Perspectives - Vol. 4, No. 2 - The Silence is Deafening: A Work Of FictionJane Logan-Kuebler Updated: Apr 1st 1999 "What do you tell a woman with two black eyes?"
"Nothing. You've already told her. Twice."
These inane lines come to me as I watch Frannie across the room at our teachers annual holiday "evening out." As usual, she looks exceptionally chic in her short black merino wool sheath, patterned hosiery and suede pumps. Her exquisite jewelry sparkles in the low lights as she moves graciously and casually among her co-workers and their spouses, and smiles and speaks to each with ease. To anyone else, she obviously hasnt a worry in the world. But I know differently. • • • • Early this summer as we lifted weights in the schools weightroom, I commented on the discolored area of her upper left arm. She looked at me wide-eyed, and immediately covered it with her right hand. Then she said something about bumping into an open door during a midnight trip to the bathroom. "Yeah, right," I countered with a chuckle. "Mitch probably smacked you and you wont fess up." She agreed with an engaging smile that didnt quite reach her eyes. "Thats precisely what happened." "You and me both," I said, still laughing. Later that same week I stopped to pick her up for a mid-morning round of golf. I was early and thundered into her house, announcing myself loudly as I usually do. She was in the guestroom, making up the bed. "Whos coming to visit?" I asked as I shook a soft down pillow into an embroidered pillowcase. "No one, why?" she returned, then looked at the bed and blushed. "I just felt like washing sheets; I love the smell of sheets hung on the clotheslines to dry." Shortly afterwards, I hauled a pile of clean bath towels through Frannies bedroom while bound for the master bathroom. "Hey Frannie, do you want me to make up this bed?" I called. I had noticed the bedcovers looked hurriedly pulled to the top, edges hung crookedly, and pillows seemed haphazardly tossed. It obviously wasnt done with Frannies usual preciseness. She poked her head through the doorway. "I mean, look at it. You guys must have had quite a night," I teased. She hesitated, and then with an anxious look said, "Lets just pull off the sheets. If you dont mind waiting, we can wash them now, and then hang them. They can dry while were golfing." I didnt want to wait, but had no real reason not to. Besides, I knew that Mitch was a bit particular about his home (and probably his bedding) and Frannie worked hard to keep equilibrium in their lives. So I threw the sheets into the washs short cycle and then joined Frannie in the kitchen as she chopped and bagged vegetables for that evenings dinner. While in conversation, at one point I leaned quite close to her, and surprisingly she jumped and dropped her knife, point-first, into the vinyl. Jelly-side down, as my mother would say. Frannie stooped to pick it up and stepped quickly away from me. "Can I help?" I asked, wondering at such a reaction. "Just sit at the counter and talk to me," she replied, indicating with the knife that she needed me to move away. "Im not comfortable with extra people so close." Luckily for her, the washer finished just then for I had a number of questions regarding what I considered to be her over-reaction. But I was distracted as we hung sheets on the line and neglected these thoughts as we walked from her back yard onto the adjacent golf course. Unfortunately, our first nine holes were not eventful. My golf game has always been so-so, but hers, ordinarily terrific, seemed offset by a need for follow-through -- it was as though her left arm lacked strength. For lunch we split a sandwich; I offered to share my beer but she declined and opted for a diet 7-Up. If I was hot in my sleeveless top, Frannie was probably toasting in her lightweight long-sleeved shirt. "Weve got time," I added after encouraging her to run home and change into something less confining. No dice. Play was slow during the second nine and Frannie quickly became troubled by the delays. She wanted to quit after four holes -- Mitch would be home soon, she explained, and preferred her there when he arrived. "Before we left, you called him and told him where we would be," I exclaimed, somewhat irritated. "You also left him a note. Hes a big boy. When he gets home, all he has to do is look out the window." My protests fell on deaf ears. Already she was cleaning her clubs and kicking off her shoes. Mutely I watched Frannie and then, not speaking, grudgingly walked home with her. As we crested the hill of the last fairway, she seemed incredibly relieved to see that my car was still the only one in her driveway. "Thanks for the game," she said. "I have to get the sheets off the line and back where they belong. See ya." That was in June -- and the last time we played golf together. It wasnt that I didnt call; its just that whenever we did make a golf date, Mitch arranged other activities and Frannie canceled our golf outings at the last minute. During the summer, we saw each other sporadically at Little League games and although I often tried to strike up some sort of conversation, Frannie was cool and distant. If I wanted to sit with her on the bleachers, Mitch sat between us. If I intercepted her at the concession stand, she didnt have time to talk -- Mitch was waiting for his popcorn, or soda, or candy bar or... The short summer dissolved into fall and we returned to school. When I first saw Frannie, I was shocked at her weight loss. I had lost a few pounds and felt rather tidy, but her loss seemed extreme. My guess was that she had gone from a size 14 to a size 7 in three months, and I said something to her about it at our first teachers meeting. "You look good and maybe only a tad scrawny," I said. "Isnt Mitch feeding you?" No response. Only the universal teachers look -- the one that makes everyone think twice before saying anything truly stupid. I sat with her at the meeting, but she chose to not speak. She doodled on her notebook during the administrators introductory remarks, barely smiled at their jokes and never returned after the first break. That same day, Frannie turned down my invitation to lunch and, although she was present for an afternoon meeting, she excused herself to the bathroom almost immediately. Each morning that week Frannie was among the first to arrive at school and the last to leave at night. However, she rarely fraternized with other staff members. When I popped into her classroom to speak with her, she would look up from her work for about a minute, make a few cryptic comments, and then bury herself in her class preparations. Volleyball. Short stories. Football. Macbeth. Homecoming. Edgar Allan Poe. Halloween. First quarter seems shorter every year. Drowned by MLA research papers, I didnt see much of Frannie until early November. Others made jokes about her noticeable absence at the lunch table "Did she really work here?" they asked the other science teachers. Their jokes were partially reinforced by substitute teachers who periodically passed in and out of Frannies classroom -- a classroom that belonged to a teacher who once hadnt missed four days in all of the eight years shed taught there, and now averaged four sick days per month. Each day, Frannie ate a solitary lunch in her classroom with the door shut. The students said that during class she was jumpy, distractible, and talked "way too fast" during her lectures. Other days, when she scheduled lab work or videos, she hardly talked at all, the students said. "This sounds like a conversation you need to have with her," I told them. One night after school she appeared at my doorway -- "What are you saying to the students about me?" she asked. She spoke not angrily, but sadly, I think. I quietly shut my classroom door. "They were concerned, Frannie. I told them to discuss it with you. But Im concerned, too. Id like to talk." Wearily she sank into a nearby desk. I crossed my arms and took a deep breath. "Granted, Im slow, but I dont need to be hit over the head, Frannie. Something is wrong. Youve lost a lot of weight. You rarely smile and if you laugh, its affected. You avoid all of us, not that were that much for company, but still... "The kids say you pace constantly. They say that when you sit, you sit on top of a desk and pull tightly into yourself. Its making them uneasy," I continued. "Youve become snappy and a bit peevish. If it was anyone else, okay, but this isnt you. Can we work through this?" She slipped her glasses from her face and rubbed her forehead with the back of her wrist. "Im getting help," she said softly. "It used to be that we were getting help, but he stopped. I suppose he knows Im still going but hes never asked and I dont tell him. If I brought it up it would just cause more problems and I dont need more you cant tell this to anyone it wouldnt be good at all." She wouldnt look at me as she spoke all in one breath. "He? Who? Mitch?" I stuttered. Unconsciously she rubbed the top part of her left arm above her biceps -- she rubbed the area that this summer I had noticed was so... Oh God forgive me. I am so stupid-- The possessiveness. The avoidance, anxiety, lost weight and cover-up clothing. The beds, the bruises. I sat in the desk next to hers and leaned forward. "Talk to me Frannie. Whats going on between you and Mitch?" I reached out my hand to hers. She jerked away so abruptly that she made the desk jump. "Im sorry. Its just a reflex," she apologized, chagrined. I slid my desk a bit away to allow her more space and then sat quietly, with my hands folded. A forever later Frannie spoke. The thoughts tumbled. The stories unfolded in a passion of communication. She talked to the desktop as she spoke of angry words and slammed doors. She told of simple discussions that escalated into stupid arguments and culminated with a quick pop to the left shoulder. Those graduated to two quick pops to the left shoulder -- nearly always the same place. Never the face, she insisted. Her voice took on the tone of a confession. She mentioned lying in bed, alone, waiting for him to come upstairs to finish what was started. She said she often wanted him to hurry up and get there and end the argument, or not come at all. To wait unnerved her. She told of the night she went to bed and packed pillows around her body in hopes that if he struck her in the dark, the pillows would protect her. I could barely stand to listen to her, to share in her humiliation. Perhaps because she was confiding in me, she shifted closer. She recalled the first night she moved into the guest bedroom -- it didnt last long, she said, before she was jerked back into the big bedroom. Even though there were other times she wanted to move into the guestroom, it was a long time before she dared do it. When she finally did, he followed her into that room, into that bed. There was no escape, she said. I listened to all this without comment, but No Escape? Incredulously, I stared at her. "Of course you must leave," I insisted. "There are a number of options available to you. Lets go talk with someone who knows. Now. Tonight." She smiled sadly. Her eyes traveled across my face. "Ive been through all this. I choose to not leave Mitch. He would be embarrassed. We live in a small town, and his family and my family are too close. They work in the same office. We socialize together. What would people say? I know my brothers would kill me for being a baby, a princess, and making a scene. Besides, it doesnt happen that often." "How many times does it have to happen?" I asked her. "Frannie, you must understand that once is too much. We have to get you out of there." She shook her head and turned away. A thought struck me, and cautiously I leaned forward to look into her eyes. "Frannie, is there a gun in the house?" An eerie smile played about her lips. "No," she replied. "But you know what? There was a time this summer, after an "event" that I shopped for one. For protection, you know. I checked out all the places -- Scheels, K-Mart. I even talked with some guy friends to find out what kind to get. A .22, they said. Or a small shotgun. " "Did you ever buy one?" I pushed. She looked me in the eyes. "No," she promised solemnly. Then, after a long pause, she looked down and added, "Having one would make it all too easy. And make everything worse." "Frannie, leave," I urged. "I cant. I wont," she replied. "What will you do?" I asked. "I will learn how to get through this," she said. "I will learn how to not aggravate him and still maintain some sense of self. I will learn how to tell him that I dont like it when he thumps on me." "Dont you tell him when it happens?" As she shook her head, I added, "What do you say when he apologizes?" She looked at me blankly. "Frannie, please tell me Mitch apologizes," I pleaded. Again, no response. She didnt move. "All right then, he doesnt apologize. But what do you say, Frannie, what do you do after youre hit?" She looked down at her hands and picked at the stones in her wedding ring. "Nothing. I walk away and hope he doesnt come after me from behind." "Are you saying that you just turn your back to him, walk away, and pretend it doesnt happen? Aw, Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Frannie." Exasperated, I slapped the top of my desk with an open palm. Frannie startled, and again the desk jumped. Her eyes grew dark and flashed. "How dare you pass judgment on me," she raged. "Youre not me, how dare you make assumptions! You dont know about the loneliness, or what its like to hide all this and still balance family, friends and work with a smile. You dont know whats its like to look in the mirror and think, Well, maybe if I... if I wasnt so fat, or ugly, or self-centered, or stupid, or blonde, or had a better job or... whatever. "You dont know what its like to pretend, to hope, that that was the last time. To fantasize that things are different or will soon be different, only to know that it will happen again, but never know when." She tried to compose herself. "See, reality is that hes a good person -- hes smart, sensitive, helpful, thoughtful, kind. Everyone likes him, and hes good to Kari and her husband. Usually we get along fine. Its always been just this one thing." "Reality is, Frannie, that youre being abused," I said gently as I slipped out of my desk and knelt on the floor in front of her. I looked up into her face. "How long has this been going on?" She dragged a carefully manicured fingernail across the desktop. "It just got really bad again this past year or so," she replied quietly. "But its been since we got married. Twenty four years." "Since before Kari was born?" She nodded; her expression resigned, her eyes tired. "You know, I really didnt see it as abuse, not for a long time. Then we were at a party; he wanted to leave and I wanted to finish my drink. He shoved my drink in my face, told me that now that its gone, we needed to leave, and he grabbed me by the shoulder. I saw people looking at me. I saw their eyes -- their expressions -- before they looked away and I knew we had a problem. I sort of believed it then. He says he loves me, he does love me, so most of the time theres really no trouble between us." "Leave him, Frannie, please. Ill help you, " I begged. "Youre only 44 years old. Its not your fault. Youre intelligent, employed, articulate and attractive. If you stay, if you always do what you've always done, you'll always get what youve always got. Dont be the victim. You dont need this." She drew an angry breath. "You dont know what I need. I dont know what I need. Im tired of people telling me what I need or dont need -- Mitch, the therapist, you. None of you understand. Im trapped. I cant go forward, I cant go back. I cant go up and I cant go down. Im trapped." In a panic, she rose from the desk and headed for the door. From the floor, I watched her open that door. "Stop, Frannie, please. Dont walk away from this. Or at least tell me, before you leave, what can I do?" I implored. She turned and replied, "Be my friend. Be beside me and be my friend." Then she was gone. • • • • That was then, nearly a month ago. The students dont discuss Frannie so much anymore; I guess theyre filled with the activities of their own lives and the upcoming holidays. Frannie and I havent talked since that day, and I havent spoken of our conversation to anyone. Ive heard other staff members say that she seems to flaunt our master contract by arriving and leaving daily with the bell -- its as though shes purposefully flirting with a grievance and perhaps hoping to be written up. They wonder what shes trying to prove. I wonder if she wants to be fired. I occasionally see her at work, in the halls or in the parking lot, but when I stop in her classroom to chat, her expression is closed, her demeanor cold. She continues to dress as impressively as ever but her clothes hang on her. I think shes still losing weight. Her attendance hasnt improved, and she restlessly prowls the halls during her work periods. Frankly, Im amazed to see Frannie and Mitch here at the employee party tonight. Its obvious that shes purposefully ignoring me. Im standing where I can also watch Mitch monitor her and study me from where he positioned himself across the room. The silence is deafening. Reference:
Logan-Kuebler, J. (1999). The silence is deafening. [Online]. Perspectives. [1999, April 13]. | 
