Singing Silence

By Lisa Grim

For fifteen years Cara Weaver has tried to follow the teachings of her husband. She's been an obedient, submissive, head-covering pastor's wife, but when the Reverend Weaver's abuse reaches the point where she can take no more, there's only one old friend left to help her escape home to the Ozark Mountains. And once she's there, she realizes that physical escape was the easiest part of her path to freedom. Warning: contains scenes of spousal abuse and rape.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Grim
• Release date: Aug 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781497748910

Book preview

Chapter 1

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It was one of those days when I felt less than human. My brown hair was frizzing in the wet spring air, and I couldn't keep it tucked under my tight headscarf. My denim jumper hung like wet laundry from the waist down, but the bodice was too tight and the buttons were straining in their holes. David would comment on that when I got back from the store. He would comment twice, actually: once about the immodesty of women wearing tight clothing, and once about the fact that I had gained another three pounds.

On top of everything, it was that time of the month, and my oversoaked pad was squishing between my legs as I walked the aisles of the Discount Emporium. Darn it. I'd have to finish my shopping quickly and head straight for the restroom. Pushing my cart down the feminine hygiene aisle, I looked away from the tampons. I'd only asked David once if I could buy tampons instead of pads. There was no need to risk that reaction again.

At the checkout counter, I tried to hide the small box under my groceries, wincing as the male clerk rang it up. Twenty-seven twenty-three, he said, not even glancing at me as he bagged my purchases. I gave him a fifty and he counted out the change automatically, moving on to the next customer before I could even pick up the bags. Scooting out of the way, I made sure the change was correct before tucking it in my purse. David always wanted to know exactly how much I had spent—and he always wanted the receipt to make sure I was telling the truth.

Hey, can I grab this? A tattooed man with beer on his breath came up to me and laid his hand on my shopping cart as I lifted my groceries. I jumped.

Certainly. Taking my bags, I fled to the restroom, away from the crashing noise of metal carts and the chatter of payday shoppers. Pushing open the door, I relaxed a little. It was warm in there, quiet, and lonely, with only one woman standing at the mirror. She was fixing her ponytail, and gave me a quick look and a half-smile as I came in.

I stood still, feeling old, tight, sickening jealousy in my chest when I looked at her. She was a goddess of fertility. Her oversized flannel shirt and maternity stretch jeans could not hide the ripe-melon breasts and the gracefully swollen stomach. Her hair caught the light, glowing with the radiance of pregnancy as she tossed it back. She smiled again, slipping by with a quick excuse me before disappearing through the exit.

Dropping my bags, I ducked into a stall and slammed the door before sinking onto the toilet. I sat still, resting my elbows on my knees and my forehead on my hands. My abdomen cramped; red blood dropped in the toilet bowl, swirling in dark spirals before turning the water pink.

Fifteen years, I thought, dropping one hand to slowly trace a yellow bruise above my knee. Fifteen years of having the same disappointment every month. Fifteen years, twelve times a year, like clockwork, telling David, I'm sorry, and watching his eyes go cold and his lips tight because I had failed again.

Why can't you get pregnant? he had asked me over and over. And then he would pray aloud for hours while I sat next to him on the sofa, burning with frustration, trying not to cry because my tears made it worse. Lord, you have called me to be your messenger to this evil world. Cleanse away whatever sin, whatever unfaithfulness, whatever disobedience, is keeping my wife from having children. You have called me to preach your Word: remove this shame from me and my house, and give me children, so that I may answer the reproaches of the Enemy. David was a godly man, a pastor, a minister of God, a man who prayed and fasted. It could not be his fault that I was infertile.

Why? I whispered to myself in the bathroom stall. My hands shook as I rolled up the bloody pad and crammed it into the little metal box on the wall. Why? Not even a miscarriage to keep my hope alive. Every married woman at Joyful Grace Fellowship had children except me, the pastor's wife. I was supposed to be a role model, but I was barely a satellite on the fringe of things because I was childless. Maybe, if I could get pregnant, they'd stop whispering about what secret sin in my life could be causing my infertility. Maybe somebody would call me for parenting advice, or for help with the next home birth. Maybe David would stop being so angry.

I was running water in the sink when my cellphone rang; drying off one hand on my dress, I dug into my deep side pocket and fumbled it out. Hello?

Cara. David had a deep, resonant voice; it was a good preacher's voice, but it made the speaker crackle on my worn-out phone. Where are you? It's almost time for service.

Staring in the mirror, I noticed how my jawline tightened when I heard my husband's voice. Did it always do that? And the mark between my eyebrows would be permanent if I kept pulling them together that way. The feeling of all my muscles tensing like a barbed-wire fence had become so ingrained I barely noticed it. I'm almost finished at the store, David, I said as I grabbed my bags and half-ran towards the exit, clutching my phone to my ear. I'll be there as soon as I can.

Cara. I knew that irritated inflection too well. Diving past the incoming shoppers, I picked up speed in the parking lot, even though it was slippery from rain. You're going to be late.

I know. The ankle-length hem of my dress sopped up the water that splashed off my shoes. I'm sorry, David. I'm on my way right now.

The phone clicked, and I squinted at the screen. He'd hung up on me. I tried to run faster towards the end of the lot where I had parked the Lexus. By the time I reached it, I was out of breath, chest heaving, buttons nearly ready to tear loose.

David loved his cars: if he let me drive the Lexus, I was expected to park as far away from other vehicles as possible, no matter if it was icy winter or smothering Arkansas summer. The first year we were married, I ran over a curb and bent the wheel on his pickup. He was so angry he wouldn't talk to me for a week, and I was always careful after that.

So my heart dropped when I saw a shopping cart jammed against the driver's door. Shit, I whispered, the forbidden word slipping past all my defenses as I pulled the cart away and saw the six-inch white streak where the silver paint had been scraped away. Shit, shit, shit.

Standing still, ignoring the light raindrops that were still falling, I looked out across the parking lot, following the treeline north to where the distant Ozark Mountains rolled away to the gray sky. For a second I indulged my fantasy: I could run away, leave everything, and flee to the safety of the hills where I was born. The oaks and cedars would wrap their blanket of green leaves around me the way they did when I was little, and I could forget the last decade and a half. The long, dark ridges against the sky called to me. They wanted me. They loved me. I was a part of them.

A cold wave of rain slapped me in the face, and I remembered that I was already late for church. Throwing the groceries in the passenger seat, I slid behind the wheel and pulled out of the parking lot, turning my back on the hills and heading south.

Joyful Grace Fellowship was only three miles out from the small town of Chandler, Arkansas: I hit the gas on the narrow road, passing several tractors headed home from spring planting. Driving one-handed, I twisted the radio dial. David didn't want me to listen to worldly music, but sometimes I couldn't help myself. It was one of the few things I had never been able to let go. There it was. Springsteen. I turned up the volume and almost closed my eyes, feeling the gnawing in my abdomen fade and the knot in my stomach loosen.

I knew all the words to every one of his songs, back when I was eighteen, the summer before I married David. Now hymns were all I sang, in church with my husband's eyes rebuking me for any mistake or off-key note. I felt tears bubbling up, but I pushed them back. It was long past time for tears.

The clock in the church foyer said 6:15 when I eased open the door and tiptoed inside. The congregation was singing Bind Us Together, Lord. Everybody was standing, which made it a little easier for me to sneak along the side aisle towards the front pew.

Halfway there, I realized that they were on the last chorus. When the music stopped and everybody sat down, I was caught, sticking out like a sore thumb, shoes clomping on the hardwood floor. They all looked: all eight sets of parents and thirty-six children, plus five single men and Mrs. Vernon, the elderly widow with Parkinson's and money. Feeling as exposed as if I had showed up in my underwear, I made a run for it and slid onto the bench, not daring to raise my eyes to look at David, who was announcing the text.

Tonight we will read from Ephesians, chapter 5, beginning at verse 22. He paused: I knew he was looking at me, and I didn't even have to peek at him. Jaw set, long nose hooking over the thin lips, blue eyes icy. Reaching up, I adjusted my headscarf, tucking my damp tangles under it more securely, feeling the Arctic glare going straight through my skull. I didn't want to look at him, but his will overpowered mine, drawing me upright while my fingers still searched nervously through my Bible.

He stared me down for a few seconds longer, holding my attention before he began to read. He was reciting, really, with eyes fixed on the back wall of the church, pale hands gripping the plain wooden pulpit. He knew this passage of Scripture by heart, and so did I, and I knew I was in trouble. The original selection for tonight had been in Genesis.

Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the savior of the body. Therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in every thing. Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church, and gave himself for it; that he might sanctify and cleanse it with the washing of water by the word, that he might present it to himself a glorious church, not having spot, or wrinkle, or any such thing, but that it should be holy and without blemish.

He stopped and closed his pulpit Bible. The click of the heavy cover almost echoed in the silence of the congregation. The grass withers, and the flower fades, but the Word of the Lord shall endure forever.

Amen, the men answered. The women, including myself, were silent as we bowed our heads. Women at Grace and Joy were not allowed to speak during church services, although we could sing: only the men could be speakers, leaders, or teachers.

Shifting on the oak pew, I turned just enough to catch Maureen Grayson's reproachful look from the other side of the room, and I quickly faced front again. My misbehavior would have repercussions for the rest of the women in church. It was always that way, because David liked to take out his anger on the female half of his congregation.

Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands. He rolled the words on his tongue, leaning forward over the pulpit, scanning every face. I slid my hands underneath the Bible in my lap and clenched my fingers together as he looked around, taking our measure. Eight-month-old Meribah Smith squeaked a little, raising her sleepy head, and David turned his eyes that way. Anna Smith hushed her youngest child quickly, head down, while her husband scowled at her.

Brethren, are your hearts open to receive the word of the Lord?

Amen, they responded again, in unison.

We have looked at this passage of Scripture before. David began speaking quietly, letting each word fall on us and reverberate, like dropping pennies into a well. We know that these words are not popular in this sinful world. Look at what the Lord says. He tells women to obey their husbands, to submit to them as if they were in the place of God. Where will you hear these things today, except in the Bible? Even the so-called churches have rejected the will of God as it is outlined here. They have become corrupt, like the world, allowing women all sorts of control and domination over men. Tonight I want to talk to you, brethren, about the dangers of letting women take authority into their own hands, and what we as husbands should be doing to encourage their submission and obedience.

He was staring at me, I knew, but I kept my head down this time. We have a serious responsibility to our wives. I have learned a lot in the years since I took a wife into my home. When I first got married, I was not sure of myself and my authority. Even though God had called me both as a pastor and as a husband, I hesitated to accept the full responsibility of either position. I was weak, a new Christian in many ways. But as I studied God's Word, I began to understand that my wife and I could only find true happiness by accepting our positions as outlined in Scripture. I came home to my wife one day and began to talk with her.

I looked down at my shoes, still wet from the rain. I imagined shiny red polish on my toes, wearing flip-flops, sitting on a rock ledge on an Ozark hillside. The breeze swirled against my body, and the warmth on my face was from the summer sun, not from creeping embarrassment. If I could hold this image in my mind, I could block out David's voice. Hold it, I thought, focusing and struggling to keep the bright blue sky and green trees in my inner eye. The picture became clearer and more real; I let my eyelids drop shut.

But David's voice cut through the rustling breeze all around me, breaking my peaceful world like glass. Men and brethren, our wives were created to help us. Eve was created to serve Adam. If our wives follow Eve's rebellion and refuse to help and serve us, we must bring this sin to their attention. Women are easily deceived, as it says in the Bible, and they can be led into believing that they are just doing harmless things for themselves when, in reality, they are denying the authority of their husbands. Little things! His tone was sharper, faster now, a needle jabbing at raw souls. Wearing clothing you don't approve of is a little thing. Cutting her hair instead of keeping it long is a little thing. Wearing makeup is a little thing. That's what your wives are telling themselves.

I curled and uncurled my fingers, looking at their rough nails. It had been so long since I had had a manicure, and I imagined them painted like my toes, with a beautiful red polish that looked good enough to eat. It was such a bright red: brighter and more delicious than the strawberries at Stilwell's U-Pick in Harrison. All my senses focused in on that color as I shut out the words that made me want to scream.

Are your wives doing any of these 'little things,' men? Are they doing things that you don't like, or that you don't approve of? Has it gone on so long that you barely notice it anymore? Be alert. Don't let her reject your authority. Anything can be used against you. Even gaining weight can be a denial of your authority over her body. She's not keeping herself attractive for you. She's setting you up for temptation, for lusting after other women.

The lovely red color crumbled away from my brain, leaving only black. The room was spinning and falling at the same time, so fast that it crushed my chest. I couldn't breathe: I fought against the pressure, but it intensified with every word he said. My eyes were open, and I could see David in the pulpit, but now I couldn't focus or understand what I was hearing. He wavered in my vision, doubling and undoubling as I slowly reached one hand to my chest. I was suffocating.

I knew this feeling; I had felt it before, many times. It would go away soon. Bowing my head, I mouthed the words, I am Cara Weaver. I am at church. I know where I am. Everything will be ok. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I sucked air in and pushed it out slowly, waiting. Sometimes I could bring myself back into reality within a minute after this little ritual.

This time, though, it wasn't working. My hands went numb, and I felt totally disembodied. Who was Cara? It must be that thirty-something woman sitting in the front pew, looking frozen and sick. All the other people didn't notice: they were just sitting there, eyes wide, Amens at the ready, swallowing every word down whole.

David was shouting now, and the words bounced up and down, off the walls and the ceiling, thundering in the small sanctuary. Around every person I could see colored lights like flames, and all the flames were being sucked towards David like stars towards a black hole.

I snapped back into reality with no effort on my part: it just happened. Thank goodness nobody seemed to have noticed my temporary break. These episodes were happening more and more often, and they were getting harder to hide. David was still preaching, and everybody appeared to be listening to him and not looking at me. My dress was damp with sweat under the armpits and my hands were shaking, but I could breathe again and I knew who I was.

Not that knowing who I was made me feel much better. Fifteen years the wife of a pastor, and I still wasn't doing it right. If half of what David said was true, I was going to hell in a handbasket.

"Look at the immorality of the world! Look at the degeneration of the human race! Sex has become recreation, not a way to conceive children. Men have become like beasts, committing unmentionable acts with each other, and women have done the same. Gays and lesbians are in the highest places of government, walking around proudly, laughing at the commandments of God. There is no order, only anarchy. Women forget that their place