THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, June 26, 1994 TAG: 9406250152
SECTION: HAMPTON ROADS WOMAN PAGE: 05 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY KATHY WILLIAMS, STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: 940626 LENGTH: Medium
``Louise is dead,'' said the familiar voice on the other end.
{REST} My heart stood still. Louise had taken my job at the newspaper in Texas when I moved to Virginia. We'd been good friends for three years, and I'd been so happy she was taking over. The community paper had meant a great deal to me. And I thought of the staff as family. With Louise taking over, it meant the staff and the paper would be in good hands.
She was a professional, intelligent woman who had lots of experience - and lots of patience.
I spent most of my lunch hours with Louise the last year I worked at the paper. But, looking back on our friendship, it occurs to me she rarely talked about her home life. Mostly she talked about work and listened to me talk about my husband.
I knew that Louise had moved to Texas from Louisiana. I knew her husband was an older man who worked in the press room at a large metropolitan paper. I knew she had a stepson who lived with them. But that's all I knew about their home life.
Sometimes Louise would call me in the evening just to chat. And just as quickly, she'd hang up the phone saying her husband had just come in and she needed to run.
After I moved to Virginia, we still talked about once a month. I was curious to know how things were going at the paper, and I still liked to keep up with all the community gossip.
Louise rarely mentioned her husband, but one night she did tell me he was under a lot of pressure. The newspaper he worked for was going out of business. For years, Dallas had been a two-newspaper town. But in the end, only one newspaper survived. Her husband worked for the other one.
Louise's salary alone would not sustain their lifestyle, she said. No telling what they would have to do. Their options were limited. They could move and try to find jobs, but Louise and her husband were not young. It would be difficult moving two careers again in the same industry.
Louise said she was plenty worried, but before hanging up she brightened, as always, and said maybe it wasn't really all that bad. Maybe she was just dwelling on the gloomy stuff. It would work out.
I wished her good luck, thought about what she'd said briefly, and went on with my life. I figured we'd talk again soon.
A few weeks later, the phone rang.
``I knew you'd want to know,'' the voice said. ``Apparently her husband shot her in the head during an argument about money. And apparently it wasn't the first time there had been violence in their home.''
A newspaper clipping of the killing arrived in my mailbox a week later.
Reading it somehow made it true.
Over the next few weeks, all of us who worked with Louise talked about what happened over and over again.
Had we all missed the signs of abuse? Or had there been any?
Obviously, Louise had worked very hard to keep her home life private. She'd never let on that anything was wrong. Never asked any of us for help.
Louise had just decided to endure.
Somehow it was a ``family matter'' even to the victim. by CNB