Balance of Power

    The accusation so startled her that at first Joan hardly remembered who "he" was. "God, John—that was high school. I couldn't say if he's still alive."

    She could, of course—Mary had seen him at Stonestown Mall, with his new wife. In an accusatory tone, John said, "You're lying, Joanie. That was 'your song,' remember?"

    It was so unfair: years ago she had trusted him with a harmless scrap of memory, never imagining the ways in which he might harbor this inside him. "I'd forgotten . . ."

    With sudden fury, John slapped her across the face.

    She rolled away from him, stunned, eyes welling with startled tears.

Rising, she took two stagger-steps, head ringing, and rested her hands against the white wicker bassinet he had brought home to surprise her. "John . . ."

    His eyes were damp as well. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry."

    The next morning he sent flowers.

* * *

    "But he couldn't stop being jealous, until it was about any man I met or even might meet." Averting her gaze, Joan touched her discolored cheek. "Of the fifty-year-old mailman, because we spoke Spanish together. A twenty-year-old teacher's aide at Marie's preschool. Some man I talked to at a party. When I would see friends or family without him. Even when I mentioned maybe getting a part-time job. When he began drinking, it got worse."

    Yes, Kerry thought—it would. "When did that start?" he asked.

    "About a year ago. With problems at work, I think." Still Joan looked down. "He was very insecure about his boss. The first time John came home like that, there'd been some reprimand. After I put Marie to bed, John hit me."

    "And the drinking just kept on."

    "Yes." Joan's words took on a despairing rhythm. "He'd drink, and hit me, and apologize; drink and hit me and apologize; drink and hit me . . ."

    Abruptly, her voice caught. "Drink and hit you harder." Kerry's voice was soft. "Like the more he hit you, the more he needed to."

    She gazed up at him, lips parted in surprise. After a time, a tear escaped her swollen eye.

    More evenly, Kerry asked, "And this time?"

    She would not answer. "Marie was in her room," she finally said. "He always waits for her to sleep."

    Already, Joan was exhausted, Kerry saw. Rising from the chair, he walked to the shelf with the formal picture of Marie. Studying it, Kerry was struck by a thought he knew better than to express—Joan's six-yearold was a replica of Lara.

    Turning, he asked, "Who do you talk to, Joan?"

    She shook her head. "No one."

    "Why not your mother? Or Mary?"

    "I suppose I'm ashamed." She gazed at the rug, voice low and despairing. "Once, when I drove my mother to the grocery store, John hid a tape recorder beneath the car seat. Even if I'd told her, she couldn't comprehend it. John's so responsible, so good to her. He sends her flowers on Mother's Day."

    For a moment, Kerry fell as silent as she, absorbing the fissures beneath the surface of a well-intended family, the way in which silence served their differing needs, their disparate denials and illusions. "Is that all he does?" Kerry asked.

    Once more, Joan averted her eyes. "John controls the money. He says he'll never let me take Marie." She paused, throat working. "Last week he bought a gun."

    Kerry felt an instant hyperalertness. "Has he threatened you with it?"

    A brief shake of the head. "No. But he says if I ever leave him, he'll kill himself."

    Crossing the room, Kerry sat beside her, taking both her hands. "Joan," he said, "I'm scared for you. Much more than when I came here."

    So was she, her eyes betrayed. He felt her fingers slowly curl around his. "Why?"

    "Because he's getting worse. And now he has a gun." Kerry paused, marshalling the words to reach her. "Look at him. Maybe his childhood explains him. But it's the adult who keeps choosing to be violent. And if he needs a reason to hurt you, he'll find one.

    "Then look at you. Look at your reasons for staying—economic insecurity; fear of shame before your family; fear of Marie not having a father; fear of not having Marie." Clasping her fingers, Kerry gazed at her until her eyes met his. "You're scared for you—all the time now. And your only way out is to help John stop, or stop him yourself. Which could mean taking him to court."

    Joan paled. "I can't," she protested. "I could never put Marie through that."

    Kerry gave Joan time to hear herself. "Can you put Marie through this?" he asked.

    Joan's face was a study in confusion—by turns fearful, irresolute, resistant, and imploring. He searched within himself for the words to reach her and realized, against his bone-deep instinct to seal off the past, that they could not be the words of an observer.

    "I'm going to tell you something," he said, "that only three people know who are still alive—my mother, my closest friend, and Lara. It's about me. But it's also about Marie."

FIVE

Kerry Kilcannon's clearest memory of early childhood was of his father bleeding.