Where the Allegheny Meets the Monongahela (2 page)

towards the dresser, warning her. ―Shut the fuck up. I‘ve had enough of

your mouth tonight.‖ He gave her body a quick shake, as if to punctuate

his command.

Unfazed and defiant, Linda screamed back, ―Too bad! I‘ve had

enough of scraping by. After twelve years we finally had a chance at a

good life—and you blew it. My momma always said a man who can‘t

provide for his family ain‘t no man at all.‖ She poked him in the chest

with each word that followed. ―That‘s you. No man at all!‖

For months Logan would claim to remember little of what

happened next: not violently hurling his tiny wife into the dresser, not

hearing the ancient wood splinter and collapse around her, nor

watching the waterfall of shattered mirror shards slice into her

unconscious form.

He had never meant to hurt her, he told the cops, and then later,

the judge.

He had just wanted—no,
needed
—for the jeering, nagging,

jagged voice to stop. But in the awful quiet that descended as Logan

gaped in horror at the bloody devastation he had wrought, only one

voice was silenced. The other howled on, louder than ever.

IT WAS shaping up to be a bad day for Nick Zales.

Nick parted the front room curtains and searched the street;

although the bright July sun allowed him to see all the way to the

corner, there was no sign of Polly Brill‘s Dodge Neon.
It figures she’d

pick today to be late.
It was now 7:55 a.m., and Nick faced the choice

of being late for a Monday morning meeting with his boss or leaving

his mom home alone.

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Felicia Watson

Sometimes Agnes Zales seemed lucid enough to be left on her

own for the short time it would probably take for the healthcare aide to

show up. However, Nick begrudgingly admitted to himself that today

was apparently not one of those times. His mom had already asked him

three times
if they were ―going home today,‖ even though Nick‘s small

house in the Observatory Hill section of Pittsburgh had been her home

for the past six years. This particular delusion had meant that his first

job of the day had been to convince his mom to unpack her suitcase.

He had just flipped open his cell phone to call Trudy and let her

know he was going to be late for their meeting when he heard the

scrape of Polly‘s key in the front door.

The short, spry woman, hair a shade of red not to be found in

nature, smiled guiltily when she spied Nick standing in the hall. ―Oh

hon, you‘re still here.‖

―Yeah, it didn‘t seem like a good day to leave Mom alone. I‘m

glad you‘re here, I gotta run.‖

But Polly, oblivious as ever, compounded her offense by delaying

Nick even further with a long-winded excuse for her tardiness. ―You

won‘t believe what I did. I woke up this mornin‘ thinking it was

Sunday.
There I was, sitting in my kitchen, drinking my tea and

listening to the birds—so pretty this time of year, aren‘t they? Anyway,

all of a sudden I noticed there wasn‘t that usual racket coming from St.

Benedict‘s up the street. You know how that bunch is—real noisy….‖

As Nick edged out the door, he thought, not for the first time, that

when you hired someone to watch a demented person, it would

behoove you to ensure that the watcher was more than just a little less

demented than the watchee. So why didn‘t he get rid of her?
The

answer came immediately on the heels of that silent question—because

of the way his mom‘s face had lit up at the sight of Polly. The two

women were of roughly the same age and background and had formed

a quirky, codependent sort of friendship.

Finally escaping the house, Nick hopped into his slightly battered

black Jeep Cherokee and sped away. Luckily, if he pushed it, he could

usually make it to North Hills in less than twenty minutes, so he had an

outside chance of being on time for his 8:30 meeting.

Where the Allegheny Meets the Monongahela

7

Twenty-two minutes later Nick pulled up to an unmarked iron

gate on a quiet suburban street and waved his badge at the key reader.

Allegheny Crisis Center, where Nick plied his trade as a counselor,

kept a deliberately low profile; there were no identifying signs visible

from the road, and the location was divulged on a need-to-know basis

only. The center‘s resident clients, victims of domestic abuse, depended

on ACC to be a secure haven where their abusers couldn‘t find them,

exposing them to the possibility of harassment—or worse.

The computer system swiftly confirmed Nick‘s access and opened

the gate; he moved slowly up the driveway. Considering his time

crunch, he would have preferred some speed, but Nick knew that was

both unwise and unsafe as there were likely to be children playing on

the grounds.

Briefly stopping by his cramped, cluttered office to grab a pad,

pen, and some folders, Nick skidded into Trudy Gerard‘s presence at

8:40, only to find her on the phone. She motioned him into a chair at

the small table in the corner of her sunny space; Nick sank into it and

composed himself to wait, Trudy‘s time always being in great demand.

Trudy Gerard had been head of counseling services at ACC for

twelve years as well as spearheading the community outreach and

education program. Despite her having recently passed the half-century

mark, her wavy black hair, invariably pulled into a neat bun, showed

only a few streaks of gray, and her cocoa-colored skin was nearly

unmarred by wrinkles.

Though her brown eyes were as warm as her smile, the

impeccable posture and effortless air of command she possessed

prevented any but the densest of individuals from ever trifling with

Trudy. Nick smiled to himself as he listened to his boss rattle off a list

of commands to someone who, it appeared, might have broken that last

rule.

―I said today, what part of that word didn‘t you understand? No,

I‘m not going to tell you
how
, that‘s your job. If you were better at it, I

wouldn‘t need to tell you that.‖

After she‘d rapped the phone down smartly and joined him at the

table, Nick asked, ―Do I even want to know who that was? Please don‘t

tell me it was the Assistant District Attorney.‖

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Felicia Watson

―Of course it was. I‘ve got Cindy Lane all geared up to give her

testimony, and it‘s going to happen
today
—come hell or high water.‖

―She‘s going to testify against her husband?‖ At Trudy‘s brisk

nod, Nick asked, ―How‘d you manage that?‖

―Because I‘m good at my job,‖ Trudy replied tartly. ―Now, let‘s

talk about how you‘re doing at yours. Let‘s start with why you were

late.‖

Despite Trudy‘s harsh wording, Nick felt no real concern. For one

thing, he knew that his boss prided herself on her bluntness. For

another, she had been one of his greatest advocates in the seven years

since he‘d shown up at ACC, a green-as-grass intern from the psych

program at Pitt. ―Sorry about that. The aide was late today, and my

mom…. Well, let‘s just say I thought it best to wait for Polly.‖

―Bad morning?‖

―Yep.‖ Nick sighed, adding, ―It seems like there‘s still more bad

ones than good.‖

Trudy leaned forward and, in a much softer tone, asked, ―You‘re

not still hoping to see some improvement after all these years, are

you?‖

―It‘s not impossible. With her type of head injury—‖ Nick

stopped abruptly and swallowed several times before continuing. ―But

we‘ve been over this…. And you‘re not
my
counselor, anyway.‖

Pulling out a folder, he said briskly, ―Here‘s my update on ‗Life

Skills‘.‖

The Life Skills program at ACC was Nick‘s brainchild. One of

the biggest impediments to domestic abuse survivors building an

independent existence was usually their lack of even the most basic

aptitudes. Many times their abusers had them so cowed and controlled

that they spent years forbidden to even use a phone, let alone drive a

car, handle money, or get a job.

Nick had divided the program into several modules: finance,

home upkeep and repairs, employment, and literacy/GED. He covered

the first two while volunteers taught the rest. He hoped to add two more

modules in the near future, but he needed more volunteers to teach

Where the Allegheny Meets the Monongahela

9

them since he was flat-out with his current caseload and his tiny budget

wouldn‘t stretch to cover paid help.

While Trudy was reading his progress report, she looked over the

edge of her glasses and announced, ―By the way, I have someone in

mind for the ‗Automotive Basics‘ module you want to add.‖

There was just enough tension in Trudy‘s deceptively casual tone

to put Nick on alert; however, he was used to her unorthodox

suggestions, so he merely asked, ―A volunteer?‖

―Yeah.‖ She paused and amended mirthfully, ―Well… more like a

volun-told.‖ When Nick refused to take the bait, she continued, ―He‘s a

client of mine.‖

Nick was momentarily nonplussed. ―Oh. I didn‘t know we had a

new male client—since I usually get them, I mean.‖ Before Trudy

could answer, he added in a rush, ―Not that I‘m saying that a gay man

is the
only one
who can counsel our gay clients, but—‖

―I didn‘t say he was gay—‖

―Oh, sorry,‖ Nick interrupted. ―It‘s been a while since we had a

straight male victim—‖

―
And
,‖ Trudy continued firmly, ―I didn‘t say he was a victim.‖

―So he‘s a….‖

―An offender.‖

―Grr-eaat. And you think I‘m going to turn over my girls to the

care of some
wife-beater
?‖

―First of all, we don‘t use that term anymore and you know it.

Secondly—
your girls
? How paternalistic is that?‖

―Oh, cut the bullshit, Trudy. You know that my current group is

all in their twenties; you call them girls all the time. And I might‘ve

heard you use the word ‗wife-beater‘ once or twice.‖

―I‘m old enough to call them girls. Besides, it isn‘t the words so

much as the intent behind them.‖ Trudy drew herself up to her full

seated height before introducing a phrase that
always
indicated a hard

truth coming. ―No harm intended,‖ she used a slight pause to great

effect before continuing, ―but you‘ve got to get past this prejudice of

yours.‖

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Felicia Watson

―Oh, I‘m sorry if I have this
insane
prejudice against men who

beat, abuse, maim, and/or kill their partners.‖ Nick‘s sarcasm was

meant as much for the sting of conscience echoing Trudy‘s point as for

Trudy herself. He immediately changed the subject by saying, ―And

you‘re aiming to bring this guy here—‖

Trudy cocked an eyebrow and drawled, ―Yes—I‘ve forgotten one

of the first rules of this place—
that I run
—and plan to bring an abuser

to the center. In fact I was thinking of throwing it open to all of them.‖

Suitably abashed, Nick asked, ―So where…?‖

―Larry knows a guy who‘ll let us use his garage.‖

A rueful smile broke across his face as Nick affirmed, ―Of course

he does.‖

Trudy‘s husband Larry ran one of the best and busiest diners on

the South Side, and it seemed to Nick that he knew
everyone
in

Pittsburgh, from the Steelers‘ defensive coordinator to the blind man

who sang for change on Forbes Avenue.

―Nick, I care about these women just as much as you; I‘m not

going to expose them to danger. I wouldn‘t suggest this if I wasn‘t

absolutely sure about this guy—you
know
that. ‖

That statement admitted no argument, so Nick simply asked, ―So

what‘s his story?‖

―He‘s a mechanic.‖

―Well, I sorta figured….‖

―And he was referred to me by Sister Ciera—‖

―Oh, I should have known. He‘s one of Sister Bleeding Heart‘s

lost causes.‖

―Do you call her that when she teaches one of
your girls
to read

or helps one get her GED?‖

Nick had no immediate answer, since the nun
was
a great help,

and moreover, he actually sort of liked the determined little religious

who volunteered at ACC and also ran a ―Literacy Behind Bars‖

program. They simply had a basic disagreement about what constituted

a ―victim‖ and about the worth of counseling abusers.

Where the Allegheny Meets the Monongahela

11

Along that line of thought, Nick asked Trudy, ―Are you

counseling this mechanic
and
his wife?‖