Silent Cry (21 page)

Slowly I walked through the front door, not knowing what to expect.
Would he beat
me? Would he shoot me?
I didn't even think we had a gun in the house, but there was
one in the guesthouse. I walked into the kitchen, shaking. I didn't know
what to
expect this time, but I knew this was different from anything I'd been through before.
Nate was there waiting.

“What the f____ are you doing?” he shouted.

“What do you mean?” I answered.

“You know what I mean. If you
ever
tell
anyone
my business
ever
again, I'll kill
you.”

I sat down at the dining room table, preparing for a rant. “I'm tired of this, Nate.
I want to be free from you. Can't you just let me be free from you? Free to go on?”

“The only freedom you're ever gonna get is if I kill you!” he said. Then I saw the
gun lying on the counter. It was the rifle he used to shoot snakes when he was out
with the dogs. I stared at the gun. Nate followed my gaze, and his lips curled into
a snarl. He wanted me to be afraid.

He started shouting again and moved toward the table. The tabletop was made from
heavy, beveled glass. I was sitting at the end of it in front of the large picture
window in the dining room. Nate grabbed the edge of the table and shoved it toward
me. Pure instinct made me scoot back in the chair as fast as I could, fearing the
table would plunge into my abdomen and hurt the baby. The table just grazed my stomach
as I scrambled out of the way. It came crashing to the floor, somehow not shattering
but breaking the granite tile as it struck with a heavy thud.

I stared at the table in disbelief. He could have hurt the baby. Explosive anger
welled up inside of me. Adrenaline rushed through my body, and hot, angry words came
to the surface.

“You're sick!” I shouted at him, looking at the mess on the floor. “You are sick,
Nathaniel Newton! What is wrong with you?”

Nate glared at me and started walking toward the counter, toward the gun.

“Enough is enough,” I screamed. “I'm going to the police.
We have a child together,
Nathaniel. We have another child on the way. Do you want to hurt the baby? What do
you think you're doing? I'm going to the authorities — do you hear me? I'm calling
the police!”

I was still sitting in the dining room chair where I had scooted to avoid being hit
by the table when, quick as a flash, Nate had the gun in his hands and pointed it
straight at me. I froze.

“What are you doing?” I asked, shaking.

“I'm going to kill you, that's what,” Nate said, leveling the gun right between my
eyes.

I held my breath, waiting for him to pull the trigger.
Oh, God
, I prayed silently,
don't let Tré find me here like this.

Nate kept the gun pointed at my face. I don't know how long he stood there, but neither
one of us said a word. I was shaking all over, tears streaming down my face. I could
hear my heart pounding in my ears, and I felt like I was going to faint. I wanted
to run, but my feet were glued to the floor — I couldn't move.

Nate kept the barrel pointed steady between my eyes, then he moved the barrel a few
inches to the right and pulled the trigger, smashing a bullet through the window
behind me, shattering it into a million pieces.

I screamed and fell to the floor, grabbing my ears.

“Nate!” I screamed.

“You won't call the police; I'll kill you first,” he said and rushed out the door,
jumped in his vehicle, and sped off.

I don't know how long I knelt on the floor, but I suddenly panicked, wondering where
Tré was.
Did Nate take Tré?

I went outside and Tré was not in the car.
Where was he?
I ran back in the house.
Did he see anything?

“Tré, come here!” I shouted.

Tré came running toward me, and I scooped him up and
held him tightly. There was
a gaping hole where the window should have been and glass was shattered all over
the place. We got in the car and drove away.

I called T. Hayes and told him what had happened.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” he asked, concern thick in his voice.

“I'm fine,” I said, convincing no one.

“Don't stay there right now,” he said. “Why don't you come here for a while?”

Dutifully, I obeyed. I didn't have the energy to make any decisions on my own. His
wife, Lisa, was also expecting a baby, and I knew if I went there, I would be safe.
Sooner or later, I knew Nate would call T. Hayes — he always did.

Tré was quiet in the car beside me. I didn't think he'd seen anything, but he must
have heard the shot. He didn't say a word, and I didn't trust myself to speak to
him about it.

I called Randy, our builder, and said as nonchalantly as I could, “Randy, can you
go over to the house and take care of something for me?”

“Sure,” he said. “What's up?”

“There's some shattered glass at the house” — I took a deep breath — “in the kitchen
. . .” My voice broke.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Uh-huh,” I managed to croak out. “Thanks, Randy.” I hung up and drove to T. Hayes's
house. The next day, Randy called. “Are you okay, Dorothy?” he asked.

“I'm fine,” I said.

“I found shotgun shells on the floor,” he said. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“I'm fine,” I said again. “Are you at my house now?”

“Yes, I'm just finishing up. I've taken care of everything good as new.”

“Is Nate there?” I asked.

“No, ma'am, he isn't,” Randy replied. “Do you need something?”

“No . . . no, I'm just fine, Randy,” I said. “Thanks for everything.”

I didn't want to go back to the house until T. Hayes had heard from Nate. He would
know when it was safe.

I took Tré to school the next day and called T. Hayes before driving back to the
house. The window was fixed like nothing had ever happened. There were two shotgun
shells sitting on the counter. Randy had set the table back on its feet, and the
only visible evidence of the trauma was a chip in the granite floor where the table
had fallen and another chip in the beveled tabletop edge that had struck the floor.

An uneasiness was in the air, thick and foreboding. I thanked God I was alive, and
I asked for his guidance. I knew I couldn't stay with Nate anymore. From T. Hayes,
I gathered that Nate had cleared out, so I knew I had a little time to think and
figure things out.

I looked around my house — our house. We had known happiness here. It hadn't been
too long ago that things were good between us. I thought about Nate's excitement
when I announced my pregnancy, and the tears came pouring out — silent tears that
no one but God saw or heard.

CHAPTER 22

Humiliation

I see grace groweth best in the winter.

Samuel Rutherford

I
t was three weeks before I saw Nate again. He turned up to tell me he was going
to
Florida
to train with a bicyclist to get in shape before training camp began. I didn't care.
I was glad he would be gone so I could figure out what to do. I didn't have any money
of my own and didn't have access to any of Nate's money — I didn't even know how
much he had.

When I found out he was seeing another woman in Florida, the news didn't shock me.
The woman who had been calling me to tell me about her affair with Nate started calling
again, but now she was different; she was angry with Nate. I don't know why I did
it, but I contacted Nate in Florida and told him, “I think you're about to have legal
problems with this girl.” A week later, Nate came home and apologized to me for his
behavior. He wanted to work things out between us.

“No,” I told him, emotionless, “I really just want you out of my life. The sooner
you go to training camp, the better; that way I don't have to see you.”

Nate apologized again. “We can work this out . . .” he began.

“No, Nathaniel, we can't,” I said. “I'm leaving you. I don't care if you kill me.
I have it worked out so Tré will be taken care of. I am prepared to die. If you hurt
me again, I will go to the authorities and get help. I've already spoken with an
attorney, and you are going to be served with divorce papers. You can take whatever
you want. I don't want anything from you; I just want out. You can kill me if you
want to, but I have already
told the attorney that you plan to do that, so go right
ahead; the police will know it was premeditated.”

Nate was enraged. He pushed me up against the wall and struck me. I crumpled to the
floor to protect my stomach, and Nate kicked me.

“I'm having to deal with enough right now, b______!” he shouted. “I can't be bothered
with you too, do you hear me? This girl is trying to threaten me. I need you now,
Dot. Just when I need you, you think you're gonna leave? You're not gonna be there?
You gonna walk away from me like everybody else?”

I packed some things for Tré and left. I headed to Louisiana. Nate didn't try to
stop me. Obviously, I hadn't called the police or the media, so I guess he figured
I wouldn't say anything to my family either. He was used to me keeping my mouth shut
and remaining the dutiful wife. I always came back.

I contemplated telling my family. While I was driving to see them, I rehearsed my
story. When I actually got there, I couldn't go through with it. I don't know why;
I just couldn't do it. Everyone kept asking about Nate and wondering how he was doing
— they all loved him. Why wouldn't they? He had always been so nice to them. They
had no idea he was a different person behind closed doors. I couldn't seem to make
myself tell them I was in trouble, even though I desperately wanted their help.

While there, Tré became ill. He got so sick that I had to take him to a hospital
in New Orleans. We were there all day, and when he was discharged, I took him to
my mother's place in Buras, sixty miles away. Nate called, and I told him about Tré.
He told me the woman was filing a lawsuit against him, accusing him of rape. He begged
me to come home, telling me how much he needed me. He promised me that if I would
come home and see him through the trial, he would give me a divorce.

I wanted that divorce. I was paying an attorney $250 per hour, and I didn't know
where I was going to find the money if Nate contested. Holding out the divorce was
the right bait for me. I wanted it, and if Nate was willing to set me free, then
I would go home and deal with whatever I had to in order to buy my freedom.

The woman accused Nate of sexual assault, and it made the national news. I was humiliated.
I went back home, and Nate disappeared to escape the media frenzy. I don't know where
he went, but he wasn't around, and I didn't care. I was growing closer to term, and
my focus was on taking care of Tré and the baby.

I hardly heard from Nate during the last few weeks of my pregnancy. I was so sick
that it seemed like all of my energy was expended going back and forth to the doctor.
I was scheduled to be induced on July 15. Nate called the weekend before and asked
about when I thought I might go into labor. I had no idea whether or not he would
show up — it didn't matter to me. I wanted Ingrid to be with me in the delivery room.
She was a steady, constant, and loving force in my life, and I wanted her by my side.
When I was with her, my heart was lighter and my troubles melted away, and I felt
strong and free. I wanted my mother too. I needed her support. I arranged for her
to come to stay with me so she and Ingrid could be in the delivery room and be around
to help out with Tré.

I went to the hospital for my appointment, and Nate showed up. I was so disappointed.
Why had he come?
I couldn't deny his rights as the father, so he came into the delivery
room with me, and Ingrid and my mom waited outside. The delivery room is still a
blur to me, but when it was all over, I had a healthy baby boy weighing in at ten
pounds, two and a half ounces. The same feelings of awe, wonder, and unconditional
love washed over
me, just as they had when Tré was born. When I held my little boy,
everything else receded. Nothing else was as important as taking care of this little
one and loving him with all my heart.

I still didn't have a name for him, and I had promised Tré he could name the baby,
since he had prayed for one with such unwavering faith. When Tré saw his brother
in the hospital nursery, without even thinking he said, “I know what we can name
him.”

“What?” I asked, chuckling at his enthusiasm.

“We can name him King 'cause he looks like he's the king of the nursery!”