Journey

Phyllis Armstrong called the meeting to order rapidly and succinctly, and her secretary sat in the room to take notes. She had left the Secret Service outside, and the members of the commission were sitting in a comfortable living room, with a large silver tray, with coffee and tea and a plate of cookies, on a handsome antique English table. She chatted with each person by name and looked around the room with a motherly expression. She had already told them about Maddy's brave editorial on Tuesday night, about Janet McCutchins, although several of them had heard it, and heartily approved of it.

“Do you know for a fact that she was abused?” one of the women asked her and Maddy hesitated before she answered.

“I'm not sure how to answer that. I believe she was, although I couldn't prove it in a court of law. It was hearsay. She told me.” Maddy turned to the First Lady with a questioning look. “I assume that what we say here is privileged and confidential.” It was often that way with Presidential commissions.

“Yes, it is,” Phyllis Armstrong reassured her.

“I believed her, although the first two people I told did not believe me. They were both men, one is my co-anchor on the show, the other is my husband, and both should know better.”

“We're here today, to discuss what we can do about the problem of crimes committed against women,” Mrs. Armstrong said as she opened the meeting. “Is it a question of legislation, addressing the public perception of abuse? How can we deal with this most effectively? And then, I'd like to see what we can do about it. I believe we all would.” Everyone around the room nodded. “I'd like to do something a little unusual today. I'd like each of us to say why we're here, either for professional reasons, or personal ones, if you feel comfortable talking about it. My secretary won't take notes, and if you don't want to speak, you don't have to. But I think it could be interesting for us,” and although she didn't say it, she knew it would form an instant bond between them. “I'm willing to go first, if you'd prefer it.” Everyone waited respectfully for her to speak, and she told them something none of them had known about her.

“My father was an alcoholic, and he beat my mother every weekend without fail, after he got paid on Friday. They were married for forty-nine years, until she finally died of cancer. His beating her was something of a ritual for all of us, I had three brothers and a sister. And we all accepted it as something inevitable like church on Sunday. I used to hide in my room so I wouldn't have to hear it, but I did anyway. And afterward, I would hear her sobbing in her bedroom. But she never left him, never stopped him, never hit him back. We all hated it, and when they were old enough, my brothers went out and got drunk themselves. One of them was abusive to his wife when he grew up, he was the oldest, my next brother was a teetotaler and became a minister, and my baby brother died an alcoholic at thirty. And no, I don't have a problem with alcohol myself, in case you're wondering. I don't like it much, and drink very little, and it hasn't been a problem for me. What has been a problem for me all my life is the idea, the reality, of women being abused all over the world, more often than not by their husbands, and no one doing anything about it. I've always promised myself I would get involved one day, and I'd like to do something, anything, to effect a change now. Every day, women are being mugged on the streets, sexually assaulted and harassed, date-raped, and beaten and killed by their partners and husbands, and for some reason, we accept it. We don't like it, we don't approve of it, we cry when we hear about it, particularly if we know the victim. But we don't stop it, we don't reach out and take the gun away, or the knife, or the hand, just as I never stopped my father. Maybe we don't know how, maybe we just don't care enough. But I think we do care. I think we just don't like to think about it. But I want people to start thinking, and to stand up and do something about it. I think it's time, it's long overdue. I want you to help me stop the violence against women, for my sake, for your sake, for my mother's sake, for our daughters and sisters and friends. I want to thank you all for being here, and for caring enough to help me.” There were tears in her eyes when she stopped talking, and for an instant, everyone stared at her. It was not an unusual story. But it made Phyllis Armstrong much more real to them.