Sister of Silence (32 page)

Linda assigned me to cover the murder trial, so as the date drew near, I sat down across from Deputy Stiles, who was the lead investigator, Joe told me how violent Toppins had been.

“Wanda was shot several times, up close. And even after she fell to the ground and couldn’t get back up,” Joe explained, “Toppins continued firing bullets into her body.”

I listened in rapt attention, but I had a hard time paying attention—especially when I realized that the day before Wanda was murdered, I had written in my diary about my own fear that I might be killed. That if Eddie didn’t kill me, his abuse would cause me to take my own life. Instead, Wanda was the one who was killed. Her husband, like mine, had a long history of being violent, and at least one previous wife of his had died under suspicious circumstances.

Toppins’ marriage to Wanda had been equally volatile as his others, and his son, Jerry Jr., had joined the military to get away from his father’s violence. When Joe told me Wanda had warned friends that if she died, it would be at the hands of her ex, I thought about my own situation. My own life.

I thought about Wanda’s children: her little boy, David, her daughter, Candy, from a previous marriage, and Jerry Jr. All of those children were going to be permanently affected by the violence. There was no way they could remain unscathed.

I considered my own children: Mileah had stabbed Gabby in the back with a fork, just a year or two ago. And more than once, Slade had chased his sisters with a knife. Too, they all argued about the smallest thing, which would then escalate into a battle, complete with hitting, pinching, biting and kicking. Our children—Wanda’s and mine—had lived through a war zone, fighting for survival.
And they’d adopted violent behavior as a result.

“I know
Linda’s story said Wanda had filed a battery complaint against Jerry, back in May, which was later dropped. What can you tell me about that?” I asked Joe.

Joe looked at his notes. “I can tell you the magistrate ordered him to stop abusing her, and she got temporary custody of her daughter, Candy, and their son, David, the three-year-old.”

“Yes, I remember something about that in Linda’s story. It said Toppins came home, crashed his motorcycle, and told her to leave. That he threatened to take the baby and disappear. Was there anything else? What’s his motive—well, other than being a jerk?” I heard the sarcasm in my voice.

Joe grinned. “You said it, I didn’t. Well, let’s see, you know about the new boyfriend, right?”

“Just that he was there with her, the day she was killed.”

“They were supposed to get married that day. He had been Wanda’s high school sweetheart. So that’s one motive—Jerry didn’t want another man to have what he still viewed as his.”

Joe turned a page in his notebook. “That would explain the statement her fiancé gave to police, since the last thing he remembers was Toppins yelling something about ‘the whore’s out here. I killed her. Come and look at her.’”

I wrote it down, trying to clearly focus on what he was saying. I kept thinking back to Eddie’s recent threats.

You’ll never be another man’s. If I can’t have you, no one else will, either!

I tore myself away from that horrible day, forcing myself to concentrate on Joe’s words. “These men are all the same,” I muttered under my breath.

I didn’t realize Joe had heard me. “Yes, they are. Batterers are all pretty much cut from the same cloth.”

“Were there any other complaints filed—and how did they even end up having contact, if there was an order in place?”

Joe looked squarely at me, his blue eyes intense. “Because she dropped it when the divorce began. And according to Toppins, he killed her because she refused to let him take the boy if he wouldn’t give her child support.”

I must have looked confused, for he continued. “Now, I’m not saying that she did or she didn’t. But that’s what Toppins claims happened. We did find a check there, on the ground beside her, and while that may have been a factor, I doubt it.” Joe ran his finger over his chin, deep in thought. I waited patiently.

“How often does that happen—that wives drop a battery complaint?” I asked Joe.

“It happens a lot more than I’d like.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s leverage, usually to get the man to pay the woman child support or alimony. The attorneys recommend it, and the man is only too happy to give up money or something else, in return for having the criminal complaint dismissed.”

I realized that Wanda had been in the same situation I was in—her ex used money as a weapon, to try to get what he wanted, too.

“I understand, but I don’t think that’s a good thing—to drop the charges in return for something else,” I said.

Joe looked up from his file. “You’ll get no argument about that one from me. While I was at Quantico a few weeks ago, we had a class about interpersonal violence, and discussed that very problem. The fact is, there’s always some give and take, but it often makes the situation much worse, because what we’re starting to see is a lot of women filing for protection, but then dropping the charges down the road, for one reason or another.”

I thought about how I had never tried to file for a protective order—not even after the most recent incident, which scared me to death. “It must be hard, knowing if you file, there’s a price to pay, in terms of facing his anger, and having to deal with him.”

“Yes, but the order is supposed to keep him away from her.” Joe gave me a weary look. “Look, I said that’s what’s supposed to happen. It doesn’t always.”

I checked my notes, asking him to give me a few minutes to see if
I’d missed anything.

I walked down the stairs and out the front door, wondering for the umpteenth time why I had never filed for a protective
order. Even my attorney recommended I get one, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. And it wasn’t from a fear Eddie would retaliate in anger, if I did. It was more from shame and embarrassment, at having to admit to the cops I knew professionally that my life was no better than the victims they saw and helped, every day of the week.

Beyond that, I still believed his violence was something that happened here and there—that I could handle on my own, without a protective order. After all, my mother had handled everything on her own—raising five children, holding down a job, taking care of my father and a huge old house that required lots of work. So why couldn’t I?

Aside from all of that, though, there was a single remaining reason why I had not gotten a protective order after any episodes of abuse—I was afraid to speak up, afraid of what others would think of me and, mostly, afraid they wouldn’t believe me.

Ever since I began openly talking about our “secret life,” and taking steps to protect myself, I felt weepy and cried a lot. After Eddie broke in and held me hostage in Slade’s room that day, I had more anger and fear to deal with, and I often felt like I was coming apart at the seams as the emotions I had locked away for years started to overwhelm me. The summer heat and humidity only made the situation even more unbearable.

It feels like a funnel cloud. I’ve gotten so sucked into their pain and anger, I can’t even see clearly
.

So in late June, I packed up the kids and drove to Harrisburg, Pa., to see Bruce. He said he was glad we were coming, and over the telephone told us about all the fun activities he had planned. When we arrived at his apartment that Friday night, the kids ran from the car, yelling “Uncle Bruce, Uncle Bruce
!” I followed them, amazed by their devotion to him. They had no sooner reached his door than it swung open.

“Why, if it isn’t a bunch of poor orphan children, come to visit me. Won’t you come in, little orphans. I’d love to have you visit for the weekend.” With that, the girls whooped and yelled, laughing at his teasing welcome. They all tried to hug him at once, and he looked like he had small legs and arms coming from everywhere. Only Slade hung back, but Bruce was quick to notice.

“There—what’s this? It looks like one more orphan, a little orphan boy. Won’t you come in, too?” Slade acted shy and Bruce gathered him up in his arms, hugging him tightly. “How are you little boy? My, you’ve gotten so big. I haven’t seen you for a long time. I’ll bet you’re about ten now. Are you ten?” Slade shook his head and held up five fingers, and everyone laughed. Bruce always knew just what to say to get the kids going.

Our five days together passed too quickly, with picnics and a visit to the nearby science center. The kids loved the hands-on science activities, and Bruce and I went from one child to the next, snapping pictures the entire time. He had bought some riding toys for them, so in the evenings after dinner, we went out to the large yard behind the apartment building.

While the kids played together, Bruce and I sat on the grass and talked about everything that had happened. Whereas I had somehow sensed Mom wasn’t willing to hear all the sordid details, it was different with Bruce. He understood. He was shocked at how long the abuse had gone on, and couldn’t get over the fact that Eddie had refused to support his own children, or how mean and hateful he continued to act. I told him Eddie had always been that way when we were alone, but put on a good show when my family was around.

“I don’t know how you lived like that,” he said, amazed. “My sister Jane had a boyfriend who was mean, but nothing like that.”

“I guess you just get used to it. And besides, Eddie always blamed me for anything and everything. I think you get to the point where you believe it yourself, and think you’re not good enough for anything—or for anyone—else.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. But how terrible to live like that.”

“What happened to Jane? Is she still with that guy?”

“Oh no, as soon as he began mistreating her, she kicked him out.” Bruce laughed. “Yes sir, I remember her telling me she wouldn’t stand for any man to treat her like a doormat.”

I smiled, wishing I had been that strong. “Your parents must have set a good example for her, for all of you, when you were growing up. I really think domestic violence—which is what it is—gets passed down from one generation to the next. You end up marrying someone like your father, and you become an abused wife.”

“No, my parents were never abusive. Oh my dad was a drinker, but he never hurt my mom. At least, we never knew about it
if anything had happened.” Bruce looked thoughtful for a second. “But wait a minute, your dad never hit your mom, did he?”

I nodded slowly and told Bruce the story about Dad’s burnt dinner. He looked flabbergasted. “Your dad did that to your mom? I’ve never heard her say anything about that!”

“Yes, pretty sad, isn’t it? I was eight when I told her I wanted her to divorce him, because I never wanted him to hurt her again. It was pretty frightening,” I said.

“I’ll bet. Man, that is just so hard to believe. I mean, I would have never guessed.”

“Well, it’s not exactly conversation you’d share during dinner parties, if you get my drift.” I smiled.

“No, I guess it’s not,” Bruce said, still visibly upset by my news.

“After all, that’s the way it happens. The abuse occurs and it’s kept secret. No one knows, and no one talks about it. That’s why it continues—and why so many women never leave. Why, except for that one discussion, when Mom knew I saw what was going on, we never talked about again. Not one word.”

“But maybe it just happened that one time,” Bruce said.

I gave him a sideways look. “That’s why Mom left Dad when they were in Jordan and she was pregnant with Michael—because he threw a can of beer at her. That’s the only other big one I know of, but there were others that led up to it. I really don’t know that much about it, because she still won’t talk about it. Only if I press her, and then it’s still difficult for her to say much of anything at all.”

Bruce sat there staring at me, and as I saw the battle within him, I wasn’t surprised.

To believe or not to believe?

Bruce knew it was the truth, but like all family and friends, he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t seen the signs of abuse himself. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t known what was going on for all these years in my own marriage. Even more disturbing, Bruce had just learned that his best friend—who happened to be my father—had been abusive to his own wife, my mother.

“But maybe it only happened those few times. I mean, basically your father’s a great guy who just drinks too much. Of course, there were many times when he would come home late at night, drunk, and I’d wonder how your mother could be so understanding and take all that nonsense. It’s different for me, because I’m single and I don’t have a wife waiting at home. But still—”

“Maybe the physical violence did only happen a few times—I only saw it that once, and she told me about the beer can incident. But there was also emotional abuse. Putting her down, being critical of her, telling her she couldn’t do anything. In the end, she ended up believing all that garbage about herself.” I could feel myself getting heated up, passionate about how much harm comes from domestic violence.

Bruce appeared to consider that. “You know, you’re right. That’s abuse, too. It’s just that most people don’t look at it that way.”

“No, they don’t. Our society thinks abuse against women—be it physical, emotional or sexual—is okay. We might say we don’t, but we show by our actions that we do. We permit it by not enacting stronger laws against it, and by closing our eyes to the fact that it happens. Yes, you have groups out there to help women and their children, shelters for them to go to, but how many times does the neighbor across the street come over and offer help? Or does that person instead say,
‘I’m not getting involved. It’s none of my business.’” I stopped, spent, and decided it was time to get off my soapbox.