Another night

of fear

10 p.m. Late. He wasn't home yet.

Bad news.

Late meant he was drinking. Late meant he would be in a bad mood.

Late meant she would get hurt.

It didn't start out this way. The first few years were normal. Well, as normal as two struggling youngsters could be in Washington. He was in law school, she worked for an activist group. Money was short.

He graduated and went to work on K Street. Long hours. Lots of stress. Normal for an associate on a fast track.

She worked hard too, getting home late, too late to always fix dinner or pick up the house. He got home, yelled about the lack of dinner, about how the place looked like a pig sty. Then he'd lose his temper and hit her.

The apologies came the next morning. Sorry, honey. I lost control. It's the job. It won't happen again.

But it did. On most mornings, she could cover the bruises with makeup. When she couldn't, she told co-workers she fell. They didn't buy it.

She left after one session, but he talked her into coming back. He'd just made senior associate. Things had to get better.

They didn't. He worked longer hours and drank more to ease the stress. When the booze didn't work, he took the stress out on her.

Last month, they fought so hard the neighbors called the cops. One of the cops, a nice young man with freckles and a winning smile, took her out to the patrol car and told her that if she'd press charges, this would stop. He gave her a card with a spousal abuse hotline number on it.

Two days later, the cop called. Suggested they have coffee. She thought he cared, until the pass. Men. They were all alike.

She called the hotline. Set up an appointment. Met with the counselor, who told her to leave, now, before it was too late. She said she would think about it.

11 p.m. Oh God, he would really be pissed when he walked in the door. She thought about leaving. Maybe it was time. This was a warning she couldn't ignore.

11:50 p.m. The doorbell. Was he too drunk to find his key? She opened the door. Two cops. Could they come in?

She half heard the words. "...driving while intoxicated....car out of control on rain slick roads...single car accident." Could she come with them? Identification needed.

They brought her back home at 2:30 a.m. She sat in the living room and cried.

No sorrow.

No regrets.

Just relief.

It was over.

--Doug Thompson

Washington, D.C.