David Behling, Notes from Home

“What the (expletive) are you doing? Get in the (expletive) car, you (expletive).”

The words forced their way through my open windows as I sat in the rocking chair with the baby, who wasn’t feeling well and needed some comfort. I was dozing but was jolted into alertness by the sudden burst of angry words. I turned and parted the curtain to look out; the words were coming out of the mouth of a young man in a slowly moving vehicle, directed at a woman on the sidewalk. She walked on, her face straight ahead, her face down as he yelled, the car matching her speed.

The car pulled forward and stopped. The man got out. I stood up. The woman kept walking. The yelling, the name-calling, the curses continued as he walked toward her. I walked to the front door. When he put his hand out, gripped her arm so that she had to stop, I went outside onto the front steps.

Looking up I saw my oldest daughter watching everything from her bedroom window. Look away, I whispered. Don’t be watching this.

The man saw her, too, and suddenly she became part of the scene as he screamed obscenities at her. That’s when I was filled with rage myself, rage at this man, who’d brought his foul language and anger onto our street, into our yard.

Baby in my arms, I walked across the yard toward him. To do what? Even now I have no idea what was going through my head. I had no gun or heavy stick. I was carrying my baby daughter. All I remember is knowing that somehow I needed to make him stop.

The man didn’t see me, at least not at first. But the woman, she had seen me as soon as I had left the steps. When she looked up, briefly, her face was a portrait of emptiness. No fear. No anger. No plea for help. Nothing was written in that book. As soon as I started walking, baby in arms, toward the two of them, she turned and got in the car. He looked up then, his face red, and our eyes met: Surprise took him — the color drained from cheeks and forehead. He ran to his side of the car, got in and the car roared off.

I stood there in the middle of the yard for awhile, shaking, letting the adrenaline rush subside. What had just happened? I looked up, but my daughter’s face was no longer in the window. When I went back in and upstairs, her bedroom door was closed. I knocked softly, called her name, opened the door. Her face was buried in a book, her back toward the door. When I called her name, she shrugged her shoulders, kept reading. I closed the door again, without saying a word.

It’s rare that abuse is as visible as it was that day, but neither is it hidden. The signs are there, if we’re paying attention. Victims of abuse are the friends who have pulled away from us, who’ve become more isolated, who never speak up for themselves in dealings with their spouse or partner. And then there are the bruises, the excuses, the fear in their eyes.

Yes, domestic abuse is complicated. The police can’t do much if the victim won’t report the threats and beatings themselves. Prosecutors and judges can only do so much when victims won’t press charges. Domestic calls can be among the most dangerous for law enforcement, actually, because all too often, when the police have to restrain the abuser for their own protection, the victims then turn on their rescuers. But complications are not a legitimate reason for not doing something to help, for not speaking out.

I never saw that couple again, either together or separately, but I’m also never completely free of that face, that emptied face, looking toward me. And what about the man? His angry words are caught in my remembrance as well. I don’t believe that even a man as horrible as he was that day is doomed to always be an abusive partner or parent. I hope he found a way off the path he was traveling.

As we take time this month to contemplate the scourge of domestic abuse, I suspect that many of us don’t have to look far for evidence. May we all find the courage to do something about it when it rises up in our faces.

Albert Lea resident David Rask Behling teaches at Waldorf College in Forest City, Iowa, and lives with his wife and children in Albert Lea. His column appears every other Tuesday.