks at
the end of the hymn, I gathered that Jack was also the volunteer
assistant director for the children’s choir.

Uncharitably, I wondered if Jack had any
time to hold down a job and provide for his family with all his
other activities. Then, I slapped myself. Figuratively speaking.
The poor guy was dead, after all.

Jenny poked me and we all rose as the family
filed out of the church.