Balance of Power

FOUR

The next morning, Kerry Kilcannon went to the Bowdens' home.

That this proved difficult reminded Kerry of the new strictures on his movement. Slipping the press was hard in itself; worse, Kerry was forced to wait in a nondescript Secret Service van while two agents introduced themselves to a startled Joan Bowden and asked permission to search the house. Kerry's only consolation was the certainty that her husband was not home; at his absolute insistence, the agents assigned to guard him agreed to wait outside.

When she opened the door, her swollen eye was no more than a slit. Kerry tried not to react to her disfigurement.

"I'm Kerry," he said.

Joan glanced past him as though worried he might be seen. Then she gave him a small, rueful smile. "I know who you are."

Kerry tilted his head. "May I come in?"

"All right," she said reluctantly, and then added with more courtesy, "Of course."

He stepped inside, hands in the pockets of his overcoat. The room was bright and orderly. But the visceral feeling he had on entering a home where abuse had occurred made the violence feel near at hand.

He turned to Joan. Whereas Lara resembled her mother—slender, with a certain tensile delicacy—Joan was rounder, with snub, placidseeming features altered, on this day, by a wary, guarded look. "I've felt funny," Kerry told her, "having an almost-wife whose family I'd never met."

As Joan smiled, a polite movement of the lips, she seemed to study him. "It was strange for us, too. You and Lara came as a surprise."

Though he felt the irony of his own evasion, Kerry gave his accustomed response. "It even surprised me," he answered. "When I got shot, Lara awakened to my virtues. A hard way to get the girl."

Joan appraised him. Then, belatedly, she motioned him to an overstuffed chair, and sat on the couch across from him. Kerry resolved to be direct. "Lara loves you," he said simply. "And now she worries for you."

Curtly, Joan nodded, as if confirming her own suspicion. "So she asked you to come."

"No—I asked." Kerry looked at Joan intently. "I used to prosecute domestic violence cases. I've seen too many 'family secrets' go wrong, too many people damaged. Especially children."

That there was more to this Kerry did not say. But the purple swelling of her eye stirred all of the emotions his father had left roiling inside a frightened boy of six or seven—a hatred of bullies; a sympathy for victims; the sense of guilt that he could not protect his mother; the angry need to sublimate this powerlessness through action. Nervously, Joan glanced at the door, as if Kerry's presence would summon her husband.

"I'll be all right," she insisted.

"You won't be. And neither will Marie." He paused, choosing his words with care. "I know you're watching out for her. But in the end it's not enough. When he harms you, he harms Marie."

Joan hesitated. Kerry watched her decide how much to say, how far to trust this man—at once so familiar, a constant presence on the screen or in the newspaper, a subject of relentless curiosity among her friends— yet a stranger in her living room.

"It's not John's fault," she said.

"Perhaps not," Kerry answered. "But it's his responsibility. And yours."

Joan kneaded her dress, a nervous gesture which seemed intended to gain time. "John's life growing up was hard," she said at last. "I don't think his father beat him, or his mother—it was more like John was terrorized. If he violated a rule, no matter how small, his dad would lock him in his room—maybe for a weekend, with no escape except for bathroom breaks. And sometimes not for that." She gave a helpless shrug. "It's like John goes back there—like someone throws a switch which sets him off. Afterward he's so sorry I almost feel for him."

To Kerry, this sounded like the Stockholm Syndrome—where a captive begins identifying with her captor. Like John Bowden, the boy, must have done.

"Except now John's the father," Kerry told her. "The only difference is that he's violent. And that he abuses his wife instead of his child."

Stubbornly, Joan shook her head. "He doesn't want to be like that. When I first met him, he wasn't at all."

"How was he then?"

"Wonderful." The word seemed to fortify her; a look akin to nostal

gia flickered in her eyes. "He was so responsible, so sure of himself, so determined to take care of me. He was unlike any boy I'd met—considerate, hardworking, and never drank a drop of alcohol. He was wonderful with my family, especially our mom. And I was the center of his world."

This was all too familiar, Kerry thought. "What about friends?"

"We didn't have that many—there really wasn't time." Her voice trailed off—the impact, Kerry guessed, of illusion crashing into reality. After a time, she added in a chastened tone, "He just wanted to be with me, he said. Sometimes he'd get jealous of other men, really for no reason. But he said it was because he loved me so completely he'd gotten too afraid of losing me."

As she paused, shoulders curled inward, Kerry felt certain she had never talked about this before. "And that felt right to you?" he asked.

She seemed to parse her memories—or, perhaps, to decide whether to respond. In a monotone, she answered, "Every day he sent flowers, or left notes on my front porch. I could hardly believe anyone loving me like that."

Though perhaps Kerry imagined it, the last phrase seemed to carry a faint shudder. Quickly, Joan glanced at the door again.

"When did he first hit you?" Kerry asked.

"When I was pregnant with Marie." Pausing, Joan briefly closed her eyes. "We were in bed, listening to an oldies station. Then they started playing 'The Way You Look Tonight . . .' "

* * *

The first few bars made Joan smile—at seven months pregnant, it was hard to imagine herself in Lara's white prom dress, altered through her mother's best efforts. Then she felt John staring at her.

"This song reminds you of him."

The accusation so startled her that at first Joan hardly remembered who "he" was. "God, John—that was high school. I couldn't say if he's still alive."

She could, of course—Mary had seen him at Stonestown Mall, with his new wife. In an accusatory tone, John said, "You're lying, Joanie. That was 'your song,' remember?"

It was so unfair: years ago she had trusted him with a harmless scrap of memory, never imagining the ways in which he might harbor this inside him. "I'd forgotten . . ."

With sudden fury, John slapped her across the face.

She rolled away from him, stunned, eyes welling with startled tears.

Rising, she took two stagger-steps, head ringing, and rested her hands against the white wicker bassinet he had brought home to surprise her. "John . . ."

His eyes were damp as well. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry."

The next morning he sent flowers.

* * *

"But he couldn't stop being jealous, until it was about any man I met or even might meet." Averting her gaze, Joan touched her discolored cheek. "Of the fifty-year-old mailman, because we spoke Spanish together. A twenty-year-old teacher's aide at Marie's preschool. Some man I talked to at a party. When I would see friends or family without him. Even when I mentioned maybe getting a part-time job. When he began drinking, it got worse."

Yes, Kerry thought—it would. "When did that start?" he asked.

"About a year ago. With problems at work, I think." Still Joan looked down. "He was very insecure about his boss. The first time John came home like that, there'd been some reprimand. After I put Marie to bed, John hit me."

"And the drinking just kept on."

"Yes." Joan's words took on a despairing rhythm. "He'd drink, and hit me, and apologize; drink and hit me and apologize; drink and hit me . . ."

Abruptly, her voice caught. "Drink and hit you harder." Kerry's voice was soft. "Like the more he hit you, the more he needed to."

She gazed up at him, lips parted in surprise. After a time, a tear escaped her swollen eye.

More evenly, Kerry asked, "And this time?"

She would not answer. "Marie was in her room," she finally said. "He always waits for her to sleep."

Already, Joan was exhausted, Kerry saw. Rising from the chair, he walked to the shelf with the formal picture of Marie. Studying it, Kerry was struck by a thought he knew better than to express—Joan's six-yearold was a replica of Lara.

Turning, he asked, "Who do you talk to, Joan?"

She shook her head. "No one."

"Why not your mother? Or Mary?"

"I suppose I'm ashamed." She gazed at the rug, voice low and despairing. "Once, when I drove my mother to the grocery store, John hid a tape recorder beneath the car seat. Even if I'd told her, she couldn't comprehend it. John's so responsible, so good to her. He sends her flowers on Mother's Day."

For a moment, Kerry fell as silent as she, absorbing the fissures beneath the surface of a well-intended family, the way in which silence served their differing needs, their disparate denials and illusions. "Is that all he does?" Kerry asked.

Once more, Joan averted her eyes. "John controls the money. He says he'll never let me take Marie." She paused, throat working. "Last week he bought a gun."

Kerry felt an instant hyperalertness. "Has he threatened you with it?"

A brief shake of the head. "No. But he says if I ever leave him, he'll kill himself."

Crossing the room, Kerry sat beside her, taking both her hands. "Joan," he said, "I'm scared for you. Much more than when I came here."

So was she, her eyes betrayed. He felt her fingers slowly curl around his. "Why?"

"Because he's getting worse. And now he has a gun." Kerry paused, marshalling the words to reach her. "Look at him. Maybe his childhood explains him. But it's the adult who keeps choosing to be violent. And if he needs a reason to hurt you, he'll find one.

"Then look at you. Look at your reasons for staying—economic insecurity; fear of shame before your family; fear of Marie not having a father; fear of not having Marie." Clasping her fingers, Kerry gazed at her until her eyes met his. "You're scared for you—all the time now. And your only way out is to help John stop, or stop him yourself. Which could mean taking him to court."

Joan paled. "I can't," she protested. "I could never put Marie through that."

Kerry gave Joan time to hear herself. "Can you put Marie through this?" he asked.

Joan's face was a study in confusion—by turns fearful, irresolute, resistant, and imploring. He searched within himself for the words to reach her and realized, against his bone-deep instinct to seal off the past, that they could not be the words of an observer.

"I'm going to tell you something," he said, "that only three people know who are still alive—my mother, my closest friend, and Lara. It's about me. But it's also about Marie."