They were cuddling on the couch watching the 11 o’clock news.  The house was silent, except for the TV, kids tucked in hours ago.

“There’s that woman.”  She said straightening up.  ”Her husband shot her three times in the head and she played dead.  For seven hours she just lay there.”

“What did she do to deserve it?”  He asked.

I watched her telling me these things, wondering if today would be the day she would spill her secrets.  The morning was bright, the sun streaming in across the table of the breakfast joint we’ve frequented every first Saturday of the month for 12 years now.  She slides her cell phone across the table, a brave smile trembling on her lips.

“He’s keeping track of me.  Wherever I go, he knows.”

I glance at the text she had received from her carrier, a text telling her that another number is keeping track of her phone’s location.  Her eyes glisten and she wiggles her nose to keep the tears away.

“I just want you to know.  Just in case.  I know you write about these things.”

I know better than to ask what he does.  There are things she cannot bring herself to say, even to me, one of her closest friends.  And I know better than to ask why she stays.  I know the church she is part of.  Her family’s reputation within it.  The fact that no matter what, she would be found at fault and not he.  And then of course, there are the children. One must always consider the children.

I had an inkling that things weren’t what they seemed.  A certain wince she’d quickly mask with a smile if I’d give her a tight hug.  A sad look in her eyes when we’d talk about our husbands.

The things that happen behind closed doors.  Who can tell?  Sometimes the children wake up with nightmares of things real (and imagined, to be sure), in their pretty princess and cowboy bedrooms, their little hearts heavy, their spirits dragging.  Wondering if it was something they did.  Feigning sleep, and praying for it all to stop.  And you go driving down the street of beautiful homes, manicured lawns, luxury cars in the garage, and think how perfect it is, and how you wished you lived right there, in that particular home with the silk Bergere chairs framed by the leaded window, and Savonnerie rugs throughout the house.  The lamp left on in the downstairs hall has such a welcoming warm glow.  But you don’t know.  You have no idea at the horror the pretty things are masking.

The weirdest thing happened today while I was washing the breakfast dishes and staring out the window at the shadows made on the sidewalk by the weak autumn sun.  An elderly couple, very well dressed, possibly European, or possibly history professors at the nearby university, was out for a stroll, when suddenly the man’s left arm extended out and pushed the woman off the sidewalk.  I was shocked.  I thought my mind or the shadows must have been playing tricks.  But no.  The woman righted herself and got back on.  The man turned and pushed her again.  Right off she went, and this time her knees buckled under and she fell.

And I have no excuse for it, but all I could do was stand there, unmindful of the running water, rooted to the spot, not knowing what to do.  I am ashamed.  I watched as she picked herself up, furtively glanced around, and followed him, careful to keep her distance.  And I still stood, shame washing over me.

A sick feeling came into my stomach and I left the dishes to go peer out through the other windows, making sure she was all right.  Would she be safe?  Would worse happen once they arrived between their own four walls?  I truly hoped not.  But why was she with him?  Why did she stay?  I had and have no answers.

I grew up in a loving home, where the worst my parents did was argue, and even that was a rarity.  Peasants were the wife beaters, because they lacked the culture and the education to know better.  Or so I was led to believe.  And yet this man today, was anything but a peasant.

A friend phoned soon after and I mentioned what I had seen.  ”Hmm.” Was all she said, and I was appalled at the apathy in her voice.  This very sophisticated friend changed the subject and started talking about a new rug she wanted to purchase and needed my opinion on.  And I left the conversation at that, wondering if domestic violence is so prevalent and accepted that it doesn’t unnerve us anymore.

As a mother to two young children I cannot imagine the terror that goes on, both within the woman, and within the children that are living in such a household.  It must be a living hell.  I have read a bit about it on the internet and am horrified at the mind tricks and methods these men use to keep their wives and children terrified of them, and fearing for their lives.

While still feeling ashamed for my cowardly reaction to what I have witnessed, I have made a decision that this holiday season I will see what it is that I can do to put a stop to it.  Will you, too? At least inform yourself, and take a stand against it, in whichever capacity you can.

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