A Better Man

“If they want help, we arrange to meet them,” she continued. “And bring them to a shelter.”

“But still,” said Beauvoir, “must be hard in a small community to keep that secret. Neighbors and all.”

“It is. How did she die?”

“Pushed off a bridge into a river in flood. She either drowned or was battered against the rocks. She was pregnant.”

Simone Fleury raised her head so that she was looking down her long nose at Beauvoir.

He realized he was being brutal. Stating the facts as though they were just words. Matching her own matter-of-fact tone. Beside him, he heard Gamache take a deep breath of disapproval.

He pulled himself back in. “It’s a terrible thing.”

There was a pause, until through those thin lips came one word: “Yes.”

She turned to Gamache. “Her husband, of course, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

“He’s a suspect, oui.”

“If you have any trouble convicting him, just send him over to the shelter. We’ll take care of him.”

“Merci,” said Gamache. “We might have trouble.”

Barely under her breath, as she squeezed her tea bag, Madame Fleury muttered, “Cops.”

“If an abuser does show up at a shelter,” said Beauvoir, “what do you do?”

“Invite him in for tea and petits fours. What do you think we do?”

Is it true, is it kind, does it need to be said? Beauvoir held his tongue. Barely.

“You call the cops,” he finally said, through his own thin lips.

“Yeah, right. And wait the twenty minutes until they move their fat asses?”

“That’s not true,” said Gamache.

“Okay, that might be true, but not fast enough. Never fast enough when the guy’s pounding on the door.”

“So what do you do?” Beauvoir persisted.

“We take care of it.”

“How? Do you have a gun?”

“Are you kidding? Do I look crazy?”

Gamache cleared his throat in a warning to Beauvoir not to answer that.

“Believe me,” Madame Fleury continued, “those of us who managed to escape won’t put up with that bullshit ever again. No one gets through the front door. No one touches any of those women. Never. Ever.”

“Us?” asked Beauvoir. “You?”

“You don’t think I do this out of the goodness of my heart?”

Beauvoir did not think that.

“Listen, Chief.” She almost spit the word out. “Doctors go home and beat their wives. Lawyers. Cops. There’s a huge instance of abuse from cops.” She glared at him in what he realized, with some shock, was a warning. Maybe even an accusation.

“My father was a judge,” she continued, “and inside our big old house in our respectable neighborhood, he beat us kids. And worse. I married a banker at eighteen, to get away, and guess what? He beat me, too. Then he’d bring me flowers and jewelry and he’d cry. He’d sob and say how sorry he was. And that he’d be a better husband. He’d never do it again. And you know what?” Her eyes opened wide as she stared at Beauvoir. “I believed him. Because I wanted to. Because I had to. I put on the beautiful silk scarf he brought me, to hide the bruises, and went to the country club for lunch.”

She let that sink in.

“Without realizing it, we go to what’s familiar. When I finally told my best friend, she didn’t believe me. No one did. They didn’t want to know. There was only one shelter here at the time. Overflowing. But they took me in and gave me a mattress on the floor. I slept on it for three months. First time in my life I felt safe. You know why it’s safe? Not because the cops protect us but because we look after ourselves. We make sure it is.”

“‘We’ the workers?”

“‘We’ every woman there. You asked if we have a weapon? We do. And you gave it to us, with every blow. Every bruise. Every broken bone. It’s the toy at the bottom of the cereal box.” She clunked her mug down on the table so hard that tea shot out the top and other patrons looked over.

“Rage,” said Beauvoir.

“Baseball bats,” said Madame Fleury. “Next time you see a group of women in a park practicing their swings, you think about that.”

She wiped up the spilled tea with a thin paper napkin, then pointed to the words Gamache had just written in his notebook. “What you just wrote is true, but no excuse. Cycle of abuse. My husband was beaten by his father. He saw his mother hit. But he was an adult when he hit me, and responsible for his own actions. They all are. After a beating they feel horrible and buy presents and promise to be better men, but they don’t change. They don’t grow up. They remain out-of-control children in a man’s body.”

“Simone,” said Gamache, “a bag was found on the side of the river with some of her belongings in it, but it was a strange assortment. Summer clothing. Medication she probably didn’t need anymore.”

“So?”

“We’re wondering if she packed it herself.”

Madame Fleury considered. “Might’ve, in a panic. Some women leave suddenly, just take off. But most have thought about it for a while. They have a bag packed and hidden, ready to grab. I had one packed for almost a year before I got up the courage to leave.”