Jeff Abbott: Promises of Home

Davis nodded, misery clouding his face again. “He found out about a year ago. He saw a bruise on my arm when we were out at Lake Bonaparte fishing. He kept at me about it, and I finally told him. I confided in him. He kept his mouth shut for months, but then he wanted money!” Davis quivered with rage.

“How much money?”

“Oh, God, thousands,” Davis leaned against the wall, face contorting in pain. I’d been so floored by this series of revelations that I hadn’t even thought about getting him to a doctor. I made him sit, went to the sink, and dampened a washcloth. I handed it to him and slowly, he cleaned his face, blinking at his blood on the cloth.

“Clevey said if I didn’t pay, he’d feature us in a story he was writing about domestic violence.” Davis stared at me, eyes rolling. “I couldn’t let that happen, oh no. It’d ruin me. I’d have lost my law

practice. And if I lost that, I’d have to sell my partnership in KBAV.”

I held my breath. “Did you kill him, Davis? Did you?”

He gave a shuddering breath. “No. I didn’t. I wanted to; God, I even thought about it. But I was too scared. And he promised that the money would be just that once. I could get on with my life.”

As though you could, I thought. Davis couldn’t get on with life while Cayla beat him. He and his son would forever be caught in a loop of bitterness and twisted love, manifested with fists and clawing fingers. And Clevey would have taken his place at KBAV. The humiliation would have been utter.

“You believe me, don’t you, Jordan? I swear, I’m not a killer.”

No, I didn’t think Davis was. He hadn’t roused himself to flee the hell his house had become; he wouldn’t have shot Clevey Shivers in cold blood. I had to get him to take action now, though.

“Never mind Clevey now. We’re gonna get you and Bradley out of here.”

“No.” He shook his head violently. “I can’t leave my house. How do I explain it?”

“We’ll say you and Cayla are just having some problem. People don’t have to know the specifics.”

“Then why wouldn’t Bradley stay with his mom? Kids stay with moms. Folks’ll know, they’ll find out, and I’m ruined!” His voice rose in a whiny shriek.

“Listen to me!” God, yelling in his face was probably not the way a trained counselor would handle this, but I was winging it. “Your life is already ruined! You can’t live this way, you can’t pretend that this is normal. Get yourselves out of here-if not for your sake, for Bradley’s. His life matters more than any stupid, overblown reputation of yours.” I clutched at this straw of persuasion and kept pressing him.

“Davis, you said yourself she hurt him last night. That’s the start, don’t you see? What happens when she starts getting mad at Bradley? Are you going to stand by and watch him be beaten?”

“I-” He faltered, unable to speak.

“You took the first step. You went to get help from Steven Teague. You don’t have to do this alone, okay? I’m here to help you, and Mark and Sister and Junebug and Hart and Ed. Your friends will help you. Now, come with me. He dragged the back of his hand across his bruised and cut face, “But I’m supposed to be in court this afternoon-”

“Never mind court. I’m sure the judge will understand. In fact, we can call the courthouse from my house. Why don’t we go do that now?” The air in the Foradory house felt dense, oppressive. I wanted to leave badly.

He nodded, finally, and stood. He was in obvious pain. I wondered how many injuries he’d suffered-and silently healed-over the years. I helped him toward the front door.

“I need clothes-” he started, the first excuse not to leave. I didn’t brook it for an instant.

“We’ll get them later. Or you can borrow some of mine.” We walked, slowly, Davis leaning on me from the kitchen through the pristine living room. As we neared the entry hall I could see Cayla Foradory sitting frozen on the leather couch, her head bowed. She might have been a statue for her stillness. Davis did not look at her.

I walked him onto the porch and got him to sit in a brown wicker chair. Bradley and Mark were nowhere in sight. The rain had abated and the sun was doing its damnedest to peek through.

“I’ll just be one minute,” I said. Davis hardly seemed to hear me.

I stormed back into the house, pushing the door hard so it banged loudly against the wall. I wanted her to know I meant business. Cayla still hadn’t moved, and she didn’t look up at me.

“Cayla.”

No response.

“Cayla, look at me.”

Her head inclined slightly, but her eyes were obscured by strands of dark, lank hair. She sniffed, hard, gulping air.

“Bradley and Davis are at my house. Don’t come over. Don’t come near them. And if you ever come near my sister again, or bother anyone in my family, I’ll have your sorry ass slapped in jail so fast you won’t know what hit you.”

“Tell Davis,” she started, sobbing. “Tell him I’m so sorry, so very sorry, it won’t happen again, and-”

“No. I won’t tell him your garbage. You’re a liar, it’s been happening again and again and again. You want your son and your husband back? Get yourself some help, Cayla. If you’ll do that, we’ll all help you. But you got to get yourself some counseling.”

“I don’t need a goddamned shrink, I just need Davis and my boy-”

“Find some other punching bags,” I said. I know I sounded cruel, but I wasn’t particularly inclined to kindness toward her.

“Bradley needs me, he needs his mommy-” she cried.

I didn’t want to listen to her anymore. “I’ll be back in a while for their clothes. I might bring the police with me. You better behave yourself, Cayla.”

She didn’t answer, she just kept crying.

I left. And out on the porch, where Davis still sat subdued, I breathed in fresh air like it was a long-denied pleasure.

I got Davis home. Clo examined both of them and ordered Davis to see a doctor. He refused at first, till I placated him by getting Dr. Meyer (our family physician as well as the Foradorys’) to make a house call. One of the benefits of small-town life is that your doctors treat you like a person, not a number.

Davis had suffered grave bruises, a loosened tooth, and a broken finger, but nothing worse. Bradley was also examined and, except for the ring of bruises, pronounced fit. Davis declined to tell Dr. Meyer the source of his injuries, but I had no such compunctions. I did Davis the courtesy, however, of telling Dr. Meyer in private, “Good God. Call county social services. They deal with battered women all the time.”

“He’s ashamed. He thinks no one’s ever heard of a battered husband. He says people’ll treat him like a freak.”

Dr. Meyer huffed. He did not suffer fools. “That ain’t the worse thing in the world. Better that than being beaten.”

“He’s trying. After she slapped Bradley around, he did go to Steven Teague’s office for help.”

Dr. Meyer snorted. “That dandified city fool?” Dr. Meyer is of hardy Bavarian-colonist stock and has only a tidbit of patience for people whose families haven’t been in Bonaparte County since Texas was a republic. “Well, I suppose it was a step. Anyhow, I’ve given him a tranquilizer. He needs to sleep. I’ll come back by tomorrow, but you or Clo call me if you need me.” He zipped up his medical bag. “Goddamn. And they say you have to go to the big city for the interestin’ cases.”

I’d begun to feel yanked in nineteen different directions. On top of all else, I’d adopted Davis and Bradley and their hornets’ nest of difficulties, I took a deep breath and called Candace at the diner, explaining to her what’d happened.