FAITH MdMCT

The

THE TRUE STORY

or francine hughes-
a bewen wife
who rebelled
 The Burning Bed
ranHMcNUOT
I olice in a small Michigan town were
startled when a young woman, her
children with her, drove to the jail to
surrender. "I did it!...l did it!" she
screamed, and told them she had set fire
to the bedroom in which her husband
slept-then fled, leaving him to die in
flames.
Her name was francine Hughes. This is
the story, exactly as it happened, of her
crime.
What forced this "ordinary" housewife
to kill? What could justify such a horrify-
ing act? This remarkable book reveals
the helplessness of a woman trapped in
an intolerable marriage; how she be-
came the virtual prisoner of an ever more
abusive and terrifying man.
At twenty-nine Francine had endured
thirteen years with Mickey Hughes dur-
ing which youthful romance and ideal-
ism turned to disillusion and daily fear-
then escalated to terror as each
outbreak of Mickey's violence brought
her closer to death. Flight was impossi-
ble unless she abandoned her beloved
children. This, she refused to do. Police,
the courts, and social agencies blandly
turned aside her pleas for help. "Every
door was closed. Every time I failed I
sank lower. Every day Mickey was coming
closer to killing me. It was like living with
a bomb-waiting for it to explode."
After Mickey's death, the forces of law
that had ignored Francine's predicament
went into high gear. She was tried for
first degree murder and faced a lifetime
in prison.
Faith McNulty, a Hew Yorker magazine
writer known for her perceptive report-
ing, has explored every aspect of Fran-
cine's ordeal. Francine tells in her own
words what occurred the day of the
murder-how Mickey forced her to ulti-
mate degradation and then fell asleep.

(Continued on back flap)

Book Club
Edition
 Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2010

http://www.archive.org/details/burningbedOOmcnu
The Burning Bed
by Faith McNulty
 The
Burning
Bed

Harcourt Brace Jovanovich

New York and London

©
Copyright © 1980 by Faith McNulty and Francine Hughes

All rights reserved. No part of this publicationmay be re-

produced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording,
or any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.

Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the

work should be mailed to: Permissions, Harcourt Brace
Jovanovich, Inc., 757 Third Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10017

Excerpts from "Wife-Beating: A Psycho-Legal Analysis"

by Dolores J. Trent, Women Lawyers Journal, copyright
© !979 by Dolores J. Trent, are reprinted by permission of
the author and publisher.

Printed in the United States of America

To Peggy Brooks
 Contents

The Crime
i

Beginning
2,7

Trying
59

The Accident
109

Dansville
117

No Exit
147

The Burning Bed

181

Ingham County Jail

201

The People vs. Francine Hughes

233

Epilogue
299
 Author's Note

Francine Hughes was charged with the death by fire of her hus-
band, Mickey Hughes, in 1977. Had it occurred a decade earlier,
the facts underlying the crime would probably never have been
widely known, but in the seventies there was a new willingness to
listen to a story such as hers. By the time she went to trial her case
had become a cause celebre.
The Hughes case is a classic example of chronic marital violence,
and for this reason Mrs. Hughes agreed that her story should be-
come a book. I read records of her trial and talked to many of the
people concerned. Mrs. Hughes wrote down her recollections and
discussed them with me over many hours. We agreed that in telling
her story, truth is of the essence. Nothing fictional has been added.
There is, of course, something missing. No one can speak for the
man who was her partner in tragedy. What he thought and felt can
never be known. As I wrote I had a further frustration. I found that

what Francine Hughes experienced is, in the fullest sense, inde-

scribable. At times she would say, "There just aren't any words to
tell you how I felt." Nonetheless, I believed that I understood. I

hope the reader will feel the same.

-F. McN.
The Burning Bed
 The Crime
EX-WIFE HELD IN FIERY DEATH
—Lansing State Journal
March 25, 1977

"As far as I'm concerned . . . this is a typical murder case. There is

nothing unusual about it."

—PETER HOUK
Chief Prosecutor, Ingham County, Michigan

"The best personal advice I could have given Mrs. Hughes is that,
while I don't know the answer, the alternative is not to commit
murder."

—LEE ATKINSON
Assistant Prosecutor, Ingham County, Michigan

"Family violence is a common problem and a critical one every-

where in the United States. It occurs at all income levels and
among all sorts of people. What happened in Dansville could have
happened anywhere. There was a pattern of continuous trouble at
the Hughes' residence over quite a few years. These episodes be-
came progressively worse. This is not unusual. In my experience
these situations between husband and wife end in one of two ways:
the parties divorce and get out, or it will terminate in death."

—KENNETH PREADMORE
Sheriff of Ingham County, Michigan
2 The Burning Bed
Testimony of Sergeant Edward Nye of the Ingham County
SheriffDepartment at the trial of Francine Hughes in Ingham
County Circuit Court, Lansing, Michigan, October 25, 1977.

Questions are by court-appointed Defense Attorney Aryon

Greydanus.

q. What is your profession, sir?

a. I am a police officer.
q. What department?
a. Ingham County Sheriff Department.
q. How long have you been so employed?
a. Ten years.
Q. Were you on duty, sir, on the evening of March the ninth, 1977?
a. I was.
q. Had you been on duty earlier in the day, sir, when there was a
domestic call to an address on Grove Street, Dansville?
a. Yes, I was.
q. Were any arrests made at that time?
a. No.
Q. Have you been involved in responding to domestic calls yourself,
Mr. Nye?
a. Yes, I have.
q. On how many occasions, would you estimate?
a. Numerous times. I have been on hundreds of them.
q. Hundreds?
a. Yes. Hundreds.
Q. Is it true that the police have problems dealing with domestic
situations?
a. There is not much you can do.

q. Not much you can do? Do you sometimes take one of those per-
sons to jail when you find the situation to be aggravated?
a. Not unless there is an assault.
Q. An assault?
a. An assault that takes place in your presence— while the police
is on the scene.
officer

q. So the only time that you will take one of those persons to jail is
when you actually see them hitting someone else in your pres-
ence?
a. That is correct.
 The Crime 3

q. What about if you found someone who was badly beaten by

someone else but didn't actually see that other person strike
them? Would you take them away?
a. No.
q. What you heard someone threaten to kill someone else? If you
if

heard him say that he would kill her as soon as you, the police,
left the scene, would you take them to jail then?

a. No.
Mr. Greydanus: That's all I have. Thank you, officer.

From the testimony of the defendant, Francine Hughes:

Francine Hughes: Well, I don't know how it started or anything,

but he began hitting me. The kids were outside. He told them to
stay out. I remember he was pulling my hair and he was hitting me
with his fist and he had hit me on the mouth and my lip was bleed-
ing. . Then I got away from him and ran around the dining-
. .

room table. He picked up some stuff and threw it at me and hit me

on the ankle. I think it was a glass bird.
Defense Attorney Aryon Greydanus: Did you try to get help?
Francine Hughes: I yelled to my daughter, Christy, to call the
police because I was afraid. . . . Before the police came he ripped
up all my They were schoolbooks from the classes that
schoolbooks.
I He ripped them up and threw
took at Lansing Business College.
them all over the living room. Then he made me pick them up. He
made me burn them. He made me put them in the burning barrel
where we burn our trash and burn them up. Then he said he was
going to take the sledgehammer to my car, smash up my car so that
I wouldn't be able to drive to school any more. About that time he

realized the police were going to come. He went in the living room
and sat down.
Aryon Greydanus: The police hadn't been able to do anything for
you in the past; isn't that correct?
Francine Hughes: What they could do, they did. Their hands were
tied. . . .

Aryon Greydanus: What happened after the police left, Francine?

Francine Hughes: The kids were at the front door hollering they
were hungry. And they were cold. I let the kids in. I just tried to
4 The Burning Bed
stay quiet. Move Not say anything. Walking on eggs, be-
quietly.
cause I didn't want him up again. I had the kids wash and
to start
we sat down to eat. None of us had eaten all day. I remember the
salt on the food stinging my split lip where he'd hit me. The kids
were trying to be quiet and I was trying to be quiet. Then Mickey
came into the kitchen. He got a beer from the freezer and started
yelling at me all over again. He pounded the table and the kids'
milk spilled. It was dripping on the floor. The kids jumped up and
started crying. Mickey made the kids go upstairs. Then he picked
up the plates and dumped all the food on the floor. [Witness is
crying.]

Aryon Greydanus: What did Mickey say after he dumped the food
on the floor?
Francine Hughes: He said, "Now pick it up!"

Aryon Greydanus: Did he say it just that way, Francine?

Francine Hughes: No. No. He cursed me and said, "Now clean it
up, bitch!" So I started to clean it up. He went into the bathroom.
While he was in there I got it all cleaned up— broken glass, food,
milk. Mickey came back and asked, "Do you have it all cleaned
up?" I said, "Yes." So he took the garbage can and dumped all the
stuff back on the floor again and he said, "Now, bitch, clean it up
again." I got down on the floor to start picking up again. I was cry-
ing. I don't remember what he was saying, but he took a handful of
food and started smearing it on me, on my back, smearing it into
my hair, and yelling things at me, saying, "If you think things were
bad before, they are going to be worse now." Then he was hitting
me again and I backed into a corner. I crouched down and covered
my head with my hands. Finally he quit and I just sat there.
Aryon Greydanus What did Mickey say
: to you while you sat there
crouched in the corner?
Francine Hughes: He said he was going to the bedroom with his
beer to watch TV and he wanted me to fix something to eat and
bring it to him.

Aryon Greydanus: He went into his bedroom and then what did
you do?
Francine Hughes: I fixed him something to eat.
 The Crime 5

Aryon Greydanus: What happened next?

Francine Hughes: He finished eating. He hollered for me to come
into the bedroom.
Aryon Greydanus: Did you go into the bedroom?
Francine Hughes: Yes.

Aryon Greydanus: And when you came in what did he say?

Francine Hughes: He said, "How about a little?"

Aryon Greydanus: What did that mean?

Francine Hughes: He wanted to have sex.

Aryon Greydanus: Did you have sex?

Francine Hughes: If I refused I knew he would start again. . . .

Aryon Greydanus: How did you feel?

Francine Hughes: I felt awful.

Aryon Greydanus: What happened after that, Francine?

Francine Hughes: I got dressed and told the kids they could come
downstairs now; that their dad was asleep. They said they weren't
hungry anymore so we sat together in the living room and watched
TV. During that time I was thinking about all the things that had
happened to me my whole life ... all the things he had done
. . .

to me ... all the times he had hurt me how he had hurt the . . .

kids.

Aryon Greydanus: What did you decide to do?

Francine Hughes : I decided that the only thing for me to do was to

just get in the car and drive. . . . Just go. And not let anyone know
where I was at. Just leave everything and never, never turn back.

Supplemental Crime Report March 9, 1977

by Jeffrey J. Simons, Gate Guard
Ingham County Sheriff Department
At approximately 2046 hours, one lady, with kids, arrived in a blue
Ford Granada, Lie. #PVY-9g2. She was hysterical. Said she
thought she murdered someone. I phoned the desk for assistance
and returned to the vehicle, when she then said that she set the
6 The Burning Bed
house on fire and her husband was sleeping in the bedroom. I then

phoned dispatch and advised of a possible fire in Dansville on

Grove Street. Assistance then arrived at the gate.

The Ingham County Sheriff Department is on the outskirts of

Mason, Michigan, a small town and county seat near the center of
the state. Sheriff Kenneth Preadmore commands a large, well-
equipped force of deputies who provide police service throughout
Ingham County. Their beat is a wide area of farmland and scat-
tered towns. Like other modern police forces, the Ingham County
deputies deal with every manner of accident and emergency as well
as crimes that range from petty offenses to murder. They dispense
law and order at the most basic level. Their headquarters is a large,
flat-roofed building that also houses the county jail. The building
and its parking lot are enclosed by a high, wire-mesh fence and
there is always a guard on duty at the entrance.
At 8:46 on the evening of March 9, 1977, Sergeant Edward Nye
had just come into the lobby of the jail when the telephone opera-
tor, Patricia Moore, told him to get out to the gate shack quick; Jeff

Simons needed help with a hysterical woman. As soon as Nye left

the lobby he could hear the sound of sobbing, loud enough to carry
across the parking lot. A light blue Ford sedan, lights on and engine
running, stood in the driveway. As he reached it he could see by
the glare of the lights from the parking lot that the driver was a
woman. Her face was buried in her hands, her body jerking convul-
sively. Beside her in the front seat was a young perhaps twelve
girl,

years old. Nye glanced in the back and saw the white faces of two
younger children.
Nye turned to Simons and asked what was going on. Simons told
him that so far he'd been unable to find out what the problem was.
Nye leaned into the car. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Can we help
you?"
The woman took her hands from her face and gripped the wheel.
Nye noticed her knuckles whiten as she struggled to speak. But she
only sobbed more loudly. The child in the front seat spoke. "He's
been beating my mother for years," she said.
"Who has?" Nye asked.
 The Crime 7

"Her husband," the girl replied.

Suddenly the woman forced out words. "I did it! I did it! I did
it!" she cried out, ending with a strangled scream.

"Did what?" Nye asked.

"He was sleeping and I set the bedroom on fire."
"You mean it's burning now?"
She answered, "Yes," and buried her face in her hands.
Lieutenant Albert Janutola, the deputy in charge of the desk that
evening, heard himself paged and hurried out to the gate, accompa-
nied by Deputy Jerry Hidecker. Janutola reached the car in time to
hear the girl in the front seat say something about her mother being
beaten. It crossed his mind that the woman had come to the police
seeking help. Then he heard her say, "I did it! I did it! I did it!"
and tell Nye she had set a fire. Janutola took over the questioning
and asked the woman if she was sure her husband had been asleep.
She said, "Yes."
The car's engine was running, and the automatic shift in Drive.
The car inched forward as the woman's foot slipped spasmodically
on the brake. Janutola pulled open the door and leaned in to shut
off the ignition. As he did so the woman pressed something into his

hand. It was a screw cap— the top of a container. Janutola got a

whiff of a familiar odor and brought the cap to his nose. The smell
was gasoline.
"Did you throw gas on him?" Janutola asked.
"No," the woman sobbed. "I threw it around the bed."
The girl in the passenger's seat broke in, begging to use the
phone. She explained that her little brother, Dana, was at the house
of a neighbor. She wanted to call her grandmother and tell her to
look for the boy. "If he comes home and sees the house on fire," the
girl said, "he might go crazy and try to go inside."

Janutola told the woman and children to get out of the car. He
gripped the woman's arm and led her across the parking lot. "Oh
God, he must be burning," she sobbed as they entered the lobby of
the jail. She blinked helplessly in the bright lights. Janutola saw
that she was young, of medium height, wearing black slacks, a
turtleneck sweater, and loafers but no stockings. In spite of her
matted hair, reddened eyes, and haggard face, Janutola noticed
that she was "Not all that bad looking." As the woman stood, trying
to control her sobs, Janutola sized her up with a practiced eye,
8 The Burning Bed
unclouded by sympathy. Thirteen years as a police officer had long
since dried up compassion for the perpetrators of violent crimes
and the woman's admission of arson had quickly transformed her in
his mind from victim to criminal.
Janutola told the children to sit down on a bench in the lobby
and they silently obeyed. The eldest, who had done the talking,
was a pretty girl with curly brown hair. Her brother, a little
younger,was a thin boy in horn-rimmed glasses who looked
terrified. A bewildered of about six clung to his hand. She
little girl

cried out in protest as her mother disappeared, escorted by detec-

tives down a corridor.

Within moments of the arrival of the blue Ford and Gate Guard
Simons' call, the dispatcher at the Sheriff Department had gotten in
touch, by radio, with a police car cruising near the scene of the re-
ported fire. Deputies Bruce Havens and Richard McDowell were
on the where they had just finished writing
outskirts of Dansville,
up a traffic violation, when they received the order to investigate a
fire on Grove Street in Dansville. Two or three minutes later they

drew up before a modest white frame house surrounded by a

grassy yard. At the rear of the house a red glow lit up the darkness
and illuminated clouds of dense, dark smoke billowing from a sin-
gle-story ell. Havens called in a fire alarm and jumped out to join
McDowell in the yard, where he was coping with two hysterical
people— a tall middle-aged woman and a smaller man. "Both sub-
jects seemed to be extremely emotionally upset," Havens later
wrote, in the dispassionate prose of his crime report. "They advised
us there were people inside the building and insisted we go in im-
mediately to get them out." Havens went back to the car and told
the dispatcher that there might be "subjects" inside the building;
he and McDowell would try to go in.
Havens followed McDowell through the door of a glassed-in
porch at the front of the house. They opened the inner door into
the house and encountered a wall of seething, acrid smoke. McDow-
ell, who had been a fireman before becoming a police officer,

noted that the smoke came within six inches of the floor. He told
Havens there was no possibility of making it into the building with-
out protective equipment. He slammed the door and the two men
returned to the yard.
 The Crime 9

Now Havens and McDowell had their hands full with the two
"subjects." The woman screamed that her son and possibly her
grandchildren were in the house and that if the officers were too
cowardly to save them she would go in herself. She ran toward the
rear of the building. Havens followed and grabbed her, telling her
it would be suicidal to go in the house. She twisted and fought in

his grasp, screeching that he was not doing his job.

Meanwhile, the other "subject" had run to the front of the house
and was struggling to open the front door. As McDowell reached
him, the man smashed a pane of glass in the door. Air rushed into
the building, feeding the flames. The windows of the room behind
the porch, where the fire was centered, glowed with brilliant light as
flames shot to the ceiling. McDowell caught the cursing, sobbing
man and wrestled him away from the door. He
in a practiced grip
ordered him not to try again. Now more people had appeared in
the yard. Havens ran to the police car, picked up the mike, and
called for reinforcements.
Fortunately, at that moment, fireand cars rolled up— both
trucks
the Dansville Fire Department and the Ingham County Fire De-
partment had responded— and firemen swarmed out, pushing back
the crowd of bystanders and unloading equipment. They pulled
their hoses to the rear of the house, pouring water through the win-
dows into the burning room.
As John Fairbank, a volunteer with the Ingham County Fire De-
partment, drove up in a tanker truck, he could see flames shooting
out of the lower windows at the back of the house. He jumped out
of the cab. A sherifFs deputy ran up to him and told him there
might be children trapped on the upper floor. A bizarre recollection
flashed across Fairbank's mind. He had been in this house before.
At Christmas time, playing Santa for the Lions' Club's festivities, he
had visited neighborhood homes in which there were children, this
house among them. While Fairbank strapped on a Scott Air Pack,
he tried to recall the layout of the house. At that moment, a dis-
traught young man rushed over, told Fairbank he was a member of
the family and described the way to find the stairs to the upper
bedrooms where the children might be.
Inside the house Fairbank found himself enveloped in smoke so
dense it seemed as though his eyes were closed. He turned left,
touched a wall with his groping hand, and followed it until he
io The Burning Bed
touched a stair rail. He mounted a few steps and felt fiery heat pen-
etrating his clothes. The blackness above was total. He turned and
groped his way back to the outdoors. Then, unwilling to give up, he
looked about for someone to help with a lifeline. All the firemen
were busy at the rear, so Fairbank plunged into the scorching dark-
ness within the house a second time, and again was driven back.
He made a third try, using a new strategy: crawling on the floor
and cutting straight across the living room to save time on the way
to the stairs.
was so smoky you couldn't see the floor," he later testified. "I
"It
started up what I now knew was the stairs to the second floor. In
the excitement I hadn't put on my gloves or my helmet. I kept going
up the stairs until the heat was burning my ears and the top of my
head and my hands. I couldn't go any further. I had to come down.
I was down in the living room again and I heard somebody call me.

It was Fire Chief Don Gailey who yelled, 1 think we have some-

thing over here.' I crawled to where his voice came from. We did
have something. There was a man lying on the floor. I'd missed him
when I came through. It was still very smoky, I couldn't see, but I
could feel him. He was naked. Gailey was beside me. We hollered
to the paramedics, but it was too smoky for them to come in, so we
grabbed the victim to pull him out onto the porch. When I took
hold of his ankles the skin came off in my hands. We went outside
and got a rope. With that we were able to pull him out onto the
porch."
By was finished, the firemen had extinguished
the time this task
the flames in the bedroom and the heat inside the house had sub-
sided to the point where Fairbank was at last able to go up the
stairs. The upper bedrooms, though filled with smoke, had not been

burned. He made a quick search and to his relief found no one

there.
Meanwhile Deputy McDowell, who was a paramedic as well as a
policeman, had gone into the glassed-in porch and knelt beside the
body Mickey Hughes. He checked for vital signs, pulse, respira-
of
tion, orpupil response, and found none. He came out and told
Deputy Havens the victim was dead. Havens informed the dis-
patcher at the Sheriff Department that the ambulance could slow
down; a detective should be sent to the scene.
Donovan Hughes, twenty-seven, youngest brother of Mickey
 The Crime 11

Hughes, lived a few blocks from and brother. Earlier in

his parents
the day his father, Berlin Hughes, had telephoned Donovan to say
that one of Mickey's children had come over and used the tele-
phone to call the police because Mickey and Francine were
fighting. Berlin told Donovan there were two police cars in front of
Mickey's house right then.
"I'm not gonna bother with it," Donovan had told his father.
"The police can take care of it. I'm just gonna stay away and not
get involved." He hung up. That evening, after dark, the telephone
rang again. It was his mother, Flossie Hughes. Crying hysterically,
she told Donovan that Mickey's house was on fire and Mickey was
in it.

Donovan dashed out of his house and ran to Adams Street. His
parents' home occupied on Grove Street was
the corner; next to it

the house in which Mickey and Francine lived. Donovan found the
area jammed with police cars, fire engines, and spectators. Search-
lights lit the scene and tinted huge clouds of smoke. Donovan
sprinted across his parents' yard to the burning house. For a mo-
ment he stood dazedly among the spectators; then, seeing a fireman
preparing to go in the house, he ran to him and explained the
layout of the rooms. He heard a woman scream and turned to see a
policeman holding his mother pinned against the side of the ga-
rage. She was fighting and struggling in his grasp. Donovan ran to
them. "It's my mom," he told the deputy. "I'll take care of her."

The policeman let her go. Moments later Berlin Hughes, the other
"subject," gray-faced with shock, ran to his wife and son. "They
found Mickey," he gasped. "Dead. He's laying on the porch. And
she did it. The cops got her at the jail right now. Fran burned him

alive!" He covered his face and leaned, shuddering, against the

wall.
Lawrence Hughes, another son, who had reached the scene a few
minutes after Donovan, joined them. He had just seen his brother's
body. Tears were streaming down his face. Donovan said, "We bet-
ter take Mom
and Dad inside." Flossie Hughes was moaning,
"Don't them do an autopsy on him. Please!" The two young men
let

led their parents into their house, where Berlin collapsed sobbing
across the kitchen table while Lawrence called a doctor. Then the
brothers telephoned the other Hughes sons, Dexter and Marlin,
12 The Burning Bed

who were out of the state, to tell them of the incredible tragedy
that had befallen the family.

When the woman, now known

be Francine Hughes, had been
to
brought into the lobby of the with her children, Lieutenant
jail

Janutola and Detective Richard Fitzgerald led her to an empty

office in the detective department. Seated in a straight chair beside
a metal desk, she pressed her hands over her mouth as she strug-
gled for control. From time managed a few words be-
to time she
tween sobs. "Have they found him yet?" she asked. "Oh God, is he
dead? Have they found him?" She raised her head, and looked at
the men staring down at her— more deputies had come into the
room by now— but no one answered. Then she asked about her
fourth child— a boy named Dana. Crying harder, she tried to ex-
plain. "I couldn't wait ... I tried ... we waited and waited . . .

where is he? Will somebody try to find him?"

Janutola told one of the men to get in touch with Sergeant Nye,
who had by now arrived at the scene of the fire, and instructed him
to look for the missing boy. Also, because it is considered desirable
to have a woman present when a female suspect is questioned,
Janutola sent for the telephone operator. Patricia Moore offered
Mrs. Hughes coffee, which she refused, and urged her to pull her-
self together and tell them exactly what had occurred.
While the officers waited for the woman to calm down, a deputy
took Detective Fitzgerald aside and quietly informed him of events
at the scene of the fire. Sergeant Nye had called in to report that

the was under control and a body had been found in the
fire

burned-out bedroom on the ground floor. It was almost certainly

the Hughes man, but he hadn't yet been positively identified. Fitz-
gerald left the room and called Lieutenant Harry Tift, head of the
department's homicide squad. He told him that a homicide had oc-
curred and the suspect was in custody. Then he picked up a
Miranda Rights form and returned to Mrs. Hughes. He asked if she
would be able to understand it. She nodded and he read it aloud,
pausing after each paragraph to ask if she had fully understood.
Each time she said yes and when he finished, she obediently signed
her name. Lieutenant Tift arrived and took over. It would be his
task to ascertain exactly what had occurred and to gather evidence
 The Crime 13

to support the criminal charge that would later be brought against

Francine Hughes.

Tift, a small, sharp-featured man in his late fifties, regarded the

suspect with no more sympathy than Janutola had felt. In his expe-
rience it is not uncommon for murderers, especially females, to
show emotional disturbance immediately after the crime. He asked
Francine Hughes to tell him what she had done. Instead, she began
to pour out a story of being beaten, food thrown on the floor, gar-
bage rubbed in her hair; of being afraid she would be killed. One
of the deputies interrupted to tell Tift that there had been a "do-
mestic disturbance" at the Hughes home earlier in the day. On
checking the records it had been discovered that there had been a
call from one of the Hughes children; two officers had gone to the
house and restored calm without making an arrest. Tift nodded. He
himself recalled the name Hughes and that the man had a record of
violence and minor law-breaking.
As she told her story Mrs. Hughes referred to Mickey Hughes as
her ex-husband. Tift asked her whether they were married. She ex-
plained that she had gotten a divorce six years before, but that they
had continued to live together.
"Has he been beating you all that time?" Tift asked.
"Yes."
"Why didn't you throw him out?"
"I couldn't. He
wouldn't go."
Tift shrugged and turned to other questions. He and the officers
who were listening heard the woman's account of what had hap-
pened that afternoon without surprise. The details struck them as a
bit more extreme and disgusting than in the average wife-beating
case, but in other respects quite ordinary. Nevertheless, they lis-
tened attentively to the story the woman struggled to tell because
what had happened that day was important as evidence; the beat-
ing provided a motive for the crime of murder.
Part way through her story Mrs. Hughes asked if she could go to
the bathroom. Pat Moore took her by the arm and led her out into
the corridor, where the woman caught sight of her children, still sit-
ting in the lobby, and tried to run to them. Pat Moore grasped her
arm and pulled her away. "Don't, it will just make things worse,"
she said, and steered her down the hall. When they reached the
14 The Burning Bed
restroom they found the door locked. The two women stood wait-
ing while a deputy fetched a key. Pat Moore took care to recall ev-
erything that the suspect said. Any utterance by Mrs. Hughes was
now potentially useful as evidence against her. In a report Pat
Moore wrote:
"While we were waiting for the key the suspect stated, 'He must
be dead! My God, what have I done!' The suspect kept trying to
hold back her crying, but every once in a while a little cry would
come out. I told her to think of her kids and try to calm down. She
said, 'Oh my God, my kids! Now they'll have nobody! I have de-
stroyed their lives!'"
A
deputy brought the key. In the restroom Mrs. Hughes washed
her hands and Pat Moore noted that after washing them she
brought them to her face as though smelling them, then washed
them again and smelled them Moore as possible
again. It struck Pat
evidence that the suspect was trying to wash away a telltale odor
reminding her of her guilt.

When Pat Moore brought Mrs. Hughes back to the detective

room she was more composed and answered Tift's questions co-
herently. A
deputy interrupted Tift to tell Mrs. Hughes that her
son, Dana, had been found. A neighbor was bringing him to the
jail. Mrs. Hughes said, "Thank God," then asked if she could tele-

phone her mother and ask her to come and get the children. Tift
said she could and Pat Moore took her to a phone in another room.
At the end of the call Mrs. Hughes asked if she would be allowed
to speak to her mother when she arrived. She was told she could
not. She handed her purse to Pat Moore, saying, "Please give this
to Mom. She'll need it for the kids." Pat Moore gave the purse to
the desk man, and brought Mrs. Hughes back for further question-
ing by Tift.
In the hour since Mrs. Hughes had surrendered, the detective
room had become a busy place. Phones were ringing and deputies
coming and going. Tift didn't immediately notice that the suspect
had been brought back. He called to one of the men, saying that he
had sent for a dentist to check the victim's teeth.
"A dentist?" Mrs. Hughes cried. "Why are you doing that?"
Tift turned to her. "Because the man is dead. We have to confirm
who he is."
She cried, "Oh my God," and crumpled in her chair.
 The Crime 15

Tift seated himself at a desk with a typewriter and asked, "Are

you ready?"
Mrs. Hughes raised her face— tears were again sliding down her
puffy cheeks. She looked bewildered. "Ready for what?" she asked.
"Are you ready," Tift repeated, "to make a statement? To tell ex-

actly what you did."

Mrs. Hughes stared as though she didn't understand.
"I've been trying to tell you," she said. "What more do you
want?"
"I want a statement," Tift said. "On paper." When she hesitated
he gave her a slight smile. "Come on," he said. "You might as well.
You've already admitted everything anyway."
The woman dropped her head and stared into her lap in silence.
"Come on, Francine," Tift urged. "Let's get it over."
Mrs. Hughes found her voice. "Maybe," she said, apologetically,
"I ought to talk to a lawyer. Can I see a lawyer?"

Tift yanked the paper out of the typewriter and motioned to a

deputy. "Book her and take her upstairs to reception," he snapped.
"You," he said to Mrs. Hughes, "are going to be charged with
murder."

As soon as the Hughes woman had been taken away, Tift turned
to the second stage of his evening's work— securing the evidence
that would be required by the prosecutor's office if and when the
case went to trial. Lieutenant Janutola gave Tift the cap that Mrs.
Hughes had pressed into his hand and wrote a detailed description
of it so that he could later identify the incriminating object . . .

"metal with a white plastic covering. On the plastic was printed,

turn, close, open, squeeze, with arrows."
Tift dispatched Detective Fitzgerald to Grove Street to act as
medical examiner, and Detective Clinton Chadwell to photograph
the scene of the homicide. He called the Fire Marshal's Division of
the State Police and talked to Sergeant Onnie Selin, who agreed to
meet him in Dansville later that evening. He reached Ingham
County Prosecutor Peter Houk at his home. He told Houk he had a
murder case that looked like first degree; a woman had burned up
her husband with apparent premeditation. Houk decided to come to
the Sheriff Department immediately.
When Houk arrived around ten o'clock, Tift filled him in on
16 The Burning Bed
events so far; then the two men made the ten-minute drive from
Mason to Dansville, retracing the route Francine Hughes had taken
in flight. On Grove Street they found the fire extin-
her frantic
guished. Afew firemen and several Ingham County deputies were
still there, holding back the last bystanders. Tift had ordered a

round-the-clock guard on the house to protect whatever evidence it

might contain. Fire Department searchlights illumined the white
clapboard facade of the house, the trampled grass in the yard, the
heat-scorched shrubbery around the glassed-in porch, and reflected
off the dark windowpanes of the children's bedroom upstairs. Ex-
cept for the smoke-darkened window frames and an ugly black hole
where flames had eaten through the sidewall and roof of the bed-
room in which Mickey Hughes died, the house was intact. The win-
dows of that room were filled with light from portable lamps. De-
tective Onnie Selin was working there when Tift and Houk arrived.
As Tift stepped onto the porch he "observed the body of a Cau-
casian male" (as he described it in his report), "nude and lying
face up on the floor." Detective Selin greeted the two men and told
them he had picked up a number of items that could be useful as
evidence: samples of burned bedding, carpet, and so forth.
They surveyed the ruined bedroom. It was a shambles of fallen
plaster and twisted pieces of furniture. The skeletons of two single
beds stood side by side, their bedding burned away and their
frames distorted. Facing them, a TV set had somehow survived.
Smoke had darkened its screen so that it stared at the beds like a
blinded eye. Several windows were broken. A cold night wind
swept through, stirring the ashes, and an acrid smell filled the air.
Selin had found that the south bed was more completely con-
sumed and heat-twisted than the other. Beneath it some of the floor
had burned through, making a hole into the cellar. The carpet had
been destroyed in the vicinity of the beds, but was intact near the
walls. The ceiling and upper section of the walls were more heavily
burned than the lower. A double door leading into the living room
was also burned at the top. Selin concluded that the fire had started
under the south bed. The charred wood of the remaining floor-
boards showed that the fire had started on the surface and burned
down, ruling out any possibility that it had started in the cellar,
where accidental fires often begin. The fact that the walls and
doors had burned from the top down also indicated that the fire
 The Crime 17

had started on the floor. Heat and flames, Selin pointed out, rise.
When the mounting flames touched the ceiling they folded back
and burned downward.
Selin said the fire must have been intense and burned rapidly. He
pointed to a metal clothes basket that had melted into the floor. He
ruled out an explosion preceding the fire because the broken win-
dows showed patterns typical of heat fracture rather than blast.
Selin told Tift he had been able to detect the smell of gasoline
when he first entered the room. On his way into the living room he
had found a one-gallon can of Coleman Lighter Fuel lying on its
side just inside the living room. The cap was missing. Selin had
shaken the can and found a small amount of liquid inside. Smelling
it, he concluded that the can contained gasoline. The can and the

samples of charred debris would be labeled and forwarded to the

Michigan Department of Public Health Crime Laboratory for fur-
ther analysis. Selin told Tift and Houk he felt sure gasoline had
been used to start the fire. His investigation added up to a
confirmation of Francine Hughes' account of what she had done. If
she later attempted to deny it, the prosecutor had the physical evi-
dence to refute her.
Lieutenant Tift returned to the Sheriff Department, where De-
tective Nancy Kalder, was interviewing the two older Hughes chil-
dren. Francine Hughes' mother, a small, plump woman in her fifties
named Hazel Moran, had arrived and, though it was now after

midnight, had been told she could not take the children home until
they had given an account of events leading up to their father's
death.
Kalder first talked to ten-year-old Jimmy. The little boy tried to
hold back tears and his answers came reluctantly.
"Okay, Jim," the detective began, "could you tell me what you
know about things that happened today? About the argument that
your parents had earlier this afternoon?"
"Well, my dad ripped up my mom's schoolbooks and made her
bum them."
"Do you know why he did that?"
"Uh-uh. No."
"What did she say while she was burning them?"
"I don't know."
"Where did she burn them at?"
18 The Burning Bed
"In our burning barrel. In the yard."
"Is this why the police were called today . . . because of this in-
cident?"
"Uh-uh . . . they were called out there because my dad was
beating her up."
"Do you know why he was beating her up?"
"No."
"What was he saying?"
"He wasn't saying nothing while he was beating her up."
"Does this happen quite frequently?"
"Yes."
"Do you know why?"
"No."
"How often would you say they get into a fight?"
"Probably every other day."
"What does your mother have to say about all that?"
"Nothing. She just cries."
"Does your father work at all?"
"Uh-uh no."
. . .

"Does your mother?"

"No"
"But she goes to school?"
"She ain't going to be going any more."
"Did she tell you that?"
"No, but she probably can't because her books are gone."
From Kalder's point of view Jimmy's most significant answer con-
cerned the gasoline can that Detective Selin had found by the bed-
room door. Kalder asked the boy if gasoline had been used to set
fire to the house.
"Well, she had, uh, asked me what the combination to the garage
was. My dad had taught it tome . . . and so she asked me to tell
her, so I told her. I didn't know what she was gonna do. After she
went to the garage she came back in the house and I went by the
back door and . . . there was a can of oil, or something like that,
sitting there."
"What did the can look like?"
"Well, was square and had a handle on it ... in
it front of the
handle it had a lid and it said 'Fuel' on it."
"Do you know what is usually kept in that can?"
 "

The Crime 19

"Fuel."
Detective Kalder turned to Christy Hughes. Unlike her brother,
she was tearless and self-possessed. She willingly told the detective
details of the events she had witnessed that day. "Daddy come in
the kitchen and he was mad because Mom was cooking TV dinners.
He grabbed her arm and she says, 'Don't, Mickey. Don't.' And,
uhm, he grabs her arm and bends it up behind her back and is
hurting her and she bends over like trying to get away." Christy
jumped up to demonstrate. "And Daddy hits her in the face and
."
then hits her on the head. . .

Kalder moved on to the episode of the burned books. "Did she

burn them herself? Did she pour anything on them?"
know. I seen the smoke and I asked her what
"I don't it was. She
said, 'Daddy made me burn my schoolbooks.'
"Do you know why he did that?"
"Yes, I guess this is the reason; because he, he didn't want her
having no fun. He noticed, he realized that she was you know . . .

. that her spirit was coming back

. . and she was really happy
. . .

and all because she got to go to school ... he realized that and got
mad, I guess."
"Okay, so what happened after that?"
"I was outside. He sent us outside because I was screaming, like

usual, saying, 'Stop, Daddy, stop! Stop!' Stuff like that scream- . . .

ing my head off til I was hoarse. Mom yells, 'Christy! Go call the
cops!' I take off running over to Grandma Hughes' house. When he
realized what I'm doing he stops beating her and when the cops
come he's sitting down. Then, when they leave, he starts up again."
"And what happened then?"
"He sends us kids up upstairs."
"And when you came down?"
"I see fish patties and peas and potatoes sitting on the stove and
I realize he's ate, and he's in the bedroom sleeping. Usually after he

eats he's all relaxed and he snores."

Kalder skillfully questioned Christy about her mother's behavior
just before the fire, trying to establish the time at which her father
had gone and how much later her mother had set the fire.
to sleep
"We sat in the living room for a half an hour ... I don't know
. . .yeah, we sat there for a long time waiting for Dana, my little
brother."
20 The Burning Bed
"Did you observe anything unusual sitting by the door when you
came out of the house?"
"Uhm. Hold it! Yeah!"
"What?"
"There was a, uhm ... I don't know ... a little thingy, with a
... a gasoline can ... I thought it was something that Dad had
brought in."

Christy told how her mother had led her and Jimmy to the car,
carrying little and then gone back to the
Nicole, the six-year-old,
house. A moment later she returned to the car and scrambled into
the driver's seat. "She started the car as fast as she could ... we
... we took off."
"What was she saying?"
"She was saying, 'Oh my God. Oh my God my God.' I was . . .

thinking like, 'Daddy's chasing us . . . it's just Daddy chasing us.'

But Mom keeps saying, 'Oh my God,' and keeps looking back at the
house and really crying. She was just breaking up and every-
. . .

thing. I say, 'Mom, what's the matter?' And she says, 'I burned him!
I burned him!' She was frantic. ."
. .

"Whose idea was it to come to the police?"

"Mine and Mom's both. I felt as soon as we can get somewhere
safe, the better we
So I say, 'Go to the police, Mom.
are. She . .
.'

drives sixty miles an hour and I says, 'Mom, you're scaring me. Slow
down.' She slows down and we get here, and I say, 'Oh Mom,
finally we're here.'"
As the interview ended, Mrs. Moran, Francine Hughes' mother,
who had sat listening while the children were interviewed, tried to
put in a word in her daughter's defense. "I know she has tried to
make a good home do know that. It's awful
for those children. I
hard sometimes. I practically went through the same thing with my
marriage and it's hard. But I do know Francine is a good mother.
And I do know that she is a good girl."

Kalder asked Mrs. Moran if she had anything further to say.

Looking anguished, Mrs. Moran shook her head. "I don't know,"
she said helplessly. "I don't know. I can't think of anything. I'm just
. . . just all mixed up."

On the morning following the fire, Lieutenant Tift went to the

prosecutor's office to discuss the next step in the Hughes case with
 The Crime 21

Chief Prosecutor Houk and Assistant Prosecutor Lee Atkinson. In

the administration of justice the most crucial decisions are often
made at the earliest stage. A police officer can decide on the spot
whether a traffic violator summons. A detec-
receives a lecture or a
tive gathering evidence in a homicide case has no formal authority
to determine what the charge will be, but his informal opinion is
frequently taken into account by the man next in the chain of
decision— the prosecutor—who has considerable latitude in deciding
what charge to bring. He may consider a death justifiable homicide,
which usually results in the case being dismissed, or bring any of
an ascending scale of charges, from manslaughter or second-degree
murder to the most serious of all—murder in the first degree.
In the view of the three men discussing Francine Hughes' fate,
she had obvious motives for killing Mickey Hughes with "malice
aforethought." Tift knew that calls to quell violence at the Hughes'
home were a familiar story at the Sheriff Department. Christy's first
words at the gate of the jail were, "He's been beating her for
years." It would not be difficult to prove that Francine Hughes had
reason to hate her ex-husband and wanted to get rid of him. Every-
thing she had told the police after her surrender about the horrors
of her life withMickey Hughes could bolster the case against her.
The manner in which Mickey Hughes died had been made clear
not only by Francine's admission, but by the findings of Detective
Selin and the accounts given by the children. Most damning of all
were the statements made by the children that after their father
had gone to sleep their mother had deliberately searched for gaso-
line and then waited for a period of time before setting the fire.
This interval could be considered time in which to premeditate the
act of murder.
What about mitigating circumstances? Self-defense, the heat of
passion, a hitherto blameless life, unbearable provocation? When
there are such considerations prosecutors often bring a lesser
charge, but Houk and Atkinson did not see the case of Francine
Hughes made out a warrant for first-
as meriting leniency. Atkinson
degree murder and, for good measure, added a charge of felony
murder, based on the fact that she had committed arson, a felony,
resulting in a death.
When Tift returned to the Sheriff Department, he ordered Detec-
tive Nancy Kalder to get Mrs. Hughes ready for a trip to District
22 The Burning Bed

Court, where she would be arraigned. Kalder found her lying on

her bunk, half-awake. She looked haggard and sick. Kalder had

brought her clothes. Mrs. Hughes got up, dazedly, as though still
unsure of where she was, and obediently changed from prison
sweatshirt and slacks, modestly turning her back as she did so. She
was silent as Kalder took her down to the lobby, but when Kalder
snapped handcuffs on her wrists, Mrs. Hughes pulled back with a
look of shock. "Do I have to wear these?" she asked. "I'm not going
to run away!"
"Sorry," Kalder said. Mrs. Hughes looked at her wrists and tears
slid down her cheeks. Kalder patted her shoulder. "Buck up," she
said cheerfully, "the first time's the worst!" The two women got

into the back seat of a police car. Mrs. Hughes huddled in her seat
in withdrawn silence. Glancing at her, Kalder noticed blue and pur-
ple bruises mottling her face and thought, 'The poor thing looks
like the wrath of God, and no wonder! She sure had a rough night!"
At the courthouse Kalder took Mrs. Hughes to an empty room to
await her turn. Suddenly the prisoner seemed to waken to the real-
ity of her surroundings. "What am I supposed to say?" she asked in

apparent panic. "What do I tell the judge?"

"What are you talking about?" Kalder asked. Her sympathy for
the woman did not prevent her remembering that any admissions
made by the prisoner might later be useful to the prosecution.
Mrs. Hughes began to cry. "I know I did it and I'm guilty," she
whimpered. "I just don't know what I'm supposed to say. ."
. .

Kalder had no time to reply. A court attendant beckoned her to the

courtroom. She hastily gave Mrs. Hughes a piece of Kleenex and
waited while she mopped her eyes. Later, Kalder reported Mrs.
Hughes' admission, T know I did it and I'm guilty," to Lieutenant
Tift.

There were several arraignments that day before Judge Robert

Bell and the small room was crowded with spectators. The parents
and brothers of Mickey Hughes sat on the right of the aisle. On the
left, as far distant as possible, were Mrs. Hughes' mother and sisters

and her four children. Judge Bell read the charges and asked Mrs.
Hughes if she wanted the court to appoint an attorney to defend
her. She said yes. Bell set the date of her next court appearance for
March 21— ten days hence.
Outside the courtroom Mrs. Hughes was allowed a moment with
 The Crime 23

her mother and children. They hugged each other and wept. Then
Detective Kalder took her to the police car. On the trip back to the
jail she cried silently, and was still crying when Kalder returned her
to her cell.

The case of Francine Hughes excited only a moderate amount of

interest among the men Department. Domestic quar-
at the Sheriff
rels are frequent and police heartily dislike dealing with them.

When a policeman is called to the scene of a wife-beating he knows

he is walking into a situation that is volatile and dangerous— so dan-
gerous that the Ingham County Sheriff Department makes it a rule
to send two deputies on domestic calls. More police are killed deal-
ing with "domestics" than with any other type of crime, including
holdups, burglaries, and bank robberies. Burglars and robbers,
when caught, are often sentenced and taken out of circulation at
least for a while, but wife-beaters almost never are.
It is an axiom in police work that beaten wives seldom bring
charges against their husbands. The reasons are various: fear of re-
taliation, loss of income if the husband is sent to jail, the stigma
that children will have to bear as the episode is made public and
their father is branded with a criminal record. A less apparent but
sometimes equally compelling reason is a lingering emotional tie; in
spite of their quarrels there may still be a sexual bond between hus-
band and wife. If, after a beating, the victim does not sign a com-
plaint, the police can take no further action. Thus what police con-
sider the futility of their task adds bitterness to their attitude. As
they see it, they risk their lives intervening in a domestic fight only
to have the ungrateful victim return to her abuser and the ugly sit-
uation occur all over again. A woman who continues to live with a
chronic wife-beater— a man the police regard as a low form of life,

slightly above pimps and molesters of children— inevitably loses

dignity and claim to decency in the eyes of the police. "If a woman
doesn't like being beaten, why doesn't she leave?" they ask, even
though they are aware of the difficulties that often stand in the
way. "Why would a decent woman go on living with a bum like
that?"
More often in domestic fatalities it is the husband who kills the

wife, but even so there was nothing unusual in a wife having killed
her husband. It was the way in which Mickey Hughes met his
24 The Burning Bed
death that struck the men as a particularly atrocious form of homi-
cide. What sympathy there had been for Francine Hughes when
she arrived sobbing at the jail evaporated as soon as the officers
learned what she had done. 'If she had picked up a knife and
stabbed him, I could understand it," several men said. Her story of
suffering and abuse explained her act, but did not alter the fact that
she had taken the life of a man who was helpless at the time. Lieu-
tenant Tift believed the circumstances plainly showed that Fran-
cine Hughes had premeditated the crime. He saw it as an open-
and-shut case of murder in the first degree.

On Saturday, March 14, a service for Mickey Hughes was held at

a funeral home a few miles from Dansville. The room was crowded
with mourners. Mickey Hughes' four brothers, good-looking, dark-
haired men, and their wives were there, and his sister with her chil-
dren. His brothers wept as their mother clung to them. She ex-
pressed not only sorrow, but fury, at her son's murder, saying she
hoped that her former daughter-in-law would go to prison for the
The victim's father wanted quicker vengeance. His
rest of her life.
thin, sallow face was a mask of misery and bitterness.

By the following Monday the case of The People vs. Francine

Hughes had begun to move through the legal process that would
culminate in her trial. The presiding judge of the Ingham County
Circuit Court chose an attorney to represent the defendant. His
name was Aryon Greydanus. He was thirty-one years old, and had
only recently entered private practice in Lansing.
A murder case, even one that isn't too promising, can be helpful
in a young attorney's career, and Greydanus was glad to get the as-
signment. He went to the jail that evening. When Francine Hughes
was brought in for their conference he thought her nice looking,
but unremarkable. She was dressed in prison garb— a gray sweat-
shirt and blue cotton trousers. She had thick curly brown hair cut
short, dark brown eyes, even features, and fair skin. Her expression
was a mixture of fear, misery, and despair.
Greydanus talked to Mrs. Hughes for three hours, listening with
increasing shock to her account of beating and abuse. When he got
home he told his wife, Rosemary, "You're not going to believe your
 The Crime 25

ears. What that woman lived through year after year is simply in-
credible."
"Do you mean that he beat her for years? Why didn't she just go
away?"
"She couldn't," Greydanus said. "She was too scared. He had her
convinced that wherever she went he'd find her and kill her." Grey-
danus paused, reviewing in his mind the story he'd just heard from
Francine Hughes. "He probably would have, too. She was in a real
bind. She could get killed if she tried to leave the guy and she was
going to get killed if she stayed. He was getting closer to it every
day."

On March 21, Francine Hughes was again brought in handcuffs

to District Court. This time Aryon Greydanus was there to meet
her.So was a young prosecutor named Martin Palus, whom Houk
had assigned to her case. Palus presented a string of witnesses-
firemen, deputies, the pathologist who had performed an autopsy
on Mickey Hughes, and the Hughes children— to show that The
People had grounds on which to try Mrs. Hughes on the two counts
of murder— felony murder and murder in the first degree— with
which she had been charged. At the end of the hearing Greydanus
asked for bail, arguing that Mrs. Hughes was not an ordinary crimi-
nal. Judge Bell said that though he regretted it, he felt unable to
grant bail in a first-degree murder case. He suggested, however,
that Greydanus take up the matter with the judge who would pre-
side over her trial.

That judge proved to be even less sympathetic. When, some days

later, Mrs. Hughes was arraigned before Circuit Judge Michael

Harrison, Greydanus again asked for bail. Judge Harrison listened

stonily and denied the request. "After all," he added rhetorically,
"what kind of woman would burn up her husband?"
Judge Harrison's question haunted Greydanus. It indicated the
feelings that Francine Hughes' crime was likely to arouse. On the
face of it her act seemed horrible, cruel, inexcusable. In order to
have any hope of persuading a jury to see it differently, Grey-
danus knew he would have to answer the question "What kind of
woman .
?" and show that it might be any woman trapped in
. .

the situation Francine Hughes had described when he talked to her

at* the jail.
26 The Burning Bed

Francine Hughes spent eight months in jail awaiting trial. Dur-

ing that time Greydanus visited her regularly, drawing out the story
of her life. He and a clinical psychologist to
enlisted a psychiatrist
give their appraisal of her mental and emotional condition. She her-
self found it difficult to understand what she had done, and tried,

by searching her past, to find answers that would ease her burden
of guilt. She wrote an autobiography beginning with her earliest
memories. She wrote it in her cell in pencil on a lined tablet, cover-
ing dozens of pages with a neat, graceful script.
 Beginning

This is memory: She is about five years old. The

Francine's earliest
scene somewhere out in the country, probably on one of the
is

muck farms— vast onion fields— where her mother and father
worked after they first came north from Kentucky to Michigan.
Francine remembers a cold, starlit night in October, close to Hal-
loween. In the afternoon the family had piled into their car and
gone to town on a shopping expedition. Francine's mother bought
the children, Francine and her older brother and sister, warm coats
to face the cold winter ahead. Francine's was a beautiful blue with
a red lining, and a red hood and mittens to match. While her
mother shopped with the children, her dad and her uncle went off
on errands of their own. It was dark and cold when the family as-
sembled and got back into the car. Her father and uncle were noisy
and cheerful— overflowing with generosity. They'd bought a big bag
of candy, peanut-butter kisses wrapped in orange-and-black Hal-
loween paper, for the children. Her mother rationed out a few of
the candies to each child and kept the rest with her in the front
seat. Francine remembers riding in the back seat of the old car that
vibrated and rattled over the road, feeling snug between her
brother and sister, with the sweet candy melting in her mouth and
the boxes of new clothes and other bundles piled under their feet.
While her father drove, he and Uncle Press passed a bottle back
and forth between them. They laughed often and sang bits of
songs. Francine knew they were drunk— she could smell the famil-
28 The Burning Bed
iar, strong fumes— but it didn't bother her. Liquor was grown-up
candy. It was very late when they finally lurched up a rutted farm
road and stopped in front of their small frame house. The children
were drowsy and the candy taste had long disappeared from their
mouths. Francine's mother told them to hustle into the house to es-
cape the icy wind. Sleepily Francine followed the grown-ups. The
packages— coats, candy, and all— were left in the car.
In the morning, when she woke, the first thing Francine thought
of was the coats and the candy. She doesn't remember how she
learned what had happened— whether her mother told her, or if she
and her brother went outside and made the discovery themselves—
but in the night the car had burned up. One of the men must have
left a lighted cigarette smoldering in the upholstery. Francine and

her brother climbed inside the blackened skeleton of the burned-

out car and poked through the bitter-smelling ashes. The coats had
turned to blackened shreds, but in a crevice Francine found one
piece of candy.
Until shewas in prison Francine was not aware that she pos-
sessed this memory. Then, at Greydanus' urging, she searched far
into her past, and told him about this and other scenes from her
childhood. She told about the burned coats with puzzled disap-
pointment, but no anger. 1 didn't think about it being anyone's
fault . about Dad and my uncle being drunk. I didn't think
. .

about how hard Mom and Dad had worked to buy the coats or
about what we'd do without them. I guess Mom got us others sec-
ond-hand. But I remember how bad I felt about the candy." It did
not seem to strike her that her first memory concerned being de-
prived of what was rightfully hers by a drunken man whom she
trusted to love and protect her.
Francine's father, Walter Moran, was born in Pike County, Ken-
tucky, and married Hazel Fleming in 1938 when she was fourteen,
he twenty-five. In the 1930s and '40s many poverty-stricken Ken-
tucky people heard of better lives up north. From the mountain
hollows of Kentucky to the flat croplands of central Michigan was
an enormous social leap, but a highway distance of only 250 miles.
All it took was a jalopy and enough money for gas at fifteen or
twenty cents a gallon.
The city of Lansing in Ingham County, Michigan, is surrounded
by miles of farm country. The area offered both seasonal farm work
 Beginning 29

and facton' work. Penniless arrivals from Kentucky got their first
foothold in the farm labor force and then, with luck and new sophis-
tication,graduated to better-paid jobs in factories. In Ingham
County, several small towns— Stockbridge, Mason, Williamston, and
Dansville— were heavily settled by what are politely called "south-
erners." Their children joke about being "hillbillies," but there is

some Customs and attitudes from the Kentucky

reality in the jest.
mountains still color their lives. Michigan hillbillies know how to
cook southern food and sing mountain songs. Less tangible elements
of mountain culture survive in their behavior; women are expected
to be strong, hard-working, and submissive, and men masculine.
Masculinity often implies domination.
Walter Moran was over six feet tall, with blue eyes and a rugged
face that suggested Irish ancestry. Hazel was small-boned and trim
with a nose and a heart-shaped face, a pretty girl. Walter was
fine
literate. He had been through three years of grade school. Hazel
had had only one year, and, until her husband taught her, could not
read or write. Walter and Hazel Moran's first years in Michigan
were spent working on farms and living in houses that their em-
ployers provided free. Wages in the onion fields were thirty to fifty
cents an hour. For a while Hazel as well as Walter worked in the
fields; then Hazel began to take jobs as a waitress. It was easier
work for a lightly built woman who was often pregnant to boot.
Hazel's first two babies died in infancy. Her first child to survive
was Joanne, born Robert Lee was born two years later. The
in 1942.
family moved often. When Francine was born in 1947 the family
was living on a farm outside the town of Stockbridge. "Francine"
was an unusual name for that time and place. Hazel Moran was lis-
tening to the radio, thinking about the coming baby, when she
heard a French chanteuse named Francine. Hazel was struck by
the glamor of the name and decided that if her child was a girl she
would be Francine.
Francine remembers her earliest years as her happiest. She was
pleased with herself and loved to please others— to receive compli-
ments. Describing herself as a child she wrote: "I remember having
thick, pretty hair. Everywhere I went everyone commented that I
was so pretty— so smart— such a nice child. I tried to live up to this;
to do everything just right. When Mom had company I would be
very polite and try to be a hostess. I had a coloring book and I
30 The Burning Bed

remember working with crayons and trying to do it perfectly— no

smeary places around the edges. Then I'd show the book to the
grown-ups and everyone would say, 'My, doesn't she color good to
be just five!'"
About this time the family lived in the country on what is now
Old Ann Arbor Road outside of Jackson, a small city south of
Lansing.
"It was a very small house for all the kids Mom had. Downstairs
was the kitchen. Upstairs there was a living room and two bed-
rooms. We had an outhouse and washed in the kitchen sink. In sum-
mer we'd take our baths in a washtub in the yard.
"Mom used the same tub to scald chickens in. I can see her sit-
ting out in the yard in the sun, plucking them. That night we would
have the best fried chicken. Mom had a garden up on a hill above
the house. She'd go to her garden and pick tomatoes. Everything
she made tasted so delicious.
"I remember going barefoot a lot in the summer and how much I

loved it. I loved going barefoot. Mom would tell us to put our shoes
on. I hid them under the porch because I didn't want to wear them.
My feet felt so good without them. I remember loving things about
nature. The feel of the grass under my feet and the greenness of it
and the wetness of it. Mom let us play outside in the rain. It seems
summer rains we used
that the to have were warm. I loved the
warm summer rains. We played like ducks, sitting in mud puddles
and running through the water that poured off the roof.
"We—Joanne and Bob and I— were wonderfully free. There were
so many places to play— an apple tree by the chicken yard had a
tire hung in it for swinging and low branches for climbing. We

roamed in cornfields. We went on hikes and picked berries. We

found abandoned orchards and ate green apples, eating around the
wormholes.
"Those memories of being so happy in the country have meant a
great deal to me— especially in prison. Even though I was a small
child I got from it a feeling I've never forgotten— a feeling of close-
ness to nature, closeness to life. The way I feel close to God is

touching and seeing and even tasting and feeling the things that He
created. have gone out in the spring and this feeling would come
I

over me— just

overwhelm me. The first garden I ever had was in
Dansville where I lived the last years with Mickey. It is the only
 Beginning 31

happy memory of Dansville that I have. After I planted the garden

I would go out every day hoping that something green had come

up. I remember stooping down and picking up warm soil— warm

from the new spring sun. When I did that, felt the soil, and smelled
it and looked up at the sun, I felt such great peace. Just for a few

seconds. It seemed a long wait for the seeds to come up, but when
they finally did I yelled to the lads, 'The garden's up!' They got re-
ally excited, too. They helped me all that summer. Maybe my
harvest wasn't too great. The plants were a little spindly and the
bugs got some, but it didn't matter. I wish that someday I could
live in the country and try to find that feeling again."
Francine started school while the family was living in the house
on Old Ann Arbor Road. It was a two-room school and her memo-
ries of that are also happy. She was exceptionally good in the early

grades— a champion speller, and when she competed with an older

boy for top honors, she won. "I wanted those gold stars so bad."
She also remembers looking across the room at the second-graders—
where the desks were bigger— and thinking, "I'll never make it."
Her brother Bob sat with his class on the far side of the room.
"One day I came to school without my milk money. I had been out
sick when it was collected and so I hadn't paid. That day I would
have to go without milk. At lunchtime Bob saw I didn't have any
milk. He got up and brought his milk and set it down on the table
in front of me and walked away without a word. I never forgot him
doing that. It was chocolate milk, too."
When Francine was three her mother had another daughter,
Diana Lynn. A boy, David Lee, was born when Francine was five.
Hazel Moran's last child, Kathleen, was born when Francine was
eight. About this time Walter began to drink and to gamble. Hazel
had to work longer hours at her waitress jobs to make ends meet.
She brought home leftover food and this was often all they had. As
Francine recalls it, the food was good, but she was aware that there
was shame attached to eating "leftovers."
Meeting other children at school also made her realize that her
family was poor. "I met a girl who liveddown the road on a big
farm. Her family seemed really affluent. The farm was beautiful.
This child was a pretty girl, chubby and rosy-cheeked and friendly.
I can't remember her name, but I knew we hit it off. When she in-

vited me to her birthday party, I was thrilled. Then I realized I

32 The Burning Bed

didn't have a present to take. I had only one 'nice' dress and I
couldn't find it. It seemed like I couldn't go without a present and a
proper dress. I sat down and cried.
"Mom and Dad were at work. My older sister, Joanne, asked me
what was the matter. When I told her she said, 'Well, let's find your
dress and then we'll look for a gift' We searched around and found
the dress in the clothes basket. I ironed it myself and put it on.
Then Joanne and I went down to my uncle's gas station a little way
down the highway. My uncle gave me some candy to take to the
party. So I was able to go after all. My friend seemed to be pleased
with the gift and pleased that I had come, but even so I felt some-
how unhappy— as though I wasn't as good as she was. We played
together only a few more times.
"The dress I wore to the party had been given to my mother by a
lady who lived in a trailer park nearby. It had belonged to her
daughter. It was a white dress, with blue flowers on it and a big
sash. I loved it. Unfortunately the daughter went to my school. One
day I wore the dress to school and the girl told everyone I was
wearing her old cast-offs. I was so ashamed that I cried about that,
too."
When Francine was eight, life in the country came to an end.
Walter Moran switched from farm work to a job in a factory. The
family moved to a rented house in Jackson. Jackson then was a
medium-sized town of working-class families supported by factories
making automobile parts. It is old, as Michigan towns go, and
known for its shade the yards surrounding almost every
trees that
house. Most of its homes were
built around the turn of the century
and are modest frame houses, quite like New England houses of
the same vintage. In Jackson the Moran family had the luxury of
indoor plumbing and paved streets for the how-
first time. Francine,
ever, felt lost in her new school. It was large and impersonal. Mak-
ing friends was not as easy as it had been in the two-room school.
To make her problem worse, the family moved often, from one
rented house to another, probably (she now surmises) because of
difficulties in meeting the rent, and each move usually meant that
Francine had to start again in a new school.
Factory work may have meant a better income for Walter Moran,
but the deadly monotony wore him down. As he drank and gam-
bled ever more heavily Francine became aware of her mother's
 Beginning 33
anxiety and that her father's irresponsibility was darkening the life
of the family.
Francine remembers her father thus: "My dad was very tall and
big in every way; he had big hands and a big voice. He didn't yell
a lot. His voice was firm. When he told us kids to do something we
knew we had to do it. There wasn't any arguing or asking 'why?'
His face was ruddy and he had reddish blond hair. His eyes were
the kind of blue that you see in a deep, blue river. All through the
week he usually worked hard and didn't drink. When he was sober
he was very quiet. He came home, read the newspaper and
watched the news on TV, or played solitaire at the kitchen table.
He hardly said a word. He'd maybe grunt if you asked him some-
thing. I think now that he was very depressed when he was sober.
Then, when Friday night came, he'd get drunk. If Mother didn't
catch him in time all our grocery money would be gone. She would
have to go to the place he worked on Friday afternoon to make
sure she got the money.
"Sometimes Dad would stay away all weekend drinking and
playing poker. He'd bet everything we had. He lost all his fishing
gear. We had an old black car. He gambled that away. One night
when I was about nine, Mom got me up out of bed and told me to
come with her. We went to the corner gas station and found my
dad standing at a pinball machine with piles of dimes stacked along
the side. He was drunk. My mother cupped her hand and brushed
all the dimes into her hand and dropped them into her purse.

Watching, I was scared, but I knew she was doing it because she
had to. Dad got angry, but he let her take the money and we went
home. I don't know why she took me with her. Perhaps she figured
he wouldn't fight with her if I were there.
"I seldom saw a fight between Mom and Dad. They tried to keep
their fights to themselves. Sometimes I heard them arguing at night
when we kids were supposed to be asleep. They might get loud,
but not really violent. Money was always the problem. At the end
of his life, when his drinking was totally out of control, Dad did
beat my mom. By then I had left home. Mom was ashamed and
said very little about it, but my sister told me he hit her so hard
that blood spattered the yellow paint in the kitchen. A couple of
times my an ambulance.
sister called
"I was never frightened of Dad drunk or sober. When he was a
34 The Burning Bed

littledrunk he'd be more inclined to talk to us. He'd be jolly and tell
us tall tales. He told us about the time back in the Kentucky hills
when he went into a cave where a bear was sleeping and he
reached in and grabbed the bear by the tail and pulled him out,
wrong side out! He wasn't ugly or mean with us when he was
drunk. He'd just be happy and silly and then go to bed.
"The only sign that I had a hidden fear of Dad was a recurrent
dream I had concerning him and my little sister Kathy. I adored
my baby sister. Mom let me take care of her when she was little. I
remember putting on her coat— it seemed so tiny— doing up the but-
tons, putting on her bonnet, and taking her outside to play. This is
the nightmare. In the dream she'd be wearing her coat and bonnet,
and we'd be walking together. Then I'd see my father coming down
the street. As he came closer he would get bigger and bigger. As he
lifted his feet they seemed huge. I would see these huge feet ap-
proaching and I had a terrible fear that he would step on little
Kathy and squash her."
At about this time Francine's father was sent to jail for a short
term. Once a week their mother sent Francine and Bob to the jail, a
few blocks from the house, to bring their father cigarettes and
candy bars. Francine did not know what to make of the episode. It
was strange that this powerful man was dependent on her for ciga-
rettes and candy. Not until she was grown up did she learn what he
had done. Desperate over gambling debts, he had stolen tools from
the shop where he worked, and been sentenced for petty larceny.
Walter died in 1966 when he was fifty-three. By then Francine
had left home. Looking back, she is sorry she never knew her father
better. "He was intelligent and knew he could have done much
more with his life, but he was trapped. Growing up in Kentucky
and coming to Michigan with so little education was a terrible
handicap. While he was still young and wanted to have fun, he had
the responsibilities of a wife and six children, all saying, I'm hun-
gry now! ... I need a place to live now!'"
Family loyalty was a strong element of Francine's Kentucky her-
itage. Among the desperately poor the loyalty of kin is often the
only defense against disaster— loyalty and pride. Francine's mother
told her there were two sorts of people in Kentucky, the proud poor
and the shiftless poor. Her family was proud.
Francine's grandmother, her mother's mother, was raised in the
 Beginning 35
mountains of southeastern Kentucky. Her name was Susie Robin-
son. Her first marriage ended violently. Her husband was having an
affair with a woman who was also the sweetheart of his cousin.
Susie saw her husband take his pistol, mount his horse, and ride up
the hollow toward the cousin's cabin. She heard shooting. Shortly
after, the cousin rode down to her cabin and told Susie he had shot
her husband to death. Susie picked up her three young children
and moved to the tiny coal-mining town of Martin, Kentucky,
where she married a man named Fleming and bore three more chil-
dren. Francine's mother, Hazel, was the youngest.
Hazel's childhood was grimly poor. She told Francine some of
her memories: how she began to work as a small child, doing do-
mestic chores for families that were better off. She washed quilts on
a scrubbing board, earning ten cents apiece. With the money she
bought fabric to make her clothes for school. She had only two
dresses that she washed and wore alternately. She had no shoes.
Going to school barefoot was uncomfortable, but worse, it was a
humiliation. The kids who had shoes made fun of her. She was glad
to leave school after only one year.
One way the family kept its pride was with cleanliness. The floor
of their cabin was bare wood. It was scrubbed every day and the
more it was scrubbed the whiter it became. Susie instilled in her
daughter Hazel the lesson: "No matter if you have only one pot
and one dishrag . keep them clean!" Hazel, in turn, impressed
. .

this on Francine.
"Mom taught us very young to do everything around a house
and I helped her gladly. It was instilled in me that this was what a
woman did. It never occurred to me that there was anything else
for a woman to do. As I look back on my childhood I was always
doing housework. Where were my brothers? What did they con-
tribute? Almost nothing. I didn't question whether it was fair. It
didn't even enter my mind."
Francine was a child who loved to be loved. She felt sure of her
mother's love, but it all, spread thin among six children.
was, after
Francine briefly feltwarmth of a special love from her other
the
grandmother, who moved up from Kentucky to live with her
daughter Myrtle. From time to time Grandma Moran stayed with
Francine's parents and made Francine her favorite. "I'd sit on her
lap and she'd rock me and talk to me. I loved her so. She felt so
36 The Burning Bed
soft, so warm. I felt very close to her. I used to go downtown and

buy her these cards that when you opened them up the girls' skirts
would fan out. I would write 'to Grandma with love' very carefully
on the cards. She kept everything gave her, even a ball of alumi-
I

num foil I'd collected. She'd take me

in her room and we'd look at
her things. She had lots of pretty belts one was woven and had
. . .

a gold buckle. She had a gold locket that opened. She told me some
day she would give it to me. I didn't realize what that meant.
"Soon she was dying and she told my Aunt Myrtle that she
wanted me to have the locket. Then she died. My aunt gave it to
me. I held it in my hands for a moment. I was ecstatic to have it
and I was heartbroken too. Mom took the locket and locked it up in
a cabinet for safekeeping. After Grandma died I was so sad for so
long that the family worried about me. I so! I would
missed her
think about her and tears would run down my face. One day I was
in the bedroom— feeling so bad— and I heard the grown-ups talking
about me. Someone said, 'It isn't normal. Maybe we ought to take
her to the doctor.' I was shocked. I said to myself, 'Don't let them
see that you're sad any more or you'll have to go to the doctor!' So I
kept my sadness to myself and little by little it went away."
Francine never saw the locket again. It disappeared from the
cabinet, and was never explained.
its loss

Francine's mother depended on her a good deal to take care of

the two youngest, David and Kathy— to "watch them," as Francine
says. This led to the first truly traumatic event in Francine's child-
hood. The family was living in Jackson, in a rented house a block or
two from Michigan Avenue, the busiest thoroughfare of the town.
On a summer day Hazel was washing clothes in the kitchen.
"I was supposed to be watching David. David was a cute little
kid. His hair was so blond we called him 'Cotton Top.' He was
about three. I can see him now in his overalls ... his fat little
tummy. Anyway I was keeping an eye on him, and hanging clothes
with Mom, when someone passing by stopped and told us there
was a clown at a gas station down the street giving away free
balloons— a publicity stunt to draw customers to the gas station.
Mom said I could take David to see the clown. I walked along,
hanging onto David's hand. I was full of pride that Mom trusted
me with my brother. I was very careful when we crossed Michigan
Avenue. At the gas station the clown gave David a helium-filled
 Beginning 37
balloon. I brought him home and we showed Mom the balloon.

Then Iwent back to helping Mom with the laundry. I must have
forgotten about David for a while. Without anyone noticing, he
wandered out of the yard and down the street, trying to find the
clown and get another balloon. The first we knew of it was when a
girl came riding down the street on a bicycle and yelled to Mom, 1

think your son has got hit by a carl'

"Mom ran down the street to Michigan Avenue. She was bare-
foot. I was running after her. I could hear her crying out, 'Oh my
God, my baby! My baby!'
"We got up to the corner of Michigan Avenue. There was a
crowd of people, police, sirens, horns blowing. I couldn't see
through the crowd, but I could hear Mom screaming. I squeezed
past the legs of the people and got up beside her. She was hysteri-
cal. An ambulance had just taken David away. Mom was crying so

hard she probably didn't know what she was doing, but she
grabbed me and shook me and she yelled, Tt's your fault. You
should of been watching. I told you to watch him!'
"David lived, but he was badly hurt. He'd been dragged under
the car. Both arms were broken. One ear was half torn off and had
to be sewn back on. We found out later that the man who hit him
was drunk.
"David was in the hospital a long time. Nobody said any more
about it being my
fault but every time I looked at him I felt a terri-
ble guilt. I lovedhim more than ever. At home he was in bed for
weeks and everyone waited on him hand and foot. I felt so sorry for
him. He was such a little child and so miserable with casts on both
arms. I remember how bad I wanted to do things for him. I nursed
him a lot. He recovered, though he still has a silver bolt in one arm.
Now he works in a factory and still lives with Mom."
Years later psychiatrists who examined Francine suggested that
this episode, which aroused so much love, pity, and guilt, made her
overly sensitive to the suffering of others— especially, and fatally,
Mickey Hughes. In prison she was given psychological tests. "My
score on 'empathy' was practically off the graph. Too much for my
own emotional well-being. I remember in my childhood having
very strong feelings for people. Kids can be cruel to other kids. I
found that out in the Jackson schools. I was strong and I learned to
38 The Burning Bed
stand up for myself, but I hated to see the weaker ones tormented.

I used to try to take them under my wing, protect them.

"There was a skinny little girl in my school; kids picked on her.
She didn't have any friends. It made me mad to see her picked on
so I befriended her. At first I did it out of pity; then we became
real friends. Her name was Barbara. I played at her house after
school. We had nice times. She was very quiet, a contrast to what I
was. After a while my family moved, I went to a new school, and
we At Christmas, when it was snowing out and every-
drifted apart.
thing was like a Christmas card, there was a knock on our door. I
opened it and Barbara was standing there, smiling. She had found
our new house and come all this way to give me a present. She had
made a huge Christmas tree cookie for me. It was a foot high, dec-
orated with green frosting and beads. I'll never forget opening the
door and seeing her holding out the cookie and saying 'Merry
Christmas.' I felt as though I'd been rewarded a hundred times
over for anything nice I might have done for her."
As Francine moved on through grade school, her awareness of
social differences grew. An inner uneasiness, the feeling that had
firstbeen aroused by the birthday party at the farm, now came quite
often. Paradoxically, she was a leader. She had vivacity, liveliness, a
talent for clowning and fun that attracted friends. The friends she
chose, and felt comfortable with, were those in the same economic
bracket as her parents. The girls who had better clothes, who gave
off an aura of greater security and prosperity, made her feel alien.

"I just felt I couldn't fit into their world."

Francine's parents were not churchgoers, but friends took Fran-
cine to religious services and religion filled an emotional need for a
child who loved order, discipline, and the thought of virtue re-
warded.
"Because went to church with a series of friends I went to sev-
I

eral different churches— Baptist, Methodist, Catholic. I liked them

all, but I loved best the churches that had beautiful music and

flowers and sermons about being kind and good. I liked looking at
the women dressed up. Some held little handkerchiefs and even
gloves. They wore perfume and smelled like flowers."
Francine won a prize for signing up the most children to go to
Vacation Bible School. She enjoyed reading Bible stories and learn-
ing verses. She memorized the names of the books of the Bible and
 Beginning 39

can still recite them. She continued to go to church until she started
junior high. Then religionwas swept away with a great many other
aspects of her childhood.

In the grade school in Jackson there were fewer gold stars for
Francine. In large crowded classrooms teachers didn't seem to no-
tice her. She read more fluently than most and did her math with
ease, but received no particular praise. Her confidence that she was
brighter than other children began to fade, and with it her incen-
tive to study. It was replaced by another feeling: that because of
her responsibilities at home and her increasing awareness of her
family's problems she was more mature than her schoolmates. She
felt set apart, increasingly estranged, looking forward to the bell
ringing, the moment of release.
"School didn't seem related to real To me my 'real' life was
life.

my dream life. I had a Mexican girl friend,

loved to play pretend. I

Rosie, who lived down the street. One day we went up to Mom's
closet and looked at her clothes. We dressed up in long dresses and
high heels, put on lipstick and necklaces and went for a walk down
the street. I thought I was so beautiful. I felt like a queen! People
looked at us and smiled. It didn't occur to me we were funny."
Movies and TV were Francine's biggest source of information
about life. "We had a TV with a very small screen. We lads sat on
the floor, Indian fashion, and watched The Mickey Mouse Club.' I
loved that show Annette Funicello was my ideal person. I thought
I

she was beautiful and charming and everything I would want to

be."
Francine began to go to movies regularly— Roy Rogers, Elvis Pres-
ley, Tarzan filled her head with romance. Going into the movie
theater was a luxurious experience. "I remember going into the
dark, full of the delicious smell of popcorn. Tiny lights along the
aisles were so pretty. The rugs, the seats, the thick curtains— to me
everything seemed like was velvet."
it

Francine shared a bedroom with her older sister, Joanne. As

Joanne became adolescent she began to wear clothes that Francine
admired for their femininity. "Joanne had a skirt called a can-can
... a crinoline with layers of ruffles of pink and blue and yellow. I
would put it on when she wasn't there and sit on the bed and look
40 The Burning Bed
at it, all fluffed up around me, and dream that I was dancing in a
ballroom."
Atfifteen Joanne was going out with boys. Ten-year-old Fran-
cine was embarrassed when she surprised Joanne kissing a boy in
the kitchen. At sixteen Joanne was married. Her young husband
was a "southerner"— a truck driver by trade. From time to time
Joanne and her husband and the baby born within a year of their
marriage would come back to stay with Hazel and Walter. Fran-
cine fell in love with the baby. She looked into the basket and
thought it was the most beautiful baby she'd ever seen.
"When I held him I would want to smother him with kisses. His
skin was so soft, his eyes so blue. I'd bathe him and play with him,
and smell that sweet, clean baby smell. He'd smile and look happy
and that would make me feel good."
It became apparent that Joanne's married life wasn't working

out. Francine knew her sister was struggling to survive. "Her hus-
band was too young," Francine says in retrospect. "Any boy of
twenty wants to play and sow wild oats." Francine remembers the
moment when she first saw Joanne's life as grim and sordid. Joanne
had a second child soon after the first. Unable to pay the rent, she
brought her babies to her parents' home. "There was a crib in the
living room. I overheard Mom and Dad saying that Joanne's hus-
band was a bum. He came to the house drunk and there was an ar-
gument. While it was going on the little boy was standing up in the
crib crying. My heart went out to him. I was only a kid, but I was
old enough to know this was no way for a little child to start life;
that something was very, very wrong."
As it does with many girls, the onset of adolescence brought con-
fusion into Francine's life. "One day I would try to act like a teen-
ager and the next day I'd be climbing trees, going exploring down
by the Grand River. Maybe even in the same day I'd do both
things; fix myself up and be clean and neat for a while and then
shed it all and go play in the dirt. I loved playing out at night in
the summertime; hide-and-go-seek, or throwing a ball in the street
under the lights. My tenth summer was the last where I was really
carefree like that. I remember being barefoot; running through
hoses in the heat of the day; going in for lunch and then back out;
playing with the neighborhood kids; going in for dinner and going
back out again and playing until dark, being just filthy. Mom would
 Beginning 41

say,Time to get in the bathtub She'd put two 1' kids in at a time—
me and Diana Lynn— I'd look down at my arms, all streaked where
I'd eaten a Popsicle or something and it had dripped, and thinking,
'Gee, I didn't know I was so dirty.' I'd get all scrubbed up and
climb in between cool sheets."
At eleven Francine was less satisfied with her life— and especially
herself. She was growing. She felt awkward and was embarrassed
by the size of her hands and feet. She often crossed her arms to
hide her hands. She wore a size eight shoe and her brothers teased
her . "Why don't you just buy the boxes and leave the shoes
. .

behind?" She pretended indifference, but wanted to cry.

Walter Moran watched the teasing and finally intervened. "From
now on," he told Francine, "if someone says something about your
feet, just tell them it takes a better foundation for a church than it
does for a shithousel"
Francine laughed and the laughter swept away her shame. There
was also a happy feeling that her father had cared enough to come
to her rescue. In Francine's family life there was seldom any overt
expression of inner feelings, and small demonstrations were im-
portant.
Francine kept her deeper feelings to herself. For a long time she
wasn't aware that emotions could be put into words—in books per-
haps, but not in real As she grew older and her emotions more
life.

complicated, the gulf between her daily life and her inner life grew
wider.
Her parents were of little help in making the transition to adoles-
cence. Walter Moran had conservative views; a woman was a good
woman housework for
or a tramp. Sometimes Francine's mother did
richer families who gave her clothes. One summer day she put on a
pair of shorts an employer had given her. Walter scowled and told
her to take them off; he wouldn't have his wife looking like that. It
was a hot day and she didn't change, but went outside to water the
grass in the yard. Her husband followed and soaked her with the
hose, not playfully but grimly, and she cried. Francine watched the
episode, absorbing the idea that it is indecent to show your body.

The was reinforced when her mother brought home match-

lesson
ing outfits for Francine and Diana Lynn. They were short shorts
with halter tops. The little girls were ecstatic as they put them on.
It was a Saturday and their father was at home. He glanced up as
42 The Burning Bed
his daughters appeared and threw down his newspaper in anger.
"Go back upstairs and put your clothes on," he ordered. The outfits
were not worn again.
Sex wasn't acknowledged in the Moran household. When Fran-
cine was quite small she asked her father where she had come
from. He told her what his mother had told him "You were shit on
:

a stump and the sun hatched you out." Neither he nor Francine's
mother ever told her the truth.
"I learned about sex from the other girls and from sex-education
courses in school. We were shown films in the fifth and sixth grade
that tried to explain it in childish terms. Even so they were some-
what above my head because I knew so little to begin with."
Hazel never told Francine that she would menstruate. Francine
learned about it at school, but still, at twelve, was emotionally
unprepared. "I was in the bathroom when I realized it had begun.
I was scared and shocked. I called to Mother and told her. She told

me to wait. Then she opened the door and tossed me a Kotex and a
belt and went away. I called to her, 'Mom, what am I supposed to
do? She said, 'Put it on!' I said, 'How?' She said, 'You might as well
learn for yourself. You're going to have to do it for the rest of your
life.'"

At eleven Francine had begun to work. She did housecleaning

and baby-sitting for a neighbor who had four children. Eager to
demonstrate her skill, Francine made the house and the children
cleaner and neater than either had ever been before. The next year
she waited on tables at a restaurant. Her mother let her keep her
earnings as pocket money, though she sometimes had to borrow a
dollar or two that Francine was proud to lend.
In the autumn of i960, after her thirteenth birthday in August,
Francine entered the seventh grade at Hunt Junior High, and
began a year of changes in her life that were both exciting and
frightening. She experienced for the first time a feeling of inde-
pendence from her parents— a delicious sense of freedom that some-
times turned to a nameless fear. She felt as though she were swim-
ming, alone, into deeper water. In fact, the distance between
herself and her parents was widening, almost beyond calling dis-
tance.
At junior high Francine found the atmosphere quite different
from that of her previous schools. Among the girls there was an em-
 Beginning 43
phasis on beauty and clothes. Francine found that a larger propor-
tion of girls and boys were from wealthier homes. Resentfully, she
assumed that the girls who dressed well were snobs. She re-
members thinking scornfully: "You may have more material things
than I do, but I have a deeper sense of life."
Subconsciously Francine was struggling to overcome the feeling
that she bore the stigma of poverty. She had always been a cooper-
ative and obedient student, eager to please her teachers. Now she
felt hostile and estranged. Academically she was very capable, but

there was little incentive to study. On the contrary, fellow students

disliked those who outstripped them. Francine loved reading, loved
words, and could have shone in her English classes, but didn't dare.
"I would look up words in the dictionary and want to use them in
my speech, but I knew if I did everybody would think I was put-
ting on airs."

Feeling out of things, Francine didn't join in extracurricular ac-

tivitiesand rejected sports because they conflicted with her ideal of
femininity. "I had always loved to run. At Hunt they were starting
a girls' track team and asked me to join. I thought it wasn't the
right thing for a girl to do. I pictured a boy in a track suit, his legs
bulging with muscles. I didn't want to look like that so I refused.
'It shows how I'd changed in a year or two. When I was a little
girl running was my sport. I ran and ran. I ran races with boys and

always won. *Want to race?' I'd ask any new kid. I loved the feeling
of running. I ran home from school, timing myself. The teacher
released us at five minutes of twelve. The lunch whistle blew at
twelve. I would try to run the eight or nine blocks home in five
minutes. It was an obstacle course; people to get around, streets to
cross. Lots of times I beat the whistle. Then, suddenly, that sort of
thing was over for me. I began to try to excel in the only other
thing open to me, that seemed natural for me— being feminine."
Francine's transition from child to adolescent was completed
when she had her hair cut. Her long, thick hair, gleaming with
reddish light, had been an important psychological element of her
childhood. Her grandmother had lovingly brushed her hair and
adorned it with ribbons. Her mother had shown her how to braid
it. Everyone had praised it. Her hair was a symbol of Francine, the

When her hair was cut she felt transformed. The

well-loved child.
"bubble cut" was in fashion and Francine came home looking six
44 The Burning Bed
inchestaller, leaving her childhood behind on the beauty-parlor

For days she was fascinated by the mirror; she put on

floor.

makeup to highlight the transformation. Walking down the street

she thought that people looked at her in a new way— especially
boys.
A few days later, in school, the haircut brought Francine a new
friend. A girl with big dark brown eyes and a cute turned-up nose
came over to her and said, "Hi, I love your hairdo. It looks really
great." Francine smiled back and thanked her. The girl said her
name was Sharon Taylor. "How would you like to come to my
house after school?" Sharon asked, friendly as a puppy. Francine
said she'd like to very much. Sharon's father worked in the same
factory as Francine's father and her house, a two-story clapboard
house similar to the Morans', was on the next street. The two girls
became fast, devoted friends. It was the most intimate friendship
Francine had ever had, and the most fateful. Within two years
Sharon Taylor would fall in love with a boy named Bill whose best
friend was a boy named Mickey Hughes.

As Francine made friends at school she began to stop at a drug-

store where groups of teenagers hung out. She would spend an
hour or two in this heady atmosphere, electric with adolescent con-
tact, drinking Cokes, playing the jukebox, learning to show off, and

making her first experiments in the art of flirtation.

Walter Moran discovered Francine's visits to the drugstore, and
saw the scene differently from Francine. Inarticulate as always, he
was harsh and ugly as he told her that only tramps went to the
drugstore. He demanded she promise never to go there again.
Francine was astonished. She argued that the kids at the drug-
store were nice kids and whatever they did was perfectly innocent.
She had never before argued with her father and he had never
punished her harshly. She was unprepared for what happened next.
Her father took off his belt. "Tramps and whores," he shouted.
"That's who goes to that placel You ain't goin' there no more! You
better promise!" The injustice of it overwhelmed Francine's fear.
Faced with her first beating, she cried and argued but refused to
promise. Walter grasped her in a powerful hand and began to whip
her. Francine remembers thinking: "Why is he doing this to me?
 Beginning 45

He has no right to make me promise. I haven't done anything

wrong."
Francine's mother intervened, crying, "Walter, stop it!" Francine
twisted loose and ran upstairs. Her father followed. He cornered
her again and raised the belt. Though she was terrified Francine
heard herself crying out, "I'm not a tramp! And I'll never promise!"
After a moment her father's arm dropped. He turned and went
downstairs.
Alone, Francine cried for a long time. She had no idea why her
father had behaved as he did. It seemed bitterly unfair. "I knew I
wasn't a tramp—whatever that was. I knew I was only a thirteen-
year-old kid and I couldn't see why he thought it was wrong for me
to have Cokes and play the jukebox with the other kids. I lay there
thinking I'd run away, tie sheets together and climb out the win-
dow. While I was planning it I got under the covers. I got sleepy
and that was how it ended. I never gave my promise and I kept on
going to the drugstore."
During time Francine's relations with her mother were also
this

changing. had always felt that Mom was my rock and my

"I

strength. Now I was doing things on my own. It was a shock to re-

alize that what I did away from home was my own responsibility. I
knew my mother had struggled to raise me, but that soon it would
all be up to me. This comes to everyone, but to me it came pretty

young."
Francine's need to be close to someone was filled by Sharon
Taylor. "I had never had a friend like her before. I'd had play-
mates, but Sharon was more than that— a confidante. It meant being
able to spend the night at each other's houses and whisper secret
things that no one else was supposed to know; being up at mid-
night when everyone else was asleep; talking and painting our
fingernails and listening to sweet, romantic music on the radio."
Suddenly both girls wanted terribly to be attractive. Francine be-
came painfully self-conscious. She was tall— five-seven— and her
burgeoning figure embarrassed her. "I felt too big in every direc-
tion,clumsy and knock-kneed. I desperately wanted to cover these
defects and transform myself from an ugly duckling to a swan."
Clothes were a means of transformation; Francine and Sharon be-
came intensely interested in them. They spent after-school hours
46 The Burning Bed
window shopping. One day they fell in love with a blouse in Wool-
worth's window.
"We thought, 'Wouldn't it be neat for us to have matching
blouses!' We shared everything else!" The blouses were pullovers
with slanted stripes of purple, blue, and green. They cost $2.98
each, and as the girls walked across town— walking was one of their
pastimes— they discussed how to earn the money. They passed a
Dairy Queen and Francine spotted an envelope lying on the
ground. She found five dollars inside. Happily, there was no name
on the envelope. "We couldn't believe our fortune. It was as
though fate wanted us to dress like twins. We had a dollar so we
rushed back to get the blouses. Then we rushed to Sharon's house
and put them on. Each of us told the other how cool she looked."
The blouses raised the girls to a new plateau of what they con-
sidered sophistication. "We got a sickening pale lipstick that was
'in' that year. We wore it with black on our eyes. To top it all
stuff
off we got a friend to dye our hair with streaks of blond in the
front. When we put the whole thing together— the streaked hair, the
blouses, the makeup— we thought it was terrific."
At fourteen Francine got what she considered a truly glamorous
job— usher in a movie theater. She loved going backstage in the the-
ater, and putting on a burgundy-colored uniform. "I was a different
person as soon as I put on the uniform. I felt gracious and impor-
tant as I led people to their seats with my flashlight. I'd watch the
movie and eat popcorn and enjoy the atmosphere of luxury: the
velvet carpet, the artwork on the walls, Michelangelo-type pictures
with fleecy clouds, cupids, and gold vine leaves everywhere. It all
seemed lovely."
At about this time she began about her future life. Some
to think
of the possibilities that passed through her head were teacher,
nurse, secretary, stewardess. All of them seemed impossibly beyond
reach.
"I had lots of thoughts, ideals, feeling about life that I never
voiced for fear of being Sometimes I felt different and smarter
silly.

than the kids around me, but I wanted to be part of the group, so I
kept quiet. I assumed that the women I admired, teachers and
nurses and secretaries, came from a richer background than mine;
that a life like that wasn't for me. Girls in my group didn't talk
about careers; they talked about getting married and having kids,
 Beginning 47
so daydreamed about that. I'd picture a home in the suburbs, chil-
I

dren who were perfect students, a husband who was kind and lov-
ing, a life that was tidy with no big anxieties. In my heart I knew
even this much wasn't reality, but it seemed more within reach than
any other dreams I had."
Romance was an element in Francine's fantasies, but not sex. Sex
frightened her. She thought of it as something that inevitably oc-
curred in married life, but until then was fraught with peril. She

had absorbed from her mother and girl friends the conviction that
virginity must be sacrosanct before marriage. A girl who went too
far became "used goods" that no other man would love or respect.
Francine felt no physical desire. Her idea of romance was "what
you would see in a Tony Curtis movie— roses and candle-lit dinners."
At junior high Francine and her girl friends didn't "date." They
met boys by going to the places they knew boys would be— the
drugstore, the movie house. "If you sat on a park bench with a boy,
that was a date. We didn't go to movies with boys. We went know-
ing they'd be there. There was one boy I used to sit with pretty
often. We'd sit staring at the screen and out of the corner of my eye
I would watch his arm sneaking around the back of the seat. My

heart would pound while I wondered what to do if he actually put

it around me. I'd think, This is silly pretending to be a man and a

woman with his arm draped around me, when actually we're only
kids.' I'd get up and go to the bathroom or something to get away.

Looking back I wonder why I had to make an excuse. Why didn't I

have the nerve to tell him to quit?"
During the summer that she turned fifteen Francine and Sharon
began to go to the Pleasant Lake Pavilion, a teenage heaven about
ten miles out of town, where young people danced the cha-cha, the
bop, and the Bristol stomp. Sometimes there were guest musicians,
such as Jerry Lee Lewis, but mostly the patrons danced to a juke-
box whose multicolored rights glowed hypnotically in the dimly lit
room. A girl didn't need a date to go to the Pavilion. Boys and girls
milled around, drinking Cokes, at the edge of the dance floor, pair-
ing up to dance and then separating. Between sets couples went
outside. As they left, the ticket taker marked the backs of their
hands with a stamp visible under ultraviolet light. Francine re-
members the romance of standing by the shore sharing a cigarette
48 The Burning Bed
and looking at the stars and the house lights reflected in the dark
waters of the lake.
At Pleasant Lake Francine and Sharon met a boy named Darryl.
He was fifteen, too young to drive, but he had friends with a car,
and he introduced the girls to the thrills of motorized dating. "We
spent summer evenings bombing around town, yelling at other kids,
having a terrific time." On a certain evening Francine and Sharon
were sitting in the back seat. Darryl was between them. Sharon was
a little in love with Darryl and he had his arm around her. Sud-
denly he turned to Francine and looked deep into her eyes.
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" he asked.
"I don't know," Francine said, "what are you thinking?"
Darryl bent down and kissed her.
Francine remembers: "I saw stars I went all to pieces inside—
I

not because of the kiss— the physical part meant nothing— but be-
cause he'd chosen me! Of course I felt guilty about Sharon, but as it
turned out she didn't blame me. For a little while Darryl and I pre-
tended we were in love. He gave me his ring. He kissed me a few
times on the shore at Pleasant Lake. Then the summer ended and
we forgot the whole thing."
Francine wasnow a very pretty fifteen-year-old. She had a heart-
shaped face, thick curly hair, and dark brown eyes fringed with
heavy lashes. Her nose was tilted at a saucy angle and she had an
enticingly dimpled smile. But her looks didn't satisfy her. She
yearned to be more fragile, delicate, and ladylike. She fought to
keep her weight down. But no matter how insecure she felt, her vi-
tality and sense of humor were irrepressible. She covered her awk-

wardness with jokes as though she refused to take herself seriously.

Francine had a natural flair for comedy and clowning, for the
quick, teasing remark that could puncture pretense or turn embar-
rassment to laughter. She used it to attract boys and to keep them

at arm's length. She and Sharon felt the same way about boys. They
wanted to be with them and at the same time evade heavy ad-
vances. Half shy, half show-off, Francine usually found herself the
leader of any group, the life of any party.
Suddenly Francine's teenage social life was blossoming. She was
not attached to any particular boy, but on Friday and Saturday
nights she and Sharon dressed up in ski pants, mohair sweaters, and
pointed flats, and got together with five or six other boys and girls,
 Beginning 49
sometimes driving around in cars, sometimes playing records at the
home of whatever set of parents was willing to tolerate it. On a cer-
tain Friday evening during winter vacation Francine's parents went
out, leaving her to mind the younger children. Sharon came over
and a girl named Beverly arrived, bringing several boys and girls
Francine had never met before. One of them was Mickey Hughes.
He was a tall, very slim boy with thick black hair and dark blue-
green eyes. He was eighteen, a year or so older than most boys
Francine knew, and he carried himself with an aloofness, an air of
worldliness that made him instantly attractive.
"All the kids were bombing through the house, acting crazy. The
girls were hiding in the closets. Before she hid, a girl would say, If

you find me you can kiss me,' or something like that. Then there'd
be a lot of giggling and scuffling. It was all silly and fun. But
Mickey didn't take part in it. I can see him standing in the kitchen,
smoking. The way he carried himself struck me as more manly,
more mature— the way he held his cigarette, the way he combed his
hair. He smiled and was polite, and a little disdainful, too, as
though he were saying, It's okay for you to play games because
you're just kids, but it doesn't interest me.'" Francine was so
impressed she stopped giggling and accepted a cigarette from him.
She smoked it with what she hoped was nonchalance.
At their next meeting Mickey Hughes was less suave. Francine
and Sharon were at a friend's house one evening when Mickey ar-
rived with a friend— Bill Hensley, a blond boy Francine and Sharon
thought very good-looking. It was a school night and near the cur-
few hour set by Francine's mother. Mickey and Bill offered Fran-
cine and Sharon a ride home. On the way Mickey parked the car
and tried to kiss Francine. She resisted. He was persistent and their
struggle went on for several minutes. In the back seat Sharon was
wrestling with Bill Hensley. Finally Mickey gave up in disgust and
started the car, and dropped the girls off at their street. They
walked home so that Mrs. Moran wouldn't know they had been in a
car. Francine and Sharon told each other that Mickey and Bill were
creeps.
Francine and Mickey met for the third time late that spring at
the PleasantLake Pavilion. Francine and Sharon were together.
Mickey asked Francine to dance. He was having a good time and
his smilelit up his face. After a minute or two of small talk he
50 The Burning Bed
asked Francine if she'd like to go out with him the next Friday. The

invitation was tossed out casually— as though her answer made little
difference. Francine, who had had few real "dates" in her life, said,
"Okay, why not?" She tilted her chin flirtatiously. "What have I got
to lose?" Mickey suggested that Sharon come along as a date for
Bill, who stood on the sidelines watching. At the end of the dance,

Mickey squeezed her hand. "See you Friday," he said and walked
off into the crowd. Francine said "Okay," and wondered if he

meant it. Long after, Mickey told Francine he had invited her only
because Bill had bet him a dollar she wouldn't accept.
On Friday Sharon and Francine dressed for the evening not sure
how they would spend it. Uncertainty added spice to their week-
end fever. "We were always preparing for something terribly excit-
ing to happen. We didn't know what, but we had great expecta-
tions." Sharon came to Francine's house and the two girls discussed
the possibilities. Sharon had agreed to go out with a group of boys
and girls from a nearby town and told them to pick her up at Fran-
cine's house.Who should she go with? Francine said she wouldn't
go out with anyone unless Sharon went along. Finally they decided
to let fate settle the problem; they would go out with whoever ar-
rived first.

The first were Mickey and Bill. The girls got in Mickey's
to arrive
car and he drove to McDonald's for hamburgers and Cokes. Then
they parked, listening to the radio, talking, and engaging in some
light necking. "Mickey didn't try any heavy stuff and neither did
Bill. It was cozy and exciting. The dark car was like our own little

world— the four of us. Every time someone said something we'd all
giggle as though it was the world's funniest remark. Every time
Mickey tried to kiss me I'd light another cigarette instead. When
they took us home I felt okay about the date. At least it hadn't been
a disaster, like the first time I'd been in a car with Mickey. On the
other hand I wasn't in love either. But Sharon was. From that night
on she was mad about Bill."
Mickey and Bill showed up the next weekend and the next week-
end and the next. Their dates repeated the pattern set on the first
evening: driving around, hamburgers and Cokes, parking, ciga-
rettes and soft music, giggling and kissing. Francine learned that
Mickey lived with his parents in Dansville; that they, too, were
from Kentucky. Mickey had left school at sixteen. His parents had
 Beginning 51

promised him a car if he would finish school. He had the car, but
had never fulfilled the promise. He was working as an orderly at a
nursing home. His job and his car made him seem rich. He had
freedom and pocket money that boys still in school didn't have and
he concentrated all his attention on courting Francine. Sometimes
he and Bill took Francine and Sharon to the Pleasant Lake Pavilion,
where they danced to Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. A song
that Francine loved was "Kisses Sweeter Than Wine." After she
had been there a few times with Mickey, the other boys seemed to
pick up some secret signal. No one else asked her to dance. Mickey
had Francine all to himself.
Mickey took Francine to his home in Dansville, a half-hour drive
from Jackson. The Hughes family lived on Adams Street, a tree-
shaded street of small houses and ample yards, in an old frame
house, neatly kept and much like the one in which Francine's fam-
ily lived. Francine remembers her future mother-in-law's appraising

stare as Mrs. Hughes looked over her son's new girl friend. Fran-
cine was wearing a bouffant hairdo and heavy makeup. She had
thought she looked wonderful until she saw the expression on Mrs.
Hughes' face: a half- smile that seemed to say "this girl will do any-
thing to please a man." Mrs. Hughes was a tall woman with
straight, handsome features and strong coloring— white skin and
coal-black eyes. She had a direct gaze that was disconcerting. She
talked freely in a way Francine recognized as "old-fashioned Ken-
tucky mountain" talk, but her husband was silent. He was smaller
than she. His skin was sallow and his eyes a strange, murky blue.
Francine thought he had a sour, disagreeable face. She sensed that
Flossie ruled the roost in the Hughes home. At the time Francine
didn't particularly care. She had no inkling that her life would ever
be entwined with theirs.
The spring semester, Francine's last in junior high,was an aca-
demic disaster.She wasn't keeping up with her classes. Her mother
didn't let her go out with boys on weeknights, but when dinner was
over and the dishes done Francine would skim through her home-
work and walk to Sharon's house. Sharon wasn't much interested in
school either. The two girls discussed their love lives. Francine
didn't think she was in love with Mickey. Sharon was sure she was
in love with Bill, but wasn't sure he loved her. There was no lack of
drama in either affair.
 Th» Burning Bed
Summer began and Mickey's ardor increased. Francine's feelings
were contused. Mickey had told her that he loved her. No one else
had evtt said that. She found she loved being loved, but felt a deep
uneasiness about what obligations might go with it. She found her
feelings flickering and elusive. She had many emotions, but nothing
she could identify as love. Sometimes she found Mickey terribly ap-
Hng and attractive; at other times she wished he would leave
her alone and let her return to a simpler life. Their playing at sex—
this was the first serious necking she had ever experienced— both
excited and frightened her. She was terrified that she might slip
and violate that ultimate taboo—giving herself before marriage.
Alone with Sharon, Francine happily reverted to being a teen-
The Jackson County Fair was held in August. Sharon's house
.

overlooked the fairgrounds. Francine remembers how one night,

after dark, she and Sharon made a batch of popcorn and climbed
up on the roof. Perched there, eating popcorn, they could see the
bright lights, hear the grandstand speakers and the music from the
rides. The sidewalk below them was crowded with people going to
the fair. Francine and Sharon felt giddy with fun and excitement,
calling out teasing remarks to the people below, and doubling up
with giggles as their victims looked about in vain for the source of
the catcalls. When that palled they began rolling popcorn kernels
down the roof, betting on whose kernel would win the race to the
edge. Francine had more fun that night than in a dozen dates with
Mickey, but she knew that in truth her childhood was coming to an
end. She felt in limbo. Playing at being a child was just as unreal as
playing at being a woman. That August she became sixteen.
Mid l sexually experienced young man. He told Francine
of the sexy goings-on during the night shift at the nursing home,
and about a previous job at a resort where an older woman crept
into his room at night. He continually pressed Francine to sleep
with him. On this point it was easy for her to be resolute because
the rules were clearly defined in her mind. Furthermore, she didn't
really want to.
I wanted our relationship to be just a boy friend and girl friend
sort of thing. I liked the four of us— Bill and Sharon and Mickey
bombing around and having a good time— McDonald's, the lake,
playing records at Sharon's house. I liked Mickey. He had a good
sense of humor. He was good-mannered when he wanted to be. He
 7

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 a

54 Tlie Burning Bed

wouldn't take no for an answer. Somehow he made me feel guilty

and responsible for him. I didn't know what I had done to make
him love me so much, but since I had done it, I felt to blame. As a
child I always wanted to be good. I couldn't bear feeling to blame
for anything. I guess the way I felt in this situation was an exten-
sion of that childish fear of doing wrong. But here was a situation
where I couldn't do anything right. If I slept with Mickey, like he
wanted me to, that would be wrong. But he kept telling me how I
was making him suffer by not having me, and I didn't want him to
suffer. When I suggested we separate for a while, he'd say, 'No, I

can't bear it. I can't be away from you. I love you so much. I want
to marry you.' I looked at this man who loved me so much and . . .

I don't know really what I thought . . . but I felt a great need—

duty— to fulfill thought he really loved me. No one had
his love. I
ever loved me like that. It was a very powerful thing.''
In September 1963, Francine entered the tenth grade at Jackson
High School. It was bigger than Hunt Junior High and she felt

even more estranged. Sharon was also at Jackson High and also
disliked it. Quite often the girls played hookey. Sharon's parents be-
came concerned and for a while drove Sharon and Francine to
school to see that they got there. Rebelliously, the girls went in the
front door and out the back. Francine told her parents that she was
thinking of leaving school. They urged her
keep on, but without to
any great conviction. The older children, Joanne and Bob, had both
left school at sixteen. Higher education, especially for women, was

an idea far removed from her parents' lives; possibly they saw no
more use in it than Francine herself did at that moment.
"I remember the day I quit. It was in October, about six weeks
into the fall term. All those weeks I'd felt restless and too emo-
tionally churned up to study. On the one hand I had teachers treat-
ing me like a kid, making me stand in line and raise my hand to
speak. On the other I had this grown man (I thought) telling me he
loved me so much he'd die if I didn't marry him. I felt confused,
pressured, confined. wanted freedom. I made the decision impul-
I

sively,while I was math class. The teacher was going on

sitting in
and on and I didn't understand a thing. It suddenly seemed clear to
me that nothing in school had anything to do with me. When class
was dismissed I put my books in a locker in the hall and picked up
my coat. Sharon was in a classroom across the hall. She saw me and
 Beginning 55
came out and asked, 'Where are you going?' I said, I'm quitting!'
She said, 'Wait for me.' We left together."
Though she did not consciously plan it, Francine believes now
that leaving school led inevitably to another fateful decision— to
give in to Mickey. Again, it was a spur-of-the-moment decision that
had been a long time in the making. It took place in the back seat
of his car parked in a cornfield. She will always remember the eerie
sound of the rustling stalks. Suddenly Francine was tired of resist-
ing. "I didn't fight him off. I just let it happen." As the act took
place her initial excitement turned to dismay. "It wasn't good. It
hurt and I felt dry inside. know what to
I didn't expect; not even
the basics, like what semen was. I remember a feeling of being
want to give. I did it to
used, of giving something I really didn't
please him. He was so crazy about me. But I wasn't prepared for
how bad it would make me feel. I was immediately afraid I was
pregnant. I knew nothing about birth control and he didn't use
any."
When was over the first thing Mickey said was, "Now you
it

don't have to marry me if you don't want to."

Francine thought, "Oh my God! I do have to marry him! I do!
I've given him my body. I've given him everything. I'm his."
In the days that followed she felt so guilty she thought there
must be some outward She wondered if people could tell by
sign.
looking at her that she had had sex; perhaps by the way she
walked, or the look in her eyes. She told her parents that she
wanted to marry Mickey. They protested, but not very firmly. Nei-
ther did Mickey's parents object.
Once Francine had agreed to marry Mickey, a load seemed to
The prospect of being married became happy and exciting.
lift.

Mickey, too, was delighted, though he was none too pleased that
Francine refused to have sex again until after the wedding. She still

felt deeply ashamed of her Whenever she felt doubts

lost virginity.
about her coming marriage she would remember that it was too
late to change her mind. She no longer had a choice.
She began to look ahead and think, "Maybe it will be okay.
Maybe I can make things different from the bad marriages I've
seen." She felt she had "higher ideals" of marriage and resolved
that she and Mickey would try harder. She had confidence in her-
self as a housekeeper. She would be thrifty, tidy (clean and proud
56 The Burning Bed
as her Kentucky grandmother had taught her), and if she and
Mickey had children they would be loved and protected and raised
in a loving home. All her life she had heard such sayings as "Life is
what you make it" and "Love conquers all." Francine believed
them and vowed to make them come true. With such a shining goal
it was easy to put down flutterings of doubt as she wondered if

what she felt for Mickey was really love. If it wasn't love, she
thought it must be because of some failing in her. Perhaps the full
realization of love would come after marriage.
Francine was so concerned with her own feelings that she had
little insight into the personality of the boy she was marrying. In

the weeks before their marriage there were two incidents that dis-
turbed her. Not knowing what to make of them, she brushed them
aside. First, Mickey quit his job. Francine was astonished. He gave
no particular reason except that he was tired of it When Francine
pressed him as to how they would live when they were married, he
airily promised that he would find another job soon. And in the

meanwhile, he assured her, they could always stay with his folks.
Francine blamed herself for the second episode. Mickey's
brother, Lawrence, was engaged to Bill Hensley's sister, Lillian. A
wedding shower for them was being held in the Town Hall in
Dansville. That night Francine and Sharon went to Dansville with
Mickey and Bill. When they got to the Town Hall, the girls spotted
several of Mickey's and Bill's former girl friends going to the party
and refused to go in. The two boys went in, leaving the girls to wait
in Mickey's car. After a while Francine and Sharon got restless.
Pique added to their boredom. Francine, who knew only the rudi-
ments of how to drive a car, decided to practice driving around
Dansville. She started the carand zoomed around the block. As she
drove back by the Town Hall she saw Mickey and Bill coming out.
A teasing impulse made her floor the gas pedal and the car took off
in a rush. In the rearview mirror she saw Mickey waving and run-
ning after her. Francine drove two blocks to Adams Street and
brought the car to a screeching halt in front of the Hughes house.
She and Sharon ran inside and hid behind the stove. Shortly,
Mickey and Bill slammed in after them. The girls' giggles gave
away their hiding place and they ran out the door. Mickey caught
Francine on the sidewalk. He grabbed her by the front of her
blouse with a yank that pulled off the buttons. His fingers closed
 Beginning 57

around her neck in a tight grip. Francine most was

What shocked
the rage in his eyes. He you ever take my car."
said, "Don't
Francine said, "It was only a joke," and burst into tears. Mickey's
face softened and his hand dropped away. Francine knew she was
wrong to have taken the car. Mickey had a passion for cars; this
one was his most treasured possession. She apologized and Mickey
kissed her. Francine erased from her mind the shock of his hands
on her neck, the buttons popping off her blouse, the glitter in his
blue-green eyes.
A few days later Francine and Mickey went to a jewelry store in
Jackson to buy wedding rings on credit. Since Mickey was out of
work, his mother went with them to co-sign the loan. They bought
matched gold bands for ninety-three dollars, payable in monthly
installments.
Francine and Mickey were married on November 4, 1963, in the
Dansville Methodist Church. She was sixteen, he eighteen years
old. Francine wore a short white dress. Mickey wore a suit. Their
families attended. Lawrence and Lillian stood up beside the bridal
couple.
"I was scared to death. All I could think of during the ceremony
was I was closing a chapter in my life— too soon. I looked at
that
Mom and I saw uncertainty and regret on her face. When it was
over I tried to tell her not to worry— that I would be all right, that
she had done the right thing. I was reassuring her when I was the
one who needed reassurance, and thinking that I wished she had
said no. I have had thoughts like that throughout my life, not blam-
ing my mother exactly, but wishing she had been a little stronger
and said, 'No! You're not getting married.' Maybe it would have
stopped me. I was not prepared emotionally or physically for any
of the things that were going to happen to me in the next three or
four years. I was still growing up and living in my dream world, my
teenage world."
The newlyweds went back to the Hughes home in Dansville for
their honeymoon. For a few days they could have the house to
themselves. The Hughes family was in Kentucky attending the mar-
riage of seventeen-year-old Lawrence and his fifteen-year-old bride.
 Trying

Dansville is a village of fewer than five hundred inhabitants lying

among flat,fertile farmlands east of the highway that connects

Jackson, where Francine was raised, and Lansing, the capital of

Michigan. You can walk from one end of Dansville to the other in
ten minutes. The streets end at the edge of cornfields and pastures.
The houses are old frame houses, purest Americana, some quaint
and cozy, others run-down and decrepit, depending on the owner's
style. There are many tall trees that shade the yards during the hot

days of summer and in winter sigh and bend in the cold winds that
sweep off the open fields. The business section of Dansville consists
of a few frame or brick buildings at the intersection of Route 36
and Jackson Street. There is a gas station on one corner, the Dans-
ville Grocery on another. The grocery has checked curtains in the

windows and signs for "Beer, Wine, Orange Crush" over the door.
Next to it are the Township Fire Department, the library, and the
Town Hall, all housed in one white frame building. Across the
street at the Crossroads Inn quick meals are served at a counter
and more sociable ones at Formica-topped tables. There are apt to
be more men than women in the place— men dressed in work
clothes, heavy boots, jeans, and sweatshirts. They eat and smoke
and drink coffee, gossiping and joking through their lunch breaks
and after work. When the place is crowded they fill the room with
a male presence that lets a visitor know that this small section of
the United States remains a man's world dominated by "bread-
60 The Burning Bed

winners." Some of them earn very good money in the factories in

Jackson or Lansing, but people here are also accustomed to earning
less. Life is geared to that.
and Berlin Hughes still
Flossie live at the corner of Adams and
Grove next to the house in which their son died. Flossie Hughes is
a woman who gives an impression of uncommon strength and in-
tense feelings. She stands straight and has a commanding presence.
Her hair is gray, but her brows are still dark. Her years in middle
America have not modified her regional Kentucky speech or her
habit of chewing tobacco. She was born in a mountain town called
Crockettsville and raised in the slightly larger town of Jackson,
Kentucky. Her father served in the First World War and afterward
was a farmer. "We had a good childhood life," she says. Flossie
married Berlin Hughes in Marshallsville, Kentucky, in 1938. She
was sixteen, he seventeen. Berlin had a less fortunate childhood.
His father was killed in a mine cave-in when Berlin was three years
old. His mother, a woman of Cherokee blood named Patient Yates,
went to work for a man named Will Hall. He helped Patient Yates
raise her children, but he was hard on Berlin and his brothers.
Berlin and Flossie Hughes came to Michigan in 1939. Berlin
worked in the fields and operated heavy machinery. The family
lived precariously, moving often as Berlin went from job to job.
They went to Kansas and then on to California looking for a better
life, but failed to find it. They returned to Michigan in the sixties

and settled in Dansville.

Flossie bore six children: first a son, Dexter, and then a daugh-
ter, Estafaye, and four more boys— James, nicknamed Mickey,

Lawrence, nicknamed Wimpy, Marlin, and Donovan. Flossie ruled

the household with a strong will and a volatile temper. Her chil-
dren, especially the boys, were her pride and joy. Berlin taught
them to be tough. "He let us know that if you come home from
school with your shirt torn from a fight you better have some but-
tons off the other guy's shirt in your pocket," Wimpy recalls. Be-
sides an ideal of toughness, Berlin brought from the Kentucky hills
the concept of a family loyalty superseding all else.

Quarrels among the boys were not tolerated. If they fought, Ber-
lintook off his belt and forced them, on pain of a beating, to sit on
the floor in a circle, holding hands, until their anger subsided. Only
when they had kissed each other in forgiveness were they allowed
 Trying 61

to get up. "Maybe it seems strange to be forced to kiss your

brother," Wimpy says, "but we come to love each other
sure as hell
an awful lot." The three middle boys— Mickey, Wimpy, and Marlin
—only a year or so apart in age, were the closest of all.
Flossie's family was a handsome one. Dexter and Marlin and
Donovan grew to be big, powerful, good-looking men. Wimpy is

shorter, but has his mother's features and Mickey was tall,
vitality.

and as a youth, extremely slim, like his father. He also had his fa-
ther's Indian features— a strong jaw and long, narrow eyes that were
an unusual color.
By the time Mickey met Francine, the Hughes boys had already
sown many wild oats. Girls, cars, and good times occupied most of
their thoughts. Mickey and Wimpy had quit school and moved
through a variety of short-term jobs— farm worker, gas-station at-
tendant, dishwasher, and nursing-home orderly— earning enough to
finance their pleasures. The Sheriff Department knew them as
cocky, troublesome juveniles, quick to start fights and sass cops.
Mickey's first recorded arrest, for disrupting the peace, was in
March 1963, soon after he met Francine. Schoolmates and neigh-
bors of the Hughes boys were aware that if you had trouble with
one Hughes, you had better prepare to take on all of them. The
fierce loyalty of the old Kentucky clans lived on in the Hughes fam-
ily, transplanted intact from the backwoods hollows to the quiet

streets of Dansville, Michigan.

When Francine had envisioned her coming married life she had
looked forward to having her own home to take care of and make
beautiful. She had also imagined marriage would bring peace of
mind; the blessing of the church and the privacy of their own bed-
room would put an end to the struggle over sex. It didn't work out
that way. Ten days after she and Mickey were married, the Hughes
family returned from Kentucky. Mickey's younger brothers, Marlin,
fifteen, Donovan, twelve, and an adopted child, Vicky, eleven, the
daughter of Flossie's deceased sister, were still at home. The elder
Hugheses slept in a downstairs bedroom. To accommodate the
newlyweds, Vicky moved out of her upstairs bedroom to share an
adjoining bedroom with the boys. The two rooms were connected
by an open doorway so that privacy was impossible. Francine was
horribly embarrassed by making love in such close quarters. It
didn't bother Mickey and he was persistent in his desires. The
62 The Burning Bed
nights became whispered struggles, Francine saying, "No, no,
please, everybody and Mickey persuading and insist-
will hear us,"
ing. To make it worse, Francine had what she describes as "a lot of
hang-ups" derived from the prudery of her early training. Though
she would respond initially to Mickey's lovemaking, it wasn't until
several years after her marriage that she was able to enjoy sex com-
pletely.
Instead of spending her days in the nest-building she had antici-
pated, Francine spent them helping Flossie with the housework.
She was trying to be part of the Hughes family, to like them and
make them proud of their daughter-in-law. They took her in gen-
erously enough, but she was always conscious that she and Mickey
were a burden in the overcrowded house. Francine desperately
wanted a place of their own. Mickey, on the other hand, was quite
satisfied. He continued life as before— looking for work in a desul-

tory fashion, and spending his days as he pleased. The only

difference since his marriage was that he now had Francine in his
bed at night.
Francine discovered that in the Hughes home the boys were
kings. Flossie petted and pleased them. If one of them suddenly
wanted a clean shirt, Vicky was ordered to iron it. Their misdeeds
were looked on with indulgence. Flossie expected a great deal of
the girls, but she always softened when one of her boys was in-
volved.
A few weeks after thewedding, Mickey's temper flared for the
first time since the incident with his car. The issue was jealousy. He

began to complain that Francine's clothes— clothes she had worn

before they were married— were too sexy, too provocative, and de-
signed to attract the attention of other men. Francine was bewil-
dered. She told Mickey that her clothes, her sexy appearance, ev-
erything she did and felt, were for him.

Francine often wore a pair of black ski pants and a blouse tucked
in at the waist. Mickey said the costume was too revealing, and told
her to wear the blouse hanging loose. One day, while Mickey was
out looking for a job, Francine rebelliously tucked in the blouse
while she worked around the house. Just before he came home she
pulled it out. Mickey noticed that the blouse was wrinkled. Fran-
cine admitted she had been wearing it tucked in.Mickey grabbed
her by the arm and yanked her up the stairs and into their bed-
 Trying 63

room. He pushed her down on the bed and pulled off the ski pants.
Swearing furiously, he ripped them to pieces. Francine was numb
with shock. Too surprised to be angry herself, she protested that
she had meant no harm, that she loved only him, that he mustn't
feel jealous. After amoment Mickey calmed down and took her in
his arms. Francine wept while her mind seethed with confusion.
She told herself she had done nothing wrong, but at the bottom of
her mind the voice of guilt reminded her that she could have
avoided the scene if she'd worn the blouse loose as Mickey wanted
her to. She was also humiliated. Their voices and scuffling must
have been audible all over the house.
Before they went to sleep that night Mickey apologized. He said
he was sorry; that had happened because he loved her so much.
it

He even cried a little. Francine forgave him and vowed to be more

careful. She was relieved that when she came down in the morning
no one in the family made any reference to the incident. It almost
seemed as though it hadn't happened.

Francine had few clothes and needed to replace the ski pants.
With Flossie she went shopping Lansing and by good luck found
in
a pair of pedal pushers for a dollar. They were very pretty; the fab-
ricwas printed with lavender flowers and green leaves and she
bought a lavender top to match. She thought glowingly of how
becoming the new outfit was, how attractive she would look for
Mickey. At home she rushed upstairs to put it on. She was wearing
her hair long. She brushed it and arranged it in a new style. The
total effect was stunning. She waited eagerly for Mickey's coming,
looking forward to the admiration in his eyes. She heard the front
door open and turned, radiant with expectation:
"He came in and stood staring at me. I said, 'Hi, Mickey,' and
thenI saw this horrible look come over his face. He leaped at me
and grabbed me by the front of my blouse. He said, 'Where did
you get that?'
"I said, 'Mickey! Let go! What's the matter? I got it in Lansing

... at K-Mart ... I went with your mother.' Mickey tore at

. . .

the blouse until it ripped. Then he ripped off my pedal pushers and
threw the pieces on the floor. He said, 'There! I'll bet you never
wear that again!'"
64 The Burning Bed
Nearly naked, Francine fled up the stairs. In her flight she passed
Flossie in the hall, watching in silence.
After a while Mickey came upstairs to where Francine lay sob-
bing on their bed. He was calm but self-righteous. He said he was
sorry, but that the episode was Francine's fault because the outfit
had looked "too good" on her. He wasn't sorry he had ripped her
clothes. He was sorry that the whole thing had happened, that she
had provoked him. He told her she would have to learn that he was
boss.
With Francine thought, "I did it all for you and you
bitter hurt,
ruined was only trying to be a good wife. It wasn't wrong to
it. I

look pretty before we were married. Why is it now?" But, again,

Mickey's accusation filled her with guilt. Hadn't he warned her
only a week before? Did he sense that she hadn't truly given him
all her love? This was a secret Francine kept deeply hidden. She

was ashamed that she didn't love Mickey in the fullest sense, as a
good wife should— and she wanted above all to be a good wife.
As Francine wept, Mickey's anger subsided. She became con-
scious that the whole household— Flossie, Berlin, the two younger
boys, and Vicky—must have their ears tuned to what was happen-
ing upstairs. Embarrassment forced her to stop crying. She got up
and dressed in an old sweater and skirt. Mickey kissed her, ran a
comb through his hair, glanced blithely in the mirror, and went
down to the supper Flossie was preparing. In the bathroom Fran-
cine tried to erase the signs of her crying. Then she joined the fam-
ily already at the table. No one word to her as she sat down.
said a
Again, it was as though the incident had never happened.

Mickey was making no progress in his quest for work. Berlin,

who counted every penny and berated Vicky for using too much
hot water when she washed her hair, began to remind Mickey that
it was time he made a home for himself and Francine. Mickey

would say sulkily that he was doing his best and promised to repay
his parents when he got work. Money was
a constant source of fric-
tion in the household. Francine came to dread Friday nights, when
Berlin came home with his paycheck and he and Flossie invariably
fought over its allocation. As tension mounted Francine longed to
leave.
Mickey precipitated their departure when he flew into his most
 Trying 65
violent rage yet. There had been
visitors during the afternoon, and
everyone had sat drinking coffee and talking. One of the guests was
a man Francine had never met before. She remembers him only as
"the man with big hands." Later, in their bedroom, Mickey sud-
denly accused Francine of 'looking" at the man. Francine realized
Mickey had worn a stormy look ever since the visit and was puz-
zled; then she remembered the visitor's huge hands. She told
Mickey, "I was only looking at his hands; I never saw anyone with
such big hands." Mickey's fist shot out and knocked her over on
the bed. She struggled up, fighting to defend herself, at the same
time pleading with him to stop, to listen to reason. His face was fu-
rious. "I'll teach you not to look at other men, you whore," he said,
and hit her again. This time Francine fought back.
The noise was clearly audible downstairs. Berlin yelled upstairs
to Mickey to "knock it off" and then came upstairs himself. Mickey
turned on his father, cursing, telling him to mind his own business.
Francine ran downstairs. Berlin and Mickey followed.
Now Mickey and his father stood shouting at each other; Berlin
was asserting that Mickey would have to behave himself while
under his roof; Mickey became wilder and more abusive. When he
broke a chair and threatened his father, Flossie telephoned the
police. Mickey was still hot with fury when the deputies arrived.
Flossie let them in and he turned to face them belligerently. One of
them put a hand on Mickey's shoulder and Mickey instantly swung
at him. Seconds later Mickey was under arrest. Cursing his parents,
Francine, and the deputies, he was led away.
Francine had witnessed the scene with shock. Tearfully she
called her mother and asked if she could come home to spend the
night. Berlin drove her from Dansville to Jackson. For the first and
almost the last time, Mickey's parents blamed Mickey, rather than
Francine, for what they called "the racket" that had taken place.
Berlin told her he was prouder to have Francine as a daughter than
Mickey as a son.
Hazel greeted Francine with few questions and Francine was
grateful. It would have been difficult to explain how a jealous quar-
rel had set off such a scene. Already Francine felt guilty that she
had stared at the man with big hands, and even worse about bur-
dening her mother. "My leaving had made things easier for
Mom . one less mouth to feed. I didn't want her to feel she had
. .
66 The Burning Bed

to take me back. I didn't want her to worry. So right then I started

making as little of the episode as possible. I began to cover up what
had happened how bad it really was."
. . .

The police booked Mickey for assault and battery, then released
him. Within hours he arrived at the Morans' house. He was calm
and had little to say. He kissed Francine and hugged her. That
night Francine's younger sister, Diana Lynn, moved in with little
Kathy. Mickey spent the night with Francine in what had once
been her bedroom. Before they went upstairs Mrs. Moran made her
position plain. She told Mickey, "You can stay here for a little
while, but that's all. You get a job you get an apartment and
. . .

you take care of your wife." Mickey accepted the ultimatum quietly.
During the couple of weeks the newlyweds stayed at the
Morans', Mickey was pleasant, polite, and sunny to everyone.
Kathy, who was eight at that time, remembers how much she liked
her brother-in-law. She called him "Mickey Mouse." He joked and
played with her. He went out daily looking for work and Francine
went apartment-hunting. He found a job at a factory in Jackson, a
monotonous job finishing small auto parts. Francine found a small
apartment on Stewart Street, only five blocks from her parents'
home.
The apartment was an "efficiency." The couch slid out and be-
came a bed. There was a small dining room, a kitchenette, and a
bath shared with another tenant. It was far from the dream home
of Francine's fantasies, but she felt it was something to build on.
Perhaps this tangible symbol of married life would transform them
into instant adults. She brought over their wedding gifts-a few
pots and pans, ashtrays, lamps, a vase of plastic flowers.
Mickey seemed happy. Francine cooked him good breakfasts and
he went to work cheerfully, while she stayed home, cleaning the
apartment over and over to make sure everything was perfect.
Within a few weeks a fight exploded without warning when she
and Mickey were driving to a shopping center.
"We had gotten a car. Mickey's old one had collapsed. My dad
co-signed for a 'fifty-seven Chrysler. It cost us a hundred and
twenty-five dollars. I was sitting beside Mickey, looking out the
window, and apparently he thought I was looking at a fellow, just
some unknown man, standing on the street. Without a word Mickey

hauled off and hit me across the face."

 Trying 67

Francine said, "My God! What did you do that for?"

Mickey's eyes were glinting with rage. He said, "I'll teach you to
look at guys that way! You know how you were looking!"
"I wasn't, Mickey! I wasn'tl" Francine cried and buried her face
in her hands. Sobbing, she defended herself. Mickey drove on, say-
ing nothing. Francine became quiet. "Oh God," she thought. "I've
done it be more careful!"
again. I've got to
In the months that followed Mickey hit Francine again and again
on similar pretexts. Almost anything might trigger his jealousy— if
she were gone too long at the store, went to see a girl friend or her
sisters, mentioned a boy she might once have flirted with. Each

time Francine was taken by surprise, as though she had stumbled

over something in the dark. She became apprehensive of any situa-
tion that could pose a risk.
"If anybody came apartment while he was away I'd be
to the
nervous, wondering would dare tell him and afraid that if I
if I

didn't he might find out and be even madder. Beverly, a girl I used
to hang around with, and her sister stopped by one afternoon. He
wouldn't believe they just came in, saw the apartment, and had
some coffee. When I told Mickey, he was sure we had gone out,
running around and meeting guys. Sometimes he got upset over a
thing like that and sometimes he didn't. I never knew what would
set him off, so I was scared to do anything. I hardly dared leave the
house.
"When he would hit me it wasn't just the pain of the blow that
hurt. It was the emotions that flooded over me. My chest would
hurt. My heart ached. Tears came pouring out. I couldn't stop
them. Usually Mickey stayed angry until I quit crying. I would try
to stop; to be real quiet and do nothing that would start him again.
I would sit there wondering what it was all about. Then he would

begin to feel sorry. Little by little he'd apologize, saying that it

would never happen again. He'd say, T love you. I just can't stand
you looking at other men.' I'd say, 'I don't look at other men. I don't
want anybody else. I just want our marriage to work.' Then he'd
kiss me and we'd make up. I wanted to believe him so badly."
Between episodes of anger and violence there were intervals of
fun and companionship in which Francine rebuilt her hopes for a
workable marriage. Even at his best Mickey was touchy, arbitrary,
and intensely selfish, but Francine was too unsophisticated to at-
68 The Burning Bed

tach such labels to his behavior. She told herself that she must learn
to be a wife— that a wife must bend to her husband's wishes and
thus make a happy home. She and Mickey began to weave a bond
between them. They went shopping, discussing what to buy with
his meager paycheck. Mickey would gallantly pick up the bags of
groceries and carry them into the apartment. They went to movies,
visited Bill and Sharon, who were now married and living with
Sharon's parents, or went to see Mickey's brother Dexter and his
wife Cleo. Mickey seemed to share Francine's nest-building ambi-
tions. They would discuss future plans. Francine hoped that some-

day they might have a place in the country, and then her spirits
would soar. They were still only sixteen and eighteen years old and
enjoyed life like any teenagers— or almost did.
After a few months in the efficiency apartment Francine found
they could rent a larger apartment next door. It had a separate bed-
room and a living room, dining room, and kitchen. She was quite
thrilled when they moved in. To help pay the rent, Francine per-
suaded Mickey to allow her to work part-time as a waitress at a res-
taurant a few blocks away. Francine loved going to work. It filled
her idle time and allayed her feeling of isolation.
Mickey soon became suspicious of Francine's activities at the res-
taurant. When he came home from work he would ask what she
had done that day. As she told him he would question her sharply,
picking up any small discrepancy, insisting on a complete list of the
people she had seen and an account of what they said. Actually her
days were uneventful, filled with routine work. During the eight
hours Mickey was at work Francine did the laundry and ironing,
cleaned the apartment, and put in her hours at the restaurant.
Mickey worked the second shift and she picked him up at eleven in
the evening at the Tumble Finish Factory.
One night, unusually tired, Francine lay down to rest before
picking him up, and fell asleep. She awoke, terrified by the sound
of someone bartering down the bolted door. Mickey burst in, furi-
ous. "What have you been doing?" he demanded. Francine tried to
tell him that she'd accidentally fallen asleep, but Mickey raged on.

He had imagined that she had a man in the bedroom with her.
When he found no one he blamed her for causing him to get
worked up. As punishment he decided that henceforth he would
 Trying 69

take the car to work. Thereafter Francine could not drive anywhere
without him.
A few weekslater Mickey brought Francine's restaurant job to an
end. With her earnings Francine had bought herself a few new
things, including a brassiere with stretch straps. When Mickey saw
her put it on he made an angry face and said that it allowed her
breasts to bounce. Defiantly Francine replied that there was noth-
ing wrong with the bra. She finished dressing and went to work.
She was busy serving dinner customers when Mickey came into the
restaurant. The look on his face made her heart sink. He walked
down the aisle between the tables and grabbed her arm. He said,
"Get your things. You're going with me." Francine protested that
she couldn't leave in the middle of a rush hour. She had begged the
restaurant owner for the job. It would be the height of ingratitude
to walk out without warning.
"You're coming with me," he repeated grimly. "If you don't
you'll wish you had of."
Francine looked around at the crowded room and decided it
would be better to leave quietly than have a fight right there. She
picked up her coat, whispered to her employer that there was an
emergency at home, and left with Mickey. At home he ripped the
offending bra off her body and tore it to shreds. Then he beat her.
Francine hit back as best she could, but it only maddened him
more. Not until she lay on the floor, sobbing and begging, did his
anger cool down. Once he was calm Francine dared say nothing
that might start it up again. When he told her he didn't want her to
work anymore, she agreed. "I was willing to do anything to keep
peace. I thought if I did, this phase would pass; Mickey would get
over it and we could live a normal life. When we had fights I
yearned to go home and stay there, but I knew there was no turn-
ing back. When I got married it was final. I had shut the door on
my teenage life."

After a few months' work at the Tumble

Finish Factory Mickey
became restless at his job. He had
heard from friends in Kansas
about better pay and opportunities there. Sharon and Bill were still
close friends with Mickey and Francine, and Bill caught Mickey's
enthusiasm for a move to a new frontier. At first the girls were du-
bious, but allowed themselves to be persuaded that a better life full
jo The Burning Bed
of fun and prosperity awaited them in Kansas. Mickey promised
that his Kansas friends would house them all until he and Bill
found jobs and living quarters. Francine and Sharon packed their
clothes into Mickey's car and the four set off in high spirits.
Soon Francine's optimism began to ebb. She had never been out
of the state of Michigan. "We drove, and drove and drove endless
miles ... I couldn't sleep in the car and we didn't have money for
motels. Mickey would say, 'Why don't you just lay down and go to
sleep, Fran,' and I would try, but I couldn't, so I was awake for the
whole two days. Mickey and Bill took turns driving. I was afraid
the driver would get groggy and we'd have an accident. It was all
scary— not knowing where we were going or what we were going to
do when we got there."
When they arrived at the home of Mickey's friends, it was obvi-
ous that four guests were too many. Bill and Mickey's first day of
job hunting was fruitless. Francine and Sharon became instantly
homesick. "I felt terrible in this strange place, miles from my fam-
ily, sponging on strangers."

After another jobless day the men were discouraged, too. They
had arrived penniless and their hosts' cordiality was becoming
strained. Mickey borrowed twenty dollars and the two crestfallen
couples drove home to Michigan. Having given up their apartment
as well as Mickey's job, Francine and Mickey returned to the
Hughes home in Dansville.
Luckily Mickey found a new job. It was in a factory in Williams-
ton— a small town about fifteen miles north of Dansville. He and
Francine moved into an apartment over a hardware store nearby. It
was a dark, gloomy place with no windows in the back room. Fran-
cine was intensely lonely. She had no friends to visit, no telephone,
no TV, nothing to do except housework. She was dependent on
Mickey for all her pleasure and companionship.
"I would try to clean everything up, and with him gone, there
wasn't anybody to mess things up. The dishes amounted to a couple
of plates, forks, coffee cups, a frying pan. You could do those in ten
minutes, and you could sweep the floor, dust, and do everything
that needed to be done in an hour. Sometimes I would sit there all
day with nothing to do, not daring to go out, for fear he would get
jealous. Sometimes I would sneak out and just sit on a park bench
and look at the birds."
 Trying 71

One day, on a furtive outing, Francine dropped into a drugstore

and bought some nail polish. When Mickey came home he instantly
noticed her painted nails. He asked how she had gotten the polish.
She told him she had gone for a walk. Mickey said he didn't think
she needed to go for walks. Francine began to pour out her unhap-
piness— how she hated the idleness, the loneliness, the gloomy
high-ceilinged apartment. Mickey was unsympathetic. Francine
protested she had the right to go for a walk if she chose. The scene
ended in a beating.
When Francine had surrendered to helpless sobbing, Mickey
dropped his hands and left the room. After a fight their recon-
ciliation followed a standard pattern:
"I'd be crying. He'd leave the room. For a while nobody would
say anything. Then I'd get up and wash my face. Mickey would be
quiet. He'd sit in the living room pretending to read. After a while
he'd say, 'Fran, come here.' I'd say, *No. I don't want to.' He'd say,
'Come here. I want to talk to you. I want to tell you I'm sorry.' I'd
say, 'No. I don't want to hear it. You're not sorry. You've done it be-
fore. "Sorry" doesn't mean anything.' He'd say, 'Fran. Please come
here.' His voice would be getting very soft and apologetic. I'd get
up and sit down a distance away from him. Silence again—him not
knowing what to say and me not knowing what to say. I'm just sit-
ting there, thinking, 'What's this all about? What am I doing here?
Where am I going?' I'd feel so exhausted and confused I couldn't
think straight. I'd just be wondering what to do. Then Mickey
would start saying he was really sorry; that he loved me. When he
did that I would cry again, wondering why, if he loved me, why
did he do it in the first place? Then I'd think about whatever it was
I had done that had set him off and resolve not to do it again. I

thought maybe jealousy was normal in a young married man; that

if I could make him believe I loved him he would get over it.
"Sometimes things seemed to be working out as I hoped. Mickey
would be nice and loving for weeks. I'd begin to feel secure and
then, wham, he'd get mad over some tiny thing, and let me have it.
I'd have a black eye, and my feelings would be all torn up again."
The factory at which Mickey worked was only a few blocks from
their apartment and he often came home for lunch. One morning
Sharon and Bill dropped in and the four had lunch together. After-

ward Bill and Sharon planned to go to Jackson. Francine saw a

72 The Burning Bed
chance to visit her mother; Bill and Sharon would give her a ride
both ways.
Mickey objected. "There's no sense in it. You don't need to go.
What do you want togo up to Jackson for?"
"I haven't seen Mom in a long time," Francine said. 'Td just like
to see her, that's all. I've got nothing to do here."
Mickey scowled. "You don't need to go to Jackson to look for
something to do, and you don't need to see your mom."
Suddenly Francine rebelled. "I just couldn't stand Mickey's eter-
nal domination one more minute. I picked up my coat and started
for the door. I said, 1 want to see Mom and I'm going, no matter
what you say. I don't care!' That did itl Mickey pulled back his fist
and floored me. Bill and Sharon stood there, looking amazed. The
two of them were very upset and embarrassed. I got up and ran
into the bathroom to cry. Bill and Sharon left in a hurry. Then
Mickey beat the living hell out of me. He stayed home from work
and we fought all afternoon."
This was the worst beating Francine had had yet. Her face and
body were covered with bruises. The next morning when she got
out of bed she ached all over. In the bathroom she looked at her
swollen face with horror. The whites of her eyes were shot with
blood. They looked ghastly against a background of puffy purple
bruises. Mickey took one look and turned away. He had almost
nothing to say. She cooked his breakfast in silence. He ate in silence
and went to work.
"When he had gone I sat there thinking, 'My God, what are you
letting him do to you?' I'd go and look at myself in the mirror. I
looked so terrible that tears would begin down. I thought,
to trickle
Tve got to get out of here. I can't take this anymore; the beating,
the living in prison. He won't let me go anywhere, he won't let me
do anything, even have any friends. I'm a prisoner!' Finally I got
enough determination to go out to a pay phone and call Mom. My
brother, Bob, answered. him I had to leave and asked him to
I told
come for me. Within an hour I was packed up. When Bob saw my
face he didn't have to ask what had happened. I remember how hu-
miliated I felt, arriving at Mom's with my face beat up and my
boxes and bundles standing on the doorstep. Mom said, 'My God,
what happened to you?* I don't know what I told her. I really didn't
have to explain."
 Trying 73
An hour after Francine arrived at her mother's, Mickey came
home from work, discovered her flight, and followed her to Jackson.
He banged on the Morans' door. When no one opened it he began
to yell, "What the hell do you think you're doing! God damn it, you
come out here, I want to talk to youl" Francine refused to open the
door, although Mickey's yelling made her cringe as she thought of
the neighbors listening. She shouted through the door, "Mickey, go
away. Leave me
alone. Can't you see you've done enough?"
Mickey but he didn't leave Francine alone. He telephoned
left,

constantly. Sometimes Francine hung up on him. Sometimes she

took the phone off the hook. As soon as it was back in service
Mickey rang again. After several days of siege everyone's nerves
were frayed. Francine was miserable and embarrassed. Finally her
mother advised her to talk to Mickey and settle matters one way or
the other.
"When I picked up the phone, every fiber in my body was warn-
ing me not to go back, but the moment I and
heard his voice, soft
pleading, wanted to forgive him and try again. He was begging,
I

'Please come back to me. I love you so.'"

Francine held out a few days more, but her stay at home was in-
creasingly uncomfortable. Her father had nothing to say about her
situation. (It would have been difficult, since his own episodes of
violence were becoming more frequent.) Francine's mother sus-
pected what Francine herself did not yet know— that Francine was
pregnant— and hinted that Francine should not be hasty about end-
ing her marriage. Francine knew she couldn't stay with her parents,
but the prospect of striking out alone was too frightening to con-
sider. She was no match for the forces pushing her to go back to
Mickey. She doesn't remember how long she resisted— only that
eventually he came opened the door, and he took
to the house, she
her in his arms. She felt a surge of relief that the struggle was over.
Mickey kissed her tenderly. His strange, narrow eyes were alight
with triumph.
Francine packed her things and Mickey jubilantly put them in
their car. Francine said goodbye to her parents and she and Mickey
started off. Only then did she discover that during the crisis Mickey
had quit his job and given up their apartment as well. He explained
that he'd been too upset to go to work and so hadn't paid the rent.
He drove Francine back to his parents' home in Dansville.
74 The Burning Bed

was in the spring of 1964. Fran-

Francine's flight to her mother
cine and Mickey had been married for six months and Francine
was indeed pregnant. She became certain of it shortly after she re-
turned to Mickey. She had prayed it wouldn't happen, but beyond
douching she had done nothing to avoid it. The only other birth-
control method she knew of was condoms, which Mickey refused to
use.
"I knew it wasn't right for two teenagers to bring a child into the
world when we could barely support ourselves. We were still stay-
ing with Berlin and Flossie when I found out. I told him, 'Well, you
know, I'm pregnant, Mickey,' in a really scared tone of voice. He
looked at me in surprise. He said, 'What's the matter? Don't you
want my He was overjoyed."
child?"
and Berlin were less pleased at the prospect of another
Flossie
mouth to feed. Mickey had been in no hurry to find work. Francine
realized that he was happy to be back with his mother and to have
them both waiting on him. But when his parents found Francine
was pregnant they nagged him to do something. Mickey found a
job at a lumber yard in Mason. He and Francine rented an apart-
ment nearby.
The new apartment was sunny and pretty, and, after her first dis-
may at being pregnant, Francine felt a lift to her spirits. She
believed that giving Mickey a child of whom he could be proud
would quiet his jealousy, and they could begin real married life. Al-
ready Mickey seemed changed— truly grateful to have her back,
and much in love with her. Francine found herself responding. At
night she lay in his arms feeling loved and protected and thought,
"This is what marriage can be."
The coming child gave purpose and focus to their lives. At last
Francine had a foundation on which to rebuild her hopes. "As I
carried the baby and felt the stirring of life, it became a joy to me.
I thrilled with anticipation. I began to prepare. I wanted every-

thing to be perfect. Mom had a shower for me, and Joanne gave me
a bassinet with a ruffled skirt. I had baby clothes neat and folded in
the drawers five months ahead of time."
Mickey's earnings at the lumber yard were small. When he
brought his paycheck home the cupboard would be almost bare.
After he and Francine had gone shopping, paid the rent, and put
 Trying 75

gas in the car, there would be little money left. Cleo, the wife of
Mickey's oldest brother, Dexter, had a job and offered to pay Fran-
cine to do the ironing for her household. Since this was work Fran-
cine could do at home, Mickey agreed. Each day, after she had
cleaned the apartment, Francine ironed clothes and watched TV.
Mickey had used a tax refund to buy her a set.
"It was a struggle to make ends meet. We were eating beans, but
I was willing to make sacrifices. I thought, 'At last we're really try-

ing, and if we work together things will get better.'"

They didn't. As Francine swelled with pregnancy, Mickey's mood
changed His temper was short and he complained about any flaw
in her housekeeping.
"He wasn't so jealous anymore, but he found other things to get
mad came home and found the trash hadn't been
about. If he
emptied that day, or some other little thing I'd forgotten, he'd have
a tantrum. He wanted his dinner cooked, the floor mopped, the bed
made, clean clothes all the time. I had to wash by hand. If I left
anything undone he'd get mad, and say I was a slob. 'Can't you
keep the house cleaner than that?' he'd yell. I would defend myself.
We'd argue and yell at each other, but he didn't hit me. I think he
was afraid he'd harm the child."
Just before their first anniversary, when Francine was in the sev-
enth month of pregnancy, Mickey came home one Friday and made
a sudden aimouncement. "Fran," he said. "I just can't do it any
more. I can't take care of a wife and child."
Francine was stunned. "What am I supposed to do?" she asked.
Miokey shrugged. He was busy packing his clothes. "You can al-
ways go to your mom," he suggested.
"Mickey!" Francine wailed. "You can't do this! You mean you're
just going to walk out and leave me flat?" Mickey didn't answer. He
took his suitcase down to the car, and returned for some other pos-
sessions. Francine stormed, but Mickey remained calm. He told her
he now realized that their marriage had been a mistake; he wasn't
old enough to settle down. He left with his paycheck in his pocket.
After the door had closed Francine threw her heavy body on the
bed and cried in utter despair. She thought of cutting her wrists,
but the unborn baby stopped her. She could kill herself, but not her
child.
At last she calmed herself enough to think of what to do next.
76 The Burning Bed
The rent was due that day, there were no groceries to speak of, and
she had no cash. There was no alternative but to leave the apart-
ment and go to her mother's.
and Sharon and they came over and helped me
"I called Bill
pack up. The apartment was furnished, so there were no heavy
things. On our way to Mom's in Jackson I asked Bill to go through
Dansville and down Adams Street. Mickey's car was parked in front
of his mom's house. Just as we drove by, the door opened and
Mickey came out with a girl. He didn't see us. I looked back and it
was obvious they were together. They were laughing and talking as
they got in his car. The emotion I felt then was well, impossi-
. . .

ble to describe. I was so hurt, so jealous, so betrayed. I cried in

front of Bill and Sharon. I thought of all I'd given up for Mickey;
how exchanged my happy teenage life to be his wife and have
I'd
his child; how much I'd suffered and how hard I'd tried. I'd done it
because he loved me so much and begged so hard. It seemed to-
tally unbelievable that he would just suddenly walk away from it
all and drop me for some other girl."

When Francine arrived at her mother's home, her response was

not comforting. She immediately asked who was going to pay the
doctor's bill? The hospital bill? What was Francine going to live
on? "Aren't you going to make him pay child support?" she de-
manded. "You're going to need things for the baby." Francine felt
overwhelmed. "I felt like saying, 'Gosh, Mom, I don't know. I'm
only seventeen; how am I supposed to know these things!'" Fran-
cine's father had nothing to say. He listened in silence while the
women talked.
After a few days, Francine swallowed her pride and called
Mickey at his mother's house. "I said, 'Hey, we've got this child
that's coming into the world, and it's not only my responsibility; it's
yours, too. There's going to be doctor's bills and hospital bills. Until
I can work, you've got to help.'
"Mickey acted as though it was none of his affair. When I
insisted, he got belligerent. He said, T don't have to pay anything.
If you get anything out of me, you're going to have to make me

pay.' I said, 'If that's how you feel, then okay, but I think that since
it is your child, too, that you shouldn't feel that way— that taking
care of this child something you should want to do!"
is

Years later, when Francine looked back at this moment in her

 Trying 77
life, she realized she could have survived without Mickey's support.

At the time she didn't see how. "I probably could have got some
kind of welfare help, but it didn't occur to me. I would have been
afraid to live alone. It never crossed my mind to put the baby in a
foster home. I'd been carrying this baby, feeling it move, thinking
about it all these months. It was my baby. I wouldn't have let any-
one else have it for the world."
Another element in Francine's desire to resume life with Mickey
was that she loved him. "I think there are different forms of love.
My love for Mickey grew out of being with him, depending on him,
being pregnant with his child. During the good times together we
were very close. When he left me I realized I loved him more than
I had known."

Flossie agreed that the coming child was Mickey's responsibility

and urged him not to desert his family. Mickey's attitude softened
and soon he and Francine were talking to each other on the phone
every day, admitting that they missed each other. From that it was
a short step to deciding to go back together. Francine packed her
clothes and Mickey came to fetch her. Since their own apartment
was gone he brought her back to the Hughes house in Dansville.
"For Mickey, Flossie's house was always a port in a storm. For
me, having to throw ourselves on her generosity again and again
was a humiliating drag."
As was usual for him at a critical moment, Mickey had quit his
job, but luck was with him. He got a better job at a Lansing factory
that made airplane parts.
"Mickey was really pleased and proud. It was more money than
he'd ever earned and he liked the work. It made him feel more im-
portant than previous jobs. We got an apartment in Lansing for
twenty dollars a week. It wasn't the greatest place in the world, but
I fixed it up to look nice.Mickey was kind and considerate and car-
ing, those last couple of months before the baby was born. He was
trying very hard. He'd come home in the evening and we'd be to-
gether and watch TV. Heeven came home during his breaks from
work. He stuck around the house a lot because he knew I might go
to the hospital any time."
Though Francine was huge and uncomfortable, she continued to
clo heavy work, trying to keep house perfectly. Toward the end of
her pregnancy she developed toxemia.
 "

j8 The Burning Bed

"One dayI had a fever, pain, and nausea. Mickey was at work. I

lay on the bed, hot and aching, thinking, I've got to do those dishes
before he comes home.' So I got up and did them. When Mickey
came home I was very sick. Mickey said, 'What's the matter?' I told
him I felt awful. He touched me and I was burning hot. I started
crying and said, 'I got up and did the dishes.' He said, *You
shouldn't have done that.' I thought, "Why shouldn't IP I had al-
ways done it before. I always had to have everything done. I felt
like I had to get up and do those dishes before he came home, even
if I was sick, pregnant, it just didn't matter."

Mickey took Francine to the doctor, who gave her medication

and instructed Mickey on how to care for her. Mickey took her
home and did his best During the early hours of the next morning
Francine went into labor. Mickey called his mother and then drove
Francine to Mason General Hospital.
Francine labored for ten hours. "After about five hours I thought
I was dying. I had never felt watched the
such excruciating pain. I

clock, thinking, 'How long is this going to go on? I can't take any
more.' I kept asking the nurse, 'When? Isn't it time yet?* and she
would say, 7ust be patient,' and go away. Mickey was with me, and
Flossie was waiting outside. Mickey was very worried. He wanted
to hold my hand. I didn't want to be touched. I was in too much
pain. I said, *Mickey, you can't do anything, so just leave me
alone.'
Mickey left room and was sick in the hall. Flossie took
the labor
his place beside Francine. "She sat by me trying to be nice and
make me feel better, but she talked endlessly and I wasn't listening
to anything she was saying. I knew they wanted to help, she and
Mickey, but all I could think of was, 'Will this agony ever be over?'
and try not to scream, only groan."
At last, through the fog of pain, Francine heard nurses bustling
about, the doctor being paged, and wondered why. She no longer
believed that it could have anything to do with her, that her ordeal
could have an end. Then she was on the delivery table. A nurse was
giving her gas to ease each contraction, but it seemed to have no
effect. There was a last excruciating pain and she felt the baby

come. "They cut the cord and laid her on my stomach. I tried to
raise my arms to touch her, but I couldn't. They had my arms
strapped down. All I could do was look. I was overwhelmed with
 "

Trying 79
love and a sort of awe. Tears came streaming out and at the same
time I began to smile. I had never been so happy in my life."

Francine's baby was bom five days before Christmas. A wreath

with a big red ribbon hung on the glass of the nursery where the
new babies slept in rows of cribs. Mickey, jaunty and proud, came
to the hospital and he and Francine looked at their daughter
through the window. They discussed what to name her. Francine
thought of Christmas and of a girl named Christy she had admired
in school— a girl who was neat and pretty, smiling, got good grades,
and was friends with everyone. "To me that girl was perfection.
We named the baby Christy, for her, and Marie, my mother's mid-
dle name— Christy Marie.
"From the moment she was laid in my arms for the first time I
loved her. I wanted to take perfect care of her. I looked down at
her sleeping and she was beautiful. I thought, 'My God, I'm her
mother! This is a life I've created. This is my child. I'm responsible
for everything that happens to her. Everything— values to instill,
things to be taught. I have to care for her and protect her until she
is grown.' When Mickey and I stood together looking at her I was

secretly wondering if all this responsibility would be mine alone."

Three days after the baby's birth Mickey came to bring them
home. It was evening. The baby was wrapped up and stuffed into a
red Christmas stocking. "I carried her out in my arms to where
Mickey was waiting in our old Chevy. The snow was falling. I got
into the car and nearly keeled over. Mickey had the heat going full
blast. We started off and I looked down at Christy and saw beads
of sweat on her face. I said, 'My God, Mickey, what are you trying
to do, cook usf He said, 'I didn't want you guys to get cold.'
Francine began a happy period of taking care of her baby. She
enjoyed bathing her, dressing her, cradling her while she drank her
milk. Francine did not nurse the baby because of a modest fear that
she might be forced to do it in public. As a child she had seen a
woman openly nursing a baby and had been shocked. Mickey re-
mained pleased with the baby, though he didn't like holding her.
"Maybe he was scared because she was so little. He would hold her
and she would start to cry and he'd say, 'Take her! Take her!'
"For a while after Christy was born, Mickey was really nice. The
first time I remember a bad scene was when she was about three
8o The Burning Bed
months old. I was in a chair, holding her, when Mickey got mad
and threw milk all over me and all over the wall." Quietly, without
tears, Francine mopped it up. She had accepted the fact that she
had to take pains to keep Mickey calm. "I always lived with the
knowledge that there were things to be done to keep the peace.
That fact was always there. He expected a clean house— neat, or-
derly, the wash done and put away, the floors mopped every day.
He had to go to work very early. I got up before he did, prepared
his breakfast, packed his lunch, made coffee, and then woke him. I
had to practically drag him out of bed. I would lay his clothes out,
sometimes even put his socks on his feet to get him to get up and
go to work. He expected me to do everything his mother had done.
I don't suppose she'd dressed him since he grew up, but she did ev-

erything else."
Nevertheless, when Mickey wasn't upset about something, Fran-
cine felt they were normal married life. His jeal-
at last leading a
ousy had subsided. She was beginning to forget that Mickey had
ever beaten her when suddenly his violence began again.
Mickey enjoyed weekend parties with friends, drinking beer and
listening to music. One Saturday a group gathered in the Hughes
apartment.
"They were playing records and guitars and smoking and drink-
ing beer. The party went on from early afternoon into the evening.
I was the only one with a baby, with responsibilities and work to

do. I wished everybody would leave. I was sick of the noise and the
smoke and the bodies sitting around with nothing better to do.
Mickey told me to fetch somebody a beer. I'd been getting beers
and emptying ashtrays all day. I blurted out my feelings. I said,
'Get it hand
yourself. I'm sick of all this! I'm going to bed!' Mickey's
shot out and he slapped me with full force across the face. Every-
body shut up while I sat there, my face stinging. I wanted to die of
humiliation. I got up and ran into the bedroom, trying not to cry till
I got there. The party was quiet for a couple of minutes. Then I

heard Mickey say, 'Put a record on, somebody,' and they all went
on having a good time."
The moratorium on beating Francine was over. If Mickey felt
like hitting her, he hit her, regardless of who might be watching.

Bystanders either ignored a scene or, if that was impossible, beat a

hasty retreat. No one wanted to mix in a "family affair." After a
 Trying 81

beating Francine instinctively tried to hide the fact. She wore sun-
glasses and makeup to cover a black eye or stayed out of sight
while a split lip healed, and, in fact, no one seemed to notice.
Friends and neighbors, Mickey's brothers and their wives, stu-
diously ignored any marks on her. Francine felt as though she had
an unmentionable from which everyone turned away.
affliction
In spite of the beatings, after Christy was born the thought of
leaving Mickey hardly crossed Francine's mind. They were a family
at last and she was convinced that she could not possibly raise a
child alone. She accepted that being beaten was the price she had
to pay for Mickey's support. Usually, after a fight there was a pe-
riod of calm and lovemaktng. "In times when things would be good
between us I'd have great hope and be happy. I wanted so much to
be a good wife and mother and have my marriage succeed. I was so
proud of my baby. I just didn't dream of trying to do anything but
go on and make the best home for her that I could."
When Christy was about six months old Mickey began to spend
less time at home. It was some time before Francine discovered

that he and some friends from the factory had rented an apartment
as a hangout, a place to bring girls.
On Fridays Mickey would bring home his paycheck, give Fran-
cine the share he had allotted to her for groceries and the rent,
change his clothes, and dash out again. Francine became increas-
ingly puzzled:
"One night we were in bed, and that's when I knew something
was going on. He got up and said he was going for a drive. I said,
'Where are you going?' He said, 'Just for a drive. I can't sleep.' I
said, 'Why do you want to get up this late? Can I go with you?' He
said, 'No. I just want to go by myself. I want to be alone.' " Mickey
went out and didn't come back that night.
The following day was Friday and Francine waited with rising
apprehension for him to return. He breezed in, and, fending off her
questions, began to wash up and change his clothes.
"Where are you going?" Francine asked. "Out," Mickey replied.
Francine was scared. She thought, "If he goes out hell spend the
rent money and the grocery money."
"Did you cash your check?"
. "No," Mickey said. "I'm going to cash it now."
"Well . can I have some money for groceries?"
. .
82 The Burning Bed

"No. I'll give you tomorrow."

it to
"I need it now. bank and give it to me. Then you can
Go to the
go out. Where are you going? You're running around with women,
aren't you?"
"No," Mickey said. "Who told you that?"
"I'm not totally dumb," Francine said. "I know. What are you
going to do? Take your whole check and waste it? How are we
going to eat and pay the rent?"
Francine tried to pull the paycheck out of Mickey's pocket, but
he held her off with one hand and went on shaving with the other.

"I was furious. Here was this guy, my husband, who had a wife
and a baby, going to gallivant all weekend, and leave us sitting
there. I remember thinking, 'We're supposed to come first, not any-
one else.'"
For once Mickey was imperturbable. He hurried into his wind-
breaker, ran a comb through his thick black hair, gave a last glance
at the mirror, and turned to go. Francine picked up an ashtray and
hurled it at him. Laughing, Mickey ducked, and reached out to
field the missile. It shattered; he looked at his bloody hand in anger

and he picked up a vase and threw it at Francine. Turning

surprise;
quickly, he made for the door. Francine threw a coffee cup. It hit
him in the back of the neck and broke, but Mickey kept going.
Francine saw blood on the back of his neck where the jagged cup
had cut him.
Instead of going to his rendezvous, Mickey went to his mother.
Flossie took him to the hospital emergency room, where his wounds
were and then brought him home with her to Dansville.
stitched,
After he had gone, Francine, alone with Christy, waited for the
phone to ring. She was jealous, indignant, and scared. Their margin
was so slight that even one lost paycheck meant trouble: rent in ar-
rears, bill collectors at the door, and not enough to eat. The week-
end passed without any word from Dansville, where she felt sure
Mickey had gone. She was too proud to telephone. She used her
remaining dollars for groceries and wondered what she would do if
Mickey abandoned her and Christy.
Finally a call came. It was Lillian, Wimpy's wife. She told Fran-
cine that Mickey was at his mother's and that Flossie was burning
with indignation because Francine had injured him. Lillian warned
 Trying 83

Francine that she could expect a visit from Mickey's parents. Fran-
cine'sown anger rose anew. "Fine," she said. "Let them come."
Flossie and Berlin came to the apartment. Flossie berated Fran-
cine for her violence. "You could have hurt him very bad! You
could have killed him!" Francine stood her ground. "What about
me?" she cried. "What do you think could happen to me when he's
hitting me? How do you think he's treating me and this child he's
responsible for?"
The visit allowed both sides to vent their feelings. A few days
later, to Francine's relief, Mickey came back, and their life together
resumed.
For a time Mickey's mind seemed to be diverted from women by
his enthusiasm for a project he and Bill Hensley undertook— build-
ing a stock car. The two young men put all their spare time into
working on the car and most of their cash into buying parts. "It
was like pulling teeth to get the rent money because they always
needed something for the stock car— big slicks, special engine parts
—it seemed endless."
In October 1965, when Christy was nine months old, Francine
found she was pregnant again. A foam contraceptive recommended
at the hospital had At first she felt desperate at the prospect
failed.
of another baby, but after a few months, as the child became a real-
ity that she could feel inside her, love and protectiveness over-
whelmed her qualms. Mickey, as before, was delighted. He was
proud to have a pregnant wife.
Summer came and Mickey and Bill were still busy with their
stock car. On weekends Mickey took Francine and Christy to visit
Sharon in Jackson; then he and Bill returned to Lansing to work on
the stock car. "Somehow Sharon and I found out that they were
having girls up in my apartment while Sharon and I were back
there on the porch in Jackson on those hot summer nights— both of
us pregnant." Francine first suspected it when she went back to the
apartment one Sunday night and noticed someone had remade the
bed. She could tell because the bedspread had a small rip in it and
she always made the bed in a certain way so the rip didn't show.
"Who's been here?" Francine asked. "You've had a girl here,
haven't you?"
Mickey denied it and stormed out of the house, but Bill
confessed to Sharon, who told Francine that their husbands had
84 The Burning Bed

been amusing themselves not only with the stock car, but with ex-
tracurricular sex. Francine was jealous and bitter. "It made such a
mockery of what Mickey had made me believe when I married him
only two years before." She kept her tears and anger to herself,
afraid that if she made a scene Mickey would walk out as he had
before. She was in the last month of pregnancy. She needed
Mickey's support to get through the weeks ahead. Their finances
were at a low ebb. Mickey had put so much money into the stock
car that the rent was in arrears. Their landlady dunned them con-
stantly and Mickey always left it to Francine to placate her and put
her off.

One day when Mickey was at work a policeman appeared at

Francine's door. The landlady had called him to evict them. "When
I saw the policeman I got a lump in my throat. I thought,'My
God, what am I going to do? How can I get themoney? Will they
put me out on the street or take me to jail or what?' The policeman
saw how pregnant I was and tried to handle the situation with lad
gloves. He calmed the landlady down for the moment. But I knew I
had to do something fast."
Francine discovered that a house nearby— one she'd often noticed
because it was so pretty— was vacant. She found the owner and, mi-
raculously, he agreed to rent it to her. It was a Friday and when
Mickey came home with his paycheck he gave Francine money for
a deposit and she closed the deal. The new house had a nice yard, a
garage where Mickey could work on his car, a big window in the
dining room. "I pictured how I would fix it up; how nice it would
be in the dining room in the morning having coffee, looking out the
sunny window into the yard. I persuaded our landlady to let us
take our things out of the old apartment. I promised we would pay

the back rent later. We moved in, or rather, I moved us into the
new house. Mickey work and left it all to me. Vicky, his
was at
adopted sister, helped me. I was absolutely huge but somehow I
packed up, even though I could hardly bend over."
"Vicky and I carried everything down the stairs and into the new
house. There was a lot of heavy stuff— dishes, clothes, Christy's
things, a TV, and a record player, that I shouldn't have carried but
I had become so programmed that I felt I had to do all that

whether or not I was nine months pregnant."

Two days later Francine went into labor. The second birth was
 Trying 85

faster and easier. Knowing what to expect, she was less frightened.
She was happy that she had a son: a healthy, pretty baby whom
they named James.
Good luck came with the new baby. Mickey got a job with better
pay at the Oldsmobile factory in Lansing, thus restoring their
credit. The new house was unfurnished. Mickey got a loan at the
credit union and bought a refrigerator, a couch, and a chair. Fran-
cine's mother contributed a dinette set, curtains, and plants. This

was the first time that Francine had had furniture of her own and
she was delighted with each new piece. She felt that in collecting
their own things they were putting together a home that wouldn't
be blown apart by a sudden storm of anger, as their previous
households had been.
Mickey felt so flush that he got a second loan and bought a '64
Malibu: a showy car, metallic silver with air conditioning, a black
interior, and bucket seats. He also began joining his new friends at

the Oldsmobile factory for beers after work, something he had

never done before. When he came home late he told Francine he
was delayed "at the office." Francine was puzzled. "I couldn't
figure out what he meant by 'the office/ Mickey laughed because I
was so dumb. He told me it was a bar. I didn't worry at first.
Mickey got drunk sometimes, but he wasn't a regular drinker. I
thought: 'He has to get along with the guys and go where they go
in order to fit im'"
Now had two babies, Francine's time was totally taken
that she
up with caring them and they became the center of her life, jus-
for
tifying everything she had forfeited by her marriage.
"I loved Christy so much. I was proud of how nice I kept her—

bathed every day, and dressed in clean clothes. She always smelled
sweet. She was so responsive and bright, a happy child. I gave her
vitamins and was careful to poach her eggs, not fry them, so she
wouldn't get any grease. I talked to her and sang her songs. I
wanted her world to be perfect. When Jimmy came along it was
the same thing over again. It seemed as though I must have wanted
him all along to balance my love for Christy and make the family
complete. I thought I was lucky to have two such great kids."
Three months after Jimmy's birth Mickey was assigned to the
late shift. He went to work at eleven in the evening and was gone
86 The Burning Bed

until seven the next morning. Francine was frightened at being left

alone.
"We lived in a tough part of town. Night after nightI would

have these horrible thoughts that somebody might break in and

harm me and the kids. I would take Christy and Jimmy into my bed-
room and lie there awake, listening. There were noises late at night.
Mice rustled in the waste basket and I would stiffen all over. I
would lock the bedroom door and stick knives in it to hold it tight.
One night the wind blew and made a sudden humming noise and I
flew out of bed. I stood in the middle of the floor shaking. Then I
realized it was just the wind, but my heart kept on pounding. I was
so relieved when morning light came. I'd lain awake all night
waiting."
Although Francine didn't recognize her anxiety as a symptom,
two years of emotional buffeting, of violence, erratic cruelty, inse-
curity, and constant change, had taken a psychic toll, sapping her
confidence in herself and increasing her dependence on Mickey. At
the same time her commitment to her children, especially Christy,
became more and more intense.
"Christy and I spent so many nights alone when he would be
gone— working, running around, or whatever. Christy was my
strength. She talked at an early age, walked early. I talked to her
all the time. I wanted her to grow up to do all the things I couldn't

do. I read aloud to her. I'd get fairy stories at the supermarket and
also books with information in them. I taught her everything I
could. I loved her beyond anything. I used to sing her a song, 'You
are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies

are gray.' I meant every word."

Francine's life in the house in Jackson ended abruptly. Mickey's

brother Dexter had moved to Kansas. He wrote Mickey telling him
that there were great opportunities there. Mickey, tired of the night
shift,telephoned him. Dexter said, "Come on down. Ill get you a
job." Mickey instantly decided to go. Francine was dubious. She
knew Dexter was inclined to exaggerate success. He loved to sport
flashy clothes and cars that, likely as not, would never be paid for.
She was also reluctant to tear apart the home she had worked so
hard to put together: the nice house, the furniture and belongings
 Trying 87

that represented building for the future. She was overruled and
Mickey left for Kansas.
He returned shortly, full of enthusiasm for the construction job
he had found. They emptied the house, dispersing their furniture.
Flossie took the new refrigerator. Other things were given here and
there. In a car packed with clothes and baby things, Mickey drove
Francine and the two babies to Overland Park, a suburb of Kansas
City.
There Francine found a surprise. Mickey had rented the most
beautiful apartment she had ever seen. It was in a new building
and had two bedrooms, two baths, a big living room with glass slid-
ing doors opening on a terrace, draw drapes, a dishwasher, wall-to-
wall carpeting, and new furniture. The rent was in keeping with
such luxury. Dexter, who was living in equal splendor, could afford
it because he was earning high pay as a bricklayer and his wife,

Cleo, was working. Mickey was only an apprentice and Francine

saw his pay wouldn't be enough. "I remember loving it so, but
thinking, 'My God, we'll never be able to make it.'"
Francine was right. After a few weeks Mickey's employer went
bankrupt. Mickey and Dexter were out of a job. The two men went
scouting for work, leaving their wives behind. Francine spent an
anxious week until Mickey returned with the news that he'd found
a construction job in Camden, Missouri, seventy miles away.
In Camden, Francine and Mickey rented a modest house, one of a
cluster of summer cottages. Francine was relieved to be living in
something they could afford. This time, Mickey assured her, the job
would be a steady one with good money coming in. The house was
unfurnished, but on the strength of Mickey's job a furniture store
gave them credit and they bought what they needed.
Once again Francine did her best to settle down. She found the
area desolate. There was wind and blowing sand, ticks and
chiggers, and violent, frightening thunderstorms. The house had tile
floors. It seemed that she had no sooner finished sweeping than

they were gritty again. On the other hand, there were good neigh-
bors. An old man and woman in a house across from hers were kind
to her and the children. All the children in the settlement called the
cpuple "Grandma" and "Grandpa." Francine could wander from
her yard over to theirs for company. Mickey was happy because he
88 The Burning Bed
was training as a brick mason and saw better earnings ahead. He
took considerable pride in his increasing skill.

Suddenly Mickey's work ran out, and he found there was no

chance of another job in the area. Since Mickey and Francine lived
from paycheck to paycheck, they were virtually penniless. Mickey
invested their remaining funds in gasoline. Francine packed up
their personal belongings. The new furniture was still unpaid for
and they left it behind. Francine said goodbye to the elderly couple
and closed the door on the little frame house with the gritty tile
floors. Mickey had wrecked his flashy silver Malibu in a drag race

and replaced it with an old station wagon. In it they returned to

Michigan, where, as always, Flossie took them in.
Mickey found a job in a factory on the outskirts of Lansing. No
sooner were they settled than he decided to go back to Missouri,
where Dexter had found work in the town of Richmond. Mickey
drove out, got a job, and returned for Francine. They packed the
children and a few belongings into the elderly station wagon and
were off again.
In Richmond, Francine and Mickey rented a small house that
pleased Francine. It was a cute house, up on a hill. Best of all, the
rent was low. They were soon joined by Mickey's brother, Dono-
van, then sixteen, who had in tow a girl who had two little boys.
Mickey, Dexter, and Donovan were working together on a con-
struction job. After work they went to bars and before long had a
feud going with some men in town.
"I didn't know anything about it until one night when Mickey

and Donovan were out bombing around in Mickey's car. They

drove up to our door and told me to be careful because they were
going to have a fight with these local guys. They said the locals had
sawed-off shotguns. Donovan and Mickey had also gotten a gun.
They took off, leaving me in the house with the kids. I was scared,
wondering if the local guys would shoot at the house. It got dark. A
car with a loud muffler came by, full of guys yelling out the win-
dow. I turned out the lights and the kids and I lay on the floor. The
car went away but it kept coming back so I didn't dare get up.
After a while the car pulled up at the house and the guys banged
on the door and yelled for Mickey. I yelled back, 'Only me and the
kids are here.' They went away, but I still didn't dare get up. The
kids and I lay on the floor in the dark for two hours."
 Trying 89

Francine learned later that there had been a wild chase through
the countryside culminating in a fight in town. Mickey was thrown
in jail. Francine went to see him. "It was a little jail; you'd go down
a little dirt alley and there was a shack with bars. He was mad as
hell."

Mickey was released in a few days. He came home to collect

some clothes and tell Francine diat he and his brothers were leav-
ing for Florida. When they found work, he said, he would send for
her. Francine asked for money to feed herself and the children.
Mickey refused. He said he needed every cent for gas to get to
Florida. The argument became a fight, in the course of which Fran-
cine took refuge behind the refrigerator. Mickey tipped it over on
her. As it crashed to the floor, Francine ducked away. Mickey
slammed out and was gone.
"He left us there, without a cent. I didn't know what to do, even
for that day. Then I decided the logical thing was to get a job. I
had no car, so I walked everywhere, looking for work. After two
days I got a job in a nursing home about a mile and a half from
where we lived. The girl with two kids who had come with Dono-
van was stranded too. She moved in with me and got a job in the
same nursing home. She worked the night shift and I worked days
so there was always one of us with the kids."
Until the two women collected their first week's pay, they and
the four children had to live on what food was in the house. They
managed to get the refrigerator upright, but it wouldn't work and
the contents spoiled. For a week the household lived on pancakes
and canned milk.
Several weeks went by with no word from Mickey. Francine
wondered if he had deserted her for good. Then a postcard came.
He had found no work in Florida and was in Dansville with his
parents. He was setting out in the station wagon to bring her home.
When Mickey arrived, Francine had no strength to waste on re-
criminations. They piled what things they could into the station
wagon, abandoned the rest, and Francine, with a sense of having
survived yet another shipwreck, wearily allowed Mickey to drive
her and the children back to Dansville, where Flossie and Berlin
took them in.
"Mickey's luck turned. He landed a job with a construction firm in
Jackson at what seemed an enormous wage— eight dollars an hour—
go The Burning Bed
twice what he had ever earned before. Francine rented an apart-
ment on Trail Street in Jackson. It was small and dingy, but with
Mickey's poor credit, the best she could do. It seemed that with
Mickey's high earnings, life would become easier, but Mickey spent

his money as fast as it came in, and the savings account Francine
hoped to build up never materialized.
They had been in the Trail Street apartment only a few weeks
when Francine discovered she was pregnant again.
The prospect overwhelmed her. After Jimmy's birth two years
before, she had asked the obstretrician for birth-control pills. He
was Catholic and refused. Francine lacked the money to visit an-
other doctor, but in Kansas her sister-in-law, Cleo, shared her pre-
scription. When Francine came back to Michigan she intended to
see a doctor and get her own prescription, but, always short of cash,
she put it off until too late. Now she felt desperate. "I had heard
that hot and cold baths could cause a miscarriage. I got in the tub
and nearly scalded myself. Then I ran icy cold water and sat in
that. I didn't do anything extreme, like taking a drug. I kept hoping
against hope the bath routine would work. It didn't."
To make matters worse, Mickey was laid off from his high-pay-
ing job. Even though Mickey had had enough money, he had let
the rent fall in arrears and once again they lost their apartment.
While Mickey was out of work, his parents housed and fed the fam-
ily. After they'd been in Dansville several weeks Mickey was called

back to his job, but made no move toward finding another place to
live.

"Mickey would have liked to stay at his mother's indefinitely, but

he didn't want to pay his share. Berlin and Flossie kept track of
every dime and when Mickey went back to work they began to
gripe at him: 'You're earning good money,' they'd say. Tf you're
gonna stay here, you're gonna have to help.' I knew they were
right. I'd say, 'Mickey, it's only fair.' What I wanted most was a
place of our own, and finally Mickey said okay, if I could find one
he'd move."
Francine found a trailer for rent in the Sunset Trailer Park near
Mason, and Mickey agreed to move in. Francine loved the trailer.
It was clean and new. There was carpeting in the living room and

the kitchen was sunny. Best of all were the close neighbors. Fran-
cine enjoyed having people to visit with during the day. She had
 Trying 91

spent so many days confined with small children that compan-

ionship was a tremendous treat.
A family with four young girls, the oldest about fourteen, lived in
a trailer across from hers. The girls often came over after school and
helped Francine with Christy and Jimmy. Francine also made
friends with a young wife in a neighboring trailer.
"The trailer park was out in the country. It was spring when we
moved in. I was a couple of months pregnant, but I didn't let the
landlord know it or he wouldn't have rented to us. The weather got
warm and the grass turned green. The girls and I took the kids for
long walks and we'd pick flowers. Christy and Jimmy were just big
enough to keep up. Sometimes I rode the girls' bike. Afterward
we'd sit together in the sun and listen to the radio. The ladies in the
trailer park and I gave recipes back and forth. A woman from West
Virginia taught me to bake bread. My kids loved it when I baked
bread. They'd be outside playing and Jimmy would put his nose
to the screen and ask, 'Is the bread done yet, Mommie?' When it
came out of the oven we'd slice off big hunks and eat them, still
warm, with butter and jam."
Mickey was working steadily. He was proud of his increasing
skill as a brick mason and of his high earnings. For the first time

Francine felt stability. She and Mickey talked about buying land
and building a house. In spite of all that had occurred between
them, Francine took it for granted that she loved Mickey and that
he, in his fashion, loved her and the children. There were moments
of tenderness and pleasure between them that helped erase the epi-
sodes Francine wanted so much to forget. But whenever she be-
came unwary Mickey would see to it that her fear of him was re-
vived.
"One night he didn't come home
until late. I had gone across to
my and we were there playing records. There
girl friend's trailer

was an older lady there and the fourteen-year-old girl and her little
sister. A couple of teenage boys dropped in. I had Christy and

Jimmy with me. When Mickey came home and found I wasn't
there he came to get me. I saw him at the door and the look on his
face made my heart sink right down into my shoes. I knew I was in
trouble. I thought, 1 haven't done anything wrong, but I'm going to
"be punished. I'm going to be punished because I don't like being
alone.' Sure enough I was."
92 The Burning Bed
Grimly Mickey escorted her and the children back to their trailer.
He shoved Christy and Jimmy into their room and then turned on
Francine.
"Who were those guys over there?"
"They weren't guys. They were just boys, friends of Cathy's. We
were just sitting there."
Mickey hit her in the face. "Why weren't you home? The kids
should of been in bed!"
It's not that late!"
Mickey's face took on what Francine had come to know as his
"crazy" look. He went on to beat her while she tried not to cry out,
hoping the sounds of her humiliation would not reach the group
she had just left. After that Francine was afraid to visit her friends.
If she did risk it she made sure she was home by the time Mickey

returned.
Francine's third child, a boy, was born in August 1969. She went
into labor early one morning. She and Mickey drove Christy and
Jimmy to Flossie's and then Mickey took her to the hospital in
Mason. It was an easy birth, and once the baby was in her arms she
knew that she would love this child as she did the others. Mickey
chose the baby's name— Dana.
Soon after Dana's birth the period of comparative happiness in
the trailer park drew to a close. In spite of Mickey's good earnings,
bills had piled up. They had no medical insurance and the total of

hospital bills, obstetrical bills, and pediatric bills came to a large

sum. The credit bureau was dunning Mickey for payments on a
new car, and there were other bills as well. Mickey arranged to file
for bankruptcy. For a while he kept up with the weekly payment
he had agreed to. Then he began to skip payments. His creditors
garnisheed his pay and made phone calls to his employer's office. As
a result Mickey was fired. He was furious and aggrieved. He signed
up for unemployment payments and made little effort to find an-
other job. His mood became sullen and Francine realized that
being fired had badly damaged his self-esteem.
It was autumn. The leaves were turning and the nights were
cold. Mickey had failed to pay the fuel bill and Francine used the
electric oven to heat the trailer. When the rent was unpaid at the
end of the month, the landlord told Francine they would have to
move. Mickey, meanwhile, was spending his unemployment checks
 Trying 93

in bars and bringing home six-packs of beer to drink in front of the

television set.
As she prepared to leave the cozy little trailer Francine felt lower
than she ever had: "We would just get settled in a house; I'd clean
it up and fix it would start to feel like home and then I would
up. It
have to leave it all. Even furniture was left behind. We were kicked
out of place after place for not paying the rent. Mickey always sent
me out to rent a new place and I was the one the landlord always
complained to. I tried to do too much to keep the family going.
Mickey saw this and the more I did the less he'd do."

From the Sunset Trailer Park, Francine and Mickey moved to a

shabby duplex on the outskirts of Mason. The driveway was a sea
of mud. Cold air sifted through the cracks in the window frames.
Again they had no furniture. Francine bought a cheap couch and
some beds at a second-hand store. They couldn't afford a phone.
The place seemed beyond anyone's powers to fix up and Francine
didn't try. The care of three children under five took all her
strength.
Mickey continued unemployment compensation. Fran-
to collect
cine suspected he wasn't looking for work, but was spending his
time drinking and running around with women. "He would take off
and leave us there all day long. After the rent was paid and a few
groceries, he'd take the rest and disappear. One time he left to get
his check and didn't come back for three days. The only food I had
in the house was popcorn and a jar of jelly. Dana was still on the
bottle. To stop him crying I dissolved jelly in water and gave him
that. Christy and Jimmy and I ate popcorn. Another time we ran
out of fuel oil. The fuel company refused to come. While there was
no heat the kids and I sat in one little room with an electric heater.
I didn't have enough money for the laundromat. Diapers and baby

clothes piled up in mountains. A couple of times I took laundry to

Flossie's house, but mostly I washed by hand. When Mickey came
home he was drunk and broke. Things were really grim."
Francine's greatest anxieties centered on the children. The more
she loved them, the more she rationalized the hurts and depriva-
tions of her life withMickey. It never occurred to her to leave him.
She thought, "He's having a hard time supporting us, how could I
ever do it alone." She held the firm belief that the children needed
94 The Burning Bed

a father as well as a mother, and

unequal to the responsibility
felt

of raising them alone. "I loved the lads so much I thought I could
take any amount of hardship and abuse to keep their home intact. I
kept hoping that if I stuck it out Mickey might change and our life
get better. As for myself, I believed that if Mickey and I separated
my married life would be over forever. It wasn't within my thinking
to imagine might have a life with any other man."
I

The Hughes family's tenancy of the duplex ended, as usual, when

Mickey ceased to pay the rent. "I had been putting the landlady off
for weeks. The place was only fifteen or twenty dollars a week, but
I didn't have even that. One Saturday morning she came to the

door and when I told her I couldn't pay her she began yelling and
screaming at me. Mickey was in bed. He heard, but he didn't get
up."
Once again they were evicted. Francine found an apartment on
First Street in Jackson. It was were leaving
better than the one they
—sunny and with a fireplace. Francine wanted it very much, but
she feared that if the landlord discovered Mickey's record of un-
paid bills he would refuse to rent She gave the name of Mickey's
it.

brother, Marlin, who was solvent, and got the apartment. They
moved in with the remnants of their possessions, now reduced to
the barest essentials.
In May 1970, when Dana was nine months old, Francine discov-
ered she was pregnant for the fourth time in six years. After Dana's
birth she had gotten a prescription for birth-control pills and filled

it at a drugstore in Mason. When her supply of pills ran out, Fran-

cine, by then living in Jackson, had no way to get to the drugstore
in Mason. "I asked Mickey and he agreed to get the pills when he
picked up his unemployment check. He didn't come home all week-
end. When he came home he had no money and no pills. I tried to
avoid sex. I kept saying, 'Please, Mickey, don't. I'll get pregnant.'
He'd say, 'Come on. Ill be careful.' The result was I got pregnant. I
was totally crushed."
Mickey's unemployment pay ended but he made only feeble
efforts to find another job. Dexter and Marlin had begun working
independently on construction jobs, hoping to become contractors.
Mickey began to work with them. The business did not prosper.
Dexter got few contracts and kept the lion's share of what little
earnings there were.
 Trying 95
Day day Mickey was gone from five o'clock in the morn-
after
When he came home he'd drink a six-pack and go to
ing until dark.
bed. Francine never knew whether or not he and Dexter had had a
day's work, but Mickey brought almost nothing home. The rent
went unpaid. As always it was Francine, not Mickey, who stalled
the landlord, pleading for another week of grace.
"Things got really bad. I didn't even have soap to wash the
dishes. One day a salesman left a sample of soap at the door. I was

ecstaticbecause I could wash some clothes."

It didn'toccur to Francine to ask anyone for help. Her father had
died four years before. Her mother worked, cleaning houses, to
support her younger children, David and Kathy, and had little to
spare. Joanne was divorced. She and her six children were on wel-
fare. Francine knew that Flossie and Berlin would take her and
Mickey in, but starvation seemed preferable. Day after day she
eked out sustenance from whatever trickle of cash Mickey pro-
duced.
"Sometimes the only thing house was mustard, or
to eat in the
something like that. Thewere hungry. They'd ask for milk.
lads
They cried a lot. We all had hunger pains. I wouldn't come right
out and tell her, but Mom suspected I was in bad trouble. I would
help her shop and she would give me a few dollars' worth of gro-
ceries. It would have to last us a week."
Francine begged Mickey to apply for welfare. Some quirk of
pride caused him to refuse. Francine herself had been to the wel-
fare office several times and each time had been told that the rules
required that the "head of the household" make the application.
"Mickey wouldn't give any reason; he'd just flatly say, 'No.' He'd
say, Tou go.' I'd say, 'You know they won't help unless you come
with me.'He acted as though he didn't care."
Somehow Mickey himself remained sufficiently nourished. He
continued to smoke and bring home beer. Francine smoked the
butts Mickey Mickey often promised that things
left in ashtrays.

would get better soon. Once, when

there was nothing in the house
to eat, he promised to bring back some money that evening. All day
Francine looked forward to his return. When he came home he put
seven dollars on the kitchen table. Dexter's cement mixer had bro-
ken down and he had taken most of Mickey's share of their earn-
ings to fix it. Francine wept with disappointment. She felt sorry for
96 The Burning Bed

Mickey "Sometimes when he saw how we were suffering I'd

too.
me he felt bad about it. I'd feel that
see a look in his eyes that told
he wanted to be responsible, wanted to do what was right for his
family, but couldn't. For a few seconds it would be plain on his
face. Then he'd shrug it off and leave."

Francine doesn't remember how long this period lasted— only

that at last she reached a point of desperation.
"I sat at the kitchen table and thought about my life. I can still

feel it— the way my heart ached. So many times I'd climbed the
mountain only to be pushed down to the was com-
bottom again. I

pletely miserable. I felt overwhelmed by my was preg-

situation. I
nant, with no money for a doctor. I thought of my kids and how
they were suffering. My beautiful Christy. At six she was old
enough to know I was worried and scared. Jimmy was so little and
thin. I couldn't stand them having to do without proper food. Even

Dana, the baby, wasn't getting what he needed. The last time I had
been to the welfare office I had told them, "We're starving but my
husband absolutely will not come.' The social worker told me
again, 'Unless you are divorced or get separate maintenance from
him we Her words kept echoing in my head. I
can't help you.'
thought, If Mickey won't do anything then it is up to me. These
lads have to have food and they have to have a roof.' I got up from
the table and went out and phoned Joanne. I said, Would you
come and get me and take me to welfare?' She said, 'Why?' I
started crying. I said, The kids and I are starving to death. We're
dirty. We can't even wash our faces. There's nothing in the house.

If you don't believe me, come and look.' Joanne said, Til get my

girl friend, Joyce, who has a car, and we'll be right over.' She and

Joyce came within an hour. They looked at the empty cupboards

and shook their heads. Then Joanne said, 'Come on, let's go.'"
At the welfare office Francine again went through her list of
woes. "The rent is overdue. The landlord wants us out. I'm preg-
nant. I don't have a doctor. We're hungry and dirty." The case
worker listened and then said, "Well, what are you going to do?"
Francine answered, "Whatever I have to do, I'll do. Just tell me
how."
The case worker advised her to ask the Legal Aid office to pre-
pare separate-maintenance papers; as soon as she signed them she
 Trying 97

would be eligible for a food order. When she found a new apart-
ment, welfare would pay the rent.
At the Legal Aid office Francine talked to an elderly, dignified
man named Baker. "What seems to be the problem?" he asked.
When Francine had finished describing her situation Mr. Baker
looked appalled. He asked if Mickey had ever hit her. Francine ad-
mitted that he had. Mr. Baker got up. "Wait here," he told Fran-
cine. He spoke to his secretary in the outer office. Then he called
Francine. "Mrs. Hughes, we've got the papers you need. Have you
got seven dollars for the fee?"
Francine said, "If I had seven probably wouldn't be
dollars I
here." Baker reached in his pocket and put seven
dollars on the
desk. His secretary spread out papers for Francine to sign.
"I saw the words 'Decree of Divorce.' It floored me. I thought I
was applying for separate maintenance. I looked at Mr. Baker and
said, 'A divorce decree? Is that what I'm getting?' Mr. Baker gave
me a stern look. 'You do want a divorce, don't you?' he asked, as
though I must be crazy if IAs the idea sank in, it scared me
didn't.
to death, but I thought, 'I've it. I've got no choice. I have
got to do
to feed the kids.' I signed the papers. Mr. Baker told me that in six
months I would have to go to court to get a final decree. I thanked
him and left. I was shaking. My heart was pounding. I felt
terrifically excited. I realized I was elated. I was thinking, 'It's over!

This long, useless struggle is over. I'm going to start a new life; I'm
going to be free!'"
That evening, when Mickey came home, Francine did not tell
him what she had done. From Mr. Baker's office she had returned
to welfare and had been given an order for groceries. She was
cooking hamburgers when Mickey came in. He asked no questions.
Francine supposed he thought her mother had given her the money
and had no desire to be told so. Francine was intensely nervous,
afraid that her betrayal must be visible on her face. To her relief
Mickey ate quietly, drank a few beers, and went to bed.
The next day as soon as Mickey left, Joanne and Joyce came for
Francine and took her apartment-hunting. It was a disheartening
quest. Time after time she was turned down when the landlord dis-
covered she was single, on welfare, and had three children. Fortu-
nately, her pregnancy was not yet apparent. At last she found a
small apartment— two rooms on the second floor of an old frame
98 The Burning Bed
building— whose owner seemed sympathetic. Francine told him that
she had looked everywhere, that her situation was desperate, and
promised to move as soon as she could find something else. He
reluctantly agreed.
Francine's plan was to pack and move her belongings before
Mickey returned— and hope he woudn't find her new address, on
the far side of Jackson. Joanne rented a trailer to tow behind the
car. The three women worked all afternoon, carrying cribs and dia-
per pails and kitchen things. The trailer was small and they had to
make several trips. It was late afternoon when they returned to the
old apartment for a final load. As their car entered the block Fran-
cine saw Mickey standing in front of the building talking to a man
in a business suit. She saw the man hand Mickey an envelope and it
flashed across her mind that he was a process server and the enve-
lope contained a notice that she had filed for divorce. As she
watched, Mickey glanced angrily at the envelope and threw it,
unopened, on the pavement. Then he looked up and saw Francine
in Joyce's car with Joanne and the children. The trailer made then-
errand clear.

Joyce picked up speed and they pulled away. Mickey jumped into
his own car and followed them. It soon became a dangerous game
as Mickey pulled alongside, trying to force them to the curb. There
was a police station a few blocks away and Francine told Joyce to
go there. Joyce pulled up in front of the police station with Mickey
close behind. Francine dashed inside and asked for help. Two
officers came with her to the car, where Mickey was cursing and
threatening Joanne. Francine hastily sketched the situation for the
police.They told her to leave while they detained Mickey. As
Joyce pulled away Francine looked back and saw the police hold-
ing Mickey, who was yelling and struggling. She heard him shout,
"My lads are in that car!" Then Joyce turned the corner and he was
out of sight.
At the new apartment the trailer was unpacked and Francine's
bits of furniture were carried upstairs. They looked shabbier than
ever in the cold light from the uncurtained windows. Joyce and
Joanne sat down for a cigarette with Francine. When they rose to
go she felt like crying out, "Don't go! Please don't leave me here
alone! I'm so scared!" When the door closed Francine pulled
Christy to her and hugged her in silence. She was thinking: "Here
 Trying 99
we are, me and the lads, in this dingy little place. All alone. Now
what? What do I do now?"

The next day Francine pulled herself together, straightening

things up, cleaning, trying to make the place feel like home, but her
depression did not lift. Though she reminded herself that at last she
had food and her anxiety didn't go away. Each day her
shelter,
loneliness increased.She had no phone and depended on Joanne to
take her to the welfare office to get her check and to the market for
weekly shopping. These were her only contacts with the outside
world. Most of her hours were spent alone with the children, read-
ing, preparing meals, cleaning up, reading again, or playing games
until their bedtime. Then, when evening came, she felt totally for-
lorn.
Night after night she lay awake wondering what Mickey was
doing. Did he miss her? Was he searching for her? Would he lie in
wait outside Joanne's house and follow her to the apartment? Fran-
cine pictured him beating her horribly, and shivered with fear. In
another mood, she would begin to wonder if she had really done
the right thing. Loneliness would overwhelm her and she would
long to see him. "Is he really so bad?" she asked herself. Did he de-
serve this? She couldn't forget the look on his face as he struggled
with the police— a look of unbelief that said, "I never dreamed
she'd do a thing like this." Francine would cry with pity for them
both: for Mickey because she'd deserted him and taken his children
away, for herself because she felt so desolate. "My thoughts
seemed to go around and around until I'd be exhausted and then
I'd cry myself to sleep."
Francine didn't know then that her state of mind had a clinical
name. In fact, she was in the grip of a depression in the medical
sense of the term. Leaving Mickey after years of dependence, she
felt as though she had stepped into a loveless void. She was flooded
by a sense of loss, as she had been in her childhood when her
grandmother died. Depression clouded her thinking and made her
future seem more hopeless than before.
After a few weeks of despondency Francine could bear it no
longer. She used the landlord's telephone to call Flossie. Flossie
tqld her how relieved she was to hear from her and asked to see the
children. Francine gave her the address. Flossie and Berlin came to
ioo The Burning Bed

the apartment. Flossie was distressed by the

separation. "These
children need their father," wish you two would
she said. "I
straighten up and get together and be a family, like you should be."
Francine tearfully told Flossie that she had left out of despera-
tion, because she and the children had to have money for food and
shelter; that though she still wanted a family, life with Mickey was
impossible unless he would do his share. Flossie replied that
Mickey wanted another chance, and assured Francine that she
needn't be afraid to see him. He wasn't angry and wouldn't hurt
her. Francine agreed to see him.
Mickey came to the apartment the next day. He was calm while
Francine poured out her grievances. "We talked. Really talked. We
talked about our life together. He listened, but the look on his face
told me he didn't want to change. I could see I would be putting
my head in the noose if I went back— that even though I was sad I
was better off single. At least the kids and I had food and a roof
over our heads."
Finally Mickey said, "So you don't want to go back together and
try again?"
Francine said, "No. We just can't make it."

Mickey got up. He had been serious; now he became jaunty. He

told Francine that since she had left him he'd been living with a
girl named Carol. If Francine didn't want him back, he and Carol

planned to go up north to a town where Carol had friends.

Francine bit her lip and said, "Well, go ahead. Lots of luck!" But
as Mickey left, she thought, "It still isn't over between us. Not yet.
I know it and so does he."

Francine went on trying to find some meaning in her single life.

Sometimes her spirits would rise and she would almost convince
herself that better times lay ahead, but it was hard to imagine what
they would be. She knew she wanted to love and be loved, but saw
no possibility of it happening. "All my life I had heard that guys
don't want other men's leavings. I felt I had already been used. I
saw no way a decent man would want me and all my kids."
Sometimes, for the sake of change, Francine and the children
walked up and down her block. To her surprise she encountered a
woman she knew, the ex- wife of one of Mickey's friends. She was
about Francine's age— twenty-three— and though she, too, had chil-
dren, she seemed to be enjoying her freedom. She and a girl friend
 Trying 101

came over to Francine's apartment a few times. They told Francine

about the evenings they spent at bars picking up men and invited
Francine to come with them. At first she refused, afraid that
Mickey would somehow find out and be angry. "I never felt sure
he wouldn't suddenly show up. I still didn't feel free of him in any
way."
Finally Francine decided to take a chance. She left the children
with her new friend's baby-sitter and joined the expedition to the
bar.
"Nothing much happened except that I drank. I wasn't used to
liquor and it was a bad experience. We didn't get picked up in a
way that amounted to anything. A couple of seedy guys bought a
round of drinks and that was it. I couldn't see how it was such a big
deal. We were out late, until they closed the bar. I got the kids and
went home and was deathly sick. The next day my head hurt and I
was miserable. I realized that even if I had met a guy I wouldn't
have dared start a relationship of any kind. I couldn't until there
was real finality between me and Mickey, and there wasn't, even
though he was living with somebody else."
One day, as Francine had known he would, Mickey arrived at
the apartment. He explained that he had just dropped in to see the
children; his girl friend was waiting in the car. Francine's heart was
pounding but she kept a cool manner. She told him the children
were at Sunday school. Micky was cool, too. He asked if he could
come back later. "Sure," Francine said. "If you want to. Come back
this afternoon."
Mickey left, leaving Francine to deal with emotions that she
knew were irrational— a longing to rush into his arms. Within half
an hour Mickey returned. He'd dropped the girl somewhere. He
shut the door behind him and they faced each other. He said,
"How about it, Fran? Do you want to try again?"
Francine struggled to keep her voice level. She said, "Mickey,
the kids and I are on welfare. If we live together I have to give it
up. Will you get a job? Will you take care of us? That's all I'm
asking."
Mickey bounded over and took her in his arms. "Sure I will,
Fran," he said, kissing her. "Sure I will. I promise. This time I really

mean it."

"I was real emotional and so was he. He'd missed the kids so
102 The Burning Bed
much. I told him how miserable I'd been. Everything just came

out: how afraid I'd been, how lonely, how I'd missed him. We
made love and he held me and said, 'Everything will be okay.' He
said that this time it would be a new start. We'd make a good life
together."
Mickey moved apartment and found a job on a
his things into the
construction project. The morning he was to start work Francine
got up early to pack his lunch. His workclothes were laid out,
clean and ready. Mickey left, but returned quite soon. He said he
had changed his mind about the job; he'd decided not to take it,
but to look for something better.
After the first ardent days of their reunion, Mickey resumed the
routine he'd followed before Francine filed for divorce. He was
gone most of the day, presumably looking for work, but found
nothing. The difference was that now it was Francine who received
a weekly check and was able to pay the rent and buy groceries. She
prudently postponed notifying the welfare office that Mickey had
come back to live with his family, putting it off until he found a job
as he'd promised.
Before long Mickey's absences stretched from all day to over-
night and then to two, three, or four days at a time. He would come
home up clean clothes, get a good night's sleep in Fran-
to eat, pick
cine's bed, and then be gone again. Francine, swelling with preg-
nancy, was not currently to his sexual taste. Francine wondered
where he was spending his nights. He told her that he was working
on some vaguely defined project with his brother Donovan, who
lived not far away with his wife, Alice.
"I walked down to her house one morning. She went to make
coffee and I sat down at the table. There were dirty dishes. I
looked into a cup and there was green stuff in it. I said, *What's
this?' She sort of laughed and said, 'Don't you know what that isr"

Then it dawned on me. I had heard people talking about it, but I'd
never seen any. It was marijuana. Alice told me that Donovan and
Mickey and some other guys had been smoking it. I guess that's all
they'd been doing these past weeks—just bombing around, smoking
pot and drinking. I wondered why he'd come back to me if that
was what he wanted to do. I remember thinking, 'Thank God, I
didn't give up welfare. If he'd taken that job I'd have given it up
and we'd be starving again.'"
 Trying 103

Francine, now large and uncomfortable with pregnancy, realized

all her hopes had been foolish. Another depression came on. "I

remember day day alone with the kids in that dreary apart-
after
ment; being pregnant; getting up and walking from one room to
the other; looking outside at the snow. I didn't dare take the trash
out because the steps were covered with ice and I was afraid I

would fall. The trash was piling up on the back porch. Mickey
wouldn't touch it. at it I felt helpless. I didn't want the
Looking
baby Iwas carrying. I dreaded it. I felt awful for not wanting it.
There was nothing to take my mind off it. This was the dead of
winter. Days were gray and it got dark early. Sometimes Bill and
Sharon would come over and that helped, but after they had gone
I'd cry. Bill and Sharon had a good relationship. They were saving
money to buy a house. They were working together. I'd think, 'Why
couldn't my marriage be like that? What have I done so wrong that
I don't deserve the same?'"
The landlord, who lived in the apartment below Francine, didn't
like the situation. Mickey's coming and going, sometimes in com-
pany with Donovan, who was also unemployed, was not what he
wanted on his premises. He told Francine he had taken her in be-
cause she had told him she was single, and that she would have to
move. Francine looked vainly for another place. No one wanted to
rent to a welfare mother seven months pregnant. At the end of the
month the landlord became insistent. In desperation she decided to
move in with Joanne. Mickey had been absent for days and the
landlord himself transported her belongings and piled them on
Joanne's porch. Francine and Joanne's combined households made
a total of eight children under one small roof.
Christy had begun school. It was a half mile away. Francine
walked with her and returned to pick her up. Francine had a win-
ter coat, but no boots or mittens. Her hands and feet froze on every
trip. "It was hell to be poor and have to do stuff like that. One day,

on the way to get Christy, I noticed an empty house on Detroit

Street. It was a little brown house and there was something very in-
viting about it. I stopped in and found the owner lived next door.
His wife said he'd be home later. That evening I walked back to
the house. I remember shuffling through the snow— it was really
quiet and snow was falling. I kept thinking, 'Gee, I wonder if we
could get that house?' I went in and talked to the owner. While we
104 The Burning Bed
talked I was thinking, 'He's not going to rent it to me because I
look too dowdy. I look poor, pregnant. I'm living with my sister. I'm

on welfare. He's not going to give it to me.' We talked and he

showed me the house. It was so nice! It had hardwood floors in the
living room and dining room; there were two bedrooms upstairs
and one bedroom downstairs, a dining room, a kitchen; everything
was newly painted. I told him I would love to have it. He looked at
me and hesitated. I waited. He smiled and said, 'Okay!' I couldn't
believe it. I was so happy."
Mickey's whereabouts just then were unknown to Francine. He
had come to Joanne's only once and not stayed long. Francine
called Bill and Sharon. They moved Francine's belongings from
Joanne's porch into the new house. Social services gave her an
order for a stove and refrigerator, which Francine bought from a
used-furniture store. Flossie and Berlin gave a bed they no longer
needed and an old wringer washing machine, in exchange for which
Francine gave Flossie a haircut, as she had often done in earlier
days. Francine's mother also provided a few furnishings.
At last Francine had a tolerable place to live. When Mickey
came to the house, her first thought was, "Here it goes again. I'm
going to get kicked out." She told him he couldn't stay. Mickey re-
torted that he had a right to be with his children. Francine said
that he could see the children whenever he chose, but that he
couldn't live with them while she was on welfare. Mickey refused
to leave and Francine lacked the courage to provoke a fight. He
stayed that day and overnight. In the morning he seemed to feel he
had sufficiently asserted his claim on his family, and left.

Francine was alone with the children when she went into labor.
It was about noon and she was lying on her bed when the pains
started. To her consternation, she found she couldn't get up. She
hadn't expected the contractions to be so sudden and so severe. "I
called Christy into the bedroom, and told her to go next door to the
landlady and ask her to call a taxi. Christy ran. I lay there wonder-
ing would she find the landlady, would the landlady understand
the message? Christy came back and I asked her, 'Did you call a
cabF Christy said, 'Yeah.' She looked so scared. I told her to get
coats for Jimmy and Dana, that we were going out. Then I told her
to take my hands and pull. Somehow that little six-year-old kid
pulled me up off the bed. I got everybody dressed. It was February
 Trying 105

and icy cold. We were at the curb when the taxi came. The driver
looked at me and his mouth dropped open. He said, 'What's the
matter?'I said, Tm
in labor.' He said, 'Oh nol' For a minute I
thought he was going to drive off and leave us. I said, Xook, you
only have to take me down to my sister's; it's only a few blocks
away.' He said, 'Okay,' and we all got in."
Before she Francine had put a note on her mailbox: "Got
left,

sick and went to Joanne's." By coincidence Flossie and Berlin came

by shortly after she left and followed her to Joanne's house. They
took Francine to the hospital while Joanne stayed at home with the
children. By the time Francine got to the hospital, the baby was
well on the way. For the first time Francine was drugged for child-

birth. When was over she remembered little about it, and for the
it

first time felt no joy.

"When I woke up I didn't want to see the baby. All those months
I had worried, cried, felt ugly, depressed, and thought, 'Oh my God,

another baby; how can I do it?' Now that she was born I still
couldn't face it. I was weak, beaten, hopeless. I just didn't want her,
but I couldn't tell anyone that. When they brought her in she had a
pink ribbon in her hair. The nurse said she had the longest hair; my
baby was the only one they could put a ribbon on. The nurse went
out and left me holding the baby. I started to cry. Nobody was there
but me and her. I was crying because she was so tiny, so little and
pretty. I thought, 'How could I not want her?* I started checking
her fingers, and made sure she had all of her limbs and that she was
okay. I started with her hands and then I ended up undressing her
to look her all over, as though I were thinking, 'My goodness,
maybe she doesn't have a toe!' I fed her and fell asleep with her. So
that was over. I knew I wanted my kid."
Flossie told Mickey that the baby had been born. He came to the
hospital, drunk, in the middle of the night, demanding to see his
wife and child. The nurses wouldn't let him see Francine, but al-
lowed him to look at the baby through the nursery window. He re-
turned, sober, the following day. Francine told him she was too
tired to talk and turned her face away.
"I had postpartum blues but I didn't tell anybody. I didn't know
there was a name for how I felt. I didn't want to see anyone or talk
to anyone. Mickey kept coming. I said, *Why are you coming every
1
day? He said, T)on't you want me to?' I said, 'No. I don't want to
106 The Burning Bed
see you.' I meant it. There had been a radical change deep
really
inside me though whatever it was that held me to Mickey had
as
finally snapped. Perhaps I had lost my last illusions about him. I
saw that instead of helping me he would always drain me. I didn't
have the strength to take it anymore. I was terribly weak. I would
try to get up and couldn't make it. I drew the curtains. I wanted to
hide and cry in peace. I didn't want to go home. I felt safer in the

hospital. I was so exhausted, so tired of everything. I couldn't bear

to look at Mickey. All I could think was, 'I don't want to see you
anymore. I don't want you in my life anymore.'
"The doctor came in on Friday and said, TDo you want to go home
on Saturday or Sunday?' I said, 'Sunday.' I didn't want to go home
at all, but I had to.
"Mickey came to get me and the baby. He was cleaned up and
sober. We went to his mom's to pick up the kids. I knew that by
that time Flossie and Berlin were probably pretty hairy with the
kids. They had taken them over from Joanne. Mickey brought us all
back to the house on Detroit Street. Then I found that he'd moved
in while I was in the hospital. We talked and I said I didn't want to
try anymore. I asked him please to go away and leave us alone. He
said he would get a job. He said, 'Couldn't we try again?' I put my
head down and cried. I said, 'No. Not anymore!'
"I knew for sure I didn't want to! I didn't want to! I didn't want
to! He went away, but he didn't stay away."

Francine brought the new baby, named Nicole, home to Detroit

Street, determined to start life anew— without Mickey. Her love for
him had vanished during the dark days preceding Nicole's birth,
when she had recognized that Mickey would never be a husband,
no matter how she tried to make him into one. Her despondency
had been a time of mourning at the death of what she had for so
long tried to believe was a marriage. Now it was over at last. Her
depression lifted. Her loneliness and anxiety were gone. She re-
joiced that she could lead an orderly life and that she and the chil-
dren were no longer at the mercy of Mickey's whims.
Mickey and his brother Donovan, who was separated from Alice,
were shacked up in a trailer with two women, but Mickey refused
to leave Francine alone. He was out of work and drinking heavily.
He came to Detroit Street whenever he chose, demanding to see
 Trying 10?
his children, and Francine was powerless to keep him out. He told
her she could get a thousand divorces, but she would still be his
wife and the children his children. When Francine told him not to
come any more he beat her, threw dishes around, and smashed the
kitchen chairs. Francine was frightened, not only of Mickey, but of
losing her lease if the landlord, who lived next door, saw violent
scenes. She did her best, whenever Mickey came, to avoid a fight.
"Mickey saw that he could come in anytime he wanted and that
there was nothing I could do about it. He made the divorce a farce.
He called it nothing but a piece of paper, and that's what it was.
He was at my house the day I was supposed to go to court to get
the final decree. I left him to baby-sit while I went downtown.
After I got the divorce things were no different than before. Mickey
came and went as he pleased."
The divorce became final in April. In July, Flossie's adopted
daughter, Vicky, came to stay with Francine. She had recently
graduated from school and was looking for work. Francine had al-
ways loved Vicky and was glad to have her company. When Vicky
had been with Francine several weeks, Vicky received a check. On
the same day Mickey had driven her on a round of job interviews
and she had been hired as a waitress. Francine, at that moment,
was broke. She asked Vicky to give her ten dollars toward the
household expenses. Vicky refused. She had bought a new uniform
and had paid Mickey five dollars for driving her. She said she had
very little money left over.
Francine lost her temper. "I said, 'Vicky, you're staying here and
I'm paying your rent and feeding you with money that is meant for
me and the four children. I need milk for the kids. I need soap to
wash the dishes. I think you ought to contribute if you can!'
"Mickey was in the kitchen not saying a word. He had his head
down on the table. He knew the kids didn't have any milk. I stood
over him and said, *What about you? They're your kids, tool' He
said, 'Don't put me in the middle of this.' I said, 'Why not. You be-
long in the middle of it. You're their father. Don't you feel any re-
sponsibility at all?' Mickey got mad. He got up and left."
Vicky had a change of heart and gave Francine ten dollars. Fran-
cine went out to buy the things she needed. As she walked down
the street, Mickey's car roared by.
 The Accident

When Francine got back from shopping she found a message to

callSharon immediately. Sharon told her that Mickey had had a car
accident and was in the hospital. No one yet knew how badly he
was hurt.
"I began to tremble. I put the phone down and told Vicky,
'Mickey's hurt. He's in the hospital. I'm going there to see how bad
he is.' Vicky was upset, too. She offered to stay with the lads. I
grabbed my purse. 'Don't forget I have to work tonight,' Vicky said.
I said, 'I won't forget,' and ran out the door. It was three blocks to

the hospital. I ran all the way. I kept wondering, *How bad is it?'
"I went to the desk in the emergency room and asked if they had

a Mickey Hughes. The receptionist said, 'Yes.' In a minute a doctor

came out and asked if I was Mrs. Hughes. He said, 'Mickey Hughes
was brought in, but we couldn't do anything for him here, so we've
sent him to the Ann Arbor Hospital.' I said, "What do you mean you
couldn't do anything for he that badr* The doctor said,
him? Is

He's in very bad condition, but we don't know the whole story.
You'll have to speak to the doctors at Ann Arbor.'
"I ran back to my house and told Vicky. I was shaking all over.
Nothing like this had ever happened to me; the possibility of
Mickey dying terrified me. I remembered that the girl at the hospi-
tal had said something about a collision at an intersection; that
Mickey had run through a stop sign and hit another car. I thought,
'Maybe he was thinking about me screaming at him. Maybe he was
no The Burning Bed
thinking about the kids. Maybe all our troubles were bothering
him.' I knew he wasn't drunk; he hadn't drunk anything at the
house and it was still early. Deep down I felt responsible for the ac-
cident. I had got him mad and upset; he must have been thinking
about all the things he was doing wrong— that I had told him he
was doing wrong.
"I called Bill and Sharon. They came for me and we drove to the

Ann Arbor Hospital thirty miles from Jackson. The whole Hughes
family was in the lobby. Flossie was sobbing. Berlin was pale as a
ghost. The boys had tears in their eyes. They were smoking and
pacing. They said Mickey was in bad shape, but they didn't know
any details yet. I couldn't stop shaking. I was afraid I might have
hysterics, but I held on.
"A doctor came out and told us what was wrong with Mickey. It
was a list as long as his arm. He said, he's got this broken bone and
that broken bone. His diaphragm is ruptured. He's had a heart at-
tack. And he listed a lot more. They were waiting for a surgeon to
fly in from Chicago to do a kind of surgery that was very difficult.

He said Mickey would go into surgery the moment the specialist ar-
rived. Half an hour later we were told that the operation had
begun. Mickey was in surgery for hours— three or four— while the
family and I sat in the waiting room. When it was over a doctor
came out and said Mickey had survived, but was in very critical
condition. He was in a coma and might die anytime. The doctor
said that one of us should be at the hospital all the time. Flossie
and Berlin and Mickey's brothers were completely distraught. I put
myself in their place. Suppose I lost a son? I felt terrible beyond
words. Their suffering; Mickey's suffering; it hurt me like a physi-
cal pain."
Francine didn't go back to Jackson that night. Wimpy and Lillian
offered to pick up the children at Francine's house so that Vicky
could go to work. The rest of the family stayed at the hospital. "Ev-
eryone was together. There was a feeling of closeness, of doing the
best we could for each other. There was no question but that I was
part of it. It never occurred to me to turn my back and desert the
family when they needed me.
"Around midnight Mickey regained consciousness. I was the first
one he called for. A nurse came to us and said, 'He's awake now
and he's calling for "Fran" . .which one of you is FranF I fol-
.
 The Accident m
lowed her. It was awesome . dim lights, long corridors, silence.
. .

We went into a room where Mickey lay in a crib surrounded by

machines and tubes and bottles. A heart machine was hooked to his
chest. The needle on the dial was flickering as though his life was
flickering. There was a tube in his throat and a machine that went
in and out, in and out, like a bellows to make him breathe. One leg
was uncovered. It looked swollen and awful. There was dried blood
behind his ear and in his hair. I thought, 'My God, he's never
going to make it' He opened his eyes and looked at me. He
couldn't talk because of the tube in his throat. He moved his hand
out to me, like saying, 'Hold my hand.' When I took his hand he
began to cry and I did, too. I stood there thinking how awful it
was; that nobody deserved this. Was he really that bad? Was this
his punishment? He was still so young. I prayed he would have an-
other chance. I thought, If we hadn't argued maybe it wouldn't
have happened.'"
Francine never went back to her house on Detroit Street. She
stayed at the hospital for the next forty-eight hours while Mickey's
life hung in the balance. By then Flossie had gone back to Dans-
ville and taken the children to her house, where Vicky helped to
care for them. When Flossie returned to the hospital she told Fran-
cine that there was an apartment vacant in a duplex next to her
house on Adams Street. She urged Francine to move there so that
the family could be together, and it would be easier to arrange for
them to take turns going back and forth from the hospital. Francine
agreed.
The fact that Mickey had survived thus far was encouraging, but
he was not out of danger. He had had abdominal surgery and his
spleen had been removed. His legs were broken and in casts. He
had a head injury that was described to Francine as a "swelling on
the brain." said they still wanted a family member pres-
The doctors
ent at all That Francine would share in the vigil was taken
times.
for granted by everyone, and she made no objections. She felt
obliged to consent to whatever was asked of her, anything that
would lessen the family's worry and grief. "I didn't even go home
to move my things out of the Detroit Street house. His brothers
packed them and took them to the apartment in Dansville. I gave
• Flossie the rent money and she made the arrangements with the
landlord. Two days later I walked into my new apartment for the
112 The Burning Bed
first time. It was a dingy, broken-down place. Whoever had moved
my things had left them sitting in a heap in the middle of the floor.
Then I realized what I'd done. I'd given up my home and had to
start all over again."
The family arranged a routine of bedside vigils. They decided
that Francine should be at the hospital every other day, going there
at ten o'clock in the morning and staying until someone came to
relieve her at ten the following morning. Flossie, Berlin, and the
brothers divided their twenty-four-hour shifts among them, but
Francine's time on duty was unrelieved. Day afterday she sat by
Mickey, ready to hold his hand if he should open his eyes. During
the long nights she catnapped curled up in a chair. She was always
exhausted. Her days at home were spent in a frenzy of hard work,
putting things away, cleaning the apartment, and looking after the
children. She could barely catch up with the housework and get a
little sleep before it was time to go back to Ann Arbor to take up
her post at Mickey's bedside. Since she had no car, Berlin or one of
Mickey's brothers drove her there. Too hard-pressed to take stock
of the conflicting emotions building up within her, she pushed aside
thoughts of what the outcome might be.
Mickey slowly improved. He was moved from intensive care to a
private room, but he continued to need drugs to relieve his pain.
He was disoriented and had a fixation on Francine. He wanted her
beside him day and night. Whenever he woke he would call her
name. His voice, urgent and panicky, calling, "Fran! Fran! Come
here, Franl Where is Fran?" made
her heart swell with pity. "Here
I am, Mickey, right here," she'd say, and come to hold his hand.
Francine came to believe that it was her love that was pulling
Mickey through: "The more I would promise him and assure him
that I loved him, that I would be there, the better he got." A dozen
times a day Mickey would reach out with his good arm and pull
her to him to ask if she loved him. Always she answered, "Yes," and
felt a stab of guilt because she knew that the love she had once felt

was gone. Now it was his pathetic dependency that she couldn't
turn her back on. "Even though he got better, he clung to me. They
decreased the medication, but he still acted confused. Every time I
went home he'd raise a ruckus. He'd say to whoever was there,
Flossie or Berlin, 'Go call Fran. She hasn't been here since I've been
sick. Why doesn't Fran come to see me? She's my wife!' In order to
 "

The Accident 113

calm him down they would pretend to go to the telephone and call
me. Then they'd tell him that I'd be there in a little while. One
night I was sitting in his room and he dozed off. He woke up and
said, 'Who are you?' He was looking right at me. It scared me. I
said, 'I'm Fran.'
"'No, you're not. You're not my wife. I want Fran.'
"'Mickey, I am Fran. Look at me! What are you talking about?
C'mon.'
"'You're not Fran. Go call my mom and dad. You call them and
tell them to come up here. They'll tell you you're not Fran. I know
you're not Fran. Fran don't look like you!'"
Francine got up and took his hand. As she put her cheek next to
his, petting him until he relaxed, she felt icy with a new kind of
fear.
After amonth Mickey was well enough to sit in a chair. He was
moved ward and the doctors promised that in another week or
to a
so he could go home. His head had cleared, but he still had mo-
ments of acting in a way Francine could only describe as "weird."
He knew where he was, but his memory was cloudy and his atten-
tion span short. Francine talked to the psychiatrist who had ex-
amined him. The doctor refused to predict the outcome. "Is he
going to stay like this?" Francine asked. "Probably not," the doctor
said, "but we don't know. He could be that way for six months or
six years." Francine thought, "God! What am I in for now?" When

thoughts of her divorce and her freedom went through her mind
she pushed them aside.
"I couldn't have walked out on him. It would have been as hard

for me to walk out on him as to walk away from one of my own

children. It would have been like saying goodbye to my kids, tell-
ing them, 'So long, I'm not going to be your mother any more.'
Forty days after the accident Mickey was ready to go home. He
would need a hospital bed for a few more weeks. Francine's apart-
ment was too small to hold one, so one was set up in Flossie's living
room. No one in the Hughes family asked Francine if she was
willing to continue caring for Mickey. From the moment she agreed
to move next door to Flossie and Berlin in Dansville, her compliance
had been taken for granted, and Francine could not bring herself to
'protest.
Flossie and Francine discussed Mickey's home care with his doc-
H4 The Burning Bed

tors, who told them had been mi-

that Mickey's physical recovery
raculous. He was still pitifully thin— down to no
pounds from a
normal weight of 185— and had casts on his legs and a pin through
one elbow, but they predicted he would regain almost normal use
of his limbs. They were more guarded about his psychological
state. "Don't baby him," the psychiatrist told the two women.

"He'll be dependent as long as you let himl To a great extent the

outcome depends on how you handle him at home."
Francine didn't go to Ann Arbor when Flossie and Berlin went to
bring Mickey home. She was sitting in the yard, waiting with the
children,when they returned. Berlin parked the car. Flossie pulled
out a folding wheelchair and Mickey slowly swung into it. The chil-
dren gathered around, gazing with interest at his casts. Berlin
pushed the chair up the cement walk to the front door. "No! No!"
Mickey protested, irritably. "I want to sit out here, out in the yard
with Fran." Berlin wheeled Mickey's chair beside Francine's.
Flossie and Berlin and the children gathered around, talking.
Mickey wanted to know where his brothers were. Would they be
over soon? Flossie discussed the dinner she was fixing for Mickey.
Francine was silent. "I was thinking, 'My God, am I supposed to
take care of him the rest of my life? Everybody expects me to— his
brothers, my sisters-in-law, Flossie, Berlin, Mickey himself. I'm in
prison. Can I leave? How could I? What would the lads think of
me if I walked away and left their father? Could Mickey take it?
Would he get sick again? Die? Look at him; he's so thin, so pa-
thetic. If I said I was leaving now he'd go to pieces; his parents, his
brothers would just go up in smoke. They'd think I was horrible,
with no feelings."
Francine got up. was time to pick up the baby from her nap.
It

"Fran," Mickey "come back. Stay here with me."

called,
"Okay, Mickey. I'll be right back." She walked across the yard to
her own apartment, thinking, "Why do I have to go back? Why do
I have to do everything I'm told?" She picked up the baby and re-

turned to sit beside Mickey. "Inside I was crying. A voice was say-
ing, 'Leave! You know you want to leave! You've done what you
had to do. You don't owe any more! Get out now!'"
Mickey said, "Fran, I'm thirsty. Get me a Coke." Obediently,
Francine got up and went to do as he asked.
 The Accident 115

In the days that followed, the doctor's orders not to baby Mickey
were ignored. His mother and father, and his brothers, when they
came to see him, hung on his slightest demand. But it was Fran-
cine's attention that Mickey wanted every moment, and if she
didn't respond rapidly enough Flossie or Berlin reproached her.
Francine wanted to hire a nurse— whose time she would pay for—to
take some of the work load, but Mickey wouldn't hear of it. Fran-
cine nursed him: baths, changes of dressings, bedpans, and meals,
and at the same time took care of her own household of four.
Francine's apartment was separated from the Hughes house only
by a grassy yard. She wore a path between the two. "I had to run
back and forth all day, cooking and feeding the kids in my house;
dragging laundry over to Flossie's and back again; watching the
clock for Nicky's naps and bottles, for Mickey's bath and meals. It
was September and there was a late heat spell. I was wet with
sweat all day. I had no time to sit down and my feet swelled. I was
bone weary, harried and hassled and hot. I'd never really got over
the physical exhaustion of the pregnancy, and then the siege of
forty days at Mickey's bedside. Sometimes when daylight came and
I opened my eyes I'd think I couldn't get up."

After several weeks the cast was taken off Mickey's leg. He began
to move around, shakily, learning to walk again. His head had
cleared, but his personality still showed the effects of his accident.
He was nervous, fretful, unable to concentrate. Reading or watch-
ing TV quickly bored him. He wanted people around him con-
stantly, most of all Francine.
"I'd leave himfor a few minutes, and he'd start to holler, 'Fran!
Fran!' He'd keep yelling 'Fran' until I came back to see what
just
he wanted. Flossie or Berlin were always calling me, or sending one
of the kids over to my house with the message 'Mickey wants you!'
It didn't matter if it was something they could take care of them-

selves. I was supposed to drop whatever I was doing and come

running."
The day came when Francine rebelled. She hadn't planned it,
but suddenly, when she had been summoned over and over within
a few hours, she stood in Flossie's living room where Mickey and
Flossie sat before the babbling TV, and announced, "I'm going
Tiome and I'm going to stay home! I can't take it anymore!"
She turned and went out the door. The screen door slammed
n6 The Burning Bed

behind her. She heard Mickey shouting after her to come back, but
she didn't turn her head. The screen door slammed again. Mickey,
supporting himself on one crutch, was following her. Flossie was
screaming that he might fall, ordering Francine to turn around, to
help him before he got hurt.
"I just I walked right past Berlin, who was in the
kept walking.
yard. His jaw dropped and then he was yelling, 'You can't do that!'
I said, 'Yes, I canl' Mickey was following and calling, 'FranI' All I

could think of was, I'm going home and I'm staying there. I'm not
running back and forth any more. I'm not going to kill myself any
more. None of them are killing themselves. Why should it be
only me?'"
A moment after Francine reached her house Mickey opened the
door and hobbled inside. He stood, leaning on his crutch and
scowling angrily as he looked around the cramped kitchen that
served as a living room as well.
"What a dumpl" he said.
Francine glared back. "Well, Mickey, may be a dump, but as
it

of this minute it is my
home. We've been living here, me and the
kids. I've been paying rent here and I don't have any other home."
"It's a stinking little shack!"
"If you're living in a shack, by God,
it's your home," Francine

shouted. "What do you call it? Do you call it 'the shack I fre-
else
quent once in a while? No! It's your home!"
"It's still a dump!" Mickey said. "I can't live in a place like this."

"Okay, fine! Go on home and stay up there with your mother."

"Yeah," Mickey snarled, as he eased himself into a chair. Til do
that."
He remained in Francine's kitchen until Flossie came over to see
what had happened. It wasn't much he told her, but
of a place,
since Fran refused to go back and forth between the two houses
anymore, he'd decided to move in. Flossie and Berlin promptly
brought over the things he would need. Francine didn't protest.
"At least it would be easier taking care of him there than running
back and forth. That night he went to bed in the double bed. I got
in beside him and lay awake for the longest time, just rigid. He still
had a cast on his arm and wires in his stomach. I was afraid I'd roll
over on him or bump him or hurt him. I was afraid to move."
 Dansville

Mickey spent his convalescence sitting in the comfortable chair

he'd chosen, watching Francine do her work. His left arm was still

in a cast. The enormous scar across his upper abdomen healed

slowly. He hated the inactivity. Nothing pleased or amused him for
long. He read the papers, dropping them in sheaves on the floor,
watched television, and sometimes played with Nicky, who loved to
climb into his lap. When she irritated him he called Francine to
take her away. Two or three times a day he walked across the yard
to his parents' house, giving Francine an hour or so of peace.
Flossie continued to fuss over Mickey. He wasn't eating well and
she worried that he wasn't gaining weight fast enough. She came
over daily to check on what Francine was cooking and to make sug-
gestions on his care. Although it was easier for Francine to have
Mickey and the children under the same roof, she still had to work
to the limit of her strength. "I had two babies under two, plus
Jimmy who was five, and Christy, seven. I had always done all the
work— cooking, shopping, cleaning, laundry— but now that Mickey
was sitting there all day, watching me and wanting my attention,
too, it seemed twice as hard. I never had a minute to myself. I was
exhausted all the time."
As Mickey grew stronger Francine tried to wean him from his
dependence on her. He resisted every step. "He was like a kid who
doesn't want to grow up. One morning he was in the bathroom
while I was very busy in the kitchen. He yelled, 'Fran! Come here I
n8 The Burning Bed
Brush my teeth!' I went to the door and said, 'Mickey, I can't drop
what I'm doing. You can do it yourselfl' He said, 1 can't!' I said,
Tor God's sake, Mickey, squirt the toothpaste on the brush and
stick it in your mouth!' He said, I've only got one handl' I said,
'You've got fingers sticking out of the end of your cast. Hold the
toothbrush with those fingers. With the other hand put toothpaste
on Lay the toothpaste down. Pick up the toothbrush with your
it.

good hand and put it in your mouthl' His mom and dad didn't like

it when I told him to do something for himself. His brother Wimpy

heard me yell, 'Mickey! Do it yourself!' and bawled me out: Tran-

cine, you shouldn't talk to Mickey like that after all he's been
through!'"
Gradually Mickey improved physically, but Francine and the
children remained his single interest.
"He was constantly on my back about something. All day long,
he watched every move I made, saying, get this or get that; do this
or do that; get that child; that ldd is crying, shut her up! People
came to see him, but it was hard for anyone to talk to him. He'd
suddenly break in on whoever was talking to holler at me or the
kids. Visitors took me aside and said, 'My God, Fran, how do you
stand it!' People stopped coming. Sharon and Bill hardly ever came
anymore. Then it was just me and Mickey and the kids and the
Hughes family, closed into this little corner of Dansville. My family
didn't come. Mickey them around."
didn't like having
Francine looked forward to the day when Mickey would go back
to work. His frustration at being housebound and idle was under-
standable. He was only twenty-six years old. He had been strong,
vigorous, quick in his movements. It hurt Francine to see him walk-
ing painfully, using a cane and holding his broken arm at an awk-
ward angle. Francine was trying to revive her love, but her feelings
failed to respond. All she could feel was pity. Mickey was eager to
resume their sex life. Though Francine complied, she found she had
become strangely numb. In their better days— though less and less
toward the end of their marriage— she had enjoyed sex. Now she
rarely did. Mickey took it for granted that Francine loved him as
before. Wishing it were so, she told him that she did.
A turning point in their relationship came when Mickey asked
Francine to marry him again. "When he asked me to do that some-
thing inside me just rebelled. I'd given up everything else, but I
 Dansville 119

couldn't give up that last little shred of independence. At first I

tried to put him off. I'd say, 'Mickey, it's too soon. Let's not talk
about it.' He kept at me about it and I kept saying no. Finally he
realized I wasn't going to do it. He got mad. He hit me for the first
time since the accident. After that his gratitude dried up and disap-
peared."
Two months from the hospital the cast was
after his discharge
taken off Mickey's left arm. The Ann Arbor Hospital
doctors at the
congratulated him on the success of their repair job and told him
that in time he would regain full use of his arm. Now that he was
almost well Mickey was increasingly bored at home. As soon as he
could walk easily he began to spend afternoons at a saloon called
the Wooden Nickel near the Dansville crossroads a few blocks
away. It was a man's hangout, where he could always find someone
willing to have a glass of beer and a game of pool. At first Francine
was so glad Mickey had found something to take him out of the
house that she didn't worry about his drinking, but before long he
started to come home not only drunk, but angry and mean. Fran-
cine had a foreboding that he would start beating her again. She
thought, "He's going to take revenge on me for all the pain he's been
through and show me he's still boss."
A few weeks after Mickey started drinking the outbreak came. It
was near supper time and Francine was cooking when Mickey
came home from the Wooden Nickel. Francine glanced up as the
door opened. The look on his face told her trouble was coming. He
came over to where she was working at the kitchen counter.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
some pork chops. They've been thawing."
"I'm fixing
"How're you gonna fix 'em?"
"I thought I'd just fry them." Francine kept her voice soft. She
knew she was in danger.
"I don't want any greasy pork chops! All you know how to fix is

greasy food."
"I thought you liked pork chops, Mickey. You always ate them
before."
"That was before. All you do is fix garbage anyhow."
Mickey pushed Francine aside and opened the freezer section of
tjie refrigerator where he kept his beer stein. He liked beer very

cold. He took a can out of the lower compartment, opened it and

120 The Burning Bed
took a drink, filled the stein and put it back in the freezer. He

turned to Francine. She saw the danger signs she knew so well:
eyes glittering, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he clenched his
teeth. She felt her pulse begin to race, her stomach contract, her
head pound. For nearly a year she had been free from fear of
Mickey. "Please God, no," she thought. "I can't stand to have it
start again." Desperately, she tried to divert him.
"The kids are hungry, Mickey. I'll give the pork chops to the
kids. I'll fix you something else."
"Goddamn right you will," Mickey said. "You're my wife. Go get
ten divorces. It won't do you any fucking good."
"I'm acting like your wife, Mickey," Francine said. "I don't know
what more you want." She moved to the cupboard and began to
look among the cans. "How about some tuna fish? I could fix that
real quick."
Mickey followed her. He was breathing hard.
"I wouldn't marry a fat ass, fuckin' bitch like you. Not for a mil-
lion bucks. How do you like that, whore?"
Francine turned, saw the blow coming and ducked, but his fist
hit her on the side of the head. She put up her arms, crying,
"Please, Mickey, please!" and dodged around the kitchen as he fol-
lowed, pummeling her whenever he caught her. Francine saw
Christy standing, crying, in the doorway. "Get Grandma," Fran-
cine panted, and Christy ran out.
A moment later by Flossie. They tried to
Berlin arrived, followed
pull Mickey away from Francine. Mickey lunged at Berlin and
threw him against the wall. Flossie flew at Mickey and he struck
her across the face.
Francine ran out into the yard and stood uncertainly. Where
could she hide? It was early twilight. Lights were on in the houses

across the street— the Johnsons' and the Quembys'. She thought of
running to one of them. What would she say? I'm just dropping in?
Itwould be absurd. The battle in the kitchen was still going on.
She could hear Mickey cursing, dishes crashing, and Flossie
screaming at him to stop. Francine decided to run to the Hughes
house and call the police.
She was in Flossie's kitchen, telephoning, when she heard Mickey
at the side door. She started for the back door, but he caught her
and dragged her outside into the yard. Francine fought back, twist-
 Dansville 121

and kick. Flossie and Berlin tried, ineffectually,

ing, trying to hit
to intervene.Mickey knocked Francine down and was pummeling
her when a squad car drew up. As the deputies approached,
Mickey got up and swung on them. It took them several minutes to
bring him down. He continued to struggle, biting and kicking as
they held him pinned to the ground. He seemed to have gone out
of his mind with rage. One of the officers put in a radio call for an
ambulance. Now Flossie, hysterical, shrieked that the officers were
hurting Mickey, that he was a sick man, and tried to loosen their
grip. Then the ambulance came and Mickey, still fighting, was
strapped to a stretcher and carried away.
Francine led the frightened children into the house and told
them to wash up for supper. They asked no questions. Francine's
hands were shaking as she prepared their food. Her head ached,
but her mind was empty with shock.
Flossie and Berlin came over. Berlin kept a somber silence while
Flossie, still near hysteria, questioned Francine about how the
"racket" had started. What had Francine done to get Mickey so
riled? Had he been hurt fighting the police? Francine called the
Sheriff Department in Mason, which had sent the police car, and
learned that Mickey had been taken to the hospital. She called the
hospital and was told he was unhurt. He had been given a sedative
and was sleeping. Unless charges were brought against him, he
would be released in the morning. Reassured, Flossie and Berlin
went home.

Adams Street is normally a quiet street and Mickey's outbreak

did not go unnoticed. Mrs. Alice Quemby, a cheerful, friendly
woman in herfifties who lived directly across from Mickey and

Francine, became aware of trouble when she glanced out the

first

window and saw a little girl standing in the street crying. The child
had no coat or shoes. Mrs. Quemby recognized her as Christy
Hughes and felt surprise. She knew Francine took good care of her
children. From her chair by the window Mrs. Quemby had a good
view into Francine's uncurtained kitchen and watched as Mickey
beat Francine. When Flossie and Berlin arrived Mrs. Quemby saw
Mickey throw his father against the wall and slap his mother across
trie face. Shocked by the scene, Mrs. Quemby hurried next door to

her neighbor, Donna Johnson. She found Donna at her own win-
122 The Burning Bed
dow from which she, too, could The two
see into the kitchen.
women were fascinated spectators drama ran its course.
as the
They saw Francine run across the yard to the Hughes house and
Mickey drag her outside and beat her; they watched the police ar-
rive and the struggle that ended when Mickey was strapped down
and taken away. Mrs. Quemby and Mrs. Johnson both liked Fran-
cine. They liked Mickey, too, but they were appalled by the vio-
lence they had seen.

In the morning Berlin went to the hospital and fetched Mickey.

He pulled up at Francine's door and helped him out of the car.
Mickey shook his father off and limped into the house. He looked
was contrite. He hugged Francine in silent
pale and sick. Briefly, he
apology. Francine pushed him away and told him that if he beat
her again she would leave.
Mickey's eyes hardened. "Where do you think you're gonna go?"
he asked contemptuously. Francine had no answer. Mickey took a
shower and changed his rumpled clothes. Within an hour he was
feeling well enough to walk to the Wooden Nickel for a game of
pool.
During the next few months Mickey beat Francine several times.
Sometimes he stopped after one or two blows; sometimes he went
on until she ran over to his parents' house. Mickey would follow
and, while Francine hid, Flossie and Berlin would calm him down.
In the morning he would have nothing to say about what had hap-
pened and Francine knew it would be unwise to remind him. Flos-
sie and Berlin also wanted to forget each episode as quickly as pos-

sible. Flossie told Francine she should make allowances for Mickey

and not get him mad.

After a beating Francine found it hard to think straight. All day
aching bruises would remind her of the nightmare scene of the day
before. She felt spent, unable to pull her mind together. She would
think, "I've got to leave. I can't let it happen again," but then, as
she went a step further and tried to think of a place to go, the ob-
stacles would seem insurmountable and she would give up the
struggle.
One day in March, while Mickey was at the Wooden Nickel,
Francine decided to go across the street to visit a neighbor, Laura
Eifert, who lived opposite Flossie and Berlin. Laura was about
 Dansville 123

Francine's age— twenty-five— and also had young children. She was
a slim, blue-eyed woman with a perpetually harried look. Her hus-
band, Chris, a burly blond factory worker, was a friend of the
Hughes boys and shared their pleasure in drinking, women, and
fast cars. Francine had no time for anything more than brief visits
with Laura and never confided in her. She guessed that Chris prob-
ably thought that beating his wife was something Mickey had a
right to do.
Francine had timed her visit in midafternoon, so she would be
home before Mickey returned.
able to get
Mickey came home early and found the house empty. Francine,
sittingwith Laura, heard his voice, cursing and shouting her name.
She looked out the window and saw him in the street. Gathering up
the children, she ran out. Mickey seized her. "What were you doing
over there?" he demanded. "You've got no business going out. You
don't go to nobody's house unless I tell you." Francine ran into her
house and Mickey followed. "He was so mad he was crazy. More
crazy than drunk. He started hitting me and I ran into the bedroom
and locked the door. He was wearing big boots. He kicked the door
open and came after me. He knocked me down on the floor and
started kicking me. He kicked and kicked and kicked. The kids
were shrieking. I was screaming with pain. I thought those big
boots would break my bones. Finally he quit long enough for me to
get up and run out of the house. I ran to Flossie's house and she hid
me in a closet. I waited in there, my heart pounding, my body ach-
ing all over, wondering if he would find me and start in again."

Mickey, confused as to where Francine had gone, pushed his

way into Alice Quemby's house. Donna Johnson was sitting with
Alice. They had been watching the drama through Alice's picture
window. As Mickey burst in. Donna got up in fright and ran out
the back door, while Alice's husband, Leonard, angrily shoved
Mickey out the front door. Mickey ran next door to Donna's house.
He burst in on Donna and her husband, demanding to know where
Francine was hiding. Donna's husband put him out and called the
police.
Just then Wimpy pulled up in his car, summoned by Flossie, and
intercepted Mickey in the street. As Wimpy talked to him, Mickey
calmed down. When, a few minutes later, a police car pulled up,
the officers found the brothers leaning against Wimpy's car. One of
124 Tlie Burning Bed

the police, a burly deputy with a Syrian name, Mohammad Abdo,

remembered Mickey as the man he had strapped to a stretcher a
few months before. "What's the trouble?" he asked Mickey.
"There isn't any trouble," Mickey said. "But if I find my wife
there will be. If I find her I'll break her fucking neck."
Wimpy took over the task of explaining. He told Abdo that when
Mickey got drunk he went crazy, but that he was calm now, and
promised that he, Wimpy, would take charge of him. Abdo noted
that Mickey seemed in complete control of himself. He watched as
Mickey got into Wimpy's car and the two brothers drove away.
Abdo went to the home of the elder Hughes, where his partner
was questioning Francine, and told her she could bring charges
against Mickey by going to the office of the prosecutor in Lansing
and swearing out a complaint. Francine asked what would happen
then. Abdo said that Mickey would be charged with a mis-
demeanor. He might be put on probation or be sentenced to thirty
days.
Mickey spent the night at his brother's house. When Wimpy
brought him home, Mickey apologized to Alice Quemby and
Donna Johnson, but not to Francine. Everyone— Flossie, Berlin,
Wimpy, and Mickey— ignored Francine's swollen face and the pur-
ple bruises on her arms and legs. There were worse bruises hidden
by her clothes. Christy saw them and said, "Oh my God, Mom."
Then she, too, said no more. Dana, three years old, was fascinated.
He came to her several times and asked, "Can I see your bruises,
Mommy?" Francine raised her skirt and the little boy stared for a
long time. "Daddy kicked you?" he asked, and Francine answered,
"Yes." "I knew it was terrible for a little child to see a thing like
that, but I couldn't hide it and I couldn't explain."

From then on, fear of Mickey was always at the back of Fran-
cine's mind, whispering caution, shaping the smallest decision. Only
once in that particular period of her life did a stronger emotion
take over.
"One morning Mickey was sitting in his chair watching a TV
show. Nicky was very tiny, wearing diapers, and toddling around. I
gave her some soda pop in a plastic cup. She took it and walked to-
ward Mickey's chair. Just as I looked to see what she was doing,
Mickey yelled, 'What are you letting her come over here with that
for?* He raised his foot and kicked her over. She fell back and the
 Dansville 125

pop went all over her face and up her nose. Without even knowing
what I was doing I began to pound on Mickey with my fists. I was
yelling like crazy, 'Why did you do that? How can you do that to a
little kid?' I completely blew up. I felt like pounding him to a pulpl

Mickey didn't hit back. He just put up his arms and took it."
For the first time in her life Francine had shown that she, too,
could be seized by ungovernable rage.

A few weeks before this last outbreak of Mickey's, Francine had

made arrangements to buy a house. The apartment was dingy and
cramped. When Francine heard of a government program that
helped low-income families buy homes, she applied for a loan. It
was granted and she began to look for something suitable. She
wanted to put some distance between herself and her in-laws and
hoped to buy a house in Jackson. Mickey and Flossie preferred that
she stay in Dansville.
Grove Street, next door
Flossie discovered that the house at 1079
to her own, was and urged Francine to buy it. The house
for sale
fitted Francine's needs. The price was $16,000. It had two bed-
rooms upstairs, a bedroom and bath downstairs, a living room, din-
ing room, and kitchen. There were two enclosed porches and a de-
tached garage. Mickey liked the house. The garage would be
convenient as a place to keep his tools.

"It's you to be close so we can help you with the kids,"

better for
Flossie urged. "Suppose something happened to Mickey? Suppose
he had to go to the hospital? It would be better if you were near."
Francine let herself be persuaded. "I look back and I still don't
understand why I did whatever they told me to. The family would
sit around discussing what would be best for the kids, best for Flos-

sie, best for Mickey. Nobody said anything about what would be

best for me. What I wanted didn't matter to anybody, and I would
put my feelings aside as though they didn't deserve to be consid-
ered."
When, only a few weeks before they were to move into the new
house, Mickey beat her, Francine's misgivings about tying herself
to Hughes territory in Dansville intensified, but it was too late to
turn back. She signed the final papers for the loan. Berlin and Flos-
siehelped move her things. Mickey put his favorite chair and the
him best in the living room.
television set in the position that suited
He took over the garage, filling it with his tools, and locked it with
126 The Burning Bed

a combination lock. Hecomplained that their double bed was sag-

ging and told Francine to buy a new one. Francine objected that
she couldn't afford a new bed. "You better do it, and do it soon,"
Mickey ordered, "or I'll take the goddamn mattress off and burn it.
Do you want to sleep on the floor?"
Flossie solved the problem. She offered to sell Francine a pair of
twin beds she wanted to get rid of. Francine paid thirty dollars for
them and Flossie, in a burst of generosity, threw some bed linen
into the bargain. The twin beds were moved into the downstairs
bedroom of the new house and for the first time in their life to-
gether Francine and Mickey slept in separate beds.
was spring when Francine and Mickey moved into the Grove
It

Street house. Dansville's backyards were bright with forsythia and

daffodils. Grove Street is on the edge of town. From her front door
Francine looked into an open lot filled with shrubbery and trees
breaking into green leaf. There was also open space to the right of
her house. Except for Flossie and Berlin to her left, Francine now
had no close neighbors. It gave her a feeling of freedom. The chil-
dren could play outdoors without complaints from the landlord. If

there were fights with Mickey she would be spared the humiliation
of having them in public.
The new house gave a lift to Francine's spirits. She made flower
beds and the children helped her plant her first vegetable garden.
As she worked to make the house livable, painting cupboards, mak-
ing curtains, sanding the floors, she was able to feel for the first
time in nearly ten years of marriage that her labor was going into
something that was really her own. Above all, the house was a de-
cent home for the children. Francine had given up a great many
dreams, but never her determination to give her children the best
she could and the hope that their lives would be happier than hers
had been. Francine felt that she could not have asked for better

children. At eight, Christy was an intelligent, loving child, whose

high marks in school filled Francine with pride. Six-year-old Jimmy
looked like his father: a thin boy with narrow blue eyes. He was
sensitive, and Francine felt especially protective of him as the child
most affected by ugly scenes. When Mickey cursed, Jimmy watched
silently, his expression stricken. Three-year-old Dana was sturdy
and handsome, with his mother's heart-shaped face and tilted nose.
His father had been absent or ill during so much of his babyhood
 DansviUe 127

that he had never formed the attachment to Mickey that Jimmy

had. Nicky was an adorable two-year-old, and Mickey's favorite.
By summer, the first anniversary of his accident, Mickey seemed
normal physically. However, because of his internal injuries he
could not do the heavy construction work he had done before the
accident, and the Social Security doctors classified him as totally
disabled, assuring him a pension for life. Francine had assumed
that when he was well enough to work he would find another trade.
He was already a good auto mechanic and she thought he might
work in a garage. Mickey toyed with the idea but did nothing
about it, and his idle days stretched on. When Francine began to
push him, he told her that he would be damned if he would do any
rotten menial work for low pay. As a bricklayer he had earned
eight dollars an hour, and he vowed he wouldn't work for anything
less.

During Mickey's illness Francine had run the house and paid all

the with stipends from Welfare and Aid to Dependent Chil-

bills

dren. Mickey's pension was an almost equal sum, but week after
week Mickey's money disappeared into his pocket while Francine
paid all the bills, feeding and housing six people on an allowance

that was barely enough for five.

If Francine asked Mickey to contribute to the household ex-

penses, he laughed. "If you need more money go to welfare. I'm

not your husband. You divorced me. Don't come to me!"
On a hot summer afternoon in August, Mickey had another at-
tack of fury. Francine ran to Flossie's to call the police. Berlin stood
at the kitchen door to block Mickey from coming after Francine.
While she was at the phone she heard Mickey shouting and bang-
ing on the door. "I heard Berlin say, 'Give me that knife!' and my
knees shook. Mickey got the door open and I could see him and his
dad struggling in the doorway. Berlin was small, but he was tough.
He got the knife and sailed it into the weeds. Mickey got past him
and lunged at me. He grabbed me by the hair and pulled me out to
the yard. I was screaming and fighting. He got me down and was
punching me. Oh God, it hurt!"
While Mickey punched and kicked Francine, Flossie and Berlin
watched helplessly. Chris Eifert, in the house opposite theirs, heard
Francine's screams and came to help. He knocked Mickey down
and held him while Francine got to her feet. A police car pulled up
128 The Burning Bed

and Eifert let Mickey get up. Still raving mad, he fought the depu-
ties and they arrested him.
One of the deputies questioned Francine about what had hap-
pened and she told them that Mickey had chased her with a knife
in his hand. The deputy turned to Berlin and warned him: "If I
ever come out here and see your son with a knife, trying to stab
somebody, I'd have to shoot him." With a murderous look Berlin
replied, '111 kill any son of a bitch that kills a son of mine."
As before, Mickey had been arrested not because he beat Fran-
cine, but because he had fought with the deputies. When they had
taken him away, Francine went to her house and took stock of her
injuries. Her mouth was bloody and her eyes beginning to puff up.
She was trembling with shock. She thought, "I can't stand it any-
more. I've got to get away. But how? Where can I go? If his par-
ents can't protect me, who can?" Inflicting her troubles on her
mother or sisters was out of the question. Suppose she brought
charges against Mickey; what would happen then? The answer was
discouraging. Flossie and Berlin would regard it as gross treachery.
Mickey would serve a short term, if any, and when he came out his
vengeance would be terrible. Francine put the thought of ap-
pealing to the courts out of her mind.
Flossie, still highly upset, came over to talk to Francine. She
talked on and on, saying she didn't know what got into Mickey to
carry on so, but she thought it must have something to do with his
accident and the injury to his head. Francine said yes, ever since
his accident he seemed crazy when he was in a rage. In fact
Mickey's rages since the accident were not different, only more fre-
quent than before, and they had intensified until he seemed totally
out of his mind. A few times since the accident Mickey had been
willing to talk about what had happened between them, and Fran-
cine had asked, "Why, Mickey? Why do you do this to me?" He al-
ways answered that it was because she had gotten him mad; if she
would mend her ways it wouldn't happen again. Francine begged
him to see a doctor, a psychiatrist. The suggestion infuriated him.
"See one yourself. You're the one who's crazy. You're the one
needs help!"
Mickey would never voluntarily go to a psychiatrist, but Fran-
cine thought he could be committed Flossie and Berlin would
if

agree. As Flossie talked about something wrong with Mickey's

 Dansville 129

head, Francine felt a surge of hope. She began to talk about getting
help for Mickey. Flossie agreed, but when Francine spoke of com-
mitting him, she drew back in anger. Mickey wasn't crazy, she said,
he was still sick from the concussion of the accident and the ag-
gravation of not being able to work. Yes, Flossie said indignantly,
she wanted Mickey to see a doctor, but not a doctor for crazy peo-
ple, and she didn't want Mickey locked up in a hospital. Her voice
trembled with hysteria.
"I see what you're after," she cried. "You just want to put him
away— out of sight!" Weeping, she went out, slamming the door
behind her.
The next day, without saying anything to Francine, Flossie and
Berlin got Mickey at the jail and took him to the hospital in Ann
Arbor, where he was examined by the doctors who had treated him
the year before. When Mickey came back late that afternoon he
looked pleased with himself. He grinned as he told Francine how
the doctorshad examined him thoroughly. "They said there wasn't
a goddamnthing wrong with me," he told her. Smiling in triumph,
he opened the refrigerator and poured himself a beer.

In the months that followed, the idea that Mickey should be

committed to a mental hospital often recurred to Francine, but she
saw no way to bring it about without his parents' help. Since she
was no longer Mickey's legal wife, it seemed impossible for her to
do it against their wishes, but Francine knew that Flossie and
Berlin felt that "craziness" was shameful—something to hide.
Even to have Mickey arrested wasn't easy. "I'd call the police in
the middle of the night. I'd do it when there was a lull in his hitting
me; usually while he was getting another beer. Sometimes Christy
would call them. When Mickey realized the cops were coming he'd
simmer down. He'd sit in a chair and tell me what he was going to
do to me as soon as they left. The cops would come and find me
standing there crying, everything in the house smashed up, the kids
out of bed and scared to death, and Mickey sitting with a smirk on
his face. I'd have a bloody nose and a smashed lip. I'd be hysterical
after being tormented for an hour or so. I'd say, 'Officer, I need pro-
tection. He's going to kill me. Can't you take him away?* The officer
would say, We're sorry, ma'am, but we didn't see him do anything,
so we're not allowed to arrest him. Go down to the prosecutor's
130 The Burning Bed

office inthe morning and swear out a complaint.' The officers would
tell Mickey to behave himself. Then they would leave. If Mickey
was tired enough he'd go to bed. If he wasn't he'd have another
beer and hit me some more."
At the beginning of December, four months aftei he had chased
her with a knife, Mickey was arrested again. He had been goading
Francine since early in the evening. As he drank beer after beer his
fury worked up until he was "crazy mad." He hit Francine and
knocked her to the floor. When she lay there he prodded her with
his foot until she got up; then he knocked her down again. Francine
had been sobbing. Now she screamed. Twisting on the floor she
caught a glimpse of Christy, ashen-faced on the stairs. Mickey
yelled to Christy to get back in her room and Christy disappeared.
Francine got up and tried to get to the telephone. Mickey held her
off and yanked the cord from the wall. Then he lunged and caught
her. Francine fought and pleaded. Mickey's eyes were wild. He was
gritting his teeth. "I'm gonna keep it up," he said, "until you're
sorry you were born." Francine twisted loose. Dodging around the
table she reached the front door and escaped into the dark. Bare-
foot, wearing only a nightgown, she ran across the yard praying
that Flossie's door would be unlocked. It was. Francine locked it
behind her.
Berlin was alone. Flossie was at work on the night shift at a
nursing home. Mickey did not immediately follow, but Francine
knew he would come. "Call the police," she sobbed, "I think he's
going to kill me." Berlin went to the telephone. Francine hid in a
closet in the bedroom. "It was dark. I could hear my heart beating.
I was shaking and gasping for breath. I heard Berlin on the tele-
phone and then I heard Mickey's voice—heard scuffling and bang-
ing at the front door. I prayed that the police would come in time. I
knew Berlin couldn't stop him from killing me. Mickey was too
strong. I heard Berlin say, 'She ain't here,' and Mickey cursing and
saying, T know she is.' I heard something break and Mickey run-
ning through the house, shouting, *Where the fuck is she where. . .

is that goddamn whore? My teeth were chattering. I buried my

5

face in my hands. Then I heard Mickey go away; somehow Berlin

had gotten him out of the house."
Francine stayed in the closet until she heard the voices of police-
men in the kitchen. Berlin gave her Flossie's housecoat to cover her
 Dansville 131

nightgown and she sat down on a kitchen chair. A deputy told her
Mickey had been arrested and was in the police car outside. He
asked her to tell what had happened. Francine tried to answer, but
nausea swept over her. She got up and vomited in the sink. She sat
down and, feeling herself begin to faint, put her head down on her
knees. The deputy asked if she wanted to go to the hospital. Think-
ing of the children, terrified and alone, Francine said no. Her head
pulsed with pain; nausea convulsed her stomach. She vomited
again. The deputy called for an ambulance and Francine agreed to
leave. She thought she might have an internal injury.
Francine was taken to the emergency room. An intern examined
her without comment. He told her he could find nothing seriously
wrong and gave her a sedative. She was free to go home, but had
no car. She telephoned Wimpy. He came to the hospital and took
her to his house. He telephoned his mother, who by then had re-
turned, and told her Francine was in no condition to go home. Flos-
sie agreed to baby-sit. Francine's sister-in-law, Lillian, gave Fran-

cine some hot milk and helped her to bed.

When Francine opened her eyes in the morning her first thought
was, "Now they've got to admit he's cra:zy— that he's dangerous—
that he's going to kill me. Now is the time to get him committed. It
has to be done quick, before he gets out of jail." At breakfast she
tried to talk to Wimpy about it. Wimpy was shocked. "You can't do
that to Mick! He's no more crazy than I am; he just got a little
drunk, that's all!" Wimpy had recently stopped drinking and joined
the church. He drove Francine to Dansville. On the way he insisted
that the solution to her problem was simple. She had only to per-
suade Mickey to go to church and God would straighten him out.
At home Francine saw the children off to school. As always after
a night of hell, she felt sick and numb. She longed to lie down and
let her mind go blank, but there was no telling when Mickey would

be released and then it would be too late to carry out her plan.
Francine found Flossie, Berlin, and Wimpy at the kitchen table
having coffee. Wimpy had evidently told his parents that Francine
wanted Mickey committed. They were discussing it when Francine
came in. Berlin sat silently, listening while Flossie talked. Flossie
said she knew was something wrong with Mickey, something
there
that the doctors in Ann Arbor had failed to find .something to
. .

do with the injury to his head, and that they should try to find out
132 The Burning Bed
what it was, even if it meant going to a psychiatric doctor. Wimpy
didn't agree. "Just because the poor guy has some problems doesn't
mean he's crazy," he said.
Francine began to cry. "That's great for you to say," she said bit-
terly. "You don't know what it's You've got
like I You're his family!
to do something. 7 can't take itanymore!"
"She's right," Flossie said. 'Td rather have him in the hospital
than in jail. When he's mad he don't know what he's doing. He
ought to see a doctor and get help before he hurts somebody real
bad."
Wimpy protested that Mickey would never voluntarily go to a
hospital. "I know that," Flossie said, "and I think he ought to be
committed, like Francine says."
Suddenly Berlin pushed back his chair and got up, his face an
angry mask. "If you was ever to have Mickey committed," he said
harshly, addressing Flossie, "I'm leaving. I ain't gonna stand for
such a thing."
Flossie glared back with determination. "I know what's right!"
she snapped.
Berlin turned away without a word. He took his coat from the
peg and went out the door. It slammed behind him. There was si-

lence in the kitchen. Outside there was the sound of Berlin's car as
he started it and drove away. Flossie looked stunned.
Mickey returned later that day, but Berlin stayed away for three
weeks. During that time Flossie crumbled. She announced that she
was ill and took to her bed, where she remained until, on a Sunday

morning, Berlin took his place in the household once more. Fran-
cine saw his car parked at the curb and shortly afterward saw Flos-
sie and Berlin leave, dressed for church. After church Berlin came
to Francine's house and tucked an envelope in the mail slot. Fran-
cine opened it and found a bill for fifty dollars' damage to the door
that Mickey had broken during his pursuit of her. Francine tore it
into little pieces. The possibility of committing Mickey was never
discussed again.
Soon Mickey beat Francine again. She
after Berlin returned,
called the policeand Mickey incautiously hit a deputy. For this
Mickey spent thirty-six hours in jail. During that time Francine
brooded, groping for a solution. Her ideas were incoherent. She
was ashamed of living with a man who was not her husband. She
 Dansville 133

feared Mickey— she often hated him— but he could still arouse her
pity, and she thought that if he would stop drinking their lives
might still be salvaged. She seldom felt love, or tenderness, or sex-
ual desire, but Mickey remained a part of her. He gave her nothing,
and very little to the children, yet he had rights to his family that
she felt powerless to take away. Living with Mickey meant unceas-
ing fear, but the thought of life without him also filled her with
fear; she needed a husband, the children needed a father. At the
thought of casting Mickey out the earth tilted beneath her feet.
In the two years since his accident Mickey had abused her more
horribly than ever before. His parents knew it. His brothers and
their wives knew it. All of Dansville knew it. Her own mother knew
it. No one, not even the police or the intern who treated her at the
hospital, expressed indignation on her behalf. Each episode was
buried as quickly as possible, as though to mention it would be ob-
scene. Were they implying she was guilty, too? He shouted at the
children, but he didn't beat them. What had she done that made
him hate her so?
Beyond the emotional conflicts were practical dilemmas. Suppose
she tried to leave? The house in Dansville was hers; she was com-
mitted to monthly payments. If she stopped paying she would lose
everything she had put into it. She couldn't pay the mortgage and
also pay rent somewhere else. Where could she go? Her brother,
Bob, lived out of the state with his wife and children and couldn't
take her in. Joanne's house was already crowded. Her mother, wid-
owed, in poor health, easily upset, was a weak reed. Her family
might help her briefly; then she would have to find a home of her
own. Wherever she went Mickey would move in and she would be
worse off than ever; she would have lost her house and find herself
once more living with Mickey in a rented slum.
When the children were asleep and the last dish washed, she
threw herself into bed in the strangely quiet house and surren-
dered. There was nowhere she could go, nothing she could do. Be-
fore she went to sleep she said a prayer. "Dear God, please give
me some hope." In the morning Mickey came home and their life
together resumed.
jail left him unchastened and angry. He
Mickey's brief stay in
blamed Francine having called the police. He didn't beat her
for
immediately but Francine knew he was brooding, and she tried to
134 The Burning Bed

avoid anything that would set him off. It was the Christmas season.

There was excitement and tension in the air. The children were
home from school. When the TV was turned on the sound of
carols and jingling bells leaped out. Mickey yelled at the children
to turn the damn thing off. The yard was heaped with snow and
there was no place outdoors for them to play. Mickey stayed longer
and longer at the Wooden Nickel. At home he kept a case of beer
on the back porch and his stein was always in his hand. In the eve-
ning, when Francine had washed the dishes and put the food away,
Mickey would order his supper. He wanted no leftovers; it had to
be something newly cooked.
On Christmas Day, Francine put up a plastic tree. She and the
children trimmed it. She had presents for them and cooked a tur-
key. The saloons were closed and Mickey stayed home. It was a
peaceful day. Later on they joined his brothers at Flossie and Ber-
lin's house. Mickey was sober. Relaxed and festive, he ate mince

pie, joked with his brothers, and held Nicky on his knee. Francine
thought, "Why can't he be like this at home?"
On the day after Christmas, Mickey went to the Wooden Nickel
early in the day and returned quite drunk. The cheer of the eve-
ning before had vanished. He fumed for a while and then began to
beat her. "Ill teach you to call the cops on me," he snarled. "Don't
you dare call the cops ever again." For several hours, with intermis-
sions while he filled his beer stein or rested in a chair, glaring at her
and calling her names, he tormented Francine. "Don't you ever
dare put me in jail again! Ill break your fucking neck."
When at last he let her go to bed, she cried herself to sleep. Thus
ended the year 1973. It was only three years since she had filed for

divorce, but her independent life in the house on Detroit Street

seemed eons ago.

Of the next year, her tenth since she married Mickey, Francine
remembers that as life with Mickey grew harder to bear she re-
turned to the religion that had comforted her as a child.
"I had a little cross that Jimmy got in Sunday school. It was yel-
low and had black writing on it, 'God is my refuge and strength.' I
hung it over the sink; every day I looked at it and said the words in
a whisper. I joined the church that Flossie and Berlin attended and
went with them every Sunday. I taught Sunday school. I loved
 Dansville 135

teaching. Those couple of hours were the happiest of my week. I

prayed every day, asking God for help. 'Dear God, You know what
is going on. I believe that somehow, in some way, You are going to

change things.' I believed if I prayed hard enough He would.

Church, and my faith that God's help would come, kept me going
for months. But Sunday after Sunday I came home from church
with the kids and found Mickey sitting there, drinking, waiting to
harass me, with words if not with hitting. I had prayed so hard,
believed so deeply that God would help me, that when He didn't
my faith began to slip away. Even going to church didn't make me
feel better. After a while I gave up. I didn't have the heart to go
anymore."
Francine wanted to go to work. She thought that it was wrong
for a family to be on welfare ^definitely. If Mickey wouldn't work
she thought she should. When she asked Mickey's permission to
look for a job he angrily said no. He said the children needed her at
home and she would spend all she earned on baby-sitters. It was
summer and Francine's sister Kathy, now seventeen, was out of
school. Mickey despised Francine's older sisters— Joanne because
she had given Francine asylum; Diana Lynn because she was feisty
and had told him off when he yelled at Francine— but Kathy was
demure and gentle, with large brown eyes and a soft voice. Mickey
liked her; she was the only one of Francine's family he would allow
in the house. Francine sounded out Kathy and Kathy agreed to
come to Dansville for the summer and take care of the kids if Fran-
cine found a job.
Francine and Mickey had no Without a wage earner in the
car.
family and with Mickey's accident record, it was difficult to get

credit. Mickey decided to allow Francine to work if she would not

confess to welfare that she was employed, but use her earnings to
buy a car. Francine agreed. She found a job in a plastics factory in
a neighboring town. Kathy came to stay. Within a few weeks Fran-
cine had bought a car on credit, a Ford Maverick only two years
old.
Francine found that going to work was like fresh air. She hadn't
realized how deep and chronic her depression had become until it
lifted and she could remember how she used to feel on days when
it was good to be alive.
For die first weeks of Kathy's visit Mickey was on his good be-
136 The Burning Bed

havior. Then his internal weather changed. He found fault with ev-
erything Francine did, cursing her, pounding the table until plates
and glasses rattled, throwing things across the room. Francine had
never described to Kathy— or anyone else in her family— the full vi-
olence of Mickey's temper. Kathy watched, wide-eyed and misera-
ble. As Francine knew was inevitable, Mickey came home drunk
one afternoon. A fight started. When he began to hit Francine,
Kathy tried to intervene. Mickey yelled at Kathy to mind her own
business. Kathy picked up the telephone and told Mickey if he
didn't stop she would call the police. Mickey snatched the tele-
phone away and pulled back his fist. "You'll get it too if you don't
get out of my way," he threatened. Kathy stared back, her soft eyes
resolute. Francine, watching, held her breath. Mickey dropped his
hands and turned away. Kathy put down the phone. She went up-
stairs and packed. Francine drove her home to Jackson. I'm terri-
bly sorry, Fran," Kathy said, crying, "but there's nothing I can do
to help you and I can't stand watching, so I have to leave."
Francine did not go back to work. Mickey decided to take over
the payments on the car, and it became his. He used it to go farther
afield than the Wooden Nickel, finding other hangouts and now
and then staying overnight with women. Francine no longer felt
any jealousy, but Mickey's infidelity gave an ironic twist to his re-
fusal to leave her. Then Joanne reported to Francine Mickey's boast
—relayed through mutual friends— that stung Francine even more.
Mickey had bragged that Francine supported him. "Ill never leave
her," he'd said. "She pays for everything. I've really got it made!"
Now that the car was his, Mickey allowed Francine to use it only
with his permission. If she wanted to go somewhere she had to
describe her itinerary and her reasons. If Mickey was feeling mean
he might decide she couldn't go. If she was late coming back, espe-
cially from a visit to any of her family, it was the pretext for a fight.
In the spring, Francine's sister Diana Lynn was to graduate from
high school. She had dropped out and gone back. It was an impor-
tant family occasion and Mickey knew how much Francine wanted
to be there. He agreed to let her have the car, and Francine made
plans to pick up her mother and take her to the ceremony. While
she was dressing to go, Mickey began to glower and call her sisters
names. Francine gave no answer. She dressed quickly, hoping to
get away before he changed his mind about the car, and hurried
 Dansville 137

out with little time to spare. The car wouldn't

start. She went inside

and appealed Mickey for help. He smiled a strange smile.

to
"Try it again," he suggested. "Give it more gas."
Francine went out and tried again. She pictured her mother wait-
ing for her. Still the car wouldn't start. Francine's hands began to
shake and her lips trembled.
Twice more she asked Mickey to help her start the car. "Just
keep trying," he advised. Finally, Francine, watching the clock, saw
that it was too late to go. She telephoned her mother and explained
the disappointment. When she hung up Mickey got up and reached
in his pocket. He held a plastic cap in the palm of his hand.
"What's that?" Francine asked.
"The distributor cap," Mickey said. "It's pretty hard to start a car
without it. It's in my pocket and that's where it stays. I want you to
remember that's my goddamn car."

Day after day, month after month, Mickey's drinking increased

and with it compulsion to dominate his family by cruelty.
his
At first Francine had been the prime target of his anger. Now the
children were included, and this was an added torture for Francine.
When the children's presence bothered Mickey, he locked them out
of the house or sent them up to their rooms. If he was particularly
angry he wouldn't let them come down even to use the bathroom.
If they crept down the stairs he yelled at them to get back up and

they would scamper back like mice. At ten, Christy was over-
weight, and it annoyed Mickey to see her eat. He nagged her until
she left the table in tears. Jimmy or even Dana might be suddenly
slapped across the face. He ordered them all about, snapping his
fingers for attention and pointing at the door with a scowl. The
children became wary and stayed out of his way. It was not so easy
for Francine to escape.
"Mickey would sit around drinking and watching me and getting
lustful feelings. Sex was one of the duties I had to carry out. I'd get
up in the morning and think, T've got to do this and I've got to do
that, and Mickey is going to want sex. After I clean the house, mow
the lawn, and do the laundry, Mickey will want sex; then I can do
something else.' There was no caring; no love. Sometimes after six
weeks or more I'd get sexual release, but instead of feeling good, I
felt dirty. I'd hate myself for letting it happen. He would even want
138 The Burning Bed
sex after he'dbeen doing awful things to me all day— been drunk,
cursing me, callingme names, hitting me, making the lads cry. Af-
terward I'd go in the bathroom. I'd want to scream, but I'd put a
washcloth over my face and sob without a sound. I didn't want the
kids to know their mother was in the bathroom wishing she was
dead.
"For a while I'd feel despair. Then I'd think, *You can't spend
your whole damn life in this bathroom with a washcloth in your
mouth. You've got lads out there depending on you.' I'd wonder if
God was testing my strength and my faith in Him. I'd say a prayer
and feel better for a while."
Sometimes, instead of going to the bar, Mickey stayed home all

day drinking. As the day wore on and Mickey became restless and
ugly, Francine would know that there was a terrible night ahead.
She remembers a night that set the pattern. It began with Mickey
talking about everything that angered him: politics, blacks, busing,
jobs. As he got drunker his tirade became more personal; Francine
was a rotten wife, rotten in bed, and stupid. "You're so fucking
dumb!" he said over and over. He was glad he wasn't married to
her. They were in the kitchen and he pounded the table. When
Francine tried to leave, he ordered her to sit down. Mickey had a
comfortable chair. Francine sat on a straight chair. When she
shifted position he yelled at her to sit still. Francine froze, praying
that talking wouldn't turn to hitting. From time to time Mickey got
up to walk about, to get a beer, or to lean menacingly over her and
glare into her eyes. He turned off the light. Now she could see him
only in the dim light from the living room and it made the scene
even more nightmarish. Hour after hour her captivity went on.
"He talked on and he was a male chauvinist pig and
on, bragging
daring me about women's rights. I kept quiet He'd
to say anything
get up and lean over me and I'd shrink up inside, not knowing if he
was going to hit me. If I tried to get up he'd say, 'Where do you
think you're going? I told you to sit still.' I said, 'Mickey, please let

me go to the bathroom.' He said, 'Make it quick!' When I came

back he stood over me. 'Now sit there, bitch, like I told you.' So I
sat there for another couple of hours. My body ached all over. I
was so tired I'd think, 'How long can this go on? Am I such a bad
person that I deserve this?*"
There were other nights when Mickey not only talked but hit.
 Dansville 139

"He'd hit me until I ran out the door and then he'd come after
me, chasing me. I felt like a hunted animal; stumbling in the dark
in the yard, mud squishing under my feet, my heart pounding, just
scared to death. I know what an animal feels when it is hunted. I'd
try to hide. He'd find me. One night I hid in Mickey's old car that
was parked out in back. I huddled down in the bottom, praying. He
came right to it. I heard him coming— heard him opening the door.
He dragged me out and back into the house. He threw me into a
chair and said, 'You sit there until I tell you to move.' He sat down
close to me and began to call me all sorts of names. He asked me to
admit what he said was true.
" Tou know you're a no-good fuckin' bitch, don't you? Why don't

you answer me? Answer me or I'll knock your teeth down your
throat.'
"I didn't say anything.
"'Fat-assed cunt! Why don't you say it?'

"I sat there crying and he hit me across the face. Then he asked
me again. Finally I said, 'Yeah.'
"Teah what? What are you?'
"'Yes, I am one.'
"'A what? Say it!'

"'I'm a no-good fuckin' bitch.'"

As time went on and Mickey's rages grew more frequent, his par-
ents were no longer willing to help her. Berlin intimated that Fran-
cine was as much at fault as Mickey, that she goaded him into beat-
ing her. "Don't come running over here no more," he told her. "You
take care of your own goddamn problems. If you acted right maybe
he would act right too!" Flossie agreed with Berlin that if Francine
were a better wife Mickey "wouldn't get started up." Francine had
never liked Berlin. She thought him mean and cruel. He had
slapped her children for small misdeeds and his miserliness went to
incredible lengths. She felt betrayed by Flossie, to whom she had
once tried to be a good daughter. Now Flossie seemed blind to
Francine's suffering, but offered Mickey aid and comfort whenever
he wanted it.
In truth, Francine knew, Berlin and Flossie were almost as help-
less as she was when Mickey was in a rage. Berlin, now in his
fifties, had contracted emphysema and had to give up factory work.

He stayed home, doing odd jobs. Once proud of his hardbitten

140 The Burning Bed
toughness, he was bitter over his failing strength. Francine knew he
hated to admit that he was no longer any match for his son. On bad
nights Francine felt there was no help anywhere. Mickey kept the
car keys in his pocket. If Francine reached for the telephone he
snatched it out of her hand. The idea of knocking on a neighbor's
door was unthinkable. She was at Mickey's mercy; for hour after
hour she could only dodge, and plead and endure, praying for the
ordeal to end.
Her thoughts would race. "In the morning I'm going to leave.
Somehow I'm going to leave. I can't lethim do this to me again. I'll
run away."
Always Mickey read her mind.
"Don't think you can leave me, you bitch. Not ever! You ain't
ever gonna get rid of me! I'll find you wherever you go and when I
do it won't be pretty. I'll kill you inch by inch. I'll kill your fucking
ass!"
Mickey repeated those words over and over until they were
drummed into Francine's mind. They seemed to give him particular
satisfaction. Sometimes he would add, "Don't think I wouldn't kill
you. I don't give a shit what happens to me. I got nothing to lose."
As the months of torture went on, Francine became aware of
strange physical symptoms. She felt nausea. Sometimes she could
eat nothing; at other times she was ravenously hungry and ate until
she was sick. She felt starved for air, suffocated, unable to take a
breath deep enough to satisfy her. Her pulse raced and she was
dizzy even lying down. It occurred to her that she might have can-
cer. "I'd imagine I was going to die an awful death and think, 'Oh

God, then the kids will have no one but Mickey!'"

There were psychological changes, too. Francine, who had
always loved being with people, became afraid of them. She, who
had once thought herself pretty, felt ugly, unattractive, stupid. She
avoided speaking to neighbors on the street. In the supermarket if
she saw someone she knew she looked the other way. She thought
everyone in Dansville must despise her for living a degrading life.
Vague fears came over her. It frightened her to go out of the house
or to drive a car. She felt inadequate, helpless in every way. Rather
than borrow Mickey's car, she asked him to drive her wherever she
had to go.
These fears engendered a greater fear— that she would break
 DansviUe 141

down, go insane, and be sent to a mental institution. "As my

strange feelings got worse I'd ask myself, 'How long can you stand
this? What does it take to drive a person crazy?*" Francine had
never known anyone who had a nervous breakdown. She went to
the library and looked up the symptoms. She found descriptions
that fitted her so perfectly that she was more afraid than ever:
depression, crying for no reason, anxiety, nervousness, being afraid
of people. She pictured herself locked up in an asylum with bars on
the windows and thought, I'd rather be deadl"
She had to fight suicidal impulses. "I'd feel so low that death
seemed like a way to get peace. A voice inside my head would say,
'If you kill yourself it will be all over. You won't have to live like

this day after day.'"

Francine found that she could talk herself out of the depths of a
depression: "I'd shut myself in the bathroom and say, 'Fran, you've
got so much to live for.' I'd think about the children, each one of
them, Christy, Jimmy, Dana, Nicole; how much each one needed
me and loved me and how I loved each one. I'd look out the win-
dow and say, Think of the things you have to be thankful for, even
if they are just ordinary things. The sky is blue. It has white clouds
in it today. Aren't they pretty? Isn't the world beautiful? God
created these things: flowers, children, the sky, the clouds.' Little
by little I'd get my mind off my troubles. I'd think about what I
was going to plant in the garden or how I was going to make new
curtains. I'd go about my work, cleaning the house or whatever,
keeping these good thoughts in the forefront of my mind. Mickey
would be in the living room, sitting in his chair drinking beer.
When I went through the room I wouldn't look at him. It would be
like he wasn't there."
In this way
Francine was able to endure another day, another
week, another month with Mickey but she knew she was losing
ground. Every time Mickey attacked her, verbally or physically, she
felt herself sink a little lower. Looking in the mirror she saw herself

as an old hag. "I was twenty-seven, but I looked fifty. I'd wonder,
'How long can I take it? How long can I go on living like this?' One
day I thought, 'Fran, you can go on like this until you crack up, or
you can do something about it. Which are you going to do?*"
m
As she looked back, Francine's bitterest regret was that she had
left school without a diploma. It was the turning point after which
142 The Burning Bed
everything in her life went wrong. One day a newspaper ad an-
nouncing free adult- education courses for high-school dropouts
caught her eye. After toying with the idea for days, she found the
courage to telephone the number given in the ad. She was told that
she was eligible and if she completed the course would be given a

GED— a General Equivalency Diploma. Though Mickey had

harped on her stupidity— it was one of his favorite taunts— until she
almost believed him, Francine remembered that she had once
trusted in her native wits. She had no specific plan as to how she
might use a GED, but it seemed a glittering prize. The question, of
course, was whether Mickey would let her enroll in the classes.
She broached the subject on a morning when he was sober and in
a good mood. "You can do it if you want to," he said with a shrug,
"but you won't ever finish. You're too dumb."
"Well, I'll try. The classes are only two hours in the morning. I'd
be able to get the kids off to school and be back before Dana gets
home."
"What are you gonna do with Nicky?"
"I could take her with me. They let mothers do that. They have a
room for little kids to play in."
Mickey thought it over. Francine could see him hesitating.
"Please, Mickey. If I got my GED I might be able to get a job
that paid well; I could go on to some kind of training school. You
see ads for them all the time: 'High school graduates earn high
pay!'"
Mickey gave a grudging assent. "Go ahead," he said, "but you
ain't never gonna finish. I just bet you ain't." When he said that, a
voice inside Francine answered silently: "Oh yes 1 willl"
Mickey allowed her to use his car to drive the seven miles to the
classroom in Mason. It had been eleven years since Francine had
sat behind a school desk. She was trembling as she walked in. The
teacher was a woman, not much older than Francine. She looked
friendly. Francine glanced around at her fellow students. They
were a mixed group: long-haired, bearded young men, women
older than herself, a couple of working men in their thirties. No one
stared at her. No one seemed to notice her or think it odd that a
housewife should aspire to a high-school diploma.
After a few days Francine's nervousness vanished. The work,
preparation for examinations in English, mathematics, science, ge-
 Dansville 143

ography, and literature, was easier than she expected. She had al-
ways read rapidly and with enjoyment. The classroom, with its or-
derly atmosphere, seemed a haven of peace and sanity. She hated
to leave when the two hours were up. The course lasted two and a
half months. Long before that Mickey became restive with her ab-
sence from home. When she didn't drop out as he'd predicted, he
began to harass her. "He'd bitch about the gas I was using. He'd
say, *You're not gonna use up all my gas on me.' I'd say, 'No,
Mickey. I won't. I put two dollars' worth in your tank.'
"'Two dollars' worth! That ain't enough.'
"'It's all I've got right now. But I'll fill up your whole tank as

soon as I can.'

"Then Mickey would think of something else. He'd say, *You bet-
ter be here by the time Dana gets out of school. I'm not gonna
watch him. I'm just gonna take off.' I'd say, 'I'll be back.' I was so
scared he'd say I couldn't keep on. He'd say, 'By God, you better
keep this house clean, too. You ain't just gonna go to school and
come home and sit down on your big fat ass!'"
As the term came to an end Francine knew that it was not a mo-
ment too soon; Mickey was on the verge of forcing her to quit. As
she took her final exams Francine felt sure of herself in English and
literature. She worried about her other courses. When she found
that she had passed every course she felt a thrill of pride that lifted
her off the ground.
Mickey received the news with a noncommittal grunt; then he
asked, "Well, now that you've got it, what are you gonna do with
it?"

"I'm not sure. I was thinking about nursing school."

Mickey hadn't forgotten Francine's promise of a well-paid job.

"You better do something," he said. "You ain't gonna do nothing
after I let you go."
Francine had already made inquiries and been advised to take a
job as a nurse's aide so that she would have references when she
applied to nursing school. She found a part-time job on the week-
end night shift at a nursing home that specialized in long-term care.
After a full day's work at home she took a brief evening nap before
starting to work at midnight Saturday and again on Sunday night.
By Monday morning she was groggy, but it was the patients, not
the grueling hours, that defeated her.
144 The Burning Bed
was a terribly sad place because nobody there would ever get
"It
better. Icame to realize that if you're a nurse there is so little you
can do. Some of the nurses were really tough. I didn't want to be-
come like them. Every week I felt more depressed. The lift I had
gotten out of my schoolwork was gone. I knew I could never be a
nurse."
After several dreary months, Francine quit the nursing home.
Her spells of dizzyness and suffocation had abated while she was at
school. Now they became worse. Convinced that she was physically
ill,she went to a general practitioner, Dr. Jon Desquin, in Mason,
and described her frightening symptoms. Dr. Desquin examined
her and told her that her heart and lungs seemed all right, and
that her sensations sounded like anxiety symptoms. Francine
insisted that there must be something deeply wrong, and Dr. Des-
quin ordered more extensive tests.
When Francine returned, Dr. Desquin told her the tests were
negative and that her problems were of emotional origin. "What's
going on in your life?" he asked. Francine sketched her life with
Mickey. Dr. Desquin raised his eyebrows.
"Why don't you throw the guy out?" he asked. "Or take the chil-
dren and leave?"
Francine began to cry as she described how Mickey had threat-
ened to kill her if she tried to get away. As for throwing Mickey
out, it was equally impossible. If she succeeded he would move
next door to his mother's house and harass her from there.
Dr. Desquin shook his head in commiseration and wrote a pre-
scription for a tranquilizer. Francine asked the doctor if he knew of
any agency that might give her help in getting out of her predica-
ment. He suggested she try the local mental-health clinic and made
arrangements for her first appointment. When Francine left his
office she felt better. Having at last told someone of her circum-
stances seemed
to be a sort of progress.
A week Francine kept her appointment at the mental-health
later
clime in Mason. In order to get there she had to ask Mickey to
drive her. Mickey was suspicious of anything having to do with
mental health, but grudgingly agreed to take her. At the clinic
Francine talked to a psychologist. She described the horrors of her
life and the circumstances that held her trapped.

The psychologist asked if she felt angry. Francine said no, that
 Dansville 145

mostly she felt afraid. The psychologist said, "You've got a lot of
rage bottled up inside you. Where do you think it's going? Out the
window? It's all that terrible anger that makes you feel you can't
breathe." This was a new idea to Francine. It was a relief to know
what caused her smothering feeling even if it didn't cure it. When
the interview ended Francine again had a feeling of minute but
tangible progress. Mickey was waiting for her, his curiosity
aroused.
"Did they find out what's wrong with your head?" he wanted to
know as they drove home. "What did you do in there anyway?"
"Nothing much," she said. "We just talked."
"What about? About me?"
Francine said no, they had about her shortness of
just talked
breath and about her childhood; but Mickey remained suspicious.
A week later Mickey took Francine to her second appointment.
During this interview the psychologist suggested that Francine take
assertiveness classes. He told her that she was letting people walk
all over her and that she would never be able to end the situation
until she learned how to stand up for her own rights.

As before, Mickey was waiting outside the clinic. "All the way
home he questioned me about what the psychologist said. I kept
trying to make up stuff to put him off. At home he went on badger-
ing me. Finally he wormed it out of me about the assertiveness
classes. He blew up and said I couldn't go to the clinic any more; if
I went again he'd beat the shit out of me. I canceled my appoint-
ment. Actually I didn't see how going to assertiveness classes would
be any help. I didn't assert myself because I was afraid. How do
you assert yourself with a maniac? Stamp your foot and say you
won't take it? A minute later you're lying on the floor getting
stomped to death."
 No Exit

Escape was constantly in Francine's thoughts.

"I would try to think through each step that I would have to
take. I would make a plan to take the kids and go someplace like
San Francisco. Then I would examine every detail, looking for
flaws. It was like doing a puzzle. I would see that one way wouldn't
work and go back to the beginning and think it through again."
In every plan money was a central problem. She barely managed
to live from one welfare check to the next. Saving money was im-
possible. If she left on the day her check arrived, she would have
enough to buy airline tickets to California, but there would be little
left over. How would she get to the airport? She might take

Mickey's car, pick up the children at school (making up a story to

tell the teachers), and get to the airport just in time to catch the

plane. If she left as soon as Mickey went to the Wooden Nickel, he

wouldn't discover she was gone until midafternoon. What would he
do then? He would report his stolen car to the police. They would
find it at the airport and Mickey would begin his pursuit. He would
ask about her at each ticket counter and someone would surely
remember a woman with four children and tell Mickey their desti-
nation. Francine scrapped this plan and began another fantasy in
which she went by bus to Detroit, and flew from there. It would be
harder to trace her in a big, busy airport, but no matter how or
where she went, Francine knew the children would make her con-
spicuous; they would make it easy to follow her trail.
148 The Burning Bed
Then Francine would imagine her arrival in San Francisco. She
knew nothing about it except that it was a large, beautiful city and
the weather was warm. Weather was important because she would
have to leave without luggage. What would she do when she got
there? Go directly to Social Services and ask for help. Yes, but what
if there were a waiting period before they would give her money?

Suppose she didn't have enough money to buy meals or rent a room
or take buses while she waited for her first welfare check? Francine
would imagine herself standing on the street with four hungry,
frightened children and no one to turn to for help.
Mickey was certain to follow her. Quite possibly the police
would help him look for her. She might be charged with kidnap-
ping and the police in every major city alerted to arrest her. What
about the debts she would leave behind? The mortgage on the
house— was leaving it behind a crime? Would the welfare authori-
ties in San Francisco notify the office in Michigan of where she had

gone? Would Mickey check with them? Of course he would. She

was certain he would dig until he got just one little piece of infor-
mation, perhaps no more than a card pulled out of a file with the
word "San Francisco" and her name. Once he knew what city she
had gone to, he would haunt the welfare offices and check all the
schools until he found her.
Though the children were the biggest obstacle in any escape
plan, Francine never seriously considered leaving them behind.
Sometimes she thought of leaving them while she got established
somewhere, but how would she get them back? Kidnapping would
be impossible. She would be caught and sent to prison. A legal bat-
tle was beyond her means and if she had deserted her home, even

for a little while, the courts might decide against her. Meanwhile,
what would be happening to the children? Whenever she imagined
them in Mickey's care— or in Berlin and Flossie's— she knew that
leaving them behind was something she could not do. She would
take the children with her or she wouldn't go at all.
Sometimes Francine was able to imagine that she had overcome
all obstacles, reached San Francisco with the children, and set up a

home. The fantasy always ended in a single scene:

"I'd picture myself in this strange place, lying in bed, scared to
death, thinking, Hight now Mickey is hunting for us. Right now he
is on our trail. He's found out where we five. Any minute he's going
 No Exit 149

tocome in that door.' I'd hear his voice saying what he said so
many times when he was beating me: 'If you ever leave I'll find you
*
and kill you. I'll kill your fuckin' ass. I've got nothing to lose.'
At this point in her imagining, Francine's terror would be so
great that she would wipe the entire scheme out of her mind.
When Francine did flee from home, she went suddenly, without
any plan at all. It was the spring of 1976, a few days before Easter.
Mickey began to harass her in the morning. By afternoon he was
beating her. Francine called the police and two deputies arrived.
Mickey stormed around the living room, cursing and threatening to
kill Francine as soon as the deputies left. Francine, bruised and

trembling, exhausted by anger, pain, terror, and tears, watched

helplessly, praying Mickey would swing at a deputy and be
arrested, but he was in a crafty mood and kept to verbal abuse. At
length the deputies tired of the game and told Francine she had
better leave.
Francine telephoned her mother. Her sister Kathy answered. She
offered tocome for Francine and the children. The deputies stayed
until Kathy arrived. As Francine and the children went out the
door, Mickey shouted after them: "I'm gonna come after you. I'm
gonna come after them kids!"
Francine's mother had been in an automobile accident and her
legwas in a cast. She also had a bad heart. When Francine arrived
and saw the anxiety on her mother's face, she knew she couldn't put
her through a long ordeal. Francine called the Jackson police, told
them her ex-husband had threatened to kill her, and asked for
help. The officer who took the call seemed unimpressed. He said
there would be a police car in the area and advised her to call back
if Mickey actually threatened her.

Moments later Mickey was banging on her mother's locked front

door. Francine called the police again; this time the officer agreed
to send a car. Francine told Mickey, through the door, that the
policewere on the way. He shouted that he wanted the children. If
Francine didn't surrender them he would break down the door and
beat her to death. Minutes passed while Mickey beat on the door.
"Mom was getting terribly upset. I had visions of him getting in
and Mom having a heart attack. She wanted me him have the
to let
children. She said, 'J ust f° r now - ^ w u ^lm
i him down and you
can get them later.' I gave in."
150 The Burning Bed
Francine told Mickey he could have the children if he would
leave in peace. He
agreed and she opened the door. Mickey had
sobered considerably in the hours since Francine first called the
police in Dansville. Now he was furious, but controlled. He told the
children to get into the car. As he drove them away Francine knew
she had made a terrible mistake.
Within an hour Mickey telephoned from Dansville, drunk again.
He told Francine he was coming to get her; if she didn't come
willingly he would break in and drag her out. Francine called the
police for the third time. The officer promised to send a police car.
Francine, her mother, and Kathy waited, counting the minutes,
praying the police would come before Mickey did. Mickey was the
first to arrive. Kathy saw his car roar down the street and lurch to a
stop in front of the house. She ran to the closet, took out a shotgun
her brother used for hunting, and pointed it at the door.
For the fourth time Francine called the police. She told the
officer, "My sister has a gun and it's loaded. If he comes in that

door she's going to shoot."

The voice took on a new tone. "Hold it," he told her
officer's

sharply. "We'll have a car there in two minutes." In two minutes a

police car drove up. The officers leaped out and ran to the front
door. Mickey turned, cursing, ready to swing. They grabbed him
and snapped handcuffs on his wrists. Watching through a window,
Francine saw them lead Mickey to their car and drive away.
Francine's first thought was the children— were they all right?
Her second was, "I've gotten away. I'm never going back. I've got
to get the kids." She went out to Mickey's car, parked at the curb.
He had taken the key. The Moran family had no car. Kathy had
borrowed a car from a neighbor to get Francine in Dansville. Now
she tried to borrow it again, but the owners were out. Francine tel-
ephoned her home and Christy answered. She assured her mother
everything was all right. Before he left, Mickey had called one of
his girl friends and she was at the house. Francine talked to the
girl, who offered to spend the night and get the children off to

school in the morning. Francine thanked her. There seemed to be

nothing more she could do that night. In the morning she would
make plans.
Francine went to sleep in the bed she had slept in as a child. She
was so tired she lost consciousness the moment she closed her eyes,
 No Exit 151

and slept late. In the morning she got up and looked out the win-
dow. Mickey's car was gone. It meant that he had already been
released and gotten it while she slept. As she knew he would,
Mickey telephoned. Francine told him she had made up her mind;
she intended to rent a place in Jackson for herself and the children;
she had him forever.
left

"Okay," Mickey said with quiet menace. "You can do what you
want, but you're never going to get those kids!"
Bitterly torn, Francine tried to think what to do. Have Mickey
jailed for beating her? What good would it do? He would be
released on bail and might not be tried for weeks. In the meantime
he would have the children. He would serve a short sentence, if
any, and come out in a murderous mood. Once again she discarded
the idea, but Francine had never put out of her mind the idea that
Mickey needed psychiatric treatment. Several times the police had
mentioned the possibility of having Mickey committed to a mental
hospital for observation and advised her to go to the probate court
for further information. Francine decided to try. She called Joanne
and asked her to borrow a car and take her to the courthouse.
Within an hour Joanne was there.
At probate court Francine found herself talking to a woman who
appeared to be in charge of deciding who could see someone
higher up. "We talked standing up, as though it were no more im-
portant than mailing a letter. I was shaking, thinking, 'My whole
future depends on what this woman does.'"
Francine told the story of Mickey's increasingly murderous
mania. "He's going to kill me," she said. "Something has to be
done. He's sick and he needs help." The woman asked if Mickey
drank. Francine admitted that he did.
"Like how much?"
"Every day," Francine said. "He'sdrunk every day."
"I'm sorry," the woman said. "Wedon't deal with alcoholics.
You'll have to go through other programs for that."
"He won't go to an alcohol program," Francine cried desperately.
"If I could get him to go to a program I wouldn't be here. He won't
go to a doctor. He needs to be sent to a hospital where he can't get
• out!"
The woman gave a sympathetic sigh. "I'm really sorry," she said.
152 The Burning Bed
"You say you're divorced. Why don't you try talking to the judge
who gave you the decree. Maybe he will help."
Francine consulted the directory in the lobby and found the
judge's name. She and Joanne trudged the long corridors to his
office. His secretary, a middle-aged woman, asked what Francine

wanted to Her manner, busy and suspicious, made it

discuss.
Francine to answer. Nevertheless, she explained that
difficult for
her ex-husband had taken her children from her and that even
though she owned the house in which they lived she didn't dare go
home for fear of being killed.
"That's a police matter," the secretary told her. "What do you
want the judge to do about it?"
"I want him to help me!" Francine cried. "Can't he help me get
the kids? Can't he keep my
ex-husband from following me wher-
ever I go? Beating me? Doing anything he wants?"
The secretary shook her head. "It's a common problem," she said
calmly, "but there's nothing the court can do unless your ex-hus-
band is arrested or you bring a legal action for custody of the chil-
dren."
"How could I do that?" Francine asked.
"You might consult a lawyer."
"I don't have any money," Francine insisted. "And I have to do
something now. Today. Before he gets drunk again and beats me to
death!"
"Well," the woman said, "I'm afraid there's nothing more I can
tell you. I know that a lot of women have to pack up and leave the
state in order to get away from their ex-husbands. Maybe that's
what have to do." The telephone on her desk rang. She
you'll
picked it up and dismissed Francine with a nod.
"Every door had been slammed in my face. I was worse off than
before. Now I knew I couldn't get any help from the court or the
hospitals. I was up against a blank wall."
As Francine and Joanne walked back to Joanne's car, Francine
began to cry. "I'm stuck," she said. "I don't have any rights. No-
body cares if I'm killed. Nobody! There's nothing I can do!"
"How about welfare?" Joanne suggested. "He's not supposed to
be living with you while you get aid. Maybe they know how you
can get him out."
When she got back to her mother's house, Francine called the
 No Exit 153

welfare office. On her visits there she had found it a busy place

where no one was interested in the details of her life. She was inter-
viewed by a different social worker each time. Now she had no idea
whom to consult. Her call was switched several times until she
found herself talking to an investigator in the Welfare Fraud Divi-
sion. Francine explained that she was receiving Aid to Dependent
Children, but her ex-husband was living with her and refused to
leave. The man sounded baffled. He explained that the only action
he could take would be to cancel her aid. "I don't see how that
would help you," he said, "but I'll do it if that's what you want."
"Can't you prosecute him for fraud?" Francine asked. "It is a
fraud, isn't it?"
"It certainly is," the investigator replied, "but the person we'd
prosecute is you, not your ex-husband. You're the one committing
fraud."
"Can't you make him leave?"
"That'sup to you, not us. Why don't you put his clothes on the
sidewalk and lock your door?"
"Because he'd beat it down."
"You could get a peace bond," the man said, "but if a guy is re-
ally determined a bond doesn't do much good." Francine asked
what a peace bond was, and he explained that Francine could ask
the courts to serve notice on Mickey that if he beat Francine again
he would automatically be sentenced to jail.
"Nothing happens to him until after he beats me?" Francine
asked. "What good is that if I'm dead?"
The man laughed. "That's about it," he said, "but I'm afraid it's
all I can suggest."
Francine thanked him and hung up. The phone rang instantly. It
was Mickey. He was at home and drunk. "Get your ass back here,"
he said. "You know you're gonna do it sooner or later. If you don't
you'll never see those kids again."
Francine hung up. She told herself, "Don't give in, no matter
what he says. You'll get the kids somehow. Just don't give in." In
spite of her anxietyabout the children, her head was clear. "I felt
like I was thinking first time in my life."
straight for the
By night Mickey's mood had changed again. He telephoned and
told Francine that he had nothing to live for; that he was going to
kill himself.
154 The Burning Bed
"Fine!" Francine said. "Go ahead!" She hung up.
Mickey called again. "Fran," Mickey said. "I really mean it. I'm
going to cut my throat." His voice broke. "I don't want the kids to
see it."

"Send them to your mother's," Francine said. "Then go in the

bathroom and lock the door."
The phone rang several more times. Francine took it off the hook.
The house was filled with a sense of siege. Kathy urged Francine to
hold her ground, but their mother's nerves were at the breaking
point. Francine's resolve was gnawed away, not only by anxiety
over what might be happening to the children, but by guilt every
time she looked at her mother's anxious face.
In the morning Francine felt sick with indecision; she was deter-
mined not to go back to Mickey, but wild with worry over the
children.
She dialed her home and Christy answered. "Don't worry about
us, Mom," Christy said. "Dad's asleep. We'll be all right. I promise."
Francine told her that if there was any trouble to get Flossie.
There was silence all that day. By evening Francine's anxiety had
risen again. It was difficult to imagine why Mickey didn't tele-
phone. She couldn't believe he would give up so easily. What was
happening to the children? Was anyone with them? She tried to
call Christy. There was no answer.
The next day a letter from Flossie arrived. She wrote that the
children were with her. Mickey had given up drinking and joined
Alcoholics Anonymous. "Mickey really means it this time," Flossie
wrote. "You should see how hard he is trying. He is doing it for
you and the children. They need you. Why don't you come back to
your home and your children and be a wife." The last word was
heavily underlined.
The following day was Easter Sunday. It was a day of soft sun-
shine and a gentle spring breeze. Francine heard the church bells
chime as she had heard them from this house as a child. She went
out in the yard and began to tidy her mother's flower beds, trying
to keep her hands and her mind occupied. Now that the acute crisis
was over she felt at sea— unable to decide on her next move. Should

she look for a job? Rent an apartment? How long could she stay at
her mother's?How long would Mickey's sobriety last? Was there
any chance he would keep his resolve to go to AA? Would he let
 No Exit 155

her have the children? If he didn't, how could she get them back?
The questions seemed as unanswerable as ever.
Francine looked up at the sound of an approaching car and rec-
ognized it as Mickey's. The children were with him. So were Berlin

and Flossie. He
parked in front of the house and a moment later
the children were swarming all over her. She hugged them all and

each in turn. "For the first time in days I felt my heart lift as
though a great weight had been taken off me. I can't describe the
relief of having those kids in my arms."
A quick glance at Mickey told her that he was sober. Pale and
freshly shaved, he looked shaky, but resolute. He said, "Hi, Fran,
the kids wanted to see you. Don't worry. We won't stay long."
Berlin and Flossie, dressed in their church-going clothes, stood
beside him. When she had greeted them, Francine awkwardly
asked if anyone would like a cup of coffee. Berlin said he would ap-
preciate a glass of water. Francine went into the house to get it. As
she was fetching the glass, Mickey followed her into the kitchen.
"He said, 'Fran, you don't have to come back. I'm not even
gonna try to make you come back. But I want you to know I have
quit drinking. Forever. Period. That was the whole trouble between
us. That was what made me do those things. I'm going to Alco-
holics Anonymous. I'm going to go to church. You don't have to
worry about my drinking any more.' I said, 'Fine, Mickey. That's
fine. But I've made up my mind. I'm not coming back.' Then he

began to tell me how much the kids missed me. That they wanted
me to come home. There were tears in his eyes. I said I was going
to get the kids. He said he would never let them go. He kept his
voice low-keyed, but he was completely determined and so was I.
He said they were his kids, he loved them and he wouldn't give
them up. I said I would get a lawyer and bring suit. He said if I did
he'd take them out of the state. I said, 'Okay, Mickey, well just
have to fight it out if that's what you want.' I took the glass of
water and went out."
Flossie and Berlin were sitting on a bench in the yard. Francine
gave Berlin the water and sat down on a chair. Nicky and Dana sat
on the grass at her feet. Christy told her mother how she had taken
charge, made breakfast for Nicky and Dana, and taken their laun-
dry to the laundromat. Francine knew she was trying to reassure
her that it was all right for her to stay away. Flossie said meaning-
156 The Burning Bed

fully, "It's a lot of responsibility for a little child." Francine let the
remark go by. She looked at Jimmy, who sat in silence, with a look
of brooding anxiety, swinging his feet and sucking grass blades. He
avoided looking at either her or Mickey, and Francine thought,
"He's the one who is having the hardest time." The painful moment
dragged on. No one had much to say. Flossie got up. "Well," she
declared. "I guess you've got your reasons and you've made up
your mind, but it's a crying shame when he's doing his best. Come
on, you kids, it's time to go." She took Christy and Jimmy by the
hand and swept to the car. As Francine jumped up, Mickey and
Berlin plucked Dana and Nicky from the grass and carried them
after Flossie. As they were deposited in the car, the children began
to wail. Francine followed. Mickey stood at the curb. He faced her
squarely. "Fran," he said, "I mean it. Things will be different.
Come home. I love you. I want you home with me and the kids. I'll
never take another drink. If I do, you can leave and I won't bother
you. I promise. Give me one more chance. You've got nothing to
lose."
Francine heard herself say, "Okay, Mickey. One more chance. I'll

go home. Just wait a minute while I tell Mom."

Mickey was sober, but whatever demons possessed him contin-

ued to torment him. He was taut, filled with anxieties. He watched
everything Francine and the children did as though his vigilance
was needed to prevent disaster. "Don't do that," he yelled at the
children, "you'll hurt yourself." If the phone rang he leaped across
the room to answer it. He smoked constantly. He depended on
Francine for small decisions. "Do you think I oughta have a cup of
coffee or am I drinking too much?" "I didn't sleep well last night.
Do you think I oughta take a nap?"
Francine threw herself into nursing him through his conva-
lescence from drink. She tried to be patient and attentive, on her
toes to avert any problem that might upset him. When he wanted
sex she responded warmly. They both said, "I love you," words that
hadn't passed between them in years. Francine knew she didn't
mean it, but she was trying to. She thought, "I prayed to God to
make things different and He has. Now I've got to do my part.
Mickey isn't drunk. He isn't beating me. He's trying to start a new
life. It's harder for him than it is for me."
 No Exit 157

It encouraged Francine to see Mickey make an effort to be nicer

to the children. Jimmy, at nine, was old enough to do things with

his father. Mickey tidied his long-neglected workshop in the garage
and began rebuilding an old engine. He let Jimmy help and the lit-
tle boy responded eagerly. For years the children had begged to
have a dog, but Mickey had always refused to allow it. Now he
relented. Francine had gotten in touch with Sharon and Bill. They
had a bitch with puppies and offered to give her one. The puppy
was a female named Lady, half Labrador, half collie, with a golden
coat. The children adored her, and Francine fell in love with her,
too. "It was spring when Lady came. She fitted in with things
blooming outside and the world looking fresh and new. She was
full of fun and play. For me and the kids she represented the new
happy life we hoped to have."

Every Sunday Francine and Mickey went to church. Several eve-

nings a week Mickey went to a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous
while Francine met with the families of other problem drinkers in a
group called Alanon. She learned that Mickey's symptoms of nerv-
ousness and anxiety were common in alcoholics who stopped
drinking. Adjustment to sobriety, she was told, can take a long
time. At first Francine found it a relief to be among people who
also had troubled lives, but as she listened to their stories she dis-
covered a basic difference between her problem and theirs. Other
alcoholic men threatened their own lives, but not those of their
wives. Suicide attempts and reckless driving were often discussed.
Not a single woman in the group confessed to having been beaten
in the savage way Francine had been. None had been threatened
with death. None had lived in daily fear for her life. The troubles
of the other women were so pale in comparison to her own that
Francine couldn't bring herself to describe what she had experi-
enced with Mickey: the sexual degradation, the pain of being
beaten, the psychological tyranny enforced by fear of punishment
or death that reduced her to a helpless state of self-loathing and
depression. Other women had wondered they should leave their
if

husbands. None had wondered if they could leave. Francine never

told the group her real story, and for her Alanon was an empty ex-
ercise.
With Francine's encouragement, Mickey enrolled in a vocational
rehabilitation course. She believed that if he could once more work,
158 The Burning Bed
itwould restore his pride. The course included classroom study,
such as Francine had gone through for a high-school diploma, and
workshops in mechanical skills. Before each class Mickey was tense
and apprehensive, and Francine spent hours boosting his resolve to
keep on. If he experienced any failure in class, he came home angry
and whole thing was a waste of time. Francine would
told her the
try to soothehim and build up his confidence for the next session.
After a few weeks of sporadic attendance Mickey quietly
dropped vocational rehabilitation. At the same time, his effort to
maintain the new relationship with Francine was draining away.
When his nerves tightened, he yelled at her just as he had in the
old days. He became terribly agitated over small problems, and no
matter how a crisis began, it always became Francine's fault.
"Like one day he couldn't find a particular paper he needed. He
began emptying drawers and tearing up the place. He was cursing
and saying, 1 can't find this goddamn thing I have to take to Social
Security.' Then he said, Tou look for it! You're probably the one
who lost it anyway.' I said, 'Mickey, I never saw it. What does it
look like? Just tell me and I'll help you look.' I started hunting for it
while Mickey paced the floor, drinking coffee and watching me.
*You better find it,' he said. 'You better find it fast' My head began
to pound. I was so scared if I didn't find it soon he'd begin to drink.
Then he blamed the kids. He began to curse and rant about them
getting into his things, and that was my fault, too. Before I found
the paper in the pocket of his windbreaker where he'd left it, I was
trembling all over, a nervous wreck."
The hopeful period of Mickey's new start was brief. By summer
he had dropped both church and AA. There was no longer any talk
of love between him and Francine. Tyranny was the dominant
mood. With the children Mickey was indifferent or cruel in ways
that Francine found sickening.
"He used Lady to make the kids cry. He wouldn't let her in the
house anymore. She didn't understand and would sneak in. Mickey
would kick her, or pick her up and throw her out the door, and the
kids would get upset. When she stopped coming in the house he
found other reasons to get mad at her. Maybe she barked or
whined. Then Mickey would threaten he was going to get rid of
her. That would make the kids cry and beg him to let her stay. A
couple of times he told them, 'This is it! I'm taking that goddamn
 No Exit 159

dog in the carand I'm going to throw her out on the road!' He'd
put her and drive away. After a couple of hours, with the
in the car
kids heartbroken, he'd come back with Lady, and tell the kids he'd
decided to give her one more chance."
When Mickey began to drink it was without warning. One hot
afternoon in August he got in his car and drove off without expla-
nation. He didn't come home at dinner time and Francine began to
wonder where he had gone. Though he had been comparatively
calm that day, she felt an eerie intuition of something impending,
of disaster bearing down. She was asleep when Mickey came in
about midnight and turned on the light in the bedroom. Face
flushed, eyes bright, he looked down on her with a smile of tri-
umph, as though he had pulled off a spectacularly clever trick.
"Mickey!" Francine said. "I thought you weren't drinking!"
"That's what you get for thinking," Mickey said. "You were get-
ting too smart. No goddamn woman is going to tell me I can't take
a drink!"
"He hit me and when I got out of bed he chased
across the face
me through the house. He me and kicked me and threw the fur-
hit
niture around. I was crying and begging. He cornered me in the
kitchen and got me down on the floor. The next thing I knew he
was holding a kitchen knife at my throat. His eyes were crazy, com-
pletely insane. Suddenly he got up and threw the knife down. He
said, 'Get out of here before I cut your throat.' I ran out of the
house in my nightgown. I was so scared I didn't even think of
where I was going. I just ran."
When she reached the end of the block Francine realized Mickey
wasn't following. She stood still wondering what to do. Flossie and
Berlin would be in bed, their door locked. She decided to go to the
home of Donovan, who lived three blocks away. As she walked
down the dark street her head cleared and she hoped no one would
look out a window and notice her wearing only a nightgown. She
knocked on Donovan's door. He and his wife, Alice, got out of bed.
Alice said, "Jesus Christ, Fran! What are you doing?" She said,
"Mickey's drinking again." Donovan and Alice looked at each
other. Neither had anything to say. Francine went to sleep on their
sofa. In the morning Alice lent her a pair of pants and a shirt. Fran-
Cine started for home to give the children their breakfast and get
them off to school.
160 The Burning Bed
As she approached the house her heart began to race and her
breath was short. She thought, "Last night was real. He almost
killed me last night and it's going to happen again. I can't do any-
thing about it. All 1 can do is go home and wait for it to happen.
Go home and wait to be killed."

When Mickey began to drink again, Francine's depression and

suicidal feelings returned full force. She was convinced it was im-
possible to run away unless she left the children behind; something
she would never do. She had tried all the other remedies she could
think of and they had all failed.

As it had before, the thought of further education, learning a

seemed a step toward independence and a way to raise her

skill,

morale, but where could she get money for tuition? What school
would accept her? What could she study? Would Mickey let her
go? She put the idea aside until one day, at the public library with
the children, she casually picked up a government leaflet in a rack
on the counter. It was an application for a Basic Opportunity Grant
for adult education. Francine took it home, filled it in, and sent it

off. To her astonishment, there was a prompt reply informing her

that her grant had been approved. If she enrolled in an accredited
school the grant would cover her tuition and provide a small
amount for books and transportation. Her excitement was tremen-
dous. Without daring to hope that she could really bring it off, she
read the ads in the Lansing Star. The school that attracted her most
was Lansing Business College, which offered a general secretarial
course. Reading and writing were her best subjects. She thought
secretarial work would be a wonderful career. She called Lansing
Business College and learned that she was eligible to enroll for the
semester beginning the first week in September—two weeks away.
In the morning, when Mickey was sober, Francine tentatively un-
veiled her plan. He scowled. "School again? You were gonna be a
nurse. You wasted away all that time and quit just like I said you
would. Now you want to do it again."
"I can't be a nurse, Mickey. I'm not smart enough. I can't do
chemistry and biology like you have to do in nursing school." Fran-
cine knew she was on thin ice— any success of hers would underline
his failure.
 No Exit 161

"So what good is it to go to some other school. You won't be able

to do that either."
"Maybe I good at spelling and writing and
can, Mickey. I'm
English. That's what you need to be a secretary."
"A secretary! You want to be a goddamn secretary? They don't
make any money!"
"Sometimes they do," Francine said. "It depends on where you
get a job."
"No," Mickey yelled. "You gonna go! You ain't gonna go to
ain't

school and waste all and be a fucking secretary!"

that time
"Mickey! There's nothing wrong with being a secretary!"
"For you there is! You can't do it. That's all!"
Francine reminded Mickey of the tuition grant. Free government
money was something he would find hard to pass up.
"If I don't enroll in school I lose the money, Mickey. I don't
know any other school I could go to. What else could I try to do?"
Mickey considered the question and grudgingly agreed she
should use the grant. Then he thought of a new obstacle. "How re
you gonna get there? You're not driving my carl"
Francine was stymied. Lansing is twenty miles from Dansville.
"Please, Mickey. I'd only need it in the morning. I'd be back every
day at noon."
"No!" Mickey said. "You're a rotten driver. I'm not gonna have
you screw up my car. Get your own goddamn car if you're so
smart."
"Okay," Francine said. "I will."
Francine had no idea if she could buy a car without making a
down payment, but she decided to try. Mickey agreed to take her
on a round of used-car lots in Lansing. She asked to see their
cheapest cars. "I looked at one rattletrap after another.
I thought

one of these heaps would be worse than nothing; strand me on the

highway when I was supposed to be home or in school. And I won-
dered how I was going to pay for it anyway. I hardly had enough
money to buy a tank of gas."
At a large Ford dealer a friendly salesman latched on to them
and wouldn't let them go. He had no cheap cars but insisted Fran-
.cine look at a blue 1975 Granada. The price was $2,700. "Just take
it for a drive," he urged.
162 The Burning Bed
Francine thought, "There's no sense in it," but Mickey was will-

ing, so she got behind the wheel and drove it around the block.
"Well, do you like it?" the salesman asked when they returned.
"Sure, I like it," Francine said. "It's a nice car."
"Well . how about it? Is it what you're looking for?"
. .

Francine shrugged in embarrassment. "I like it," she said, start-

ing to turn away, "but I can't afford it. I don't even have enough
for a down payment."
"Wait a minute," the salesman said. "Do you have a trade-in?"
"No," Mickey said. "She's got nothing to trade."
The salesman glanced at the Maverick. "How about credit? Is
that car paid for?"
"It's paid for," Mickey said, "but she ain't putting that car up."

The salesman gave up. "Sorry," he said, "but I don't see what I
can do." Francine didn't either. She and Mickey got into the Maver-
ick and he started the engine. Suddenly the salesman sprinted back
to their car and leaned in the window to speak to Francine.
"Can you come up with twenty-eight dollars for taxes and regis-
tration?"
"Yes!" Francine said.
"And payments of one hundred dollars a month?"
"Yes, I can," Francine said recklessly.
The man took her telephone number. "I'll check into the Maver-
ick," he said. "Maybe I can work a deal. I'll let you know."
As they drove away, Mickey said, "Even if he lets you have it,

you'll never be able to keep up the payments."

Two days later the salesman called.
"Mrs. Hughes? I've checked into your credit. Since the Maverick
is paid for you don't need a down payment. The Granada is all
yours."
Mickey took Francine to pick up the car. As she drove it home
she could hardly believe how her outlook had changed. "Suddenly
I had a had tuition money. I was going to enroll in business
car. I
though I had climbed a mountain. Each higher
college. I felt as
step had looked impossible, but I had somehow got to the top. Me!
Francine! The woman Mickey called dumb and worthless was
going back to school!"

Francine entered Lansing Business College in September 1976. It

 No Exit 163

was lodged in a large office building near the state capitol. Fran-
cine arrived for her first day breathless with excitement and
amazed at her own audacity. As she took her seat she felt as dumb
as Mickey said she was. The teacher, a pleasant-faced, middle-aged
woman, distributed written tests in reading comprehension, spell-
ing, and composition. Francine picked up a sharp pencil and, with
her heart in her mouth, began. The pencil flew. The tests were
easy. Francine relaxed in relief and thought, "If it's no harder than
this I can make the grade."
At midmorning there was a coffee break. Francine followed the
other students to a lounge where there were tables and chairs, a
coffee machine, and snacks. Her classmates, mostly young women
and a few men, were already beginning to talk and make friends as
they sorted themselves out at the tables. Francine filled a coffee
mug and stood uncertainly. A small, dark-haired girl spoke to her.
"Hi! Would you like to sit with me?" Francine gratefully followed
her to a table. Two other girls joined them. They introduced them-
selves and began to talk. The dark-haired girl was named Betty
Cover. She had a strong foreign accent and explained that she came
from Brazil; she was married to a graduate student at Michigan
State. Betty was friendly and vivacious. Francine admired her dark-
eyed good looks. The other girls, Sally and Joan, were younger than
Francine, but they seemed to enjoy her company and she soon for-
got the difference in age. When the coffee break ended Francine
felt she had found friends.

For the first few weeks that Francine attended school Mickey left
her alone. By working at top speed she was able to get everything
done— get the children off to school, get to classes in Lansing, come
home do her shopping and clean the house, cook a meal, and do
to
her homework. She had to be careful; the sound of her typewriter-
she had borrowed an old one from her sister Diana Lynn— annoyed
Mickey. He didn't like to see her reading or writing either. If he
was drunk enough he fell asleep soon after he had eaten and she
had the evening in which to work, but when he was wakeful she
had to stay up until midnight or later, and then get up at five to
start her morning chores.
Francine liked the schoolwork, but what meant most to her was
being among people who accepted her.
"At the beginning I was afraid to open my mouth in class. Little
164 The Burning Bed
by little I began to express myself and people listened. I stopped
feeling like a freak. I didn't tell my new friends much about myself
or Mickey; I liked to pretend that the other part of my life didn't
exist. I'd sit with my friends in the lounge at coffee-break time and
laugh and joke the way I had years ago in school. We talked about
a lot of interesting things that I'd never had a chance to discuss

with anyone before. Betty Cover and I became special friends. She
told me about her life in Brazil. I'd never met a foreigner and I
loved hearing about the wonderful places she had been. What
thrilled me most was that she found me interesting too."
Within a month there were signs that Mickey was working up a
dangerous mood. He taunted Francine about her studies and pre-
dicted she would fail. He yelled at the children and gave arbitrary
commands. One cold autumn night there was an episode involving
Lady, the dog, that tore at Francine's heart. Since Mickey had
banished her from the house, Lady had been chained to a dog
house out in the yard. When she came into heat for the first time,
Francine, inexperienced with dogs, hadn't expected it so soon. Sud-
denly the yard was crowded with male dogs. Francine and Christy
dashed out and brought Lady onto the porch, where she could be
closed in. Mickey, quite drunk, became angry at the commotion
and ordered her returned to the yard. Lady was cowering and
terrified. The dogs in the yard were fighting and barking. "We

begged Mickey. We told him she was going to be raped. Mickey

didn't care. He said, 'I'll kill that fucking dog if you don't get it out
of here. Right now!' The kids were crying. I cried. It didn't do any
good. We put her outside and the males were all over her. She
yelped and screamed. Mickey acted like he didn't hear."
Once or twice a week Mickey beat Francine. "First he'd play cat
and mouse with me. For two or three hours he'd watch me as
though he were daring me to do something wrong. I'd creep
around, cold inside with fear. If I sat and watched TV and the

chair squeaked I'd look up quickly thinking that might be the thing
that would start him. Then I'd look back at the TV so he wouldn't
know I was afraid. He might get mad just because I flinched.

"Sometimes when he hit me I'd try to defend myself. It made

things worse. If I ran out of the house, Mickey would lock the door
with a bolt so I couldn't get back in. I'd have to stay out there
freezing, or sitting in my car, for an hour or so. When he calmed
 No Exit 165

down if I was lucky, we could go

he'd unlock the door. Then,
quietly to bed. In the morning my face would be all puffy and pur-
ple. I'd put on makeup and go to school, hoping no one would
notice."
On would be quiet in class and avoid
those mornings Francine
attracting attention. She tried to imagine what her schoolmates
would think if they knew how she had spent most of the previous
night: fighting, dodging, being hit, screaming with fear and hate
while obscenities were poured on her head like filthy rain. She
thought, "They'd think I'm crazy! They'd say, "Why doesn't she just
go away?"*
In October Mickey very nearly killed Francine. It began in the
usual way, as a long harangue interspersed with blows. Francine, in
her nightclothes, had been trying to calm him down. Mickey's eyes
had the glare that always sent a chill through her heart as he
stalked her around the dining-room table.
"I was on one side, dodging back and forth, pleading. He was on
the other. He was drunk, but not so drunk he couldn't move fast.
Mickey lunged around the table and grabbed me and knocked me
down on the floor. He got on top of me with his knees on either
side and his hands on my neck. He began to choke me. I tried to
pull his hands away but I had no strength. My head was roaring,
my chest was bursting. I couldn't speak. I heard the kids calling,
'Mommy, Mommy!' Their voices were far, far away. My last

thought before I blacked out was, It's happening. Mickey is going

to kill me after all.'"
Francine never knew why Mickey let go. A moment later would
have been too late.She opened her eyes and gulped air. "I couldn't
get the air in at first. It wouldn't go down deep enough."
Mickey got to his feet. "Now, you bitch, get out!" He went for
some beer. Francine scrambled to her feet and, with shaking hands,
pulled on slacks and a sweater. She slipped into her loafers. She
didn't dare speak to the children, to tell them she was all right. Any
wrong move might make Mickey change his mind. He seemed not
to notice as she slipped out the door.
Francine had no idea where to go; all she could think of was how
close she had come to death. She got in her car, and started down
the road to Mason.
At the town limits, headlights flashed in her rearview mirror.
166 The Burning Bed
Glancing back, she recognized Mickey's car behind her. He passed
her with a roar, slewed around, and stopped, blocking the road.
Francine slammed on the brakes, barely avoiding a crash. He
jumped out and came toward her. Francine thought, "He's decided
She backed quickly, then drove up on the shoul-
to finish the job."
der, got around his car, and pulled away. Looking in the mirror she
could see Mickey after her again. He caught up and tried to force
her off the road. For terrifying seconds they drove side by side.
Francine rounded a curve, barely avoiding a telephone pole, and
saw a police car parked in a shopping plaza just ahead. Tires
squealing, she pulled in, with Mickey close behind.
Mickey leaped out of his car and the officer intercepted him.
Francine watched as Mickey and the officer argued, then scuffled.
She could hear Mickey yell that he wanted to get his hands around
her throat. When a second police car arrived, two deputies helped
the first handcuff Mickey and shove him into a police car. Francine
told an officerwhat had happened— her husband had nearly stran-
gled her and then tried to run her off the road. The officer asked if
she needed any further help. She told him she felt able to drive
home, thanked him, and left.
She found the children awake and very scared. She told Christy
to get the younger ones dressed— that they were leaving.
"Where are we going?" Christy asked. 'To Grandma Moran?"
"No. We're leaving for good. We're never coming back. We're
going far away!" As she said it Francine had no plan, only determi-
nation. Remembering the previous flight to her mother's, how her
mother's anxiety had eroded her resolution, she knew she would
have to find some other place to go. She dared not wait until morn-
ing. She couldn't be sure the police would hold Mickey overnight.
She counted her money. She had a little more than fifty dollars with
which to start her escape.
As she drove away from home for the second time that night,
Francine decided that in the morning she would go to the prosecu-
tor in Lansing, lodge a complaint against Mickey, and ask for pro-
tection. She felt sure attempted murder must be a serious crime. If
Mickey served a term it would give her time to get away. On the
outskirts of Lansing she drove in to a low-priced motel. A room
with double beds cost fifteen dollars. As she counted out the money
she realized how quickly her funds would melt away. In the morn-
 No Exit 167

ing Francine bought breakfast for the children and herself. When
she had paid the check another five dollars was gone.
It was a clear, cold, autumn day. As she drove into Lansing, fol-
lowing the route she normally took to school, the familiar landscape
made last night's terror seem like a horror movie, meant to be for-
gotten in the morning light. She imagined herself saying to the
prosecutor, "My husband is going to kill me." It had an unreal
sound. But this time she had witnesses: the deputies who had seen
their cars careening into the shopping mall and heard Mickey's
threats. This time, Francine told herself, no one could shrug her off.

Francine found a parking place near the capitol building and

asked a policeman how to find the Ingham County Prosecutor. She
and the children set off. Christy and Jimmy were silent, but Dana
and Nicky were balky, on the verge of tears, giving Francine a
foretaste of how difficult it would be to manage four children dur-
ing a long stay away from home. At the prosecutor's office a recep-
tionist listened impassively as Francine explained her business, and
waved her to a seat. The waiting stretched on and on. The children
were restless. Nicky hadn't eaten her breakfast, and cried with hun-
ger. Jimmy and Dana were squabbling while Christy tried to keep
order. Francine's nerves tightened until she felt giddy and sick with
strain.

At last Francine was led to an office where an assistant prosecu-

tor, a young man behind a desk. He
in a well-pressed suit, sat
greeted her pleasantly. "What's your problem, Mrs. Hughes?"
Francine began her story. "Well, last night my husband ... I
mean my ex-husband tried to kill me ... he choked me until I
. . .

blacked out . then he chased me in his car and tried to run me

. .

off the road. He nearly killed me. He keeps threatening me. ."
. .

The young man showed no surprise; he seemed to find attempted

murder an everyday affair. He sent for Mickey's criminal record. A
secretary put a file on his desk and the prosecutor looked through it

quickly. "I see he's on probation," he remarked. In September

Mickey had driven his car into a ditch and had been arrested when
he fought with an officer. He'd been given a suspended sentence
and probation for six months. "Have you been in touch with his
probation officer, Mrs. Hughes?"
Francine shook her head.
168 The Burning Bed
"Since he's on probation," the prosecutor said, "he'll be automat-
ically picked up. That should be enough."
"When?" Francine cried. need protection now!"
"I
The prosecutor looked a impatient. "Mrs. Hughes, I've just
trifle

explained. He's violated probation. He'll be picked up and serve

time for that."
"Can't I make a complaint for attempted murder?" Francine
asked. "Can't I get some protection? He's going to kill me. I don't

know what to do. . .

."

"I'm going to let Probation handle it," the prosecutor said.

"Come back and see us if you have more trouble." He got up and
ushered her out of the office. The interview had lasted less than five
minutes. As Francine walked down the hall to the waiting room she
thought, "He doesn't understand. Nobody will believe it until after
I'm dead."
When she and the children reached the lobby Francine went to a
telephone booth and called the Probation Department in Mason.
She was connected with a man named Mathews who had been as-
signed Mickey's case. Francine explained what had happened, and
that she didn't know whether Mickey had yet been released. She
pleaded with Mathews to act quickly. "The kids and I are in a
phone booth in Lansing," she told him. "I haven't any money and
I'm scared to go home."
Mathews told her he would check into it and asked her to call
back in an hour. For an hour Francine walked the children around
the block trying to answer their questions about what she was
going to do and where they were going to go. When she called
Mathews back he told her that unfortunately Mickey had already
been released. He would be arrested for parole violation, Mathews
said, as soon as he showed up.
"Shows up?" Francine asked. "What does that mean? Why can't
you do it right away?"
"Because we don't know where he is," Mathews replied.
Mathews said he had called Mickey's parents and that Flossie said
Mickey wasn't home. Mathews promised Francine he'd check again
in a day or so.
"You mean it could take days?" Francine asked. Mathews said
that he was sorry; arrests for parole violation weren't a priority
item, but he'd do the best he could.
 No Exit 169

There was one person whom Francine had not yet asked for asy-
lum: Mickey's stepsister, Vicky, now married and living in a town
called St. Johns, twenty miles north of Lansing. Francine called her
and asked if she and the children could come there for a few days.
After a slight hesitation, Vicky said yes.
When Francine reached St. Johns, Vicky welcomed her as best
she could, but Francine saw that it would be difficult for her to stay
long. Vicky had small children, and four more filled the house to
bursting. Vickywas uneasy about provoking Mickey's anger, fearful
that if he discovered where Francine was he would follow her
there.
Francine prayed that Mickey would be arrested soon so that she
and the children could go home. She had made up her mind to use
the time while Mickey was in jail to do whatever was necessary to
get custody of the children and get away. She telephoned Mr.
Mathews every day. All he could tell her was that Mickey's arrest
was "in the works." With each call Francine's confidence that it
would ever happen ebbed. Meanwhile she and the children were
wearing out their welcome in Vicky's home. Francine paid her
share of the food bills, and her funds were running low. When,
after a week, Mathews had still not arrested Mickey, Francine
knew her escape had failed. She couldn't stay longer with Vicky.
She had just enough money to buy gas to get home. Furthermore,
as always after a crisis with Mickey, depression and anxiety were
sapping her determination. She felt her will crumbling under the
prolonged strain. Now it seemed that failure had been inevitable
from the beginning. Going to see the prosecutor, running to Vicky,
everything she had done had been another exercise in futility; no
matter what she did, Mickey always won.
Francine telephoned Mickey. He was sober. "Come on home,
Fran," he said. "I've quit drinking. You don't need to be afraid."
Francine and the children drove back to Dansville. When she
walked into the house the scene was just as she had left it a week
before; overturned furniture, broken dishes, Mickey sitting in his
armchair drinking. He said, "Welcome home, you dumb bitch.
You've got a lot of housework to do."

•Three weeks after Francine returned home, Mickey was arrested

and sentenced to forty-five days in the Ingham
for parole violation
170 The Burning Bed
County Jail. Francine drove him to court to surrender so that she
could bring his car home. Mickey was sober and apprehensive. He
asked her to promise to come on visiting days. Just before she left
him at the entrance to the courthouse he hugged her and said,
"Fran, I know this isn't your I don't blame you
fault. Don't worry.
for this." Looking into his eyes, Francine saw tears. "You'll be okay,
Mickey," she said, and with a brief kiss turned away. Driving home,
she thought, "If only this had happened at the right time, I'd have
got away."
Flossie and Berlin thought it unfair that Mickey had to serve
time, since no damage had been done. A few days after he went to
jail, Flossie received a letter from Mickey.

Hi Mom and Dad,

Well, this place is for the birds. Just got your letter today and I got Fran's
Saturday. Tell her to write me more often. This place is awfully boring.
Tell her not to forget visiting Wednesday at 5:30. Please.
Boy, you don't know how much you love your kids, honey, and every-
body else, Mom, Dad, and all till something like this. I feel like
brothers
crying. Tell everyone I love and miss them. Especially Fran, Chris, Jim,
Dana, and Nicole. Kiss the kids for me and tell them I love and miss them
very, very much. Tell Fran to send envelopes, stamps, and writing paper.
Please. I love her so much. I wish I had a lot of things I could do over.
Tell her that. I hope to see her tomorrow. I have it set up so she can visit.
She had better!
Well, guess 111 close. Wish I could go to church with all of you. I sure
miss it. Boy, I didn't realize how religious I was until I got here. Some of
the language you hear! Be sure to watch over to Fran's and help her all
you can. Man, I can't help worrying about them. Tell her to drive careful.
I don't know what I'd do if something happened to her or the kids and

me in here.
Mick

Instead of forty-five days, Mickey served eight. The jail was over-
crowded and he was among those chosen for early release. Fran-
cine was notified and went to pick him up at seven in the morning.
When Mickey saw her car he bounded across the parking lot and
kissed her exuberantly. His eyes were clear, his color good—he
looked better than he had since the accident, six years before. On
the way home he talked excitedly about the details of prison life.

Francine left him at home and went on to school. When she re-
 No Exit 171

turned, about one o'clock, Mickey had a stein of beer in his hand.
By night he was drunk.
During the next few days he made up for lost time, pouring
down beer so that he was drunk by noon instead of late afternoon.
Several times Francine tried to talk to him early in the morning.
Whenever she worked around to the possibility that he needed help
to pull his life together— in short, a psychiatrist— Mickey angrily
dismissed it. "You're the one that's sick! Get your own head ex-
amined. There's nothing wrong with me!" He began to brood over
his stay in jail and to blame Francine. He told her she had been
getting away with murder and, by God, he was going to straighten
her out. On Saturday, days after his release, he kept her in the
five
bedroom most of the day while he got drunker and drunker, and
berated her for her sins. "Mickey talked on and on about what he
would do if I ever again tried to leave. 'Don't get any ideas,' he
said. Til be coming to get you. When I find you, believe me, it ain't

gonna be pretty.'"
Thereafter, week after week, Mickey grew worse: more drunken,
more angry and brutal, and, it seemed to Francine, more insane.
"Anything anyone enjoyed annoyed him. He'd hit one of the
make them stay in their rooms. There
kids just for laughing. He'd
was no bathroom up there and they'd have to use the waste cans.
Mickey would hit me for no reason at all. When Jimmy would see
me with a bruise or a cut lip he'd ask, 'Did Dad do that?' I'd say,
'Yeah, he did.' A couple of times Jimmy said, 'God, I hate him.' He
told me, 'Dad isn't gonna do that when I grow up!' Jimmy's teacher
called me in for a conference. She said that Jimmy had been given
a psychological test. One of the questions was, 'What are you most
afraid of?' Jimmy wrote, 'My Dad.' When the teacher told me she
raised her eyebrows, sort of asking if it was true. There was nothing
Icould say. I know she was thinking, 'If this woman is any kind of a
decent mother why doesn't she take the kids away?* There was no
way I could explain how much I wanted to, but that I was too
afraid.
"Christy would talk about how she wished she could grow up
faster. Once when she found me crying she said, 'Mom, you could
go away and send for us later.' I told her I couldn't do that; no mat-
'ter how bad things were I wouldn't leave her and the others be-

hind. I told her that maybe when I got my diploma in the spring
172 The Burning Bed
things would be to get a well-paying job and
different; I'd be able
earn enough money so we
go away.
could all

"Poor little Nicky had loved her dad when she was a baby. Now
she was very confused— especially after what Mickey did to the
cat."
Nicole loved animals, but Mickey wouldn't allow any in the
house. A stray cat came to the backyard and Nicole fed it on the
sly. She liked to pet it and hold it in her arms. One cold day she
brought the cat onto the enclosed porch, wrapped in coats to keep
it warm. Francine, busy in the kitchen, was only dimly aware of the

cat, but Mickey saw it and told Nicole to put it outdoors. As soon as
Mickey's back was turned Nicole brought it back in. He quickly
discovered it and Francine heard him yell, "Get that fucking cat off
the porch!"
A moment later Francine heard Nicky scream. She ran out to the
porch. Mickey had disappeared. "Nicky was crying so hard she
couldn't talk. I'd never heard a child cry like that. I picked herup
and carried her upstairs. I put her on her bed and held her in my
arms until she calmed down enough to tell me what had happened.
Mickey had warned her that if he found the cat on the porch he'd
wring its neck. When he caught her with it the second time he took
it out of her arms and just broke its neck in his two hands. Then he

flipped it out into the weeds. Nicky kept sobbing, 'Why did he do
it? I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. He's a bad man!' While I

was upstairs Mickey went to the saloon. When he came back he

was very drunk. I started to tell him what I thought of him, but the
look on his face told me I better keep quiet— and I did, but I hated
him beyond words."
At the same time Lady had become a terrible problem. She was
swelling with pregnancy. The weather was cold, below freezing
much of the time, but Mickey still wouldn't allow the dog in the
house. "On cold days she'd shiver and shake. The kids would beg
me, 'Can't we bring her up on the porch. Please, Mom, for a little
while?' I'd go ask Mickey and he'd say, 'No! I don't want that damn
dog in. If you bring it in, I'm gonna kill it.' I'd say to the kids,
'Guys, you can't bring her in now, but if Dad goes to sleep maybe
we can. . .Every night it was a nerve-wracking hassle, waiting
.'

for Mickey to go to sleep and sneaking Lady up onto the porch.

"One day I came home from school and Mickey said, 'Somebody
 No Exit 173

better go check on that dog.' I said, 'Why?' He said, 'She's having

her pups.'
"The kids and I went out. It was bitter cold. There were three
puppies lying on the ground. Frozen. Dead. The kids began to cry.
The worst part was that Lady had a pup hung up inside her, half-
way born. She was crying in pain. Christy ran in the house and
looked up a veterinarian in the Yellow Pages. She called him and
he said to bring Lady to his office right away. Mickey was listening.
He yelled that he wasn't going to waste money on a goddamn dog.
The vet told Christy that if we couldn't bring Lady to his office the
next best thing was to get her warm and comfortable and for me to
pull out the pup. I got the puppy out. It was dead. The look in
Lady's eyes was awful. She was bleeding, in pain, shivering with
cold. We went to Mickey and all of us begged. I was crying, too. I
said, 'Please, Mickey, just this once. She's suffering. She's freezing
to death!' Mickey was drunk. All he said was, Tou ain't bringing
that fucking dog in!' We put hay and blankets in her dog house and
left her there. In the morning I went out and found her lying on the

ground, frozen. I just walked away. I couldn't make myself go out

there again for about three days. Finally I picked up her body and
wrapped it in newspapers and put it in a trash can. Mickey had
nothing to say. He acted like he didn't care."

At school Francine usually spent the half-hour coffee break in the

lounge with Betty Cover and several other girls. One morning,
early in the second term, she found Betty sitting at a table with a
man in police uniform. Betty introduced him to Francine. "His
name was George Walkup. His eyes were the deepest blue I'd ever
seen. We began to talk. He showed an interest in me, kidding me
a little, and before I knew it I was blushing like a fourteen-year-old
kid. I got very nervous and clumsy, hunting through my purse for
cigarettes and matches, and then dropping everything on the floor.
I began to pick up the stuff I'd spilled. George was laughing at me.
He got up to help and we both groped around on the floor picking
up small change. I had turned bright red. I didn't know how to act
around men, especially an attractive man. I felt like an awkward
fool. I got my purse together and went to the coffee machine.
When I came back I spilled the coffee. George mopped it up and
was very much at ease. The three of us made small talk, but George
174 The Burning Bed

kept looking at me. His smile was warm. I liked his soft voice and
southern speech."
Francine learned that Walkup, a native of Georgia, was a
member of the State Police Security Force assigned to the state
capitol nearby. He had come to the lounge with a friend who knew
one of the girls at the school. Now he made it a habit to spend his
coffee break there two or three times a week, talking with various
girls, who, like Francine, were attracted by his good looks and easy,

softly sexy manner. Francine listened with covert interest as her

classmates gossiped about Walkup. He had told several girls that
he had been married and had children, but that he was getting a
divorce and was no longer living at home. From the moment Fran-
cine saw Walkup she wanted him. She found herself having fanta-
sies of sex, love, even marriage. She imagined George to be every-
thing she longed for: passionate, tender, protective, and kind. But
after their first meeting George made no special move in her direc-
tion,though Francine knew that he asked several girls out on dates.
She didn't really expect George to ask her, a married woman, and
yet couldn't help wondering what it would be like if he did.
When the second term began Francine had enrolled in a psychol-
ogy course whose objective was self-awareness. Miss Johnson, the
teacher, had selected Socrates' admonition, "Know thyself," as her
theme. For Francine was a new concept and, as the course
it

progressed, its emotional impact was tremendous. Each week's as-

signment was a short paper describing "One thing I learned about
myself this week; about another person; about people in general."
Her first effort at self-analysis was difficult. Her paper entitled
"What I Know About Myself" began:
"My name is Fran Hughes. I am a twenty-nine-year-old female. I
really don't know too much about myself. But I will try to think
real hard.
"One thing I know is that I let people walk all over me. I do as
I'm told, not as I wish to do. I've been trying to stand up for my
rights as a person. I think I am basically nice.
"I love school, but I have a fear of failing. I was so scared be-
cause school was something I wanted to do so bad. I have a hard
time relaxing most of the time. I get so uptight I have to take hot
baths, aspirin, and drink warm milk. Sometimes all I can do isn't
enough. I have guilt feelings about the children and housework
 No Exit 175

while I'm at school. I guess I'll keep striving until I feel right about
myself."
Francine was startled by how much she learned about herself
merely by putting her thoughts into written words. Each week new
ideas came forth. "I learned that I like to overcome obstacles. I was
anxious and scared to death first term, but I overcame my fears.
After I do something I'm afraid of, it's not so bad next time!" An-
other week she wrote, "I learned that I am stronger in will than I
thought. I learned that if I speak up and say what I really think I
feel better about myself."
For Francine these discoveries— coupled with Miss Johnson's lec-
tures and reading in her textbook—were important revelations.
Halfway through the course she was able to write: "It suddenly
dawned on me that I am happier with myself. I feel better about
myself now than I ever did before. I've learned that most people
are happy with their lives. If not, they try to change things. They
try to face their problems. Most people make it, tool Some don't. I
guess they are the ones who crack up I"
Miss Johnson had also asked her students to keep a daily journal
of "thoughts and events that impressed me," and promised that it
would be confidential, for her eyes alone. Francine dared write
nothing about her life at home, not only because she was afraid
Mickey might find her diary and read it, but because she could not
confess to Miss Johnson the sort of things that happened almost
every day. Instead she tried to invent "normal" items, but her imag-
ination refused to cooperate; often the best she could do was some-
thing as meager as "I don't feel good," or "I don't feel like writing
today." Every day the blank page underscored the increasing schiz-
ophrenia of a life divided between the sanity of her hours at school
and the madness of her time as Mickey's prisoner. Once she wrote,
"I realized today that I am a prisoner"; then she shredded the
paper and hid it in the depths of the trash can.
Meanwhile, her infatuation with George Walkup grew. He had
begun to notice her, and to flirt with her more than with any of the
other girls. She told herself that it was silly, nothing could come of
it, but she found it impossible not to respond. Each day at coffee-

break time she went to the lounge flushed with excitement. Fran-
'cine and George were never alone. Betty and one or two other girls
usually shared their table, but George wooed Francine with glances
176 The Burning Bed
and meaningful remarks until her tension built up to an unbearable
pitch. At last he asked her to spend an evening with him and she
unhesitatingly said yes.
When Francine went home she told Mickey she wanted to go to
a birthday party that evening for one of the girls at school. He was
in a good mood and agreed. As she got ready for the date she tried
not to be carried away, but she couldn't suppress her hope that she
might be falling in love at last. She was already divorced. If she
found a strong, resolute man to protect her, a man armed with the
power of the law the implications were irresistible.
. . .

George had asked her to meet him at a bowling alley. He was

still bowling when she got there, and she sat on a bench and

watched. He was skilled and athletic. To Francine, his body in mo-

tion was a lovely thing to watch. George finished a shot, glanced at
her with a proud smile, and came over to sit beside her, waiting for
his final turn. Francine felt a secret understanding, an electric ex-
citement between them. When the game ended he steered her into
the bar. Francine did not normally drink. George ordered a whis-
key sour for her. It tasted like ambrosia. While she sipped it George
told her how much he was attracted to her. When the drinks were
finished, he suggested they go out to his car. As soon as Francine
had gotten in, George kissed her passionately and Francine re-
sponded. George started the car and for a while he talked about
himself: how he needed love and hoped she might be the woman
who would give it to him. Then he parked and they made love.
Afterward they talked. Francine asked questions about his mari-
tal problems, his children, and his divorce. George talked freely,
and with every word Francine felt growing dismay. His story was
rambling, filled with contradictory details, but Francine gathered
that though a divorce was in progress it was far from certain. Fur-
thermore, it became clear that he was still emotionally involved
with his wife and living at home. Francine's image of George was
shatteringly transformed from protective lover to philandering hus-
band, out for a one-night stand, but she kept her disillusionment to
herself. She couldn't bear to confess that she felt used and taken in.
George drove her back to pick up her car. They kissed goodnight
and Francine drove home. ashamed of what I'd done, but
"I wasn't
I felt like a fool for building up my dreams. I was glad I'd seen re-
ality before any real damage was done."
 No Exit 177

The next day at school Francine waited for coffee-break time,

wondering how she would behave when George appeared. He
didn't come. Later, he telephoned her at home. Fortunately Mickey
was out. George said he was crazy about her and that he hoped she
felt the same about him.

"I'd like to," Francine said, "but I can't." "Why not?" George
asked. "Because you're married," Francine said. "I didn't know you
and your wife were still together. I'm not a home wrecker. I think a
guy should stay with his wife and kids." George said she had mis-
understood. Couldn't they meet so he could explain? Francine was
resolute. She told him that only if he were divorced and no longer
seeing his wife would she go out with him again. George said he
was sorry she felt that way, and their conversation ended. Francine
never saw Walkup again. He no longer came to the lounge at
school. Francine had no idea whether it was because of their affair
or because his schedule had changed. Briefly she mourned the lost
fantasy, but in a sense found it a relief to have her fruitless yearn-
ing ended. She had no energy for anything but the grim struggle to
get through each day.

Michigan winters are cold and bleak. Dark falls early. Mickey,
Francine, and the children were confined together in the house on
Grove Street for what seemed to Francine endless hours of dark-
ness and violence while tension built up. Mickey was getting worse,
more irrational and more abusive every day. A sense of impending
catastrophe was always at the brink of Francine's consciousness.
She felt she was living with a bomb, waiting for it to explode.
The house was full of reminders of recent violence. Mickey had
broken all the dining-room chairs. He had picked them up and
smashed them on the floor, one by one. He had thrown a can of
beer at Francine that hit the china cabinet, breaking most of her
china. He had ripped the telephone out of the wall four times.
While she was without a telephone, her sister Joanne came to see if
she was all right. During the visit one of Joanne's children swung
on the storm door and the hinges had broken. Mickey noticed the
damage after Joanne left. "He flew into a rage. He said Joanne
.would have to pay to fix it. He never fixed anything he broke, but
he was furious about this. I said, 'Mickey, Joanne doesn't have the
money. How can she fix it?* I was trying to cook dinner. I was just
178 The Burning Bed

ready to put on the table. Mickey grabbed me and said, 'You're

it

gonna phone her right now!'"

Francine pointed out that they had no phone.
"You go call her from Mom's. If you don't get your ass over there
and call her right now I'm gonna break up everything in this whole
fucking house." He picked up a lamp and smashed it on the coffee
table. He held another aloft and waited.
Francine said, "Okay, Mickey. I'll call her."
Mickey took her by the back of the neck and pushed her across
the yard to his mother's house.
"Now, what's the matter?" Flossie asked.
Francine went to the telephone. Joanne had no phone either, so
Francine phoned a neighbor and left a message. While they waited
for Joanne to call back, Mickey sat in a chair cursing. From time to
time his mother said, "Mickey, don't you talk like that!"
Joanne did not immediately return the call and Mickey, tired of
waiting, ordered Francine and the children into the car. He was
drunk and drove wildly, while Francine prayed they'd make it.
"When we get there," Mickey instructed Francine, "you're gonna
tell that fucking bitch she's gotta fix that door! You gotta say you

want it fixed."
Joanne, Francine later learned, had been prepared for the visit.
While they were en route she had called back and Flossie advised
her to "baby him and not pay any attention if he says bad things."
When they arrived, Francine followed Mickey's orders. She told
Joanne she expected her to pay for the door. Mickey stood beside
her and added a number of obscenities to the message. Joanne
remained calm and promised to pay when she got the money. Then
Mickey allowed Francine and the hungry, white-faced children to
get back in the car. He drove them home to the supper that Fran-
cine had left on the stove several hours earlier. When Mickey had
fallen asleep Francine picked up the wreckage of the lamp and the
coffee table, thanking God had been averted
that greater disaster
for one more day. Then she up late into the night working on
sat

her school assignments. In her mind school had become the life raft
by which she might escape her private Devil's Island.
Francine was always hard pressed for money. Since Mickey paid
for nothing and fixed nothing, any extra expense became an enor-
mous problem. Mickey noticed that the toilet in their single bath-
 No Exit 179

room was leaking around the base and that the floor of the bath-

room was damp. He told Francine that, by God, she'd better get it

fixed.

"I said, *Why don't you try to fix it, Mickey? It probably only
needs a seal.' He said, 1 ain't gonna fix it. You are!' I said, 'Okay,
Mickey, okay. But it'll have to wait till I have the money.'"
The next time Mickey worked up a rage he returned to the sub-
ject of the leaking toilet.
"I thought you were gonna get that fixed?"
"I will, but I haven't had the time. I haven't had the money and I
don't even know how to find somebody to do it."
"I'll fucking well fix it for you," Mickey said. He went out to the

locked garage, now wholly "his," and returned with a sledge-

hammer, with which he smashed the toilet into small pieces.
Mickey was aware that welfare gave clients a home-repair allow-
ance. Now he insisted that Francine ask welfare to pay for a new
toilet. Francine flinched at having to explain how her toilet had dis-

integrated. She told the welfare case worker only that the toilet was
"broken." Welfare agreed to provide money to buy another one,
second-hand. So that the cause of the breakage would not be dis-
closed, Francine asked Berlin to install it. He agreed to do so for a
price— twenty dollars. While they waited for the allocation to come
through, the family used a bucket. Finally the welfare money came.
Berlin drove Francine to a plumbing-supply house, where she
bought a new and he installed it.
toilet,

Unfortunately, Berlin's plumbing work was less than perfect.

Mickey discovered that the new toilet was also leaking. "Okay, you
dumb bitch," he said, "you better get it fixed right, this tune."
"How?" Francine demanded. "How can I call welfare again
when they just paid for this one?"
"You can do it," Mickey said. "And you better. I'll give you three
days to get it done!"
Francine called the welfare office and reported that the new toi-
let was leaking. They said they would have to send someone out to
look at it would take several days. When three days had
and it

passed and the had not been repaired, Mickey picked up the
toilet
sledgehammer and smashed it.
'This time when Francine called the welfare office she told the
truth: that her ex-husband had smashed it with a sledgehammer.
180 The Burning Bed
The case worker sounded startled, but agreed to put through an-
other repair allowance. When it arrived, Francine called a profes-
sional plumber and a new toilet was installed. Fortunately it did
not leak.
By thenthe long winter was nearly over. The days were length-
ening, the snow melting. By the first week of March, Francine was
more than halfway through her second term and praying that her
luck and stamina would take her through to the end, but every day
the going seemed harder. She was beginning to fall behind in her
work at home and at school. It was becoming harder to drive her-
self to stay up late at night to finish her homework, harder to face
the daily insults and difficulties that Mickey devised to torment her.
He was complaining more about her going to school and she had a
growing fear that he would forbid her to go. She had a feeling of
"everything building up."
Francine had worked especially hard on her term paper for Miss
Johnson. The topic, "What I Know About Myself Now," Trad
caused her to search deep into her memory, where old longings still
lived.With a feeling of sudden insight into her failings and disillu-
sionments, she ended the paper thus:
"It is hard for me to make changes in my life. It is easier for me
to leave things as they are and not disturb anything. I know I
should disturb things more.
"I know that I am too trusting of people. I will believe anything
if there is the least bit of truth in it. I know I can change that. I
should gather more facts and look before I leap!
"I wish I could share my life with someone and have an open
relationship with love and trust. I don't believe I will ever have it.
"I know that I am
capable of much more than I have been doing.
Now have to do things for myself. I was waiting for
I realize that I
something good, or someone, to happen to me. Now I know that
nothing ever happens from luck, and that you have to make things
happen. I was always waiting for my ship to come in, but it never
came!"
 The Burning Bed

On Wednesday morning, March 9, Francine got up at 5 a.m. as

usual. She drank a cup of coffee and read her term paper over be-
fore she put it in her book bag. As she had worked on it the night
before she had thought that it expressed a great deal. Rereading it,
she had a feeling of so much left unsaid.
"I left for school, anxious to get away from the house. Mickey
was sober in the mornings and saw that the older kids got off to
school okay. I took Nicky to a sitter. I got to school and that day, I
remember, was unusually good for me. I had all my homework
done! It was like spring outside and I get spring fever every year. I
felt suddenly happy. Some girls and I took our coffee and sat by a

sunny window and laughed and joked; it was a really nice day. As
usual I didn't want to go home, but the kids would be waiting. As I
was getting into my car one of my classmates, a girl who lived out-
side Dansville, asked if I could give her a ride. I said, 'Sure.'"

As a result of the detour to drop off her classmate, it was about

1:40, ten minutes later than usual, when Francine reached home.
The minute she entered the house she knew she was in trouble.
Mickey was already quite drunk, already in a glowering rage. He
wanted to know where she had been. Francine told him she had
taken a friend home.
'"Shit! She's got you suckered so now you'll be taking her home

all the time."

i8a The Burning Bed

"No, Mickey. She's got a regular ride to school. But today the girl
she rides with wasn't coming home until later."
Mickey was not convinced. "Oh yeah, sure! You do this for her a
she'll be wanting a
couple of times, ride with you back and forth
every day."
"What's wrong with that? Suppose she did? She'd help with the
gas."
"Well, why didn't you collect today?"
"Oh God, Mickey!" Francine exclaimed in disgust and went to
the mailbox. In it, as she had expected, she found her check from
the Aid to Dependent Children program. Nicky arrived, dropped
off by her sitter, and Francine hugged her. Christy and Jimmy had
had only a half a day of school that day and were playing in the
backyard, where Mickey had told them to stay. He had, in fact,
locked them out. Dana had gone to a hockey game with a friend.
As usual, on the last day before her check arrived, there was
nothing in the refrigerator except Mickey's beer. Francine told
Mickey she was going into town to get some groceries.
Mickey popped the top off a can of beer, poured some into a
mug, and considered her statement with a frown. "Wait a minute!"
he said. "Ain't you getting a little ahead of yourself?"
"What do you mean?" Francine sat down. She suddenly felt ter-
ribly weary. Her stomach was churning with hunger pangs.
"I mean," Mickey said, "that you ain't got a grocery list and you
ain't going to the store unless you write a grocery list."

"Oh Christ, Mickey!" Francine exclaimed. "I don't feel like writ-
ing a grocery list. I'm tired! The lads are hungry. I'm just going to
get a few things."
"You're gonna write a grocery list or you ain't going! And I want

to see what's on it! And

want you buying none of your god-
I don't
damn greasy food! It's your greasy food that makes me sick!" The
glare of rage was coming into his eyes. Francine saw it and
thought, "Oh God, here we go again!"
"Okay, Mickey," she said, tiredly. "Just tell me what you want
for dinner."
Mickey didn't answer. In the past months he had been eating
very little. Food, any food, often caused him to vomit, and then he
would blame Francine's "greasy food."
"Mickey," Francine said, "can I please go and just get something
 "

The Burning Bed 183

for dinner— something I can fix quick. The kids are real hungry. It's

late."

"You know who's fucking fault it is that it's Mickey took a

late."

draft of cold beer. "Yeah," he said, "you can go and you better be
back on time. Don't be fucking around in that store all day."
Francine called the children from the yard and they piled into
the car. Before they shopped she had to cash her check and get her
food stamps. Finally they were in the market. Francine asked the
children what they wanted. "Let's pick something easy," she said.
The children voted for TV dinners. Francine seldom bought them
and the children considered them a special treat. She gave in easily;
she wanted to make up for the lateness and the bad time they'd had
with Mickey earlier. She told the children to pick out what they
wanted. She bought a chicken dinner for herself and decided on a
Mexican plate for Mickey; he had liked it once or twice before. She
bought milk and eggs and bread for breakfast, some paper towels,
and a few other odds and ends from a bargain display near the
cash register.
Driving home, Francine went over in her mind the things she
had to do before bedtime a typing assignment; speedwriting prac-
:

tice; a chapter in psychology to read; a lesson on data filing to

study. The laundry had piled up and the kitchen floor needed
doing. The joyful morning had clouded over. "I was weary and
hassled. The rest of the day was like a mountain ahead."
It was nearly three by the time Francine got back to Grove

Street. She and the children carried the grocery sacks into the
kitchen and put them on the table. Mickey left his chair in front of
the TV and pounced on the sacks.
"He began taking things out and looking at each one and saying,
c
What'd you buy this for? What'd you buy that for?' I'd say, 'Be-
cause we were all out,' or 'Because it was cheap.' Then he said,
"What'd you get for dinner? There's nothing in here for dinner! No
meat! Nothing!' I said, 'I got some TV dinners.' He started cursing
and saying, 'You fucking, no-good, lazy-ass bitch, you know I don't
like TV dinners.' I said, 'Well, I didn't think you were going to eat
anyway!'
"That's the trouble with you. You're always thinking." He paused
and Francine felt a horrible foreboding. She knew the signs so well;
184 The Burning Bed
he was pausing to consider what strategy would force her to pro-
voke him into beating her.
"If you ain't got no more sense than to bring that garbage home,
you ain't gonna fix it. I don't even want to smell that shit cooking."
Nicky, standing in the doorway, let out a wail. Mickey turned on
her. "You goddamn kids get out of here. Get out in the yard and
stay out!" Christy took Nicky's hand and, with Jimmy following,
went outside. Mickey locked the door behind them.
Francine stood silent.
"I was trying to keep calm, hang onto myself and not make him
worse. I was thinking, 'Those poor kids, they're so hungry.' I was
down and waited, not saying any-
feeling sort of faint myself. I sat
thing. Sometimes if I was very quiet he would calm down."
But a new thought crossed Mickey's mind: "And there's some-
thing else you ain't gonna do. You ain't gonna go to school no more.
You're gonna stay home and do what a wife is supposed to do!"
Mickey took a can of beer and left the kitchen.
Francine had feared this disaster for weeks. Even so, the impact
was enormous. She was thinking, "No! I won't give it up! Not nowl
I've worked so hard. It's the only thing I've got." She turned on the
oven and thrust in the TV dinners, without thinking of Mickey's
anger over them. Sometimes he made a scene about something as
trivial as a TV dinner and forgot it shortly after. This time he didn't
forget. She was putting the groceries away when he returned, went
to the stove, and turned off the oven. "I told you you weren't fixing
TV dinners!"
"Mickey," Francine cried. "The kids have to eat! They've had
nothing all day! Please let me heat them just for the kids. I'll fix you
something else."
Without answering, Mickey went back to the living room. Fran-
cine turned the oven on. Within a few moments the tantalizing
odors of warm food were in the air. Anxious and angry as she was,
Francine felt suddenly ravenously hungry. She'd had nothing but
coffee since breakfast. She was putting a kettle on the stove and
thinking of going to the back door to unlock it and call the children
in when Mickey returned. He bounded across the room, turned the
oven off, and hit her across the face. Then he crowded her against
the stove, cursing her. "No-good slut. I told you you weren't fixing
TV dinners and you ain't gonna!"
 The Burning Bed 185

Crying, trying to shield her face, Francine squirmed away from

the stove. Mickey caught her and hit her again. He took her by the
arm, dragged her into the living room, and shoved her down on the
couch.
"Listen to me, you bitch, I've made up my mind. You're quitting
school right now."
Francine jumped up and screamed with a fury she had seldom
shown before. "I am not quitting school! You can't make me!"
"Oh yes I can. What makes you think I can't?"
"Nodiing can make me quit!"
"I'll fix you so you won't ever go back!"

"I don't care what you do," Francine screamed. "I'll still go in. If
I have black eyes I'll go in. If I have to limp in there, I'll go in.

There's nothing you can do!"

Francine's resistance seemed to please Mickey. He sat down and
took on a crafty look. His tone was quieter as he taunted her. "I
can always fix your car so it won't go. It's a long walk to Lansing,
whore!"
"If you bust it, I'll get it fixed."
"You won't have it fixed when I get through with it. I'm gonna
do the job right. I'm gonna do it with a sledgehammer."
Francine thought, "Oh Jesus, he'll do it! I know he'll do it!" She
said nothing.
Another thought struck Mickey. "You're gonna get rid of that
car. Call theFord place and tell them to come and get it. Tell 'em
you want to turn it back in."
"Mickey! I can't do that! They won't cancel a deal just like that. I
signed a contract!"
"Yes, you can do it!" He got up and came toward her, fully men-
acing again. "You got about three seconds to do it or I'm gonna get
the sledgehammer. Is that what you want?"
Francine went to the telephone. While she looked through her
address book and dialed, her mind worked frantically. She did not
dial the final digit. After a pause she began to fake a conversation
with the car dealer. "I wantto turn in my car. No, I don't . . .

want it anymore. . . . You won't take it back? Why not? ... I

see. . You'll do it
. . next month? ... I see. Thank you very
. . .

much."
She turned from the phone to Mickey. "They said they wouldn't
186 The Burning Bed
come and get was behind in the payments, but I'm all
it unless I
paid up. pay next month they'll come and take it then."
If I don't
Mickey said nothing. He was sitting in his chair again, a can of
beer in his hand. Francine sensed that he was brooding over his
next move. She went to the kitchen, hoping that if she were out of
sight he might cool off. A moment later she heard the thump of
books cascading to the floor. She ran back. Mickey had emptied her
book bag in a heap. He picked up a textbook and his face contorted
as he struggled to rip it apart. Her notebooks and papers were
easier. He tore out pages and crumpled them. Francine watched
with frozen fury as weeks of work was destroyed, but dared not
utter a word. Mickey turned from her papers to her pocketbook. He
took out her car keys, checkbook, and money and put them in his
pocket. Then he ripped her wallet apart and threw it on top of the
heap. He smiled at Francine in triumph. "Now, bitch! Betcha you
don't go to school!"
Francine looked at the ruins on the floor and her self-control
broke. "I'll more books," she screamed. "You're not going to
get
stop me. You me what to do anymore. You can't run my
can't tell
life anymore! I'll go to school without books. No matter what you
do I'll go!"
Mickey leaped across the room and caught her by the neck. He
delivered a stinging slap across her face. He was gritting his teeth.
"Pick up that stuff on the floor! Clean it up right now, or I'll
break your fucking neck. Take it out to the burn barrel and burn
the whole fucking lot. Do you understand? Got it?" His fingers
were biting into her neck like steel clamps. "Are you gonna burn
'em? Are you?" He shook her, holding her so close that she could
smell sour beer, feel spit on her face as the words exploded out of
his mouth. His blue-green eyes were glaring and wild. "Do you
want your neck broke right now?"
For a moment Francine didn't answer. Tears were sliding down
her face; her stomach was knotted with fear, but she glared back.
His fingers tightened. Pain and panic swept through her. She
gasped.
Mickey's fingers relaxed. He shoved her away and went to the
bedroom. Francine began to gather up the ruins. Tears and slime
from her nose wet her hands and blurred the ink on notebook
pages. Her head throbbed when she bent down and her lips were
 The Burning Bed 187

puffing up. She tasted the sickening taste of blood on her tongue.
She picked up classroom notes on psychology and laid them on top
homework; she flattened out the pages of her term
of her data filing
paper, "What I Know About Myself." Her speedwriting exercises
had been ripped into shreds. Her mind recorded each detail, but
her emotions had become quite still. She got a large trash can from
the kitchen and carefully put the debris into it. She put on her coat
and carried the trash can outside to the barrel in the yard in which
the trash was burned. She tilted it and watched as her books and
papers sank into the ashes of the winter's burning.
Francine cannot remember lighting the fire, but knows that she
stayed until she saw flames working at the edges of the pages, saw
them shrink and blacken. When a plume of smoke rose, she turned
and went back into the kitchen.
Mickey called her from the living room. "Come here. I want to
talk to you. Come in here and sit down." Mickey pointed to the
love seat and Francine sat down.
Mickey said, "Now are you gonna go to school"
There was a pause while Francine thought the question over.
With a sense of surprise she heard herself say, "Yeah, Mickey. I
am. I'm going to keep on going to school."

Francine remembers the rest of that day:

"While we were fighting the kids were at the door, knocking,
saying they were hungry. I said, 'Mickey, can't we talk about school
later? Let me feed the kids, please!' He said, 'You ain't gonna cook
that shit. I already told you that. You ain't gonna do anything.
You're gonna sit right there, and you're gonna tell me that you're
gonna quit school.'
"I was thinking, 'Maybe I should say it and get him quieted
down and figure out later how to go back to school.' But I couldn't
do it. Something rose up in me and said, No! Not this time. Don't
ever say it. If you say it, it will be all over. Mickey will win, like he
always has, and you'll never go back to school again. Mickey said,
'Hurry up and say it before I get really mad! Hurry up, you
mother-fucking bitch/
"His eyes were really dangerous, but I couldn't give in. I
thought, 'I'm going to go to school if Ihave to walk all the way to
Lansing; if I have to hobble in there on crutches; if I have to re-
188 The Burning Bed
place my books fifty thousand times.' School had given me a new
look at life. I had gained strength, glimpsed how happy life could
be. I wasn't going to go back to being afraid to walk down the
street, afraid people were talking about me, being paranoid and
loathsome to myself. I had fought so hard to climb out of that pit. I
wasn't going to let him throw me back in it now.
"Mickey kept threatening me, but I wouldn't say those words, Tm
not going to school anymore.' 'You ain't going,' Mickey kept re-
peating. Tou're gonna stay home and do things you're supposed to
do. You're gonna clean and cook, not buy TV dinners.'
"I said, 'What difference does it make? You don't eat anyway.
Why should you care what we have to eat? When you do eat you
throw it up.'
"He got up and threw his beer all over me. I jumped up and he
shoved me down and started punching. He was calling me every
filthy name; saying I was gonna quit school and if I didn't say it he
would break every bone in my body. I was crying and screaming
that I hated him, that I would never say it.
"He stopped hitting me, I don't know why, and sat down. I got
up and went to the bedroom and changed my clothes, all wet and
sour with beer, and bathed my face. I was bruised and exhausted. I
thought maybe the worst was over. When I came back I asked
Mickey if I could feed the kids now. He said yes, and I went into
the kitchen and turned the oven on. A minute later Mickey came in
and turned it off. Then he hit me again. I ran into the dining
room. We went round and round the table. His eyes were glaring
and I believed that if he caught me he'd kill me no matter what I
said. I tried to get out the door into the yard. Mickey caught me
and pinned me in the doorway. He was punching me, saying, I'm
gonna kill you this time, you dirty whore! You better say your
prayers.' I crouched down, trying to cover my head. The kids were
in the yard and I yelled, 'Christy, call the police!' Mickey turned.
He must have seen her take off across the yard to Flossie's house.
He dropped his hands and went into the living room.
"I went into the kitchen and bathed my face again. I thought
he'd probably be quiet until the cops came. He knew
better than to
let them see him
me. I turned the oven on again.
hit
"It took the cops about twenty minutes to get there. I was ready
to feed the kids when two deputies knocked at the door and I let
 The Burning Bed 189

them The cops said, 'Well

in. .what seems to be the matter
. .

here?' Thatwas what they always said when they arrived. I told
them we had been fighting and that Mickey had been hitting me.
They looked at Mickey and asked, 'Well, have you?' He said, 'Yeah.
That's right.' He was belligerent, but crafty; not drunk enough to
get up and hit one of them. He knew talk didn't count.
"The cops stayed about twenty minutes. Mickey cursed and
threatened, but didn't make a move. The cops didn't say much. One
of them scolded him and told him that talking like that and hitting
me was a bad thing to do. Mickey said he was going to kill me. The
cop said, 'You're going to kill her? Where do you think that will
get you?' I was thinking, This is a waste of time; a waste of your
time, officer, and a waste of my time; of everybody's time. The min-
ute you leave Mickey can do anything he wants to me. You know it;
I know it. Above all, he knows itl'
"One of the deputies asked me if I wanted to go somewhere. I
thought of how many times I had run away and how it always
ended right back where it began. I had used up all the places to
run. I was too tired to run. I said no, that I couldn't go anywhere;
Mickey had my car keys and anyway he would follow me wherever
I went.
"The cops said if there was a relative within Ingham County I
wanted to go to they could take me there, but that they couldn't go
out of the county. I said, 'No, thanks.' I explained that my mother
and sisters lived in Jackson County. It all seemed like an empty for-
mality. I was grateful they had quieted Mickey. I knew that was all
they could do. I said, 'Thank you, officers. Thank you for coming.
I'm sorry I took your time.' They said they'd be in the area if I
needed them and they left.
"By now the TV dinners were done. I could smell them. I let the
kids in from the yard and set the table. Mickey stayed in his chair.
I thought, 'Maybe if we're all very quiet he won't start again.
Maybe he's worn out, too, and will fall asleep.'
"I set the table and told the kids to sit down and not make any
noise. They didn't say a word. I put the TV dinners in front of
them, and poured their milk and sat down, too. I had forgotten my
hunger, but at the sight and smell of food I felt starved. I picked up
a'leg of chicken and put salt on it. I tried to take a bite, but my lip
was swelled and cut; the salt stung like fire. I had to put the
190 The Burning Bed
chicken down. I thought, 'Damn! I want that chicken so!' and tears
rolleddown my cheeks.
"At that moment Mickey came into the kitchen. He got a beer
out of the refrigerator. When he turned around he hit me without
any warning, on the side of the head. I jumped up. The kids
jumped up. Milk spilled. Mickey pounded on the table, cursing me.
He picked up my dinner and threw it on the floor. Then he
knocked everything else off the table milk, bread, TV dinners,
. . .

silverware. Christy was yelling, 'Daddy, don'tl Please, don'tl' Nicky

was bawling.
"Mickey turned on her like he was going to hit her, but he didn't.
He yelled at them all to get upstairs to their rooms. The kids ran as
fast as they could. Then he turned on me again. I was standing
against the wall. Mickey came close and glared into my eyes. Tf
you think things were bad before, they're gonna be worse now. I'm
gonna make your life so miserable. /
. .

"I thought, 'How can you? There's nothing more you can do.' But
I was wrong. He grabbed me by the hair and pushed me down on
my knees, so my face was almost into the mess on the floor: the
spilled milk, the TV dinners, mashed potatoes, gravy, chicken. Ev-
erything that was so good a minute before he had turned into gar-
bage. He held my face over it and said, 'Now, bitch, clean it up.'
He held me that way until I began to scrape it up with my hands.
Then he let go and left the room.
"I got up and got a dustpan and paper towels and began picking
up the mess. Some of the food was stepped on and mashed into
the rug. I was sobbing and thinking, 'Why? Why is this happening?
Why am I so helpless? Why can he do anything he wants— anything
—and not even the law can stop him?'
"I had put the last of the garbage in the can and was on my feet
when Mickey came back. He said, 'Have you got it cleaned up?' I
said, 'Yes.' He picked up the garbage can and turned it upside
down and dumped it on the floor again. He said, 'Now, bitch, clean
it up again!' I picked up the dustpan and the paper towels and was

bending down, trying to shovel it up, when Mickey picked up a

handful of food and tried to rub it in my face. I turned my head to
get away and he rubbed it into my hair. It trickled down the back
of my neck. Then he hit me two or three times. Somehow I got over
into a corner and raised my arms. I was afraid he would break my
 The Burning Bed 191

nose or knock out my teeth.me I slumped

While he pounded on
down, further and was the loneli-
further, sinking into the corner. It
est moment of my life. It wouldn't matter how I yelled and
screamed. Nobody would hear me; nobody would help me; nobody
cared.
"Mickey said, 'You dumb, mother-fucking whore, do you still

think you're gonna go to school?'

"I felt my heart and my spirit break. I said, 'No, Mickey. I'm not
gonna go to school.' I'd lost. I was beaten, defeated, broken. He
said, 'Say it three times, whore!'
I'm not gonna
"I said, I'm not gonna
. . . . . . I'm not gonna
. .
.' was sobbing and couldn't finish.
I
"Mickey dropped his hands and stood over me, smiling. He said,
'Clean Then make me something to eat.' He went into the
it up.
bedroom. I cleaned the mess up again. The kids were calling from
upstairs, 'Mommy, are you all right?" I went up the stairs and called
to them through the door that I was okay, not to worry. Mickey
yelled, 'Keep that goddamn door shut and stay away from it! Get
your ass down here and do like I said!' I came down the stairs
thinking, Tou can't even protect your children. He can do any-
thing he wants to them, too!'
"Mickey came out of the bedroom again. 'Are you gonna do like
I say?' He stared at me like he was thinking of killing me right
then, as though he was yearning for an excuse. I said, 'Yes, Mickey.
I am.'

"He shrugged and said, 'Okay. I want some supper and it better
be something I like.'
"I went to the kitchen. There was almost nothing on the shelves.
I never had money to buy ahead. I found a can of salmon. I was
shaking so I could hardly open it. I had some cooked potatoes. I
made patties and put them in a pan.
"Mickey came into the kitchen and looked in the pan and said, 1
don't want that shit! You can just throw that out!'
"I said, 'Okay, Mickey, but it's all I have. If I throw this out
there's nothing else I can fix for you.' He thought it over and then
he said, 'Okay. I'll eat it.' He took a beer and said, Til eat in the
bedroom. Bring it in there.' I fixed his plate as nice as I could and
brought it to him. He was lying on the bed looking at TV. He had
his own TV in the bedroom.
192 The Burning Bed
went back to the kitchen to finish cleaning up. I couldn't stand
"I
to watch him eat. The kids were quiet upstairs. I didn't dare go to
them until Mickey went to sleep. Usually when he had eaten he
would go to sleep.
"Mickey yelled for me and I went into the bedroom. He had
finished eating. His empty plate was on the floor. He was lying on
the bed and he had unzipped his pants. My stomach jumped inside
me and I shut my eyes. I thought, 'Oh noY
"Mickey grinned at me. 'How about a little?' he said and began to
pull down his pants. He already had an erection. I stood there fro-
zen. I thought I might vomit. I had an impulse to run, but I
stopped myself. I thought, 'If you resist, this will go on all night. If
you give in, it will be over. He'll go to sleep.'
"I sat down on the edge of the bed. Mickey got up and took off
everything: shirt, pants, underwear. God, I hated to look at him
sexually aroused. 'Come on,' he said, 'hurry up!' I was wearing
slacks. I took them off. 'Everything!' Mickey said. 1 want every-
thing off!' So I took off my sweater and my bra and underpants and
stood there naked. He shoved me down on the bed and began.
"I hated it worse than I ever had before. The idea of him inside
me, owning even my insides, shoving deep into me, made my flesh
crawl. Because he was drunk it took a long time. At one point he
wanted me on top. I looked down at him and I had an impulse to
put the pillow over his face and smother him, but I knew I wasn't
strong enough. I clenched my teeth to keep from screaming. He
said nothing; he just went on sawing at me until, after about thirty
minutes, he finished. He lay there on his back and I got up and
picked up my clothes and went to the bathroom to wash him off me
as quick as I could.
"I dressed and went into the living room and sat down. There is
no way to describe how I felt: a helpless, frozen fury; a volcano
blocked just before it erupts.
"I could hear the kids mumbling and moving around upstairs. I
remembered that they had eaten nothing all day. I could almost
feel their stomachs hurting. I decided I would wait until Mickey
was asleep and then get them down and feed them. I don't know
how long I sat there. I wasn't really thinking. My mind was empty,
drained.
"After a while I checked and Mickey was asleep, lying on his
 The Burning Bed 193

back, breathing deep. I went upstairs and whispered to the kids,

'Do you guys want to come down?' They said yes, and I said, 'Be
very quiet. Dad's asleep and he told me not to let you down.' They
tiptoed down the stairs. I asked if they were hungry. They all said
no. I guess their stomachs were numb like mine.
"I told them to sit on the couch and watch TV. I thought it
would help them relax and they might eat later on. I turned on the
set and sat down with them. Nicky lay with her head in my lap. I
stroked her and she fell asleep. I have no memory of what show we
watched because my thoughts were beginning to stir. They seemed
to run like a river, of their own accord. I thought of school. How
desperately hard I'd worked— for nothing. What a fool I'd been to
think I could make my life better. No matter what I did Mickey
would knock it down. I thought of my future: to be at his mercy,
all day, every day, day after day, like I had been before but now

without hope. I thought about my whole life; how awful it had

been ever since I'd met Mickey; how I had suffered, trying to make
things better, and how everything I had done was a waste. I
thought, 'You don't owe him anything, Fran! You never did.' I
thought of the children and how their lives were almost as terrible
as mine. I thought, 'Don't let him ruin their lives the way he has
ruined yours. Take them away! You've got to take them away!
How? Just leave! When Mickey wakes up, you and the kids will be
gone!'
"My thoughts began to race. I felt very clear-headed, as though I
had waked up from a long, refreshing sleep. I thought, 'You can
take off. There's a car sitting out there with gas in it. You and the
kids just get in the car and go. Drive all night. Drive all tomorrow.
Don't think about what happens after that! Don't think of anything
except going! Go! And never turn back!'
"Suddenly this seemed very simple. I wondered why I hadn't
thought of it that way before. I had made a discovery; by losing ev-
erything I had been set free! There were no chains around my an-
kles. All the things that had seemed important before— the house
payments, car payments, welfare checks, leaving my mother and
sisters, leaving the only place I knew— none of those things mat-

tered. I felt thrilled; scared; elated; the way you feel just before the
roller coaster begins to roll.
"I got up and started pacing the floor, telling myself, 'You can do
194 The Burning Bed
it, Fran. You can do it! Do it quick before you lose your nerve.
Don't make plans. It was making plans that always stopped you be-
fore.' Suddenly it dawned on me that Mickey had taken my money
and my keys. I tiptoed into the bedroom and got them and the food
stamps out of his pants pocket. I took what money he had, too. I
thought, 'I need it more than you.'
"Now I was ready to go. I was just going to tell the kids to get in
the car when it hit me that Dana wasn't there! For an instant I
thought the whole thing would crumble. I couldn't leave without
Dana. If Dana had been home I would have gone and Mickey
would still be alive. I sat down again to wait for Dana. I wasn't
sure what time his friends would bring him home, but no matter
how long it took, I would have to wait.
"I looked over at Christy and Jimmy. Their faces looked pinched
and tired. I loved them so. I said, 'You guys, go get your coats and
shoes on. We're going to leave.' Christy said, 'Where are we going,
Mom?' I said, 'I don't know, but we can't stay here. We can't live
like this anymore/
"They got and shoes on and sat back down on the
their coats
couch. Jimmy said, are we gonna leave?' I said, 'As soon as
'When
Dana gets here. Just be very quiet! Don't wake him up/ Jimmy
said, *We better cover up in case he gets up, so he won't see our
coats/ I said, 'Yeah. That's a good idea/
"Jimmy got a blanket and he and Christy snuggled under it.
Nicky was asleep beside them. We were all quiet. I kept looking
out the window, wishing Dana would come. It was dark. I was
watching for the headlights of a car. Cars went by; none of them
stopped. I wondered if Dana were walking home. He should be
here by now. I felt more and more scared. I began to pray that
Dana would come soon. 'Please, Dana, come home before I lose my
nerve!'
"Christy whispered, 'Mom?'
"What, Christy?'
"'This time are we coming back?*
"'No! Never!'
"She said, want to ever come back here again/
'Good! I don't
"More minutes passed and Dana didn't come. I was getting very
nervous. How could I be sure I wouldn't come back? Hadn't I al-
ways caved in, been defeated, been pulled back here against my
 The Burning Bed 195

will? This time had to be different. But how? I got up and walked
around the room. Everything I looked at was part of my life with
Mickey. I hated it. All of it. I hated my whole past life. I wanted to
wipe it out erase it
. . . forget it
. . never look back. That
. . . .

was when the thought struck me: I wasn't going to come back be-
cause there wasn't going to be anything to come back to—because I
was going to burn the house down. What about Mickey? Yesl I de-
cided to burn him, too! Then everything would be gone.
"I became tremendously excited. I forgot everything else— Dana,
the consequences, the fact of taking a life, nothing like that oc-

curred to me. thought of nothing but what I was going to do.

I

"I bent over Jimmy and asked him the combination to the pad-
lock that Mickey had put on the garage door. Mickey had told
Jimmy the numbers, but he hadn't told me. Jimmy whispered them
in my ear. I went out in the dark to the garage. I had forgotten how

dark it was. I couldn't see the numbers— couldn't make the combi-
nation work. For an instant I was stopped and almost panicked.
Then, like water flows around a rock, my thoughts flowed right on.
"There's other places to look. Don't turn back. This time nothing
can make you turn back.'
"The cellar had an outside door. I pulled it open and went down
the steps into the dark. I lit a match and looked around until I saw

a gas can that we kept for the mowing machine. That was what I'd
been looking for. I carried it up the steps and into the house. I put
it down and told the kids to go get into the car. I picked up Nicky,

still sleeping, and carried her out and put her on the back seat. I

said to Christy and Jimmy, 'Don't come back in the house. Stay in
the car. I'll be right back.'
"I went back into the house. I was as calm as though I were
doing an ordinary thing. I felt very light, clear-headed, free. This
was the had ever done. I picked up the gas can and
easiest thing I
unscrewed the and went into the bedroom. I stood still for a mo-
lid
ment, hesitating, and a voice urged me on. It whispered, 'Do it! Do
it! Do it!' I sloshed the gasoline on the floor. If I saw Mickey lying

there I don't remember it. I don't believe I looked at him at all.

"I went out of the room and put the can down. I had the
matches in my hand. I don't remember lighting one, but there was
a flame. I stood just outside the doorway and stuck the match into
the room. Only then did it hit me. 'My God! What are you doing!*
196 The Burning Bed
The fumes of gas caught with a roar and a rush of air slammed the
door with tremendous force, almost catching my hand.
"I ran for my life.
"I ran to the car and started it. At the corner I looked back and
saw flames shooting out of the bedroom window, a fiery glow in-
side. I realized what I had done. I felt my mind almost disintegrate
with the shock. The kids were looking back, too, and screaming,
'Oh God, Mom, oh God!' I heard Jimmy in the back seat say, 'Dad
will be burned up!'
I began to scream, but I didn't know it. I didn't
"Christy says
even know was driving a car until Christy, who was beside me,
I

got my attention by beating on my arm and yelling, 'Mom! Where

are we going? What are we going to do?' I realized we were on the
highway, headed toward Mason. My thoughts were in fragments.
All I could think was, 'You've got to get help! Do something quick!'
I had a Mickey getting out of the house, following me,
vision of
killing me, even though he was in flames.
"Christy said, 'Mom! Go to the police. They can help us. Slow
down! You're gonna kill us all!' I remember coming to a stop at the
gate to the Ingham County Jail. Cops poked their heads in the car
window, saying, 'Can I help you?' I couldn't talk. It was like a
dream in which you're paralyzed. Every time I tried to speak, in-
stead of speaking I heard myself scream. I heard Christy telling the
police that the house was on fire. Then I heard myself say, 'I did it!'
Somebody asked if anyone was in the house. I said, 'Yes .my ex-
. .

husband.'
"I heard men yelling. Cops were swarming around. I felt relief
because they were taking charge. I don't remember getting out of
the car. Bright lights hit my eyes when I walked into the lobby of
the jail. A cop told the kids to sit down on a bench. I didn't want to
leave them there. I tried to protest, but there was a cop holding me
by each arm, pulling me along. I was led down a hall, to a room
with a bare table and straight chairs. I was still crying, not with
sobs, but convulsions that choked off my breath. Every time I tried
to tell what happened I saw a vision of the fire, flames shooting out
of the bedroom windows, and a wave of pain would wash over me;
my throat would close and I couldn't talk. I thought of Dana, left
behind. Where was he? He would be terrified if he saw the house
on fire. He might think the kids and I were inside. I got my voice
 The Burning Bed 197

under control and asked the cops about Dana. They shook their
heads. They didn't know. I asked about Mickey. Had they found
him? Nobody answered me. They just kept asking me to tell what
happened; what I had done. Little by little I began to tell them.
With each word, realization would sweep over me like a fiery chill.
"A cop read aloud a legal paper about my rights. I didn't care. I
signed where he told me to. There was a policewoman there. Later
I learned her name: Patricia Moore. She tried to calm me, telling
me to pull myself together, asking if I wanted coffee.
"I needed to go to the bathroom. She took my arm and steered
me down the hall. I had a view of the lobby and suddenly saw the
kids, sitting close together, looking scared and green under the
bright lights. It hit me that they still had not eaten. I started to run
to them. Pat Moore held me back. She wasn't rough, but she was
firm. She said, 'No! Not now. It will just make things worse!' Per-
haps that was the moment I first realized I wasn't free; that the
police weren't trying to help me; that I might be under arrest. We
had to wait for a key to get into the washroom. Standing there
these new thoughts made my mind reel again. If Mickey was dead
what would happen to me? Would they put me in jail? Then what
would happen to the kids?
"Inside the washroom I washed my face and hands. My face felt
burning— scalded with tears. I let cold water run. over my hands
and bathed my face. It cleared my head, but I still couldn't believe
where I was and what had happened. Maybe I had gone crazy and
this was all a dream. I saw Pat Moore standing guard over me in
her police uniform and I knew it was true.
"When we got back to the room there were a lot more men there,
milling around. Phones were ringing. A detective, Lieutenant Tift,
asked me questions; asked me to tell the whole thing all over again.
I told him about Mickey trying to kill me; about the years and
years it had gone on; about the beating and the garbage rubbed in
my hair, and burning my books.
"Tift didn't look like a policeman. He was a skinny, older man in
a brown suit. His eyes and his voice were cold and hard. When I
talked about what Mickey had done I felt my words had no mean-
ing to him, as though Mickey had done nothing at all. All Tift
Wanted to know was what I had done; how I got the gasoline; how
I lit it; did I plan it that way? I told him everything I could
198 The Burning Bed
remember. I kept asking if Mickey was dead. Tift wouldn't answer.
Finally he said, If he is, you'll be charged with murder.' Murderl
The word shocked me all over again.
"Someone interrupted to tell me that Dana was okay; they were
bringing him to the jail. I thought, Thank God! They'll be together.
Christy will take care of him.' Then I thought of how long the kids
had been sitting out there, alone, nobody doing anything for them,
and how awful they must feel. I asked if I could call my mother.
Tift said okay, and Pat Moore led me to a phone. I don't know
what time it was, but Mom was asleep. The phone rang a long
time. When she answered, hearing her voice was another pang. I
said, 'Mom, please come and get the kids. We're all at the Ingham
County Jail in Mason. Call Joanne and get here somehow/ She
asked, 'Why? What happened?' I didn't want to tell her. I said,
'Please, Mom, just come and get them. PleaseY
"She insisted I tell her. She was getting more and more upset. I
had to say, 'I set the house on fire, Mom.' She said, 'Oh my GodI
Was he in it?' I said, 'Yes.' She said, 'God have mercy! Oh God,
Fran!' I said, 'You've got to come and get the kids. I think they're
going to arrest me.' She said, Til be there as quick as I can.'
T hung up and asked Pat Moore if I would be allowed to speak
to Mom when she came. She said no, so I handed her my purse
with the money and food stamps and asked her to give it to Mom
so she could feed the kids.
"When wegot back to the room where I'd been questioned, Tift
was on the phone. When he hung up he said something to
talking
one of the men about getting a dentist to examine teeth. I said, 'A
dentist? Why are you doing that?' Tift leaned back and gave me a
strange look. He said, 'To confirm his identity; to make sure who he
is.

T still didn't understand. I said, 'Who? Make sure who who is?"

"Tift smiled and said, *Your husband. We've just got word that
they've found his body. He's dead.'
T think I had knownit all along, but when Tift said it I felt sud-

denly sick. My
stomach heaved. I looked around at all the cops in
their uniforms. They were unconcerned, busy, doing their everyday
job. There wasn't a single sympathetic face. It didn't matter to them
what Mickey had done to me. Like always, nobody cared. I was
suddenly terribly afraid of everyone in the room.
 The Burning Bed 199

"Lieutenant Tift sat down at a typewriter and put a sheet of

paper in. He said, 'All right, Francine. Are you ready?'
"I said, 'Ready for what?'
"He said, 'To make a statement, a statement of what you did.'
"His voice was curt. There was nothing but contempt in his eyes.
My head was clearing up. I thought, 'This man wants to trap you;
to make things worse for you than they already are.' I remembered
all the TV shows I'd seen about crime and I knew that you're not

supposed to say anything until you've seen a lawyer. I decided I

wouldn't say anything more.
"Tift was waiting. He said, 'Come on, Francine. You've already
told us everything. Just tell me again so I can get it down on paper.'
"I shook my head. I said, 'I guess I better see a lawyer first.' Tift
kept trying to persuade me. 'What's the difference? You've already
admitted it. Come on, get it off your chest.' I kept on shaking my
head. He snapped the paper out of the typewriter. He said, 'You're
going to be charged with murderl Murder in the first degree!' He
told the policewoman to take me away.
"She led me through corridors, like hospital corridors, only there
were locks and bars. At the Women's Quarters, a matron, Miss
Lewis, took me in charge. She led me into a big, brightly lit room
and told me to drop my clothes on the floor. I asked what for? She
said I had to be sprayed in case I had lice. I stood there naked,
cringing. Miss Lewis tried to be kind. After she sprayed me she
gave me a nightgown and tucked a blanket and a sheet under my
arm. Then she led me to a cell. It was a big room with bars opening
onto a corridor. While Miss Lewis was opening the door I looked
in. In the dim light I could see other women lying on bunks against

the wall. There were a table and chairs in the center. I had read
about jails and the horrible things that happened in them. I was
terrified of going into that cell.
"Miss Lewis gently shoved me in and locked the door behind
me. I stood there. I didn't know what to do next. I could feel all
those eyes on me. I went over to the table and sat down.
"A voice from one of the bunks said, 'What are you in here forr"
"Another voice answered, 'You know better than to ask a ques-
tion like that. If she wants you to know she'll tell you.'
'"A third person said, 'There's a bunk in the corner if you want it/
"I went over to it and lay down. I closed my eyes and saw flames
200 The Burning Bed
shooting out of the bedroom windows, lighting up the sky. I heard
Jimmy saying, 'My GodI Dad will be burned upl' Was Mickey
burned alive? Pain washed over me, as though my own body were
in flames."
 Ingham County Jail

In the morning Francine was issued a gray sweatshirt and blue cot-
ton trousers, the uniform worn by female prisoners. She was taken
from her cell to be fingerprinted and photographed with a number
on her chest. She felt a devastating humiliation. She was partially
stripped so that the bruises on various parts of her body could also
be photographed, and this caused her almost equal shame. When
she returned to the cell she lay face down, exhausted, on her bunk.
Somewhere a radio poured out ceaseless sound. At intervals, when
the news came on, she heard her name as the announcer talked
about her in a cheerful patter: ". . fatal fire in Dansville
. . . .

twenty-nine-year-old wife held in Ingham County Jail . Fran-

. .

cine Hughes . mother of four." The words

. . penetrated her half-
sleep and became part of her dreams. She was awakened and
handed a document. It was a legal notice of the charges against
her. ".. Did then and there, with malice aforethought, willfully,
.

deliberately and with premeditation intentionally kill. ..." At the

bottom were the words, "Maximum Penalty— Life."
A policewoman, Nancy Kalder, brought her her clothes and told
her to dress for a trip to court. In the lobby she casually snapped
handcuffs on Francine's wrists. As Francine felt the cold, unyield-
ing metal a wave of panic swept over her. "Do I have to have
these?" she asked. Kalder nodded, not unkindly, and led her to a
police car waiting outside. It was a short trip to the district court-
•202 The Burning Bed

house in Mason. Francine knew she was being brought before a

judge, but had no idea what it would entail.
Handcuffed and flanked by her guards, she entered the court-
room. Benches on either side of the aisle were ciowded, as if at a
wedding in which she played the travesty role of bride. Where the
altar should be, Judge Bell sat behind a high desk, wearing a black
robe. She remembered his face from the day he'd sentenced Mickey
to jail.

Francine saw Flossie's tall figure seated among the spectators,

flanked by her menfolk. Berlin, stooped and narrow-shouldered, sat
on her left; Donovan and Marlin were on the right with their wives.
Berlin wore his best suit, Flossie a hat. Until that moment Francine
had forgotten Mickey's parents. She thought, "Oh God, Flossie and
Berlin must be going out of their minds!"
At her entrance the spectators stirred and murmured; heads
turned. Francine had a searing impression of Flossie and Berlin's
accusing, suffering faces before she was led past them toward the
judge. On the other side of the courtroom she saw her own family:
her mother, her sisters Joanne and Kathy, and between them,
Christy and Jimmy, staring at her with frightened eyes. To have
them see her in handcuffs made her feel sick with shame.
Francine recognized Lieutenant Tift addressing the judge. It
seemed to be Tift who was accusing her of murder. She understood
the words, "first degree murder and felony murder." What she had

done was evidently so terrible that she was accused not once, but
twice. Judge Bell asked if she wanted an attorney and she said,
"Yes." He asked if she had funds and she said, "No."
The arraignment was over. Francine kept her eyes down as she
was led back down the aisle. When she reached the corridor out-
side she asked if she could speak with her mother. Kalder said,
"Sure. Why not?" They waited in the hall. When her mother and
the children came, Francine found she dared not speak lest she
break down. Her mother was crying. She hugged Francine and
said, "Don't worry. We'll help you all we can." Francine could only
nod. She exchanged tearful glances with Joanne and Kathy. She
raised her arms to hug Christy, but the handcuffs made it impossi-
ble. Christy flung her arms around her neck and whimpered, "Oh
Mom, what's going to happen to you?" Jimmy was tearless and
pale. As Francine kissed him she could feel him trembling. She
 Ingham County Jail 203

longed to comfort him, but could think of nothing to say. Deputy

Kalder tugged at her arm and led her away.
The following days in the Ingham County Jail were a delirium of
blurred impressions. Every sound caused her a painful shudder.
She was allowed to lie in her bunk; no one bothered her. She
slipped in and out of a sleep filled with vivid dreams.
"I'd be dreaming; I would hear metal clanking on metal. They
were sliding the food trays through the slot in the door. I'd wake
and would flash over me, 'You're in jail for murder!' Then I'd
it

think,'Where are the kids? The kids are with Mom. You can't go to
them. You're locked in. You're in jail. Mickey is dead and you killed
him. Oh God in heaven, it can't be true!'"

Francine tried to avoid contact with the women sharing her cell,

and they left her alone. After a few days their faces and voices be-
came less menacing as one or another of them explained the routine
by which they lived. The mechanics of life—washbasin, shower,
toilet— were all carried on within the cell without concealment. Bars
on one wall of the cell faced a catwalk where the matrons and
women trustees went by with mops, trays, and baskets of laundry
as they did housekeeping chores. Tall windows opened on the cat-
walk and allowed daylight into the cell. At night a television set
just outside the bars was turned on and filled the cell with sound.
It seemed to Francine that she lay in her bunk for days. She felt
as though she had been wracked by a terrible illness. She was una-
ble to eat. The matrons brought her special food— Jell-O and milk
and boiled eggs—but she left them untouched. She was allowed to
telephone her mother, who told her that the children were all right
and that with the help of Francine's sisters she was managing to
take care of them. Christy came on the phone and Francine broke
down. She went back to bed to reenter a state of half-sleep and
fitful dreams.
One morning, after she wash her face, she
had waited her turn to
looked in the mirror for the first Her face looked
time since the fire.

gray and haggard, her hair dirty and lank. It was the face of some-
one who had given up. "I told myself, 'Fran, you are still alive,
whether you want to be or not. Mickey is dead, but you are here.
You can't change that. You have to go on living and do the best you
204 The Burning Bed
She stepped into the shower, even though public bathing
offended her modesty. She brushed her hair, and when breakfast
came she made an swallow it, determined to take care of
effort to
She opened letters that had accumulated
herself as best she could.
by her bunk and read them in surprise. Some were from strangers
who had read about her in the newspapers. Others were from
friends and acquaintances. In one way or another the letters ex-
pressed sympathy for her. She realized there were people, outside
her own family, who did not see her as a monster.
Francine began to talk to her cellmates, learning their names, an-
swering questions, and accepting friendly overtures. "You might as
well talk to them," she thought. "You're one of them now."
She had been in a week when she was told that an attorney
jail

was there to see The news unnerved her. She didn't even know
her.
his name. What would he be like? How would he feel about what
she had done? A matron escorted her to a conference room. Her
first impression of the man waiting there was that he was as-

tonishingly tall. She was surprised, too, that he was so young—

about her own age. He didn't smile, but greeted her formally. He
wore large round spectacles and had gray eyes. When they were
seated, facing each other across a small table, he told her his name
—Aryon Greydanus— and explained that he had been appointed by
He asked, in a neutral tone, "Well, Fran-
the court to represent her.
cine,do you want me what happened?"
to tell
Francine doesn't remember how she began, only that she tried to
tellhim everything. "I had to pour it out to someone. I wanted to
tell the whole truth. There was nothing to hide. I knew I was
guilty. I knew I was in terrible, terrible trouble. Maybe he could
help, though I didn't really believe anyone could. My head had
cleared enough so I understood my crime. I had committed murder
and the penalty was prison for life. I didn't think a lawyer could
change that, but I wanted someone to know how I could have done
this horrible thing."
While Francine talked Greydanus made notes on a yellow pad.
His eyes hardly left hers. She began to feel there was under-
standing, even sympathy, in his gaze. When the interview ended
she had formed a feeling of trust. Before leaving her Greydanus ex-
plained the next steps in the legal process. She would again be
brought before Judge Bell. Witnesses would testify to what they
 Ingham County Jail 205

knew of the circumstances of Mickey's death. After this preliminary

examination she would be bound over for trial in a higher court.
Not until then would she offer a defense or testify. Greydanus
promised he would do everything he could to help her. How much
he could do was left unsaid.
Ten days after the fire, Francine was taken to court for the hear-
ing Greydanus had described. Now fully aware and filled with ap-
prehension, she cringed as she was led into the courtroom filled
with spectators. She was taken to a seat at a table before the
judge's bench. Greydanus sat beside her. Francine kept her eyes
down, but she had glimpsed the Hughes family and was conscious
that they were watching every step in the process of punishment.
Greydanus pointed out a young man of slender build with light
brown hair and whispered that he was Martin Palus, the prosecutor
who would handle the case against her. His manner was mild, but
whenever Greydanus rose to argue a technicality, Palus opposed
him with a persistence that impressed on Francine that he was in-
tent on prosecuting her to the utmost.
Throughout the long court day Francine heard her crime de-
scribed from every aspect— sometimes by strangers, sometimes by
people she knew. The first witness was Detective Onnie Selin, who
recited what he and Tift had found in the burnt-out bedroom. He
was followed by Fireman Don Gaiiey, who told how he had found
Mickey's body. Dr. Laurence Simson, who had performed an au-
topsy, used long, barely comprehensible sentences which Francine
finally understood to mean that Mickey had died from smoke inha-
lation. Simson had found Mickey's nostrils and lungs filled with
soot. The burns on his body, Simson said, had occurred after death.
As he talked, ghastly images flashed through Francine's mind, so
awful that she ceased to listen. Wimpy took the stand briefly. He
avoided looking at Francine. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he
told how he had seen his brother's body on the porch.
Lieutenant Janutola described Francine's hysterical arrival at the
Ingham County Jail. Then Jimmy was brought in. He was trem-
bling visibly. He gave his mother an anguished look and tried to
swallow tears. For Francine this was the worst moment since she
had come out of her shock. Prosecutor Palus questioned Jimmy
carefully about the sequence of events, especially how Francine
had asked for the combination to the lock on the garage and how
206 The Burning Bed

Jimmy had later noticed the gasoline can by the door to the porch.
Jimmy answered reluctantly, as though he knew he was being used
to condemn his mother. Sometimes he looked down, in stubborn si-
lence, and Palus had to repeat his question, insisting he answer.
When Palus forced Jimmy to describe how Francine had behaved
after the fire, Jimmy sobbed and Francine thought her heart would
break. Palus decided it was time to let the boy go and a bailiff led
him away.
Christy was the final witness. When Francine saw her, again, she
felt almost unendurable pain. Christy was more composed than
Jimmy. Palus asked only a few questions about the violence preced-
ing the fire. He called it an argument. "Do you remember your

mom and dad having an argument that day?"

"Yes."
"Do you remember what it was about?"
Christy groped for words. "It was about almost everything."
"And did your dad hit your mom that day?"
"Yes."
"Did he hit her a lot?"
"Yes."
"Did your father do anything with your mom's schoolbooks that
day?"
"He ripped them up and threw them in the middle of the floor."
Palus went on to ask Christy about Francine's behavior just be-
fore the fire; how she had gotten the gas can; how long they had
waited. When those facts had been established he ended his ques-
tioning. Greydanus had no questions and Christy stepped down.
As the session ended Judge Bell gave his decision; Francine
would be held for trial on both counts, murder in the first degree
and felony murder. Greydanus argued that the felony murder count
was unjustified and pleaded to have it dismissed. The plea was de-
nied. Then he asked the judge to grant bail so that Francine could
be free during the months that would elapse before her trial. Palus
opposed bail, citing the Michigan constitution, which prohibits bail
pending trial for a capital crime. Judge Bell looked regretful. "My
reaction as a person of compassion would be to set bail, but the
prosecutor has objected and I think my hands are tied." As Fran-
cine was led away, Greydanus told her not to give up hope of get-
ting bail; he would try again.
 Ingham County Jail 207

A week later Francine was taken to the Mason County Court-

house and arraigned before Judge Michael Harrison, who was
scheduled to conduct her trial. Waiting her turn, Francine sat in
the dock with other prisoners accused of such crimes as robbery,
shoplifting, and prostitution. No one else was charged with murder.
There were spectators in the courtroom, but to her relief there was
no one she knew among them.
When her case was called, she stood before the judge while Palus
and Greydanus argued technical points concerning her coming
trial. Judge Harrison was an unsmiling man in his forties. His ex-

pression struck her as stony and aloof. She watched the judge's face
as he shifted his gaze from Palus to Greydanus. Not once did he
glance at her. Francine thought, "He has already decided I am too
low for him even to look at. He doesn't want to know who I am or
why I did what I did."

Her arraignment took no more than five minutes. As it ended,

Greydanus asked Harrison to grant bail, arguing that the judge had
the discretion to grant he chose. Francine heard Judge Har-
it if

rison curtly refuse. The policewoman escorting her tugged at her

arm and led her from the courtroom for the trip back to jail. In the
corridor Greydanus caught up with her. He put his hand on her
shoulder and told her he would be coming to see her soon.

Greydanus kept his word. He visited Francine every week for

talks that lasted two or three hours. He told her Judge Harrison's
refusal to grant bail was final and she would have to stay in prison
until her trial sometime in the summer; the date would depend on
how long it took to prepare a defense.
Francine said that she thought Judge Harrison looked heartless,
and as though he had already made up his mind that she deserved
no pity.Greydanus agreed that having Harrison assigned to her
case was a bad break. He quoted the judge's remark when he de-
nied bail. "After all, what kind of woman would burn up her hus-
band?" It confirmed Francine's feeling that Harrison had prejudged
her case.
Greydanus had found the prosecutor equally without sympathy.
He told Francine he had spoken to Chief Prosecutor Houk and
found him determined to try her for first-degree murder and felony
murder as well. Greydanus told Francine he would do his best to
208 The Burning Bed

put together a defense, but he was not optimistic about her chances
of escaping a prison term. The best she could hope for was that a
jury would be more compassionate than the judge and the prosecu-
tor had been, and find her guilty to a lesser degree— possibly man-
slaughter, but more probably murder in the second degree.
In her prison diary Francine wrote:
"My attorney says he has no defense for me. No defense! When
he said, 'You know you could go to prison for the rest of your life,' I
said, 'No! They can send me, but I won't stay.' He said, 'What do
you mean by that?' I didn't answer. I was thinking that I would kill
myself."
In one respect Francine was fortunate. The Ingham County Jail
is relatively humane. The women's section usually holds no more
than thirty prisoners, most of them awaiting trial. Because of a
small and mostly transient population the worst evils that beset
huge warehouse prisons are absent. Not all county jails are equally
benign. Sheriff Preadmore happens to run a good jail.
Francine began to make friends among her cellmates, although
she never lost her sense of difference. Prostitution, possession of
drugs, bad checks, shoplifting, and theft were the most common
crimes. Most of the women were young, and Francine found their
way of life as "street people" who habitually broke laws fascinating
and bizarre. She wrote:
"While I am lying on my bunk writing, there is a lot going on in
the cell. One girl has her head in the toilet bowl. She empties the
water in the toilet and talks down the pipe to the guys in the men's
prison below. She is nineteen and charged as an accomplice to a
murder during a robbery. I have learned something about street
people: that they are really just humans but with worse problems.
The other girls are building fires in the sink and heating toast left
from breakfast. I don't like breaking rules. I guess they know this. I
don't think they dislike me; it's just that I am different. I am edu-
cated a little more. I don't take drugs. I'm not an alcoholic. I'd
rather die than sell my body to a different man every day, and I
don't think it's right to steal. The women here throw filthy language
around as if it is nothing and I don't do that. They talk back to the
matrons and demand things where I don't feel I have the right."
The day in jail began with breakfast at six: cold cereal, milk, two
pieces of toast, a two-ounce glass of watered-down orange juice,
 Ingham County Jail 209

and a cup of coffee that tasted like hot water. "We take our toast
and lay it over the top of the steaming coffee to warm it up because
the toast is cold and greasy. Sometimes you keep the cereal so that
if you don't like dinner you can eat the cereal with milk from your

dinner tray. I had thought I knew a lot about surviving—making do

with what you've got— but in prison I am learning a lot more."
In the isolation of jail Francine's psyche, more battered than her
body, began to heal. During the first few weeks her emotions were
so intense that she feared she would go insane. Then, gradually, she
became calm, but deeply depressed. As she always had before, she
fought to bring herself out of the depths. She wrote:
"I seem to go up and down in my moods. The last depression
lasted five days. I can usually talk myself out of it in about two. I
feel this terrible,enormous sense of loss of my children. I miss them
so much have to push thoughts of them away."
I

The children were living with Francine's mother and going to

school in Jackson. Although Francine was allowed a weekly visit-
standing up and talking through a window, without physical con-
tact—she decided it would be too painful for her and too frighten-
ing for the children to have them brought to the jail. She was al-
lowed one five-minute telephone call to them each week.
"I look forward to it all week, but when I actually talk to the
kids it hurts so I can hardly stand it. The matron brings the phone
into the cell and hands it to each girl in turn. She sings out, 'Time
ya!' and looks at her watch. I talk to each of the kids, trying to
sound normal and cheerful. Christy and Jimmy are doing okay, but
I can tell they are worried and scared. They understand that I will
stand trial and that no one knows how it will turn out. I try to reas-
sure them, but I don't want to give them false hopes. Nicky doesn't
understand. She asks me a lot of questions about where I am. She
asked, 'Mommy, is your bed hard?' Last week, when it was Dana's
turn, I said, 'Hi, Dana, whatcha doin'?' He said, 'Mommy and
. .
.'

there was a long silence. I said, 'Dana, I can't hear you. What's the
matter, Dana?* He said, 'Mommy, I'm hugging you through the
phone.' It was too much for me. I had to hang up."
A few weeks after Mickey's death, Flossie and Berlin filed a suit
asking for custody of the children. Greydanus represented Francine
in- opposing it, and told her he didn't believe the Hugheses could

win, since their suit seemed based more on a desire for revenge
210 The Burning Bed

than real concern for the children. Nevertheless, the suit was an
added nightmare for Francine. Greydanus told her that the Hughes
family was so enraged and bitter toward her that even if she could
get bail he wondered if it would be safe for her to be out of prison.
The custody suit hung over her for several months. At one point
Greydanus was forced to allow the children to visit their grand-
parents in Dansville for a weekend. Flossie and Berlin took them to
their father's grave and reported, through their attorney, that Nicky
had cried and kissed her father's headstone. The episode upset
Francine; she thought it was a cruel effort to play on the children's
emotions. To her relief, Flossie and Berlin made no further effort to
see the children, and the suit was dropped.
When she had been in prison six weeks, Francine became eligi-
ble to attend high school and college extension classes offered to in-
mates who would be there a relatively long time. Francine enrolled
in them all: math, American history, sociology, arts and crafts. The
work did more than anything else to raise her morale and help
overcome her despondency. She wrote to Miss Johnson, her psy-
chology teacher at Lansing Business College, and asked if she
could complete the course by mail. Miss Johnson replied that she
could, and Francine wrote "What I Know About Myself Now" once
again. This time she began, 1 know that I am a human being with
a mind that isn't as strong as I thought it was ... I know now that

I can't endure everything and anything like I thought I could."

Miss Johnson gave her a grade of A-minus for the term. Francine
had made good her pledge to Mickey that nothing could stop her
from completing the work she had set out to do.
To fight off terrible thoughts, Francine tried to be as busy as pos-
sible. In the morning, after the beds were made and the cell tidied,

some of her cellmates lay down again and slept half the day, but
Francine went to classes until noon. Back in the cell, she read, did
her homework, wrote letters, or worked on her autobiography, writ-
ing on legal pads that Greydanus supplied. She kept the manuscript
under her mattress, hoping no one would read it while she was out
of the cell.
But no matter how she tried, guilt and fear were always with her.
"Iam no longer afraid I will go crazy, but I am frightened,
lonely, sad, ashamed. No matter what happens to me in the future I
am being punished right now. They are not mean to me here, but I
 Ingham County Jail 211

know every minute that I am in prison. There are heavy steel doors
with big brass keys that lock me in a cell about thirty feet by
twenty feet with eight or nine others. I feel I am worse than the
other people here because I murdered. I murdered! Such an awful,

awful thing! It hurts me even to write that word. How I ever came
to do it I'll never know. Sometimes I think this is all a dream and
that I'll wake up. It seems so impossible. Me, Fran, in jail for
murder! I am not a person who hurts other people. I get sick when
I hear about crimes of violence. How could I do it? I still can't un-
derstand. Was I crazy? When the reality of it hits me I feel sick to
the core.
"I have awful visions. I see graveyards. I see a headstone with
Mickey's name on it. I see him running, his body on fire. They said
they found him between the living room and the dining room. Was
he running to save us? Was he running to save himself? Was it
painful for him? What were his thoughts when he died? I've never
hurt anyone before, but I know that doesn't justify this crime that is
so enormous I think it will swallow me. The pain, the awful shame,
are getting larger and larger. I can picture him hitting and hitting
me, his fists coming at me—me sinking down lower and lower, but
the guilt won't go away."
Twice Francine thought she heard Mickey talking to her. She
was lying on her bunk, awake, staring at nothing, when she heard
his voice whispering, "'Fran! Fran! Fran!' I thought, 'God, I'm
going crazy! I'm hearing voices! I'm going to lose control!' I shook
my head. I put my fingers in my ears, but the voice went on. Then I
decided, okay, I'll listen! Mickey talked. His voice was quiet and

nice. He was telling me that everything would be okay; that he

knew I was suffering, but not to worry. He said, T understand why
you did what you did.' He wasn't angry with me. He wanted to
comfort me. He said he loved me. Then his voice faded away. The
first time it happened it left me shaking. When it happened a sec-

ond time I wasn't scared. I lay still and listened. Mickey said he
would watch over me, protect me, and that he knew everything
would be all right in the end. When his voice faded away I felt
calm, more at ease with myself. I never heard his voice again."
Little by little Francine's feelings became less punishing. She
faced with honesty the fact that she was not sorry Mickey was
dead, but never ceased to believe that what she had done was
212 The Burning Bed

wrong. She told Greydanus that the letters she was receiving in in-
creasing volume— as her story continued to be carried in the news-
papers—comforted her by letting her know that people cared
about her, but did not alter her attitude toward her crime. She was
grateful, too, for the way she was being treated. She wrote in her
diary: "Almost everyone here is so sympathetic toward me. The
turnkeys and just about all the staff. They say things like, 'You
shouldn't be here,' or, 1 wish there was something I could do to
help.' They say I'm 'personable,' that I act like a lady. Mrs. Pread-
more [Sheriff Preadmore's wife] said yesterday when we were talk-

ing that anyone could see that I v/as a refined lady. Me a refined
lady? Is it hold everything inside and try to remain calm
because I

and in control? Is that what a lady is?"

Francine's loneliness was intense. "I feel so cut off, so far away.
Every day wait for something from the outside— a letter, a visit, a
I
piece of news— anything to give me hope, to make me feel I'm still
part of the world." Francine's mother and sisters visited, and occa-
sionally her brothers, but Dansville neighbors and friends she had
known with Mickey did not. They were no more anxious to be in-
volved now than they had been when Mickey was alive and abus-
ing her. Francine, therefore, was tremendously touched when Betty
Cover, her vivacious Brazilian friend from Lansing Business Col-
lege, became a regular visitor. Betty was not only sympathetic, but
she also brought news that made Francine feel giddy with sudden
longing. Betty told her that George Walkup had sent word that he
loved her and would wait for her, no matter how many years it
might be before she was free. George, Betty said, had started com-
ing back to the lounge and asked her to transmit the message. He
didn't dare write, Betty reported, for fear of causing Francine trou-
ble, but he wanted her to know how he felt. Betty and Francine

discussed George over a series of visits; each time Betty relayed a

more passionate message. Francine confided in Betty that she had
broken off with George because she discovered he was living with
his wife. Betty said she thought Francine had misunderstood— and
that in any case his marriage was over now.
Francine found her mind filled with fantasies. Once again she
pictured George as strong, protective, gentle, wise. She decided it
was her own sense of guilt that had made her judge him so harshly;
she should have given him a chance to explain. Among the women
 Ingham County Jail 213

thwarted sexuality permeated the atmosphere. A num-

in her cell,
ber of them wrote hotly erotic letters to their boyfriends—letters
they shared with their cellmates. Francine decided to write to
George. "Sweetheart," she wrote, "this is a very hard time for
me. ... It is natural for me to want and dream of a man's arms
around me. When I dream of being with someone it is always you
that comes to my mind. I'm not sure of your feelings for me. I
. . .

don't want to open myself to this kind of relationship only to be

hurt. I was told you said you would wait for me for many years. Do
you realize what a statement like that could mean to someone in
my position. I miss you terribly. ."
. .

Because she knew the mail was censored, Francine didn't mail
the letter, but gave it to Betty Cover to give to George. Betty re-
ported that he was thrilled by it and wanted more, but thought it
too dangerous to answer. Francine wrote two more long letters to
George, pouring out love, longing, and pent-up desire. Each time
Betty delivered the letter. After the third letter Betty reported to
Francine that George no longer came to the lounge. When there
were no more messages, Francine's fantasy faded. For the second
time she put George Walkup out of her mind.

Greydanus visited Francine weekly. He told her that hewanted

to know her life story as intimately as possible; almost any detail
could be important in the picture he would present to the jury. He
still refused to predict the outcome, but Francine could see that he

was doing his utmost for her. "That a decent man believes in me
means so much!" she wrote in her diary. Greydanus told her that he
thought the prosecutor was utterly wrong, both legally and morally,
to insist on prosecuting her for murder in the first degree.
A number of newspapers were carrying stories in the same vein.
A reporter for the Lansing Star, Laura Segar, had interviewed
Greydanus and he had pointed out that the case raised the question
of how women subjected to violence and abuse could protect them-
selves. Segar's story attracted the attention of the local chapter of
the National Lawyers Guild— a liberally oriented organization of
law students. Several women's-rights organizations joined Guild
members in forming a Francine Hughes Defense Committee. The
committee hoped to use Francine's case to focus attention on bat-
tered wives as the case of Joanne Little— the black woman who had
214 The Burning Bed
killed her guard in North Carolina—had focused it on
white jail

women abused The committee held press conferences

in prison.
asking that the charges against Francine be dropped on the ground
that the police, the courts, and society had failed her, leaving her
no alternative but to kill in self-defense. The committee was able to
stir up a controversy that was widely reported in the press. Grey-

danus was careful to point out to Francine that in the courtroom it

would be the jury and not the press or the public who would de-
cide.
Francine's trial had been scheduled for June, but postponement
followed postponement as Greydanus worked out the strategy of
his defense. Francine finished all the courses that were given at the
jail. Rather than be idle, she enrolled again and repeated them. She
searched the bookshelves in the classroom and discovered Shake-
speare's sonnets, which she read for the first time, with perplexity
and on self-taught
delight. In the evenings she studied a textbook
French in her cell.
"But no matter what you do, jail is still jail. Your longing for
freedom becomes so intense it is like an ache. We'd go out for exer-
cise in the yard back of the jail. I would hear a car go by on the
highway and the sound would stab through my heart. The thought
would come Maybe I'll never be free to get in a car and drive
. . .

. .never again go where I want.

. Things that I had accepted
. . .

as a normal part of life now seemed priceless: to walk down a street;

to buy a pack of cigarettes or an ice-cream cone; to pick up a tele-
phone; to look at trees and birds and clouds; to watch kids playing.
"Sometimes I think of my life with Mickey. In a way I've been in
prison— locked up— for many years. At least here I can go to sleep at
night and not be afraid that tomorrow I'll be beaten or killed. Now
I'm in a different hell behind bars. Deep down I don't think it can
happen, but I can't help praying for a miracle that will set me free."

is an imposing man: big-boned, six feet five

Aryon Greydanus
inches with blunt features and light brown hair. His parents
tall,

came to the United States from the Netherlands in 1953, when

Aryon was seven, and settled in Grand Rapids, Michigan, where his
father continued his trade as a meat cutter and Aryon went to
school. He determined
speaks English with no trace of an accent. A
and competitive young man, Greydanus graduated from Wayne
 Ingham County Jail 215

State University Law School, and for several years worked in a pri-
vate law firm in Detroit. He moved to Lansing in 1974, when Prose-
cutor Houk's predecessor in office, Ray Scodeller, offered him a job
on his staff.For three years Greydanus was an assistant prosecutor.
He was tough and effective, losing only one major case.
Scodeller left office the December before Mickey Hughes died,
and Peter Houk was elected in his stead. Greydanus stayed on, but
shortly found himself at odds with the new regime. His aggressive,
outspoken style had offended several of the other prosecutors on
the staff. They asked Houk to get rid of Greydanus. In February
there was a showdown and Greydanus left, bitter about what he
considered shabby and humiliating treatment by Houk.
There were two murders reported in the Lansing newspapers the
week that Mickey Hughes died. The second involved a woman who
had shot her husband. Greydanus read brief accounts of both cases.
Judging by the addresses given, it seemed unlikely that either
woman would have the funds to pay a lawyer, and Greydanus won-
dered if one of the cases might be assigned to him. Court-appointed
lawyers are chosen by the presiding judge from a list of qualified
attorneys. To be chosen to defend a man or woman charged with
murder indicates the court's confidence in a lawyer's abilities and
thus, though it brings little money, it pays off in enhanced prestige.
At that moment prestige was what Greydanus needed. He was still
smarting over his departure from the prosecutor's office and won-
dering if he would succeed in private practice in a town already
well supplied with lawyers. He was, therefore, gratified to get a call
from the administrator of the court, Tom Gormely, who said, "Hey,
Greydanus. I've got a case for you."
Greydanus answered, "It's a murder case, right?"
"That's right," Gormely said. "How did you know?"
"I didn't," Greydanus replied, pleased as punch. "I just had a
feeling." His first thought, as he hung up the phone, was that the
case would pit him against his former colleagues only a month after
their acrimonious parting. He found the prospect interesting.
That evening he went to the jail to see his client. What Francine
told him of her life with Mickey Hughes struck him as so horrifying
that he could hardly believe Houk would go on with the prosecu-
tion. It was obvious that a formal defense would be difficult, but he
thought that by any standard of mercy, justice, or common sense,
216 The Burning Bed
Mickey's death should be termed justifiable homicide or at most
manslaughter, and Francine released on probation. The next day
Greydanus made an appointment with Houk to discuss a plea bar-
gain. As he prepared for the meeting, Greydanus thought it un-
likely the case would ever come to trial.
Houk was cool and polite as Greydanus outlined the facts sur-
rounding Mickey's death. When Greydanus asked that Francine be
allowed to plead guilty to manslaughter, Houk replied with a flat
no. He said that in his opinion a woman who burned a sleeping
man was a cold-blooded murderer and he intended to prosecute
her to the fullest extent of the law. After a few moments of vain ar-
gument, Greydanus left. "It was obvious," he has since said, "that
they just weren't going to do any deals with Greydanus." He had no
idea how he was going to defend the Hughes case in court, but if
he had to do it, by God he was going to win.
His first step was to learn everything possible about his client,
checking her story to make sure Francine had told him the truth.
As a prosecutor, Greydanus had gotten to know a good many men
in the sheriff's department. Now he found that acquaintance useful.
When he visited the jail he was able to talk casually to deputies
who had They confirmed that the Hughes home
dealt with Mickey.
was a well-known trouble spot. "That guy was a real bastard," sev-
eral of them said.
Greydanus made it a point to drop in to see Lieutenant Tift, the
him a chair and talked
detective in charge of the case. Tift offered
freely about the Hughes brothers and the trouble they had caused
his department over the years. Mickey Hughes, Tift commented,
was a violent son of a bitch who deserved everything he got. How-
ever, in Tift's view, this made no difference in the case against
Francine; he saw it as open-and-shut murder in the first degree;

nothing that had happened gave her the right to kill. Greydanus
left with the impression that Tift, a zealous professional, was look-
ing forward to winning the case.
With some misgivings about entering Greydanus
hostile territory,
made the first of several trips to Dansville to seewhat information
he could pick up in the neighborhood. He hoped above all to find
witnesses willing to testify to Mickey's abuse of Francine. He drove
down Grove Street, toward Adams, and found the scene of the
crime just as the firemen had left it. The house, with its clapboards
 Ingham County Jail 217

mottled gray by smoke and a jagged hole where flames had eaten
out the bedroom wall, struck him as macabre. At the edge of the
porch, early spring flowers that Francine had planted made bright
spots of discordant cheer. Greydanus parked and, using Francine's
key, entered the house. The acrid smell of burning still hung in the
chill air. Debris littered the floor.Greydanus quickly made what
notes were necessary and left. At the home of the elder Hughes,
next door, no one was in sight. Greydanus was glad to get back in
his car unobserved.
Greydanus turned the corner and drove slowly down Adams
Street. He parked at a distance from the Hughes house and got out
to survey the lay of the land. He noticed that behind the house on
Adams and Grove was an open area that gave neighbors a good
view of each others' backyards. He knocked on door after door.
Each time the person he spoke to denied knowing anything about
Mickey and Francine Hughes. No one volunteered to come to her
defense. Greydanus went back to his car considerably discouraged.
Getting witnesses is never easy, but it seemed that getting them in
Dansville would be more than usually difficult.
When Greydanus described his fruitless trip to Francine, she ex-
pressed no surprise. She had always felt that the neighbors wanted
to avoid trouble with the Hughes family. She told Greydanus she
believed she could have been beaten to death in the middle of the
street and most people would have shut their eyes and ears. Even
those who sympathized with her, she said, would probably be
afraid to testify; their attitude would be, "We have to live here. It's
not our business."
Without much real hope, Francine suggested Greydanus talk to
the Eiferts, the Quembys, and Donna Johnson—the families who
lived opposite the duplex on Adams Street, where she and Mickey
had lived immediately after his accident. Betty Cover also was a
possible witness, Francine said. She had seen bruiseson Francine
and was an independent, spunky girl, not easily intimidated.
Greydanus talked to Laura Eifert. She seemed both eager and
nervous as she told Greydanus what she knew. Her husband, Chris,
she said, was a good friend of Donovan Hughes and "ran around"
with the Hughes brothers. It was Chris who had once intervened
when Mickey was beating Francine in the yard. Laura described
other episodes, confirming what Francine had told Greydanus, but
218 The Burning Bed
when Greydanus asked her if she would be willing to repeat her

story in court, Laura hesitated. She asked if her testimony was im-
portant in the outcome of the case. Greydanus told her it was— that
unless witnesses were willing to tell a jury that Francine was a
good person and Mickey a violent one, it was very likely that Fran-
cine would serve a life sentence. Did Laura think Francine de-
served that? No, Laura said, she did not. She'd always felt sorry for
Francine and knew she was trapped in a terrible situation. Though
it was clear the prospect frightened her, Laura consented to testify

for Francine. A few days later Greydanus called Laura again. With
some embarrassment, Laura confessed that she had changed her
mind; she wouldn't take the stand unless she was forced to. Grey-
danus asked how Laura's husband felt about Francine. Chris felt
very strongly, Laura admitted. He hoped Francine would go to
prison for life. Greydanus scratched the Eiferts off his list of
witnesses for the defense.
Greydanus made his second trip to Dansville to see Donna John-
son, who had sometimes baby-sat for Francine. A tall, thin woman
with dark hair and eyes and an air of quiet dignity, Donna an-
swered his questions candidly and deliberately. She told him she
had never known Francine well, but had felt sorry for the way she
had had to live. She described the violence she had seen, including
the time Mickey burst into her house in search of Francine.
"Will you testify?" Greydanus asked.
Clearly troubled, Donna considered the question. She said that it
would be a difficult thing to do and she understood why many peo-
ple in Dansville didn't want to get involved. Nevertheless, she felt
it was her duty to tell what she knew. "Someone has to do it," she

said. "Someone has to stand up and tell the truth or there can't be a
fair trial." More than that, she said that wife-beating was a hidden
evil, more widespread than most people knew, and that it had to be

exposed.
AliceQuemby, next door to Donna, was as excited and talkative
as Donna had been deliberate. She pointed out the picture window
in her living room and told Greydanus how she had sat by it and
seen terrible things happening in the Hughes apartment across the
street. She said the thought of testifying made her shake in her
boots, but she would do it because, like Donna, she knew that un-
less people had the courage to speak up Francine would not get a
 Ingham County Jail 219

fair trial. Francine, she said, was a nice, quiet person and it shocked
her that though everyone in Dansville knew what went on, no one
had volunteered to speak up for her. Yes, Alice said, she would take
the stand.
Donna Johnson's two sisters, Connie Feldpausch and Debbie
Brown, who lived in Lansing but had grown up in Dansville, also
agreed to testify. When Greydanus told Francine that the four
women were willing to help in her defense, she was quietly
amazed. She told him she hadn't realized they had known and sym-
pathized that much. As Francine had predicted, Betty Cover was
eager to do all she could. When Greydanus interviewed her she de-
scribed how Francine had often come to class with marks and
bruises she tried unsuccessfully to hide.
From his experience as a prosecutor Greydanus knew that each
time the police had been called to deal with Mickey, whether or
not he had been arrested, a detailed report of the incident had been
filed at the Sheriff Department. Greydanus wanted those reports.
He asked Houk to provide Mickey's police record. The prosecutor
refused. Finally Greydanus resorted to the Michigan Freedom of
Information Act. As a result, the County Attorney instructed the
Sheriff Department to produce whatever records it possessed and
Sheriff Preadmore provided Greydanus with a thick stack of re-
ports. Reading them over, Greydanus found they not only corrobo-
rated Francine, but gave exact information as to dates, circum-
stances, and the presence of other witnesses, Flossie and Berlin for
instance, that Francine could no longer recall. Greydanus inter-
viewed the officers who had been involved in these incidents, in-
cluding those who had come to the house on the day of the fire.
They were matter-of-fact as they told what they had seen. None ex-
pressed any sympathy or desire to help with the defense, but as
police officers they would testify to the facts in their reports no
matter what their feelings might be.
Finally Greydanus interviewed Francine's mother and sisters,
and decided they would not be helpful on the witness stand. None
of them had actually seen the worst of Mickey's behavior and, in
any case, their testimony would be suspect in the eyes of the jury.
Mrs. Moran brought the older children to Greydanus' office several
times. He found Christy a bright and forthright little girl who did
not hesitate to express her hatred for her father. She would be a
220 The Burning Bed

good witness for her mother. Jimmy struck Greydanus as a child

full of conflict and was clear that he loved his mother,
suffering. It
but talking of his father and the scenes he had witnessed seemed
excruciating for him. Both of them told the story of the fatal day in
the same way Francine had. Greydanus thought that the children
could help win sympathy for their mother, but there was also dan-
ger in their testimony if the prosecutor used it skillfully to under-
line the time that elapsed while Mickey slept and Francine waited
for Dana to come home. It was this lapse of time on which the
prosecutor would undoubtedly base his case that Francine had pre-
meditated her crime.
Even though Greydanus had more than half a dozen eyewit-
nesses and sheaves of documents to prove that Francine had been
horribly abused, he recognized that these alone would not consti-
tute a defense. Greydanus was convinced that ultimately Mickey
would have and he could see that she had tried one
killed Francine,
exit after another—flight, the police, the welfare office, the mental-
health clinic, the judge who had granted her divorce, and, ironi-
cally, the office of the prosecutor in which Greydanus was then
working— and found every door closed. "Every time I tried and
failed I just sank lower; I felt more beaten down," she told Grey-
danus, and it was clear to him that Mickey Hughes was a problem
that no one had known what to do about. His family, and the social
agencies and courts who dealt with him, invariably shunted him
back to Francine. Now society was punishing her for taking the
only way that remained to save her own life. Greydanus believed
that a plea of self-defense would be legitimate but legally shaky.
Self-defense is traditionally defined as occurring in the context of
immediate danger. In Francine's case the prosecutor would argue
that to save her life she had only to leave while Mickey slept,
requiring Greydanus to prove that her entire history, her situation
as a woman, her children, and her psychological state after years of
abuse, made flight impossible as long as Mickey lived. Yet, search-
ing the law books, Greydanus could not find a single precedent for
such an argument for self-defense.
Another possible defense was "temporary insanity.*' Greydanus
believed Francine's description of her trancelike state as she pre-
pared to burn the house. Whenever they discussed the fatal mo-
ments, Francine insisted, "Mr. Greydanus, I must have been crazy.
 Ingham County Jail 221

I must have been out of my mind. There is no other way I could

have done what I did." But in Michigan, insanity is a perilous de-
fense. A defendant acquitted by reason of "temporary insanity" is
set free, but a defendant found "guilty but mentally ill" serves the
same term in the same prison as a convicted criminal who is sane.
The only difference is token psychiatric treatment provided for the
insane.
In either defense, temporary insanity or self-defense, expert testi-

mony on Francine's state of mind would be important. Greydanus

arranged to have Dr. Arnold S. Berkman, an associate professor in
the Department of Psychiatry at Michigan State University, who
was experienced in legal psychiatry, examine Francine. Berkman
visited Francine in jail and talked to her for a total of six hours. In
a report to Greydanus Berkman wrote:
"Mrs. Hughes is an attractive woman, who was neat and well
groomed despite her prison attire. She related easily and non-
defensively, being frank and candid about the events of her life and
about the incident in question. She seemed eager to talk to me, and
spoke about events with much detail, even those events which were
painful for her to remember. Mrs. Hughes' style was both subtly
seductive and self-effacing. She spoke articulately and intelligently,
and although she gave an initial impression of sophistication, there
was also a quality of naivete and ingenuousness which at times
made her seem like a starry-eyed adolescent perceiving life through
Hollywood-tinted glasses. The totality of Mrs. Hughes' demeanor
and the general tone of her interactions made her at one and the
same time likeable, pitiful, believable, intelligent, refined, graceful,
and dignified.
"This present psychological examination revealed no evidence of
psychosis. Mrs.Hughes was coherent, was well oriented to person,
place, and and was very much in contact with reality.
time,
"At present Mrs. Hughes is deeply remorseful. The genuineness
and depth of her remorse are impressive and are certainly not simi-
lar to the shallow remorse found in most criminals."
So far Berkman had told Greydanus nothing that would help
acquit her, but in the final pages of his report he offered an opinion
that gave Greydanus something to work on: he had found
significant "psychopathology," and "maladaptive patterns of behav-
ior" in Francine. Her behavior at the time of the fire, Berkman
222 The Burning Bed

wrote, represented a psychological breakdown, during which she

had been overwhelmed by her most primitive emotions and unable
to make a rational judgment or decision. She had been, in short, to-
tally out of control.
Dr. Berkman told Greydanus he wanted to help defend Francine
and would be willing to testify that she had been pushed beyond
the bounds of sanity when she set fire to the house. Greydanus and
Berkman talked over the legal implications of his findings. Berkman
said he thought Francine suffered from what recent psychiatric lit-
erature terms a "borderline syndrome," meaning that extreme pres-
sure could cause her to have a temporary mental breakdown.
The fact that Francine's irrational state could be scientifically
described— and had been brief— gave Greydanus hope that he could
offer a "temporary insanity" defense without falling into the trap of
having Francine found "guilty but mentally ill." He decided to find
a second expert to back up Berkman. He and Berkman talked to
Dr. Anne Seiden, a psychiatrist at the University of Chicago, an ex-
pert on the psychology ofwomen, who agreed to see Francine.
would be paid out of state funds.
Both experts
As Berkman had, Dr. Seiden found Francine appealing and was
anxious to help her. She described Francine as "a quietly attractive
person . . . Her words indicate an intelligence greater than her
educational level would imply, but at times she showed evidence of
considerable naivete. She is like a bright little girl who is desper-
ately trying to be a good little girl in a world which has become
more complex than she was prepared for." Seiden summed up
Mickey's behavior as "exquisitely targeted sadism," pointing out
that by forcing Francine to burn her books he had forced her to de-
stroy herself—what Seiden called "her personhood"— since it was in
school that she had "begun to feel like a person for the first time in
her life." As with Berkman, Francine had responded to Seiden with
complete candor. "In fact," Seiden wrote in her report to Grey-
danus, "she appeared to be using the interview as part of her at-
tempt to understand herself and how she could have come to do
what she did, which obviously concerns her greatly." Seiden agreed
with Berkman that Francine had exhibited symptoms of a mental
breakdown consistent with "borderline syndrome," and told Grey-
danus she would be willing to testify that on the day Mickey died,
 Ingham County Jail 223

Francine was temporarily mentally ill and not criminally respon-

sible for what she had done.
Greydanus told Francine what the doctors had found and
discussed the odds involved. If the jury believed she had been tem-
porarily insane, she could be acquitted and get off scot-free. The
law required only that after the acquittal she be certified presently
sane, and Greydanus had no doubt she would be. On the other
hand, the temporary insanity defense opened the door to the terri-
ble verdict "guilty but mentally ill" and a mandatory life sentence.
Francine answered without hesitation. She told Greydanus she
wanted to tell the truth in court, regardless of the consequences.
She believed she had been temporarily insane when she set the fire
and it was on those terms that she wanted to be judged.

From the moment he began to prepare Francine's defense, Grey-

danus had been worried by the fact that she was charged not with
one offense, but two. The charges against her read:
"Count I, March 9, 1977, did then and there with malice afore-
thought, willfully, deliberately, and with premeditation, inten-
tionally kill James Berlin Hughes, contrary to compiled law. . . .

"Count II, did then and there murder James Berlin Hughes
while perpetrating or attempting to perpetrate the crime of Arson,
contrary to compiled law. .
." .

Count II seemed to Greydanus a clear case of legal overkill. It

was also the more dangerous of the two charges. In deliberating on
Count I, first-degree murder, the jury would have the option of
finding Francine guilty to a lesser degree— second-degree murder or
manslaughter were possible verdicts— but Count II allowed no mid-
dle ground; the only possible verdicts were innocent or guilty. If
she were found guilty, a life sentence would be mandatory, with
parole possible only after twenty years.
Several times Greydanus brought motions before Judge Harrison
asking him to dismiss Count II, arguing that it was a repetition of
Count I. If Francine's intention had been to kill her husband, the
firethat resulted was not a felony, but part and parcel of the
murder with which she was charged in Count I. Each time Har-
rison refused to dismiss the second count. Greydanus had never for-
gotten the remark that Harrison had made— "After all, what kind of
woman would burn up her husband?"— and it seemed to him to
224 The Burning Bed
When Harrison had ruled
demonstrate prejudice against Francine.
againsthim a number of times, Greydanus became convinced that
any other judge would be preferable to Harrison and decided to
make an effort to get rid of him, taking the risk that if the move
failed the judge would be even less sympathetic as he conducted
the trial. Greydanus filed a motion asking that Harrison disqualify
himself on the grounds of prejudice, quoting the remark he had
made about Francine as evidence of his preconceived opinion
about her crime. Judge Harrison refused to disqualify himself and
also denied that he had ever made such a remark. Since he had said
it while he and Greydanus talked off the record, the court stenog-

rapher had not taken it down and Greydanus couldn't prove the in-
cident had occurred. Nevertheless, Greydanus refused to give up.
He asked the Chief Judge of the Circuit Court to review Harrison's
refusal. This motion was also denied, and Greydanus resigned him-
self to trying the case befora Harrison.
All during the summer, publicity on the Hughes case built up.
Silvia Chase, an ABC reporter, picked up the story as holding par-
ticular interest to women. Her TV broadcasts spurred on the local
papers. The Defense Committee was also creating a considerable
stir, even holding a rally on the steps of City Hall. Greydanus was
bothered by the Defense Committee's desire to shape Francine's
case in order to prove their point that the social system had failed
her. The Defense Committee believed that by pleading temporary
insanity she dodged the issue of a woman's right to defend herself.
Greydanus thought that making her trial a test case on a social
issue could be disastrous for her, and he and the committee wound
up at odds. Nevertheless, thecommittee had been effective in get-
ting attention, and Francine's trial was building up to an event of
the first magnitude— the biggest news story Lansing had seen in
years. For Greydanus the publicity raised the stakes to an uncom-
fortable degree. If he won his case the victory would be all the
sweeter, but if he failed he was, in his own words, "going to take a
very deep dive."
The publicity was also putting pressure on Houk, but if he had
any second thoughts about Francine's prosecution, he gave no sign
of it. Greydanus guessed that the prosecutor had a bear by the tail;
he couldn't let go and still save face. When the Defense Committee
issued a statement attacking the prosecutor as "incredibly callous"
 Ingham County Jail 225

to the needs of battered women, a spokesman, Assistant Prosecu-

tor Lee Atkinson, retorted, "I view the case as ... a very
straightforward case of premeditated murder. Francine is not the
person ever to be afraid.
first . . The best personal advice I could
.

have given her is that, while I don't know the answer, the alterna-
tive is not to commit murder."
After several postponements Greydanus saw no use in further
delay. Palus agreed, and the trial was set for October 17. As the
trial neared, Greydanus was under tremendous tension. His sense of

responsibility was the heaviest he had ever felt. If Francine should

be convicted and spend a long term in prison because of his error
or omission, he would find it hard to live with. He also knew that
when he walked into the courtroom he would be putting his career
on the line.
By October Francine had spent seven months in the Ingham
County Jail, and Greydanus had come to know her better than he
had ever known anyone except his family and closest friends. He
believed that only if he and she together could make the jury see
her life through her eyes, and make it as vividly real as it had be-
come to him, would there be any chance of winning her freedom.
As Francine shook off her initial anguish and despair, Greydanus
became aware of a complex and, in some ways, mystifying person-
ality. She was trusting, compliant, and thoughtful. When he asked

her a question she seldom answered quickly, but sat silent, some-
times for minutes, searching her memory and framing her answer
as exactly as she could. It occurred to Greydanus that in the course
of their sessions she was evaluating her past in a way that she
found new and astonishing. But though fully cooperative, she re-
fused to be led, deciding for herself where the truth lay. Greydanus
began to recognize that beneath her docility lay hidden strength:
an ego of whose power she seemed unaware.
After each session it would seem that she must have exhausted
what she could tell him, yet when Greydanus returned for another
visit he would learn something new: another anecdote or detail that

made her story either more credible or more horrifying, adding to

the effect he wanted to achieve when they came before a jury.
As the weeks went by Greydanus had seen Francine develop and
change, becoming less humble and tentative, more self-possessed
and independent. Now and then, beneath her willingness to please,
226 The Burning Bed
Greydanus glimpsed iron determination to reach whatever goal she
set. Sometimes she displayed her quick wit, an ability to detect the

ridiculous and expose it with a quick, audacious question. She

could be exasperating, too, and there were moments when Grey-
danus had an inkling of how she might have goaded Mickey with
subtly stinging words.
One day, toward the end, as Greydanus instructed her on what to
wear in court— skirts rather than slacks, earth tones rather than pas-
tels, no earrings or other jewelry— she gave him a speculative look

and asked, "Are you making me over? Am I your Fair Lady?"

Greydanus laughed and said, "If so, I hope I'm not Henry Higgins.
That's not the kind of person I want to be," but he knew there was
truth in what she said. She had never before had so much attention
from intelligent, educated people, and she seized every opportunity
to learn from them.
By mid-October, with the trial only days away, Greydanus felt
that he had done everything that could be done, but that only a
miracle could bring an acquittal. Dr. Berkman and Dr. Seiden
would testify that Francine had been temporarily insane. The pros-
ecutor had had Francine examined by their own expert, Dr. Lynn
W. Blunt, Clinical Director of the Center for Forensic Psychiatry in
Ypsilanti, Michigan. Greydanus had a copy of Blunt's report to
Houk, which described the horrifying circumstances with which
Greydanus was so familiar, but concluded that in a legal sense
Francine was sane when she killed Mickey Hughes. The jury would
have to choose between these conflicting opinions, and Greydanus
believed that sympathy would be the most important factor in their
choice. He also expected Judge Harrison to conduct the trial in a
lofty, arrogant style that would exclude sympathy as much as possi-
ble. He had had no dealings with the judge since his motions alleg-
ing prejudice had been turned down, but he assumed that the epi-
sode had done nothing to improve their relations.
Five days before the trial was scheduled to begin, Greydanus
was in his office making last-minute notes when his secretary told
him Judge Harrison was on the telephone. "What on earth .
?"
. .

Greydanus wondered as he picked up the phone.

The judge was brisk. He wanted to talk to Greydanus in his office
at eight o'clock the following morning and he wanted Greydanus to
bring Francine. Greydanus asked what the meeting would be
 Ingham County Jail 227

about. "I want to talk about this prejudice thing," the judge said.
"And I want it with your client." Greydanus agreed to be
to discuss
there. When he hung up he knew that a crucial encounter was in
the making. He decided that under no circumstances would he
allow the judge to talk to Francine. Every word uttered might be
important and he would take no chances that a naive response from
Francine would compromise her position. Furthermore, Greydanus
decided, he wanted the prosecutor present and he wanted the
meeting to be on the record.
Greydanus telephoned Palus and found that he knew nothing of
the private meeting the judge had proposed. Greydanus reminded
Palus that it is improper for a judge to talk to one party in a case
unless the other is present. Palus said that he would be in the court-
house on other business that morning and would be available.
Greydanus called the Sheriff Department and asked to have Fran-
cine brought to the courthouse the following morning, but specified
that she should be kept in an anteroom unless he sent for her.
In the morning Greydanus presented himself at Harrison's office.
"Where is your client?" the judge asked. Greydanus decided to
defer a showdown on that point, so he replied mildly that she was
on her way. However, Greydanus said, Mr. Palus was in the adjoin-
ing courtroom and he would like him to be present. The judge
looked surprised, but it would have been difficult for him to refuse.
Palus appeared and Harrison ushered both men into his office to
wait for Francine. Then Greydanus politely remarked that he
wanted whatever took place to be on the record. The judge looked
even more surprised, but had no choice but to send for a court ste-
nographer. When everyone was seated, Greydanus began. "Your
Honor, I don't want my client to appear at this meeting." He went
on to point out that a defendant has the absolute right to remain si-
lent. Furthermore, he said, Francine might construe the meeting as
further evidence of the judge's bias against her.
Harrison, obviously taken aback, said that he had given a great
deal of thought to the allegation that he was prejudiced. The alle-
gation was, he said, untrue. However, there had been a new devel-
opment in regard to the remark that Greydanus had quoted. The
judge said he himself had no recollection of saying anything of the
sort, but the clerk who had been sitting within earshot had recently

told him that she had heard the judge say something similar to
228 The Burning Bed
what Greydanus recalled. Therefore, Judge Harrison said, he would
like to talk to Francine to find out if she actually believed him to be
prejudiced against her.
Greydanus said that Francine's sworn statement asking Harrison
to disqualify himself should be sufficient. Tm
sorry, Your Honor,"
Greydanus said, "but my client has a right to say nothing more."
Harrison looked disconcerted. "Well," he said slowly, "it seems
we are at an impasse."
For several long moments no one spoke. Then Harrison rose from
his desk. "I have decided to disqualify myself," he said. "I am not
prejudiced in any way, but since doubts have been raised I believe
it would be best if I did not conduct this trial."

Greydanus, concealing his jubilation, thanked the judge and the

uncomfortable meeting was over.
As a result of Harrison's decision to withdraw, the trial was post-
poned for a week, to October 24, and Judge Ray C. Hotchkiss was
selected to preside. Hotchkiss, forty-eight years old and a former
Navy officer, customarily ran his courtroom with good-natured
efficiency, squelching histrionics and taking an active role in keep-
ing affairs on the track. While a legal hot potato like the Hughes
case might bother a less confident judge, Greydanus guessed that
Hotchkiss would find it just his dish. It was said around the court-
room that he enjoyed adding to his increasingly thick scrapbook of
newspaper clippings. Greydanus had no clue as to how Hotchkiss
would feel personally about Francine's case, but considered him a
fair and open-minded man. For the first time in eight months of
hard work and worry, Greydanus thought that he and Francine had
a fighting chance.
Four days before the trial was to begin, Greydanus received a
call from Martin Palus. Palus was not one of the group on Houk's
staff that had forced Greydanus' departure, and the two men were
on politely friendly terms. Palus told Greydanus that some new evi-
dence in the Hughes case had just turned up and suggested Grey-
danus come to his office to discuss it. Mystified, Greydanus agreed.
He was confident that he knew everything about Francine that
could matter. When Greydanus entered his office, Palus asked him
to sit down. "Do you remember reading about a guy who killed
himself recently? A security guard at the capitol?" he asked.
Greydanus shook his head.
 Ingham County Jail 229

"His name was George Walkup," Palus said.

Greydanus looked blank. "I've never heard of him as far as I
know."
"Francine Hughes has heard of him," Palus said with a cryptic
smile.
"Tell me what you mean," Greydanus said, and Palus did. He
said that some months earlier George Walkup had been charged
with a sex offense involving the rape of a child: that Walkup was a
very kinky guy. He faced trial and probably a long term in the pen-
itentiary. On October 5, while talking on the telephone to his wife,
George Walkup shot himself. A week later his superior officer at the
capitol cleaned out Walkup's locker and looked through his per-
sonal effects. At the bottom of the locker he found letters signed
"Francine." At that moment "Francine" was the most famous first
name in Lansing. He had given the letters to Tift. Palus opened a
file on his desk and handed Greydanus Xeroxed copies of a sheaf of

handwritten pages, and leaned back contentedly in his chair. Grey-

danus recognized Francine's neat handwriting on fined tablet
sheets. As he read the salutation, "Sweetheart," his heart sank.
Palus waited as Greydanus, trying not to show his consternation,
read on. "Well . .here I am again, trying to write you. This is
.

just about the tenth I've written and torn up. ." The letters,
. .

dated in late April, six weeks after Mickey's death, were an out-
pouring of intimate thoughts coupled with girlish flirtation and
amorous references. "I just can't seem to close this letter. It's just
like I felt when I was near you. I didn't want to ever leave you. I
just kept thinking of things I want to tell you. Like right now I feel
warm all over, like when you looked at me the way you used to.
You know, when you did that to me with your eyes, I felt like the
closest I could get to you wouldn't be close enough! Well, just the
thought of you does that to me now."
Greydanus glanced grimly at Palus, who shrugged in sympathy.
He knew how an attorney feels when an important case blows up
in his face. Greydanus continued to read until he had finished the
dozen pages, using the time to take control of himself, determined
not to show his surprise. The letters made it perfectly clear that
Francine had had a sexual relationship with another man before
Mickey died and that she was still in love with him several months
later. In all his hours of searching talk with Francine, she had never
230 The Burning Bed
given the slightest hint of such a relationship. There was no doubt
Francine was the author of the letters; she had written freely of her
situation in the Ingham County Jail. In addition to the amorous
passages were others that told of her loneliness, grief, and fear.
Greydanus knew he would have to say something. He seized on this
aspect.
"Marty, these are pathetic," he said, putting the letters down.
Palus waited expectantly. Greydanus thought, "I don't know
what it is but there's got to be some explanation for this." After a
few moments of guarded talk, Greydanus put the photocopies Palus
had given him in his pocket. "Thanks, Marty," he said. "I guess I've
got a problem." He took his leave.
Walking back he found himself seething with rage at
to his office,
Francine. Then it why Marty called me
occurred to him, "That's
over. He didn't have to show me the letters. He did it hoping I'd
blow up, hoping I'd tell Francine I've lost faith in her and advise
her to plead guilty. He and Houk think they've got me nailed to the
wall!"
Greydanus' first impulse was to storm over to the Ingham County

Jail and demand an explanation from Francine, but it was late in

the day. He decided to go home to supper first. As he drove he
struggled to keep his anger under control and think the situation
through. He could see that even though Palus was totally confident
of victory, he would prefer to avoid a controversial trial. He could
also see that on the face of it the letters could make a shambles of
Francine's insanity defense and put him, as defense attorney, in a
highly embarrassing position. Yet, in spite of the evidence in his
pocket, he could not believe that Francine was merely an adulteress
who had ex-husband to get him out of the way of an il-
killed her
licit love affair. When he reached home he told Rosemary, his wife,

what had happened and what he had decided: "I'm going out to
see Francine and I'm going to be calm. If I lay into her about this it
will destroy our relationship. Then there'll be no way to get the
truth and retrieve what we can. I'm just going to let her explain
this."
In the conference room at the jail he waited for Francine, re-
hearsing his first words. When she had been brought in and was sit-

ting opposite him he said quietly, "Well, Francine, tonight our talk
isn't going to be so pleasant. I've been to the prosecutor's office and
 Ingham County Jail 231

this iswhat they gave me." He handed her the Xerox sheets. Fran-
cine looked at them in disbelief. For a moment she said nothing
and Greydanus watched her face. She showed the shock of surprise,
but no guilt or shame. Looking straight at him, she said simply,
"These are some letters I wrote."
"I realize that," Greydanus said. "But you never told me about
them and you never mentioned this person."
"I meant to tell you," Francine said, "but I just didn't want to at
the time. Later it wasn't important."
Greydanus could be very angry about
said, "Well, Francine, I
this,but I'm not going to be. I'm upset because you may have really
hurt yourself. These letters may put you in prison for the rest of
your life. Do you understand that?"
Francine nodded. She cried in her quiet way. Greydanus
changed the subject to give her time to recover. Then he said,
"Now you'd better tell me everything about this guy— everything
you didn't tell me before."
Francine described her meeting with George Walkup in the
lounge at Lansing Business College and how she had built up ro-
mantic notions that had been extinguished by the discovery that
George Walkup was married and living with his wife. She told
how, during her second month in jail, when her morale was at its
lowest ebb, Betty Cover had relayed messages from George that
rekindled her feelings. It was obvious that Francine found it em-
barrassing and difficult to discuss sex, but she confessed that in jail,
along with her other frustrations, she had suffered from sexual pri-
vation as long-repressed erotic feelings came to life. Even as she
wrote to George she knew the letters were foolish, and when there
was no response she forgot them. It had never occurred to her that
they might come to light, and she naturally wanted to know how
the prosecutor had got them. Greydanus told her that Walkup was
dead. He tried to postpone telling her about his suicide and the
reason for it, but Francine insisted. When he told her the whole
story she was appalled.
At the end of the talk Greydanus felt much better. Everything
she told him was consistent with what he already knew about Fran-
cine. She hadn't lied to him; she had merely omitted something of
which she was ashamed. As she described how she had felt when
she wrote the letters— how desperately lonely, abandoned, longing
232 The Burning Bed

for comfort and love—he began to see how the letters could be
for
woven he intended to draw for the jury: a
into the character sketch
woman of deep emotion who was too trusting in her judgments and
had been victimized once again.
Greydanus knew that when he and Francine were in the court-
room a relationship of trust between them would be vital. They
would have to work as a team and Francine would have to do her
share, keeping her head, responding to his cues and even prompt-
ing him as the testimony unfolded. It would be fatal if she were de-
moralized by fear. He told her that the discovery of the letters was
a bad break, but that if she handled them as candidly in court as
she had with him he believed they would not damage her case.
When he left the jail that night he felt their trust in each other was
as solid as ever.
Two days later there was an event that more than balanced the
setback of the Walkup letters. When Judge Hotchkiss was ap-
pointed in Harrison's stead, Greydanus had prepared a new motion
asking to have Count II, the arson charge, dismissed. As he had
with Harrison, Greydanus argued that the fire and Mickey's death
were a single event and did not constitute two distinct crimes.
Hotchkiss agreed. He
dismissed Count II. Greydanus was jubilant.
He had a sudden feeling that the tide was turning his way.
 The People vs.
Francine Hughes

The case of The People vs. Francine Hughes opened at ten o'clock
in the morning on Monday, October 24, in a courtroom on the mez-
zanine floor of the City Hall in Lansing. Long before the courtroom
doors opened, the lobby and corridors were crowded with people
hoping for a seat. In the week before the trial, daily newspaper and
TV stories whipped up public interest. The Defense Committee had
continued to describe Francine as the victim of a heartless system.
Houk had reiterated that she was a common, cold-blooded killer
and promised that the prosecution would unveil a blockbuster sur-
prise.Dozens of newspapers, several national wire services, and TV
networks had sent reporters and cameramen to cover the trial. ABC
reporter Silvia Chase brought an artist to sketch the scene in-
side the courtroom, where photographers would not be allowed.
Mickey's brothers were there with their wives. Dexter Hughes, who
was divorced from Cleo and living in Nashville, had come north for
the occasion accompanied by a gaudily dressed country singer. A
number of Francine's neighbors from Dansville, including the Ei-
ferts and her former landlord, were in the crowd, but her old
friends, Sharon and Bill Hensley, had decided not to come. Sharon
had written Francine a note: "I won't be at your trial. I'm sorry. I
just can't." Flossie Hughes was also absent. She would be a witness
and therefore would not be allowed in the courtroom except when
she testified. Berlin had been excused from testifying on his doctor's
234 ^^ Burning Bed

advice. He had been taken ill after Mickey's death and spent weeks
in the hospital. He did not come to the trial.
For a fortnight before the trial Francine found it difficult to eat
or sleep. She fought to keep her emotions steady, but the nerve-
wracking events in the last days, as Harrison was replaced by
Hotchkiss, her letters were discovered, and Count II was dismissed,
made it impossible. Her reactions, whether of new hope or added
despair, were as intense as physical pain. Even before these epi-
sodes, the buildup of tension was so increasingly hard to bear that
she wanted above everything to get the trial over with.
"I was tired of thinking about it. I was tired of being scared. I
was tired of not knowing what would happen. I was tired of every-
thing. I had prayed a lot. The way I prayed was not for God to let
me out, but for Him to make me strong enough to face anything
. . even the worst ... a long term in prison. I asked for strength
.

to face that possibility. I prayed for it nightly, daily, and He gave it

to me. I knew that when I walked into the courtroom I might very
well be sent to prison for the rest of my life and that with God's
help I could face it."
On the morning of the trial Francine woke at dawn. She got up
and washed and dressed while the other women still slept. When
breakfast came at six, she found she couldn't swallow solid food.
She drank the juice and the coffee and stored the rest in a paper
bag in her bunk. She thought, "It's a weird life when a little box of
cornflakes is so important. Will it be that way for the rest of my
life?"
At seven a matron brought her court clothes and Francine put on
a brown jumper and a beige turtleneck sweater. Following Grey-
danus' instructions, she used very little makeup. Her cellmates
gathered around her, telling her how nice she looked, offering ad-
vice and encouragement, and trying to quiet her nerves with jokes.
When her best friend, Melanie, still facing trial herself, hugged her,
Francine had to fight back tears. At eight Francine was escorted to
the lobby and put in the custody of Deputy Nancy Shelton, a burly
woman about Francine's age. Shelton had two other women in tow.
She snapped handcuffs on Francine, linking her to the others, and
herded them to a waiting police car.
There was little said on the twenty-minute drive to Lansing.
Francine stared out the window at the woods, bright with color in
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 235

the autumn and the cornfields that stretched peacefully to the

sun,
horizon. She remembered that only a year before she had driven
this road every weekday on her way to school. After this week she
might never see it again— or not until she was very old. A year ago
could she have imagined that she would make the trip in a police
car, handcuffed to two other criminals? It would have been beyond
her wildest dreams.
At City Hall the police car drove down a ramp to the basement,
where the prisoners were unloaded. Shelton took the handcuffed
women to an elevator. They rode in silence to an upper floor where
the Lansing Police Department maintains a small cellblock for pris-
oners waiting to appear in court. Francine and the others were
locked into a single cell. Court would not convene for an hour.
The cell, used for transients including overnight drunks, had a
foul, dank smell. It was furnished with a steel bunk lacking mat-
tress or pillow, a toilet, and a sink from which rusty water trickled.
Beyond the bars were a catwalk and a window that faced a brick
wall. A fluorescent light gave a strange cast to the prisoners' faces.
Not far away Francine could hear the voices of men prisoners;
some sounded drunk or crazy as they cursed or shouted. There were
already two women sitting on the bunk, smoking. Francine sat
down and lit a cigarette. It made her dizzy and she put it out, care-
fully saving the butt. The two women who had ridden in with her
paced up and down. No one had much interest in conversation.
Francine read the graffiti scratched everywhere on the black walls.
Amidst long skeins someone had written, "If you
of obscenities
can't stand the time, don't do the crime."
While Francine waited she felt an attack of panic coming on and
fought it down. When Shelton returned, Francine had forced her-
self into an almost dreamlike calm. Shelton told her to hold out her
wrists for handcuffs. "Do I wear them into the courtroom?" Fran-
cine asked. Shelton nodded and snapped them on. She led Francine
to the elevator and they rode to the mezzanine floor. The doors
opened on a short ramp. Beyond was a corridor jammed with peo-
ple. As Francine was recognized, a wave of excitement and noise
rippled through the crowd. Greydanus was standing near, waiting
for her. He took her arm and led the way. She was blinded by pho-
tographers' flashguns and nearly tripped up by cords, as reporters
thrust microphones in front of her face. "Don't say anything," Grey-
 a

236 The Burning Bed

danus told her. "Look straight ahead." They entered the courtroom
through a door at the rear. Francine had seen the room before—
large windowless theater with rust-colored walls, rows of benches,
and, flanking the judge's bench, the flags and seals symbolizing his
awesome authority. Every seat was taken, and as she and Grey-
danus appeared as though from the wings of a stage, the audience
stirred and murmured in recognition of the stars. There was a long
narrow table in front of the bench, and a number of straight chairs.
Greydanus and Francine took seats at the far end— on the audi-
ence's right.
Francine saw that Palus and Lieutenant Tift were already sitting
at the opposite end of the table. Palus avoided glancing at her, but
Tift gave his strange, smirking smile. Shelton, who was taking the
cuffs from Francine's wrists, smiled back at her colleague, then took
a chair against the wall behind Francine. Greydanus and Francine
faced the empty jury box. Greydanus had already explained that he
wanted Francine to sit where the jury would have a full view of
her. Francine, in profile to the audience, was grateful she didn't
have to look in that direction. One sideways glance over the rows of
expectant faces, some familiar, brought such an attack of stage
fright that she tried not to look again. A court attendant announced
the judge. Everyone stood as Hotchkiss swept in, wearing a black

robe, and mounted to the bench. A short, vigorous man, partially

bald, he wore an expression that struck Francine as businesslike,
but not grim. He looked over the crowd with an open, friendly
gaze, glancing at Palus, at Greydanus, and at Francine. Then, with
a rap of the gavel, Judge Hotchkiss took charge of the courtroom
and the trial began.
The first step was the selection of a jury. A bailiff opened a rear
door and escorted fourteen men and women to the jury box for
questioning. Greydanus explained to Francine that the defense and
the prosecution were each allowed a certain number of challenges
and could use them to eliminate jurors they suspected might be
hostile or prejudiced one way or the other.
When a juror was asked to step down, another was brought in
from a pool of prospective jurors waiting outside. Francine tried to
follow the proceedings, but found herself confused by the intricate
maneuvering. Greydanus wanted no older men on the jury, espe-
cially none who worked in law enforcement or a rigid profession
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 237
such as engineering or banking. He settled for a young, unmarried
man with long hair and a married man who was a student at the
university in Lansing. Among the women he considered middle-
aged women who had happy marriages and children more likely to
be sympathetic, and challenged unmarried professionals or women
who might themselves have been beaten.
As the prospective jurors were questioned, strongly opposing
opinions emerged. A number of people believed there could be no
excuse for killing except in the face of immediate danger to one's
own life. Others confessed they were horrified by the manner of
Mickey's death. They said they might understand stabbing or
shooting, but fire was utterly abhorrent. Those who admitted such
feelings were excused for prejudice favoring the prosecution. No
one admitted favoring the defense, though Palus used his chal-
lenges to get rid of those he suspected of feminist views.
When half a dozen jurors had been accepted, court adjourned for
lunch. Shelton handcuffed Francine and returned her to the up-
stairs cell, where a matron served a meal of bread, water, and a
chicken pot pie frozen in the middle and burned at the edges.
Francine ate the bread, washing down each swallow. She gave the
pie to a cellmate. When Shelton returned and brought her down in
the elevator, Greydanus was waiting as before to lead her through
the crowd.
By four o'clock, two men and twelve women had been selected.
A panel of fourteen would hear the evidence. At the time of the
verdict, two jurors would be eliminated by drawing lots. Greydanus
stillhad challenges left, but he thought the panel a good one. Only
two jurors worried him— an unmarried woman who worked in a
bank and a housewife whose son was a policeman—but he feared
that if he eliminated them Palus would seat others even worse. He
asked Francine how she felt about the jurors. She shrugged help-
lessly. All day she had sat rigid, expressionless, almost dazed, and

Greydanus worried that she wouldn't be able to help him when he

needed her. He touched her hand. "Come on, Francine," he whis-
pered, "you've got work to do, too." She managed a faint smile.
"They look okay," she said. "Ordinary, decent people, I guess."
Greydanus told the judge that the defense was satisfied. Palus
was also. The jurors took their seats in the box. Then, as though
moved by a single impulse, all of them turned toward Francine. To
238 The Burning Bed
her, their faces appeared blandly expectant, like an audience wait-
ing for the lights to go down and the film to begin, and she
thought, "What is reality for me is just a show for them and for ev-
eryone else here." She had to fight an impulse to stand up and
shout, "Look, everybody, let's call this off right now. Send me to
prison and get it over with. I apologize for causing all this trouble.
Don't make me sit here, scared to death, wondering what you'll do
with me. Don't torture me for days. What for? You'll never know
the truth!"
She heard Hotchkiss announcing that in the time that remained
he would hear opening arguments by the opposing attorneys, and
saw Palus, dressed in a light-colored, sharply tailored leisure suit,
get to his feet. "Your Honor, Ladies and Gentlemen ." he began
. .

in his well-mannered, low-keyed voice, and Francine found herself

listening as he began to describe what purported to be her life.
More in sorrow than in anger, Palus outlined the case he in-
tended to prove. He told how two deputies had broken up a domes-
tic dispute on the afternoon of March 9, and afterward Hughes, the

victim, had gone to bed. The dead man's children would testify that
their mother had sat down calmly while their father slept and after
an interval told them to get ready to leave. The children noticed a
can of gasoline by the bedroom door before their mother led them
to the car. Then, with the house in flames, she had driven them to
the police station and cried out a confession of her crime. At the
end of his address to the jury Palus partially unveiled the letters to
Walkup. Francine's motive, he said, was "an intimate relationship"
with another man— a man she wanted to be with more than anyone
else in the world. Such clearcut evidence, Palus said, could add up
to nothing less than murder in the first degree.
When he sat down, Francine thought, "Yes. That's how it all
must seem. It makes more sense than the truth."
Greydanus got up and slowly walked over to stand before the
jury. He was wearing a dark gray business suit. His manner was se-
rious and sincere. "Some people argue better than others," he
began. "It is the evidence that counts and you must weigh it in the
context of your whole experience in life and what you know to be
right and wrong. .
." For a moment more he talked in generalities
.

in order to give the jury time to become accustomed to his presence

and style, his tall figure and the sound of his voice.
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 239

"In listening to the prosecutor," Greydanus went on, "I get the
impression this is a very simple case. Very simple." He paused and
let his glance rest on each of the jurors in turn. His round specta-
cles gave his boyish features a professorial look. He noticed that
the courtroom was quieter than it had been when Palus spoke, and
hoped it was a sign that his listeners were more interested in Fran-
cine's version of events than the prosecutor's. "Mr. Palus," he con-
tinued, "is going to present some fifty witnesses to you and yet it all
boils down to that simple case he explained to you. ."
. .

Greydanus went on to point out how much Palus had omitted:

that the police had been called to Francine's house not once, but
countless times; that the police "assistance" mentioned by Palus had
amounted to nothing; that the house was Francine's, and Mickey,
her ex-husband, lived there because she knew no way to make him
leave; that he had repeatedly threatened to kill her if she ran away.
There would be no denial, Greydanus told the jury, that Francine
had set the fire. What was deniable was the charge that she had
done it deliberately; that she had planned her actions on the fatal
night. As for the "intimate relationship" Palus had mentioned,
Greydanus promised that it, also, would appear in a quite different
light.
When Greydanus finished, the session ended. Francine was re-
turned to the upstairs cell to wait for transportation "home" to the
Ingham County Jail. She was not offered food and her stomach hurt
miserably. The women who had shared the cell earlier had been
taken elsewhere. Her single cellmate, a black woman, lay face
down on the naked bunk, crying. Utterly exhausted, Francine sat
silently on the floor, staring at the black graffiti-scratched walls, lis-

tening to the sounds of the cellblock— footsteps, cries, curses, fists or

shoes pounding on metal doors as inmates sought to attract the at-
tention of their jailers. The place reeked of desperation and degra-
dation. Would state prison be like this? She dared not think of what
would become of her if it were.

As court convened on the second day of the trial, Francine was

again led through the packed corridor while flashbulbs flickered
along her path. Some of the spectators held newspapers with front-
page stories of the previous day's events. MRS. HUGHES AC-
CUSED OF ILLICIT AFFAIR was the headline in The State
240 The Burning Bed
Journal. "Francine Hughes was having an intimate relationship
with an unidentified man, and that was the key to her actions last
March when she set a fire that killed her ex-husband, the prosecu-
tion contended yesterday. ."
. .

Inside the courtroom Judge Hotchkiss rapped for order and the
day began. It was Mr. Palus' first move. He had chosen as his open-
ing witness one of the deputies who had come to 1079 Grove Street
in response to Christy's call for help on the day of the fire. His
name was Steven Schlachter. A blond man, about thirty, he took
the stand with the nonchalance of a professional who feels at ease
with the law. After preliminary questions establishing his arrival at
the house, Palus asked him to describe what he had found.
Schlachter gave his answers in a dry, matter-of-fact tone.
"What condition was Mrs. Hughes in?" Palus asked.
"She was upset. She looked like she had been crying."
"Do you recall your conversation with Mrs. Hughes?"
"She said that he, Mr. Hughes, had been hitting her on the head
but he stopped when I pulled up . .
."

"What did Mr. Hughes say?"

"He said it was true."
"And what was Mr. Hughes' attitude during this conversation?"
"Very disrespectful. Very obscene. Both to me and Mrs.
Hughes."
"And did Mrs. Hughes respond?"
"She didn't argue. She was relatively calm."
"Do you remember what condition her clothing was in?"
"A little bit disrupted . not ripped."
. .

"And did Mr. Hughes make any threats?"

"He told her it was all over for her now that she had called the
police. He said he was going to kill her and then he made threats to
me.
"Did Mrs. Hughes indicate she wanted to sign a complaint?"
"No, sir. She did not."

Greydanus listened to the questions and answers, surprised that

Palus had chosen this opening. He could only suppose that Palus
had decided that since the "domestic quarrel," as he insisted on
calling it, was certain to be described, he had decided to get it over
with, hoping that whatever sympathy for Francine it aroused
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 241

would be dissipated by later testimony. Unfortunately for the pros-

ecutor, Deputy Schlachter's testimony was giving the jurors their
first glimpse of what Francine had endured that day, and his blood-

less tone and laconic answers made that glimpse all the more tanta-
lizing. Greydanus could sense surprise and tension in the jury box—

an eagerness to know more.

When his turn came to cross-examine, Greydanus drew out de-
tails that filled in the picture— Mickey's foul language, for instance:
"Was this common, ordinary swearing, sir?"
"Common gutter language, yes."
"Gutter language? Is that worse than ordinary?"
Schlachter shrugged. "I don't know."
There was a ripple of laughter and Greydanus, smiling, looked
incredulous that Deputy Schlachter was not acquainted with
swearing of all degrees. Greydanus knew that small hypocrisies can
erode credibility. He went on to draw from Schlachter the fact that
Francine had wanted very much to leave the house, but had told
the officers she had no place to go. Then, after underlining Mickey's
threats, he asked, "Mr. Schlachter, why didn't you take him away?"
Schlachter hesitated. "Because he had made the same threats to
me. They seemed like . just words. He had an opportunity when
. .

he was threatening me to back it up and he didn't."

Greydanus looked baffled. "Mr. Schlachter, did you think that
you, in uniform and with a gun on your hip, were in the same posi-
tion as Francine? Are you equating your position with hers? Wasn't
it obvious to you, sir, that he wasn't going to do anything while you

were there?"
Schlachter looked uncomfortable. "No. I didn't assume that."
"Mr. Schlachter, you were informed that he stopped beating her
when you pulled up. Wasn't it very possible that after you left the
beating would begin again?"
"That would be possible," Schlachter agreed.
When the witness stepped down, Greydanus felt an exhilarating
glow. The opening couldn't have been better if he had planned it
himself.
As his second witness Palus called Deputy Dean Malm, who had
accompanied Schlachter to the house on March 9. Palus led Malm
through essentially the same testimony that Schlachter had given,
also minimizing the more violent aspects of the scene. When Palus
242 The Burning Bed

finished, Greydanus took over and again drew out details that en-
larged the picture.
"You indicate Mr. Hughes was abusive and called Francine foul
names."
"Yes, sir."

"Like what?"
"Do you want me to repeat the terminology?"
"Certainly."
"He called her a son of a bitch and a whore. It's hard to recall all
of it."

"You mean there was more?"

"Yes, sir."

"And all of this time Francine sat there and basically just re-
sponded 'yes' or 'no'?"

"Yes, sir. Or comments."

else she ignored the
"Now you also heard him making threats?"
"Yes, sir."
"And what was the nature of these threats?"
"That once we left he was going to get even with her."
"I see. Did that cause you any concern?"
"Yes, sir."

"Did she at any time threaten Mr. Hughes in any way?"

"No, sir, she did not."
WhenGreydanus had finished questioning Malm, the clear and
simple picture Palus had drawn in his opening address had already
taken on a different tint. Palus' next witnesses were the officers who
had seen Francine arrive at the jail: Gate Guard Simons; Lieuten-
whom she had given the gas cap; Deputy Hi-
ant Janutola, to
decker;and Sergeant Nye, who had also come out to the gate.
Greydanus questioned Nye about the normal procedure of the
police in dealing with domestic quarrels, drawing out the surprising
information that even if a woman had been badly beaten, her as-

sailant would not be arrested unless the officer had seen the assault.
Switchboard operator Patricia Moore took the stand and de-
scribed Francine washing her hands like Lady Macbeth and moan-
ing, "My God, what have I done." However, when Greydanus
questioned her, he forced Moore to recall that Francine had also
said, "I don't know what made me do it," making a point that
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 243

would be important later when Francine's state of mind would be-

come the central issue.
When Patricia Moore left the stand, court adjourned for lunch.
Shelton came for Francine and she obediently held out her wrists
to be manacled. Being led, handcuffed, through the crowd, made it

seem Francine that even before being convicted she was being
to
punished with public degradation. Perhaps the same thought oc-
curred to Judge Hotchkiss. He appeared in the corridor in his shirt
sleeves and halted them.
"Officer," he said to Shelton. "I don't want bracelets on in the
courtroom."
"Oh?" Shelton exclaimed in surprise.
Hotchkiss turned to Francine. "You're not going to make any
trouble, are you?"
"No, sir."
"Okay," Hotchkiss said. "No more handcuffs, do you under-
stand?" With a pleasant, impersonal nod, he walked away. Thereaf-
ter Francine was handcuffed only during the ride to and from the
courthouse.
When court reconvened Palus called Flossie Hughes to the stand.
This would be Greydanus' view of her, and she was the first
first

witness whose testimony he feared. A bereaved mother can be a

powerful instrument with which to arouse sympathy in a jury.
Flossie entered through the front door of the courtroom, escorted
by a bailiff. Tall and dignified, wearing a plain cloth coat, she
swept down the aisle, looking straight ahead. She unhesitatingly
stepped into the witness box and looked over the courtroom with
fierce dark eyes. It was the anger bottled up inside her that
impressed Greydanus most. He thought, this is a proud old country
woman who isn't scared of hell itself. She'll do anything to avenge
her son. As Flossie took the oath, her high-pitched mountain voice
and hillbilly accent rang out like a foreign tongue.
Palus approached Flossie with deference.
"Mrs. Hughes, do you see the person known to you as Francine
Hughes in the courtroom here today?"
Flossie inclined her head for a brief glance in Francine's direc-
tion and replied, "Yes, sir. I do."
"She was married to one of your sons?"
"Yes, sir."
244 The Burning Bed
"Which son was that?"
As Flossie tried to say Mickey's name her face reddened with
emotion and tears filled her eyes. She put a handkerchief to her
face and struggled to control herself. Greydanus watched in dis-
may. Glancing at Francine he could see she was deeply upset by
the spectacle of Flossie's grief. There was no doubt her tears were
genuine and no doubt of the effect on the jury.
Still crying, Flossie answered, "My son James. We called him

Mickey." Palus hovered over her solicitously. Flossie straightened

up and wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm all right. I'm
fine." Palus continued his questions. When he asked what she re-
called of the day Mickey died, Flossie told of coming home with
Berlin at six o'clock, parking the car in the garage, and going into
her house.
"Did anything unusual happen at that time?"
"When we drove into the garage I thought I smelled gasoline
and I insisted that I smelled gasoline and I asked my husband if he
had been working on the tractor in the garage. He said no, he
hadn't been messing with no gasoline in the garage. Before I en-
tered into the house the odor was so strong I felt like we was going
to have something to explode. I went into the house and I set
down, but I couldn't set there."
Greydanus was momentarily baffled. Six o'clock, the time Flossie
had mentioned, was more than two hours before Francine had
fetched gasoline from her own cellar and even then the odor could
not possibly have reached Flossie. As Flossie continued to elaborate
her account of smelling gasoline, Greydanus wondered if she were
lying in an effort to establish six o'clock as the time at which Fran-
cine began to plan the fire, and thus imply several hours of premed-
itation.
"All right.What happened then, ma'am?" Palus asked.
"I kept going out on the back porch checking and out in the ga-
rage checking to see if there was any danger of any explosion out
there."
"And then what happened, ma'am?"
"Well, I kept that up for a whole hour. I couldn't set and watch
television. I was so uneasy about that gas odor. I couldn't figure out
where it was coming from. Before dark the kids had been in the
yard. The last time I went out into the garage the kids was in the
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 245
house. I glanced over to their house and I could see the children
setting on the couch."
"Do you know about what time of the day that was, ma'am?"
"It had to be just before eight o'clock."
"What happened then?"
"I saw Fran come out of the bedroom. She went toward the tele-
vision and I drawed on my own imagination that she was going
over to turn the television off and put the children to bed. So I
walked back in the house and back down and I didn't go back
set
out until the fire whistle blew."
Palus asked Flossie to describe her experiences during the fire.
She told of her panic when she thought the children were in the
house; how she had screamed at the firemen to save them and tried
to get in the house herself, but had been held back by the police.
Palus moved on to question her about Francine's relationship with
Mickey.
"Around the time of March ninth, 1977, how would you say
Mickey and Francine were getting along?"
"I thought everything was just as good with them as anybody
else. I knew they had a few problems, you know, like anybody they

have disagreements or maybe financial problems or stuff, but noth-

ing out of the, you know, usual. Nothing that bothered or con-
cerned me."
"Was there ever an occasion, Mrs. Hughes, when you saw your
son strike Francine Hughes?"
Flossie drew herself up ramrod straight. She looked at Palus with
the gaze of an outraged queen. "Neverl" she declared. "Never did I
ever see any of my sons strike one of their wives!"
Greydanus could hardly believe his ears. He had expected Flos-
sie to whitewash Mickey's behavior, but not to go this far. In the
stack of papers under his hand was evidence that could prove her
an outright liar.
Blandly, Palus continued as though he were unaware that there
was irrefutable proof that Flossie had seen Mickey beat Francine.
"Was there ever a time, Mrs. Hughes," Palus continued, "when
Francine came running over to your house for help?"
Contemptuously Flossie replied, "She was constantly doing that."
."Was there ever a time when James followed Francine to your
house?"
246 The Burning Bed

"Yes, he has."
"And what condition was James when he followed Francine?"
in
"Well, don't know what condition he was in. Sometimes he
I
seemed as normal as anybody. Sometimes he would seem to be
mad. Sometimes he would seem upset. A lot of times I think he was
drunk. Later I would find out that he wasn't drunk."
"Did you, Mrs. Hughes, ever observe Francine Hughes strike her
husband?"
"I have seen her throw things at him. I never see her deliberately
strike him. But I have knowed of it."
"All right, Mrs. Hughes, when was the last time you saw Fran-
cine throw something at your son?"
"I don't know exactly how long it's been, but it's not been in the
past year. They got along good as far as I knew. She was all the
time, though, coming over for some kind of help. Wanting some-
thing. She always got what she come after." Flossie's voice was
sharp with malice as she spoke of Francine.
"Your Honor," Palus said, "I have no further questions of this
witness." He sat down. It was Greydanus' turn to cross-examine. He
moved toward Flossie with the caution due a coiled rattlesnake. It
would be an easy matter to show that she had committed perjury,
but he wanted more than that. He wanted the jury to see her as a
vindictive liar who would go to any lengths to punish her daughter-
in-law, but if he were not careful, if he badgered her to the point
where she became tearful or collapsed, the effect might be quite
the opposite— Flossie would become pathetic to the jury and her
perjury would be forgiven. Greydanus' tone as he addressed Flossie
was as quiet as Palus' had been. "Mrs. Hughes," he asked, "when
did your son and Francine marry?" Flossie gave the date-
November 4, 1963—but the very sight of Greydanus seemed to
anger her and she spat out the words.
"Do you recall the grounds for their divorce, Mrs. Hughes?"
Flossie bridled, sensing the trap. The divorce had, of course,
been granted for extreme cruelty.
"All Iknowed about it," she said, "was what she told me."
"Did you read that order of divorce?"
"Absolutely did, but I can't remember what it said. It sure didn't
say what she told us."
"How do you know that, Mrs. Hughes?"
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 247

Flossie's face flushed. "Because I know what she told me and the
divorce papers read different!"
Greydanus turned away satisfied. In only a few sentences Flossie
had contradicted herself. She had also become more defiant the
harder he pressed her, and that emboldened him. He guessed that
she wasn't going to cry, but would flare into anger, and that could
do him no harm. He decided to raise his voice and moved a little
closer.
"Mrs. Hughes, before 1971, were you ever aware of your son
beating up on Francine?"
"You don't have to shout at me!" Flossie shot back. "I'm not hard
of hearing!"
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hughes," Greydanus said more quietly. Then his
voice hardened. "Were you . . .
?"

"No!" Flossie said defiantly. "I wasn't ever aware of him beating
up on her!"
"Never?" Greydanus' voice was gently incredulous.
"Well." Flossie raised her chin haughtily. "I have knowed of
them having fights, but I don't know what was the cause or who
was afighting who. I didn't see nobody hit the other. Afterwards
she would tell me, It's more my fault than his.' He was the one that
would have the bruised places and the cut places. I never seen
none on her."
"Anything else you would like to tell us, Mrs. Hughes?"
Flossie's answer was an angry silence.
"Okay. Did the children ever tell you about their father beating
up on their mother?"
"Yeah. The was beating up on their
kids thought their father
mother, I The way she would run out of the house and
guess.
scream, she had all of us thinking he was killing her. Probably
sometimes when he hadn't even touched her."
Again Greydanus was crowding Flossie, leaning a little closer
when he spoke, raising his voice ever so slightly with each question,
and Flossie's voice was rising in response.
"And the children told you he was beating her. Isn't that correct,
Mrs. Hughes?"
"The children has come over a couple of times when Fran and
Mickey would be racketing and yelling." She paused. "She would
be the one that was doing the stuff!"
248 The Burning Bed
Suddenly Greydanus held up the police reports.
"Isn't it true,Mrs. Hughes, that you called the police . . . and
that was because your son beat up on you?"
Flossie reared back in anger. "My son never beat up on me! How
dare you?"
Greydanus, surprised, asked, "Never beat up on you?"
"No, sir!"

"Do you recall an incident in 1972, Mrs. Hughes, when you

called the Ingham County Sheriff Department and Francine hid in
your house?"
"Yes, she hid in our house sometimes. She done that even before
they got married. I didn't know if they was playing games or they
was fighting or what was going onl"
Greydanus glanced at the report in his hand. "On August seven-
teen, 1972, at fourteen minutes after seven, don't you recall that the
police came to your house because your son hit you in the face?"
"I most certainly do not!"
"Don't you remember the police coming to your house when
Francine was hiding because Mickey had been beating on her?"
"I do not remember no such occasion as him beating on her!"
"Do you recall him breaking down the door, trying to get into
your house to get after her?"
"He didn't break down no door! He did not!" Her voice was
shrill and trembling with anger.

Greydanus dropped his voice. "Mrs. Hughes, I am merely asking

you."
"You better ask something else. ."
. .

She half rose from her chair and was continuing to scream at
Greydanus when Judge Hotchkiss' gavel came down and cut her
off. "Mrs. Hughes!" he admonished. "Silence, please!" He called a

recess and dismissed the jury. The courtroom broke into a hubbub.
Hotchkiss quieted it and told the attorneys he wanted to talk to
them and the witness in his chambers. A court attendant led Flossie
from the witness stand in the wake of the judge.
In his office Judge Hotchkiss seated Flossie and lectured her
briefly on courtroom decorum. He would allow no screaming, he
said. Mr. Greydanus, the judge went on, had a right to ask certain
questions and she was required to answer. Flossie glared, but held
her peace. She acknowledged that she understood. When they re-
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 249
turned to the courtroom there was an interval while the jury was
recalled. Greydanus sat down beside Francine. "What did you
think of that?" he asked. "That was the most blatant perjury I ever
heard in my life!"

"I felt bad for her," Francine said simply. "She didn't know what
else to say."
When the jury returned Greydanus asked only a few more ques-
tions. Flossie continued to deny incidents that were described in
the police reports Greydanus held in his hand. When Greydanus let
her leave the stand he was satisfied that her testimony had
tarnished the integrity of the prosecution. More than that, in seek-
ing to defend her son, Flossie had put him on trial.

Flossie Hughes' testimony had been a debacle for the prosecutor.

On the third day of the he sought to regain lost sympathy by
trial

bringing to the stand a succession of police and firemen to describe

the burning house and the discovery of Mickey's body.
Although Palus managed to bring grisly details before the jury—
the smell of burning flesh that permeated the house, Mickey's skin
sloughing off in a fireman's groping hand— Greydanus was not trou-
bled by their testimony. He could detect no strong reaction among
the jurors, and since he did not intend to dispute the official version
of the fire, he asked few questions. However, when Palus attempted
to show the jury half a dozen vastly enlarged color photographs of
Mickey's naked corpse, Greydanus objected that the prosecutor's
sole purpose was to horrify the jurors. Judge Hotchkiss compro-
mised the issue, eliminating the most gruesome pictures and allow-
ing one that showed only the upper half of Mickey's body to be en-
tered as evidence.
When the business of the photographs was finished, Palus an-
nounced that Christy Hughes would take the stand, and the court-
room stirred with interest. That Christy was a prosecution witness
was merely a technicality— in fact, Greydanus preferred it since it
would give him greater latitude in questioning her—but some of the
audience undoubtedly thought it meant that Christy was willing to
condemn her mother, an inference that hurt Francine. When
Christy was brought in, demure and neatly dressed in a sweater
and skirt, she gave her mother a yearning look so eloquent that
Francine drew in her breath and impulsively rose in her chair.
250 The Burning Bed
Greydanus touched her arm and Francine slumped back. She cov-
ered her face with her hands and wept. It was the first time her
composure had cracked in public.
Judge Hotchkiss cautioned Christy that she must answer ques-
tionsand tell the truth. She said she understood, and Palus began:
Did she remember March ninth? What time had she come home
from school? Who had been at home? What had happened when
she and her mother and the other children returned from the store?
After the TV dinners were in the oven what had her father done?
"He turned the oven off," Christy answered.
"How many times did he do that?"
"About three times."
Puzzled, the audience and the jury tensed with interest.
Hotchkiss, leaning forward, watched the child intently.
"How was your father talking?" Palus asked.
"Well, he was in an angry mood and he was mad because we
were having TV dinners."
"Okay. And how was your mom speaking to him?"
"Very calmly, trying to talk some sense, you know, trying to get
him to calm down and get him to quit turning the oven off and on
and all that."
This was the jury's first view of Francine's daily life with Mickey
and they listened with rapt interest as Christy, in her clear, unemo-
tional child's voice, described the prelude to her father's death.
"We were all of a sudden Mom comes popping
playing and then
out the back door with having ahold of her shirt. And she is
Dad
yelling and screaming, 'Christy, call the police! He's going to beat
me to a bloody pulp.' And so I ran over to my Grandma Hughes."
When Christy had described the visit of deputies Schlachter and
Malm, Palus asked, "What kind of a mood was your mom in?"
"She was nervous. She was sad. You could tell she had been cry-
ing and she was sort of, you know, how you act, how you breathe
when you get done crying? You just gasp gasp. She was doing
. . .

that. Sort of whimpering, I guess."

Palus tried to pin Christy down on the crucial point of how much
time elapsed from the moment her father went to sleep and Fran-
cine sat down in the living room— perhaps to plan his murder— until
she lit the match. Christy gave no definite answers, but Palus was
able to establish that Christy noticed the gas can by the back door
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 251

and that it had not been there earlier in the day. Then Palus asked
Christy to describe how Francine led the children to the car, left
them for a moment, returned, and got in the driver's seat.
"What happened then?"
"She started the car."
"Did she start it in a normal manner?"
"There is only one way to start a car," Christy replied, and the
tension of the dialogue was broken as laughter swept the audience.
Palus grew pink and allowed himself a slight smile.
"I know that you turn a key, right? But did she do it slower or
faster?"
"Faster."
Christy described their panic-stricken flight "Mom was crying
really bad! And screaming! She was screaming, 'Oh my God!' and
shaking really hard. She kept looking out the back window and
screaming, 'I mean to do it!' and 'Oh my Godl'
didn't I said, 'Mom!
Where are we going? What are we gonna do?* She says, 'I don't
know . .
.'" Christy's voice trembled with remembered excitement
and terror. Palus broke in.
"Do you remember she said something like, 'I burned him up'?"
Christy hesitated, as though she understood the intent of the
question was to convict her mother. She looked down and, in a
small voice, reluctantly answered, "Yes."
Palus stepped back and turned Christy over to Greydanus for
cross-examination. Palus' questioning had already sketched an out-
line of the day's events; now Greydanus began to fill in the colors.
"How much beer did your dad drink in a day, usually?"
"Over twelve cans."
"What was his normal mood when he was drinking?"
"Mean!"
"That day did your mom seem depressed or happy or normal or
what?"
"Depressed. She's always depressed."
"Christy, what kind of meals does your mother prepare?"
"Big meals."
"Do they taste good to you, Christy?"
"Yes."
• "So it isn't like you had TV dinners every day?"
"Right."
252 The Burning Bed
"Christy, do you think your mother is a good mother for you chil-
dren?"
"Yes!"
Greydanus reminded Christy that when she was questioned at
the jail on the night of the fire she had demonstrated for the police
how Mickey had twisted her mother's arm behind her back, forcing
her to her knees. "Could you show the jury how that was?" Grey-
danus asked. Christy scrambled out of her chair and, with her arm
behind her, crouched before the jury, until her head almost
touched the floor. It was a startling tableau. "Was he hitting her
with his open hand or his fist?" Greydanus asked. Christy held up a
clenched fist. Back on the stand, Christy imitated Mickey's gesture
as he snapped his fingers and pointed to the door, ordering the chil-
dren outside. While they were in the yard, she said, she had heard
her mother's screams and the sound of breaking glass. Nicky had
begun to cry. When the deputies arrived, the children ran to the
police car; then Christy followed the officers inside.
"What was your father saying?" Greydanus asked.
"He was yelling, If you ever call the police again I'm going to
'
kill you!'"
"Do you remember him saying that in the past? Before this day?"
Christy nodded. "Yes." She told of seeing the pile of torn books
and papers in the middle of the floor and her mother picking them
up. Greydanus asked her to repeat the language that Mickey used.
"I'm sorry I have to ask you this, Christy, but I want you to tell us
what he said."
Christy answered without hesitation, "He called her a fucking
bitch and a whore." The impact of thewords coming from the
mouth of a sweet-faced little girl was exactly as Greydanus had
planned.
As the dialogue between Greydanus and Christy continued, the
courtroom was perfectly still. Christy spoke with a spontaneous
candor that made it impossible to doubt a word she said. Relent-
lessly, Greydanus continued to pile outrage upon outrage.

"How many times did your father beat up on your mother?"

"Too many times to count."
"Once a week?"
"Yes. About once a week. But he would also, like, push her
around, every day. Every day."
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 253

"Christy. Do you remember seeing your father use a weapon?"

"Yes. A couple of times."
"What happened?"
"I came into the dining room and Dad had Mom pinned
down. . .
."

"Was she on the floor?"

"Yes. And he was saying he was going to kill her and I was awful
afraid. He got up and got a knife. A big butcher knife. While he
was getting it Mom got up and ran. She got out the back door."
"Where did she run?"
"Like usual, over to Grandma Flossie's."
"A lot of times?"
"A lot of times."
Christy described her memory of a terrifying time when Francine
and the children hid in the basement of Flossie's house. Christy
could hear her father's voice through the floorboards as he searched
forthem in the rooms upstairs. "I heard him saying, 'All right,

where is she?' and Grandma was saying, 1 don't know. I ain't seen
her. I ain't seen her at all!'"
"Christy, was your Grandma Flossie out there, was she watching,
when your dad beat your mom out in the yard?"
"Yes."
"Did your mom ever hit your father first?"

"No. Never."
"Did she try to defend herself?"
"Well once she threw a plant ... a flower
. . . pot. Dad put up
his arm and got cut."
"What was the reason she threw it?"
"Because he was coming at her."
"Had he been beating her?"
"Yes."
"Christy, do you remember hearing your father tell your mother
what he would do if she tried to leave him?"
"He said if she left with us kids he would kill her."
Greydanus had come to the climax of his interrogation. He
stepped back, framing one single question that would sum it all up.
He knew he would not be allowed to ask Christy if she hated her
father. "Christy," he asked gently, "are you glad he is gone?"
254 2^ Burning Bed

Palus leaped to his feet and appealed to the judge. "That's irrele-

vant, Your Honor. How she feels is not an issue."

"Objection sustained!"
Greydanus tried again. "Christy, have you missed your father?"
"No!"
Greydanus had achieved his effect. "That is all the questions I
have, Your Honor," Greydanus said and sat down. Christy left the
stand. As she walked down the aisle to the door there was some-
thing like a sigh from the audience as the tension relaxed.
Palus announced that his next witness would be James Wade
Hughes, and Jimmy, an appealing boy wearing a starched white
shirt and bow tie, was conducted to the stand by the bailiff. His
face was deathly pale and he looked very small as he sat stiffly in
the witness chair and faced the courtroom. Palus informed Judge
Hotchkiss that Jimmy was eleven years old. Palus began his ques-
tions about what happened on the day of his father's death. As
Jimmy answered he squeezed his hands between his knees, a pic-
ture of reluctance and misery. He confirmed the story Christy had
told.
"Now, Jimmy," Palus asked, "what was happening when the
police were there?"
Jimmy stared at his feet for excruciating seconds. "My mom was
crying and my dad was talking mean."
"What happened when the police left?"
"My dad started hitting my mom again."
Such answers must have seemed to the prosecutor a thorny
thicket through which he had to pass in order to reach his goal— the
testimony that would show that Francine had ample time in which
to plan the death of her husband.
"Jimmy, do you remember what time your dad went to sleep?"
"No."
"Was it still light outside?"
"It was still light."
Palus moved on to establish how Francine had prepared for the
crime.
"Before you went out in the car, Jim, did your mom ask you a
question?"
"Yes."
"What was the question?"
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 255

Jimmy looked as though he might cry. "She asked for the combi-
nation to my dad's garage."
"Were there any cans out there with liquid in them?"
"Yes."
"Do you know what kind of liquid?"
Jimmy sat in silence for seconds. Then he said in a low voice,
"Gas."
"All right,Jimmy," Palus said. "I know this is hard for you, but
we have keep on. Now, as you went out to the car, did you no-
to
tice anything unusual in the house?"
Jimmy nodded. "Yes."
"What was that?"
"A gas can by the back door."
sitting
Palus asked Jimmy to recall what had happened as Francine
drove to the Ingham County Jail.
"Did your mom say anything?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember what it was?"
"She was crying . . . and she said, 'Oh my God' . . . and . . . she
said . .
." Jimmy looked imploringly in the direction of Francine.
"She said, T did it!'"
"Did she say anything more?"
"Yes."
"What was that?"
"She said . . . if he ever got out of the fire ... if my dad got out
... he would kill her."
"Do you remember her saying it was wrong to take someone's
life?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember her saying she threw a match in the bedroom
where your dad was sleeping?"
"Yes." Jimmy's voice was almost inaudible.
"So she did say that?" Palus insisted.
Jimmy nodded wretchedly, in tears, and again answered, "Yes."
"Thank you, Jim," Palus said. "I have no more questions." As he
sat down the prosecutor looked cheerful for the first time. He had
at last shown the jury the key facts in the open-and-shut case of
premeditated murder, as he had promised in his opening address.
Greydanus rose to question Jimmy. He ignored the topics that
256 The Burning Bed
had interested Palusand asked Jimmy about the scene Christy had
already described, when
the children saw their father hold Fran-
cine pinned to the floor and then get up and pick up a knife. Jimmy
also gave his story, similar to Christy's, of how his father had for-
bidden Francine to continue school and then destroyed her books
and papers.
When at last the wretched little boy was excused and a bailiff led
him away, Francine watched his retreating figure and tears
streamed down her face. Then she put her head down and silently
sobbed.
"It was the worst moment of the trial. It hurt so to see my chil-
dren up on the stand; to know what they must be going through.
Jimmy looked so pitiful. So scared. He would look at me and I
could see he knew he was being used against me. It was a cruel,
terrible thing to do to a child. Christy tried so hard to be grown-up
and be honest and help me. I knew she was terribly afraid of say-
ing something wrong that would hurt me. I could feel her wanting
me was doing okay. I wanted to jump up and run to
to tell her she
her— take her in my arms and tell her everything would be all right.
When Jimmy cried, I almost got out of my chair. But I knew cops
would grab me and handcuff me and everything would be worse.
So I sat quiet and thought, 'Maybe you 11 never be able to hold
them again.' When they led Jimmy out I thought, 'My God, I love
that child.' That was when I had to hide my face and cry."

The testimony of the children added to that of the deputies

created considerable excitement in the corridors of the City Hall.
Reporters covering the trial wondered why prosecution witnesses
sounded more like defense witnesses. Some asked why Houk had
decided to prosecute the case in the first place. Houk beat a retreat,
saying that while he realized Francine's story stirred sympathy it
was the duty of the prosecutor "to let the people decide."
Greydanus was elated that in the first three days the jurors had
been given the facts he wanted them to have and, if the reaction of
most spectators was an indication, Francine was winning tremen-
dous sympathy. Not that everyone agreed; law-enforcement people
and "hard liners" still believed that murder must be punished no
matter what the extenuating circumstances. Greydanus dared not
become overconfident; there were still high hurdles ahead. The let-
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 257

ters toGeorge Walkup remained to be dealt with. Francine would

have and would face risky moments when Palus ques-
to testify
tioned her on such crucial points as her thoughts while she waited
for Dana to come home. Greydanus was counting on the testimony
of the psychiatrists to show that Francine's behavior was consistent
with temporary insanity, but here too, there were risks. Would their
technical language make sense to a jury of lay people? Greydanus
felt that no matterhow well the trial went in the early stages, the
jurors would not make up their minds until the final moment.
On the morning of the fourth day of the trial, the largest crowd
so far gathered at City Hall. Would-be spectators stood in line for
hours hoping for a seat in the courtroom, which could accommo-
date only a fraction of them. A fist fight broke out at the doorway
and was quelled by guards. As a spectacle the Hughes case was a
smash hit.
This was the day Palus intended to present evidence of Fran-
cine's affair with Walkup. His first witness was Lieutenant LeMar
Erb, Walkup's superior officer on the State Police Security Force,
who described finding certain letters in Walkup's locker and deliv-
ering them to the prosecution.
Palus' next witness was Betty Cover, Francine's friend from Bra-
zil. Greydanus had originally planned to call Betty as a witness for

the defense, but when the letters were discovered Palus had sub-
poenaed her as a witness for the prosecution. Nevertheless, there
was no doubt where Betty's sympathies lay. She would do her best
to help Francine. It was her unpredictability and lack of judgment
that bothered Greydanus.
Greydanus was still furious at Betty. He had talked to her a num-
ber of times while the letter-smuggling was in progress and she had
never given him any clue to what was going on. Greydanus
believed she was responsible for reviving Francine's emotions about
George and in the end it might be their girlish conspiracy that
would tip the balance against Francine. When the letters were dis-
covered, Greydanus had called Betty and told her how angry he
felt. Betty expressed regret, but no repentance. She said she had

only been trying to cheer Francine and hadn't thought it would do

any harm.
"
Betty came to the stand, a pert, dainty woman, exotically pretty,
who answered Palus' opening questions in a strong accent. Her
258 The Burning Bed
manner was disdainful and she forced Palus to struggle for every
scrap of information. Palus asked Betty to identify the three enve-
lopes he held in his hand. Betty fenced, avoiding direct answers. "I
don't know why I should recognize them. I never opened them. I
never read them. What do you expect me to do?"
Shrugging, tossing her head, and rolling her eyes, she repeatedly
drew laughter at Palus' expense, but ultimately she admitted that
she had received letters from Francine while Francine was in prison
and had given them Walkup. Palus tried to draw out details
to
of the romance, but Betty refused to be drawn. She insisted she did
not recall how often she had seen Francine and George together in
the lounge at school. Frustrated, Palus gave up.
Now it was Greydanus' turn, and he knew that Betty had specific
information that would help Francine. Betty willingly testified that
twice she had seen Francine come to class with noticeable bruises
and that when Betty asked about them Francine admitted that her
husband had beaten her. Though he knew Palus would object,
Greydanus managed to bring out a description of the bruises.
"They were purple . . . and pink . . . and red. . .
." Betty wrin-
kled her nose.
"Horrible?" Greydanus prompted.
"Horrible!" Betty agreed, as Palus leaped to his feet to object
that she was improperly inflaming the jury.
Betty testified that the second time she saw Francine's bruises
she had asked, "Again, Fran?" and Francine had answered, "Yes.
Again."
Greydanus* questions permitted Betty to make it clear that Fran-
cine's meetings with George were in the midst of a group of stu-
dents in the Business School lounge and that, as far as Betty knew,
the flirtation went no further. Her most important contribution to
the defense was the information that Francine had broken off her
relationship with Walkup because she discovered he was living
with his wife, and that months* later it was Betty who had per-
suaded Francine, by then in jail, that George was no longer married
and wanted to hear from her— that it was Betty who had rekindled
the romance.
When Betty left the stand, Palus had given the jury all the evi-
dence he had of Francine's affair with George Walkup except the
letters themselves. He proposed to read them aloud in court. Grey-
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 259

danus objected, and Hotchkiss said he would hear arguments on

the question on the following day.
As his final witness, Palus called Lieutenant Tift. Tift's function
was largely the routine one of identifying more than thirty objects-
ashes, bits of carpet, the gas can, and so forth— that Palus was intro-
ducing as physical evidence. Each day of the trial Tift had placed
large plastic cannisters containing these grim relics in a conspic-
uous position on the table. When the moment came to unveil the
contents, The jury showed scant interest, and when the
it fizzled.

cannisters were handed into the jury box, the jurors passed them on
without opening them. As his final question of Tift, Palus asked him
to describe how Francine looked when he first saw her at the Ing-
ham County Jail on the night of the fire.
Tift glanced across the room at Francine and replied, with dry
understatement: "Pretty much as she does now— except she had ap-
parently been crying and was somewhat upset."
From the first Greydanus had believed that the zealous little de-
tective had been a prime mover in the prosecution of Francine.
Greydanus had also been struck by Tift's offhand remark, when
they talked in Tift's office about the case, that Mickey Hughes was
known to him as a mean, violent son of a bitch. As he began to
question Tift, Greydanus decided it would be instructive to the ju-
rors to know Tift's informal opinion of the victim. When Greydanus
asked him if he remembered the remark, Tift tensed with irritation
and replied that he could not recall it. Greydanus badgered him
while and angry, dodged, at last admit-
Tift, increasingly flustered
ting that it was had said something of the sort. Tift
"possible" he
left the stand with his composure badly ruffled and once again the
prosecution had appeared as something less than candid and fair.
With Tift's testimony the trial had come to the halfway mark.
Hotchkiss called a recess for a long weekend. Francine was taken
upstairs to wait in the grim detention cell until late in the day, and
then was driven back to the Ingham County Jail. She was still feel-
ing nauseated, and the jail doctor ordered a special diet that eased
her stomach pain. For Francine the three-day recess was both a rest
from the tension of court and an extension of the agony of sus-
pense.
.Greydanus came to talk to her over the weekend. He told her the
firstweek had gone better than he had hoped; he thought Palus
260 The Burning Bed
seemed in a state of embarrassment and disarray. Inexplicably it
seemed that Palus had not foreseen the reaction of sympathy and
outrage that the testimony of his own witnesses would evoke. As for
the letters, Greydanus thought that the prosecutor's failure to pro-
duce any other evidence that Francine's affair with Walkup was the
motive for Mickey's murder made them less damaging than they
seemed at first. How the jury ultimately felt about them would
depend on how fully Francine could explain them when she took
the stand.
At the mention of her own testimony Francine froze. She took a
deep breath and asked if Greydanus knew what day he would call
her. He said no, he would have to play it by ear. He promised to
give her warning and urged her not to worry about it; it was still
several days away.
On Monday morning, when court convened for the fifth day of
the trial, Judge Hotchkiss sent the jury out of the courtroom while
Palus and Greydanus argued the question of whether Francine's
love letters should be read aloud in court or given to the jurors to
read for themselves in the privacy of the jury room. If Palus read
them aloud it would be acutely embarrassing for Francine to listen
to them, accompanied by inevitable gasps and titters from the
courtroom audience. Greydanus argued that reading them aloud
would and Hotchkiss agreed. He denied
unfairly impress the jurors,
Palus' request. His decision was a tremendous relief to Francine. If
the letters had been read aloud, every newspaper in the country
would have been free to reprint whatever excerpts they chose.
When the matter of the letters had been settled, it was time for
Greydanus to begin the defense. As his first witness he had chosen
one of the deputies, Mohammad Abdo, who had been called to
Dansville to subdue Mickey six years before, when Mickey had first
recovered from the accident and beaten Francine in Flossie's yard.
Abdo had since retired from police work and now ran a bar and
grill—Abdo's Lounge— in Lansing. Greydanus had found his name
signed to one of the reports he had gotten from the Sheriff Depart-
ment and looked him up. Abdo had told Greydanus that he remem-
bered the episode. Since he was no longer connected with the
police, he had no hesitation about testifying for Francine. As Abdo
described his recollections, Greydanus knew the testimony would
draw a vivid picture for the jury.
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 261

When Abdo, a tall, heavy man, took the stand Greydanus asked
him about the episode during which he and another deputy wres-
tled Mickey to the ground and strapped him to a stretcher.
"Was his mother, Flossie Hughes, present?" Greydanus asked.
"Yes, she was," Abdo replied.
"How many of you had Mickey Hughes to subdue him?"
to fight
"Two of us to start with and then two ambulance drivers pitched
m.
"Did you try to hold him yourself?"
"Yes, sir. He was on was holding down his right
his back and I

arm and holding his head. He was

was banging
so violent that he
his head on the ground. I was holding his head trying to keep him
from banging it. He turned to bite me. I grabbed his arm and he
picked me up off the floor with one arm. I held his shoulders, his
right arm, and his head, and when he tried to bite me, apparently
his mother thought we were going to hit him and tried to interfere
... I kept telling her we weren't going to hurt him. ."
. .

Greydanus broke in. "Excuse me. You said he picked you up

with one arm?"
"Yes, sir."

"How much did you weigh at that time?"

"About two hundred and twenty-five pounds."
Greydanus paused and looked over at Francine, silently compar-
ing her with Abdo's burly figure, and he could see the jury doing
the same.
Another point that Greydanus wanted to make was that Mickey's
was well known to the Ingham County deputies, but
violent nature
those he had questioned so far had evaded him. Now he asked
Abdo:
"Could you tell me if there was any standard procedure you pa-
trolmen followed when you dealt with a call to the Hughes home?"
"Well, there were certain individuals who were known to all of
us on road patrol and if the call came and one was
of these people
named it was just common practice to respond knowing you could
find a violent situation."
"Was Mickey Hughes one of those persons?"
he was."
"Yes,
Greydanus thanked Abdo and he left the stand. His next witness
was Mason City Police Officer Leon Langridge, who had been
262 The Burning Bed
parked at the Majik Market when Francine drove in with Mickey
in pursuit. Langridge testified that Francine, shaking with fear, had
told him that her husband had been choking her in her house and
when she fled in her car, he had tried to run her off the road. Then
Deputy Richard Dral of the Ingham County force testified that he
had helped Langridge arrest Mickey, who was yelling obscenities
and cursing the officers.
"Did you hear him say anything directed to anyone else?"
"Yes, he looked at a lady parked there and yelled, 'Just wait until
I get my hands around your throat!'"
Greydanus' fourth witness was Deputy Barry Kingsley, who had
gone to Adams Street in the summer of 1972 when Flossie Hughes
had telephoned for help. Kingsley had written a report at the time
and Greydanus had the report in his hand, so he knew just what
details Kingsley could supply. Greydanus asked Kingsley to de-
scribe his conversation with Flossie Hughes after Mickey had been
arrested.
"We took an assault-and-battery complaint from Flossie
Hughes," Kingsley said. "She told us she had been struck by her
son several times in the face. She said he had also struck his ex-
wife."
Greydanus looked and waited, giving them time to
at the jurors
recall Flossie's denial that Mickey had ever struck her. Then he
asked, slowly, "Mrs. Flossie Hughes told you that? At that time?"
"That is correct," Kingsley replied.
Greydanus asked if Mickey had threatened anyone.
"Well," Kingsley recalled, "he said something about cutting their
throats. He used abusive language. I tried to calm him down. I
tried to get him to leave, but he wouldn't. We ended up arresting
him."
"Did Mrs. Flossie Hughes say anything about damage?" (This,
too,was in Kingsley 's report.)
"She said her son had broken through the screen door and bro-
ken the lock on another door to get into her house."
Greydanus thanked Kingsley. Palus had no questions and the
officer left the stand.
Greydanus' final police witness was a deputy named Albert
Looney, who had been called to Dansville in 1973 by Berlin
Hughes. This was the occasion when Francine had been taken to
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 263

the hospital in Mason after Mickey had beaten her and chased her
into Berlin's house. Looney testified that Berlin told him how
Mickey had broken a storm door and said he might get a warrant
Looney re-
against his son for malicious destruction of property.
called how Francine, sitting in the kitchen describing how she'd
been beaten, had turned faint and vomited. It was Looney who had
called an ambulance.
Greydanus turned the witness over to Palus, who had no ques-
tions. Presumably the prosecutor had read the officers' reports and

been prepared for their testimony. He had listened, arms folded,

with no expression, as though these events added up to nothing
more than a motive for Francine to kill Mickey Hughes.
Now Greydanus turned to the four women who had agreed to
testify for Francine. The first was Connie Lee Feldpausch, who had
been Mickey's classmate in school. Connie, small, red-haired, and
pretty, took the witness chair and squared her shoulders as she
looked out over the packed courtroom. Greydanus knew she was
confronting the Hughes family, at least in her thoughts, and he ad-
mired her courage. His first questions established that she had lived
in Dansville and known Francine and Mickey when they were first
married.
"Were you friends with Francine?"
"Yes. As close as you could get to Francine."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well, she wasn't allowed to have real close friends. We talked
to her. We seen her. We were as close as anybody could be to her."
"Why wasn't she allowed to have friends? Who didn't allow it?"
"Her husband didn't."
"Do you know why?"
"He said she didn't need friends."
Greydanus turned to the question of Mickey's reputation. Connie
said that it was well known he beat up his wife and was not the
only one of the Hughes boys with that reputation.
"What kind of character did Francine Hughes have?"
"She is very nice and a very good mother. An exceptionally clean
housekeeper."
"Did you ever see Francine Hughes behave in a violent manner?"
"No. I have not."
264 The Burning Bed

"Did you ever hear Francine Hughes use bad language against
anyone?"
"Never."
"Did you ever hear anyone say anything bad about Francine?"
"Never."
"Can you recall a specific time you saw Mickey Hughes beat
Francine?"
"There was a time I saw him out in the yard beating her with his
fists and kicking her."
"Was that before the accident?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever see Francine with bruises?"
"Many times. I have seen her with black eyes and a cut lip. With
bruises all over her face."
"Did Mickey have a reputation for going around with other
women?"
"Yes,he did."
"Have you ever seen Mickey Hughes strike his mother?"
"Yes."
"Was that before or after his accident?"
"Before. I was coming down the street and Mickey came out of
the house and his mother right after him. She was yelling at him.
He turned around and slapped her in the face and told her to go
back in the house and mind her own goddamned business."
"What would you do if Francine and Mickey were fighting?"
"I didn't like it, but I couldn't do anything about it."

"Did you leave?"

"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I was afraid of Mickey."
"Did Mickey try to hide the fact he beat his wife?"
"No. He would do it in front of people and brag about it after-

wards."
"Actually brag about it?"
"Yes. Iwould ask where Francine was and he would say she's
home mending her wounds from the night before."
When Connie had first told him of Mickey's remark, Greydanus
had thought it spoke volumes. He decided to end Connie's testi-
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 265

mony with that quotation from Mickey still ringing in the jurors'
ears.
Connie was followed by her sister, Donna Johnson, who told of

witnessing the violent scene when Mickey, newly recovered from

his accident, had beaten Francine. "Some way Francine got out of
the house," Donna said, "and Mickey went out looking for her. I
was at my neighbor's, Alice Quemby. I believe Mickey thought I
was Francine because he came right in Alice's front door and
started after me. I ran out the back door. Then Alice's husband
came and put Mickey out. Mickey followed me to my house and
my husband called the police."
Donna had also seen the episode that ended when Chris Eifert
held Mickey down until the police came. Donna spoke highly of
Francine. She had never heard a word against her, Donna said, and
though she didn't know her very well, had always thought her a
very nice person. Donna's quiet, dignified presence and her evident
sincerity, added to Connie's equally convincing testimony, were tre-
mendously effective, Greydanus felt.
Evidently Palus felt the same. He tried to minimize the effect by
cross-examining Donna. She had testified that she had lived in
Dansville twenty years. "You saw Mickey Hughes strike his wife
twice in twenty years. Is that correct?"

"That's all I saw. Yes."

"Only those two occasions?"
"Yes."
The prosecutor sat down, but Greydanus returned to question
Donna again, making clear that both episodes had been within the
past six years, and continued. "It was known in the community that
this was going on, isn't that so?"
"Yes."
"Did you see the police at her house many times?"
"Yes."
"Was Francine the kind of person who would complain to you
about what was going on?"
"No."
"Could you tell, though, that something was bothering her?"
."Yes."
Palus had no further questions and Donna left the stand. She was
266 The Burning Bed
followed by Alice Quemby, who Donna had
elaborated the story
just told. When Greydanus had no questions.
finished, Palus
Debbie Brown, the youngest sister of Donna and Connie, was a
small blonde in her mid-twenties. Her answers were forthright and
to the point.
"Debbie, how did Mickey treat Francine?"
"Bad."
"Have you seen Francine with injuries?"
'I've seen her with two black eyes and her mouth busted up."
"Did Francine tell you why she didn't leave?"
"She was too scared of him."
"Have you ever heard anyone say anything bad about Francine?"
"No. Never."
When Debbie Brown was excused the day ended. In cross-ex-
amination, Palus had tried to imply that the four women had gotten
together to tailor their testimony, but Greydanus doubted his
efforts had had much effect. He was, however, angry that Deputy
Shelton, sitting behind Francine and facing the jury, had made
faces and exchanged incredulous glances with Tift during testi-
mony favorable to Francine. Greydanus considered protesting what
he thought were low tactics, designed to distract the jurors, but de-
cided against it for fear of upsetting Francine, who hadn't seen
what was going At the end of the day, after so much helpful
on.
testimony, Francine seemed a little more relaxed, her face less taut
and somber. Greydanus decided not to tell her that in the morning
he would call her to the stand.

Greydanus had given a great deal of thought to his promise to

warn Francine before calling her to testify. He looked upon her tes-
timony as the linchpin of the defense; all the rest, no matter how
overwhelmingly sympathetic, could not prove that she was innocent
of planning the death of Mickey Hughes. Only Francine could tell
the jurors what she had thought and felt.
Greydanus intended to lead her through virtually the entire story
of her life with Mickey, hoping to reveal to the jurors the special
qualities of her emotional makeup that had held her fatally
enmeshed. Her testimony would require all her resources of elo-
quence and control. He would guide her from topic to topic with his
questions, but unless her answers were fully thought out— as candid
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 267

and vivid as when he talked to her at the jail— the jurors would not
see the full picture.
Francine had shown increasing panic at the prospect of testifying
and Greydanus decided that, rather than give her time to become
unnerved by anticipation, he would take her by surprise. On Tues-
day morning, the sixth day of the trial, he opened by calling to the
stand Dr. Jon Desquin, who told, in dispassionate terms, what he
had observed when Francine consulted him for symptoms he
believed were due to stress. His testimony v/as brief and Palus had
no questions. Watching him leave the stand, Francine wondered
who Greydanus would call next. A moment later she heard Grey-
danus make the announcement. "Your Honor," his voice rang
through the courtroom, "the defense will now call to the stand
Francine Hughes."
Francine turned white. She seemed frozen, unable to move.
Greydanus went to her and guided her to the stand. She obediently
raised her hand to take the oath, and sat down as Judge Hotchkiss
instructed her to do. She looked out over the crowded courtroom,
then turned to Greydanus with a beseeching glance. Judge
Hotchkiss leaned toward her and asked her to state her name. For
an instant she seemed unable to answer. Greydanus' heart was sink-
ing. He was inwardly praying, "Dear God, don't let her collapse
now!"
Her voice was tight with near-hysteria as she answered, "Fran-
cine Hughes." Greydanus moved close to her, encouraging her with
his voice as he led her through a series of simple opening questions.
"Francine, where do you live?"
"Where do I live now?" She looked confused.
"Where is your home? Do you own a home?"
"Yes. In Dansville."
"And right now you are incarcerated in the Ingham County Jail;

isn't that correct?"

"Yes."
"I am going to show you a document, Francine. You tell me if

you recognize this?"

"Yes. That's my divorce certificate."
. "Could you read to me from this document, Francine? What was
the basis for the divorce?"
268 The Burning Bed
Francine glanced down at the paper he had put in her hands and
then looked up silently. Her eyes were beginning to brim.
"Francine!" Greydanus snapped at her, hoping to bring her to
herself. "What was the basis for the divorce?"
"Extreme cruelty," Francine replied and then burst out, "I don't
think I can do this!" She covered her face and sobbed.
Hotchkiss brought down his gavel to silence the noise in the
courtroom and ordered the jury to leave. Greydanus watched in
dismay while Francine huddled, crying, in the witness chair. Unless
she pulled herself together, all might be lost. Tears at appropriate
moments could do no harm, but if she remained a weepy, hysterical
witness it would be impossible to bring out the testimony he
planned.
"Francine." Hotchkiss spoke to her and Francine looked up. The
judge leaned over, put an arm along the back of her chair, and
began to talk in a confidential tone. Greydanus couldn't hear what
was said, but he saw that Francine was listening. As the judge
talked she visibly recovered, nodded, and wiped her eyes. A mo-
ment later she managed a small smile.
"Judge Hotchkiss began to talk to me. His voice was friendly and
calm. I don't remember what he said at first, but it gave me time. I
began to listen. He said he knew this was a hard thing for me to do,
but I had best get it over with. If I didn't do it now it would pro-
long the trial for me and everyone involved. I thought, 'He's right.
It won't be any better another day. Get it over with! Isn't that what
I want?' I pulled myself together. I told Judge Hotchkiss, 'Okay, I'll
try. I'll do the best I can.'"

Hotchkiss turned from Francine and addressed the lawyers. "The

witness has advised me she is ready to proceed. Any exception you
want tomake, Mr. Palus?" Palus said he had none. Hotchkiss re-
called the jury and they took their seats. Greydanus waited in front
of the witness box while the judge quieted the courtroom. When
Greydanus began his first question the silence was absolute.
"Francine, when did you first meet Mickey Hughes?"
Francine frowned in thought. After a moment she answered,
"Well, it was around 1962. I was still going to school." Her voice
was controlled and determined. Greydanus' confidence in her came
surging back. He went on with the questions he had planned and
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 269

Francine gave simple, coherent replies. Her moment on stage was

under way.
Greydanus used no notes. He knew the narrative of her life by
heart and had long before selected the details that would most
vividly symbolize the larger picture. He moved smoothly from epi-
sode to episode, letting each fact fall naturally into place.
Francine responded simply, gathering confidence as they moved
along. When a question struck her as complex she paused, some-
times for seconds, as though carefully sorting out her thoughts in
order to answer as accurately as possible. She refused to exaggerate
what Mickey had done. Sometimes, in answer to a leading question
from Greydanus about some outrage, she would consider carefully
and then correct him, saying the situation hadn't been quite as he
put it. Nor did she retreat at moments that were embarrassing to
herself. Francine kept her eyes on Greydanus and, as her testimony
went on, became more and more evidently absorbed in her memo-
ries, reliving her experiences and forgetting everything else. The

courtroom was utterly still. Francine was succeeding in what had

seemed impossible: telling her listeners what it had been like to be
Francine Hughes.
Greydanus framed his questions to bring out the emotions that
had propelled Francine along her disastrous course; she had given
herself to Mickey because he loved her so much, more than anyone
else ever had, and then she had married him because, having given
herself, she believed she belonged to him. She described Mickey's
jealousy: how he was angry and suspicious of any friendship, tore
off her clothes if they made her too enticing, and forced her to quit
her job in a restaurant because of a brassiere that allowed her to
"jiggle." When Francine said the word Greydanus waited for the
laughter he supposed would inevitably follow. There was not a
sound.
Francine described how Mickey had beaten her at the beginning
of their marriage; how she had felt like a prisoner, isolated in one
tiny apartment after another, not allowed to go out or see her fam-
ily or friends.
Greydanus moved on to Francine's divorce and her struggle to
keep the household going while Mickey lived with another woman,
and then the accident that had been a turning point in both their
lives. Francine told of spending forty days by Mickey's hospital bed
27° The Burning Bed
and consenting to move to Dansville because his family wanted her
to. "Flossie said Mickey wouldn't be able to live without me if I
left and took the children away. Then Mickey moved into the
apartment with me and the kids."
"Why did you let him stay, Francine?"
"I just couldn't hurt him more more than he had already
. . .

been hurt. If you could have seen him, seen the condition he was
in, you would have understood."

Francine sketched the next phase of their life together as Mickey

began to drink more and more and to use his physical power over
her without reason or restraint.
Francine told of the times Mickey had come close to killing her:
of being strangled until she blacked out, threatened with a knife,
forced out of the house in her nightgown, and kept prisoner for
hour after hour of verbal and physical abuse. She told of how the
pressure had increased and increased— the small sadistic tyrannies
and the blood-curdling threats—until she believed it was only a
matter of time before she would be killed. "Day after day it got
worse. I felt like I couldn't breathe. I had a tight feeling in my
chest. I don't think I could ever make anyone understand how
much I have been through and how much I have hurt."
Greydanus asked Francine to tell the story of their pet dog,
Lady. As Francine described Lady's death a shock wave of emotion
swept the courtroom. The simplicity of the event— a helpless animal,
a female, left outside to freeze while struggling to give birth— held
no ambiguity, no shadings of motive; it left no room for doubt. The
impact of the story was as strong as anything Francine had told so
far.

Greydanus moved swiftly to the day of Mickey's death. Fran-

cine's responses were as even as before. She seemed to draw no line
between that day and any other. The jury had already heard part
of the story from Christy and Jimmy, and the deputies, Schlachter
and Malm. Francine filled in what they could not have known.
She told it all— the torn books, the beating, the respite when the
deputies came, and the renewed abuse when they left. She told
how she had felt as she scraped up the food from the floor, and
when Mickey rubbed it into her hair, then beat her into submission.
Again the entire courtroom audience seemed spellbound with
shock. Francine went on, oblivious. She told of bringing Mickey his
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 271

food and the sexual bout that followed, about Mickey falling asleep
and her return to the living room where she sat with the children in
a deep reverie.
She had reached the pivotal point in her testimony. It was time
to tell the jury how she had killed Mickey Hughes.
Greydanus paused, deciding on his next question, and the audi-
ence held its breath.
"Francine. You sat there thinking. What did you decide to do?"
"I decided the only thing for me to do was to get in the car and
drive . drive west
. . just go. I told the children to get their
. . .

shoes and coats on ... as soon as Dana got there we would leave."
"Now, Francine, at that point did you have any intent, any
thought of killing Mickey Hughes?"
Francine answered as though the question were no more impor-
tant than any other. "No. I didn't. I was just going to take the kids
and leave."
"And what happened next?"
"I remember sitting in the chair, waiting. Nicole was asleep.
Christy was saying, 'Mom, where are we going? Mom, let's not
come back this time. Please.' And Jimmy says, 'Yeah, Mom. Let's
not come back this time.' And I said, 'Don't worry, we won't.' And
then I asked Jimmy for the combination to the garage."
"What were you going to do in the garage?"
"I had decided there wouldn't be anything to come back to. I
was going to burn everything."
"From that point on, Francine, how did you feel?"
"I didn't feel anything at all. It was like I was watching myself
do the things I was doing." She paused for thought and then slowly
continued: "I remember telling the kids to go to the car. I re-
member picking up Nicole and going out to the car ... I went
back to the house ... I walked into the bedroom with the gas can
and I started pouring it around on the floor. There was an urgent
whisper saying, 'Do it! Do it! Do it!' over and over, and I just kept
on ... I was at the door of the bedroom ... I stuck my hand out
with the match there was a swish and the door slammed and
. . .

just before it did I thought, 'Oh my God, you can't do this. My God,
what am I doing?' I ran to the car. I looked back and saw the
flames."
Francine fell silent, and closed her eyes. She was thinking, Tve
272, The Burning Bed

done it. I've told them. I've told them everything I can tell them.
Now they can make up their minds what I deserve."
The audience sighed as the tension relaxed. After a moment
Greydanus went on. "Now, Francine, tell us what happened then."
"I just remember being scared to death. I remember Christy told
me, 'Mom, please slow down. You'll kill us all.'"
"What do you remember after that?"
"Going through a traffic light in Mason and then being at . . .

the Guard Gate and screaming."

. . .

"Were you booked that night?"

"I think so. I can't remember very well."
"And you've been in jail ever since?"
"Yes. I have."
The story of Mickey's death was finished, but one more thing
remained: Francine would have to explain why she had written
love letters to George Walkup.
"Now, Francine," Greydanus began in a new tone, "you have
told the jury thatyou felt intense fear and felt unbelievably lonely
living with Mickey Hughes. During that time did you ever have an
opportunity to strike up a relationship with another man?"
"Yes, I did."
"Who was he?"
"His name was George Walkup."
"Where did you meet?"
"In the student lounge at school."
"You believed he was a policeman?"
"Yes. He had a uniform and a gun."
"How did this relationship start?"
"At the beginning it was just people around a table talking and
having coffee and we were introduced."
"And on did he tell you anything about his marital status?"
later
"We and on. And he told me he was single and living
talked, off
with another man; that he shared an apartment. He told that to
other people, too."
"Francine, would you deliberately have developed a relationship
with this man if you knew he was married— had a family and chil-

dren?"
"No. I wouldn't."
"And what happened then?"
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 273

"I went out with him one night and he told me that he wasn't
divorced; that he was getting divorced, but was still living at home
because he and his wife had financial problems to work out."
"Did that bother you? Did that change your feeling about him?"
"Yes. The way he talked about his wife and kids bothered me. It
bothered me a lot. Even though he kept insisting he was getting a
divorce."
"What happened the next day?"
"He telephoned me and I told him I could not and would not see
him anymore."
"You never saw him again."
"No."
"Did you think of George Walkup at all on the day of the fire?"
"No. Not once. He had nothing to do with the things I thought
and did that day."
"Now, Francine, the prosecutor, Mr. Palus, states that certain let-
ters show a motive in this case; that you wanted to be with this per-
son more than anything else in the world. But in your mind there is
no such situation; isn't that correct?"
"That's right. I didn't love him. I didn't know him that well."
Greydanus picked up copies of the letters from the defense table
and held them before Francine.
"Yes," she said. "I wrote them. Messages were corning to me in
jail that this man loved me and would wait for me for twenty years.

I just let my imagination go. I was lonely. I was afraid. I had lost

everything: my kids, my freedom, everything. And here was some-

one sending messages saying no matter what I had done, he loved
me ... he cared ."
. .

"Francine, would you describe what it's like to be in jail?"

Francine shook her head. "I can't describe it. You have to be
there to know what it is like. You feel a hurt and a sadness and
. . .

a being alone . . there is no way I can tell anyone."

.

"Did you have a real hope that George Walkup cared about you?
Did you have a real hope that you could finally have a relationship
with a decent man?"
"It wasn't really a hope; it was like a dream. I didn't know what
was going to happen to me. I couldn't really hope for anything.
•This dream was sort of like hanging on to something, trying to hold
on to something out there in the real world."
274 The Burning Bed
Greydanus handed her the letters and asked her to read aloud
passages he had marked. She began, am so frightened at times I
" 'I

know what I really need is a strong man to hold me for hours and
hours.Would you like to volunteer?"'
"Okay." Greydanus stopped her. "Does that sentence, Francine,
begin to explain how you felt how you reached out?"
. . .

She shook her head. "I was afraid ... so afraid ." . .

"Francine, how long had it been since you had a strong man to
hold you in his arms lovingly?"
She returned his gaze with a steady look. "A long time," she said
slowly. "Someone who would really care." She shook her head. "A
long, long time."
Greydanus picked up another letter and read aloud: "'Some-
times I am afraid to tell you things; I don't know why, but I am. I
guess I have got to know first that I can trust you. Why did I hear
all those conflicting stories about you? Did you He to me about your

marital status and all that? ... I told you that I wanted you to be
honest/ Why did you write that, Francine?"
"Because I still wondered. I wanted so much to believe in him,
but I still had doubts deep down."
Greydanus picked up the third letter. "Francine, you wrote here,
*I don't want to open myself to this kind of relationship only to be

hurt.' What did you mean?"

"I just ... I just can't explain how I felt." She shrugged hope-
lessly. "I had been in jail so long ... I had been through so

much .
." She broke off as though finally exhausted.
.

"Francine, at the time you wrote those letters, and even now, do
you feel you are capable of loving someone in a genuine way? That
you have a lot of love to give?"
"Yes. I feel like I do. With the right person."
"Really, really love someone?"
Francine nodded.
"Yes?"
"Yes."
"And isn't it true that that is what you have been wanting and
aching to do for a long time?"
"Yes."
"Is that what you meant when you said, 'And someday I will find
someone to give all this bottled-up love to'?"
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 275

"Yes. Someday, perhaps."

"Francine, you have told the jury some things that have hap-
pened in your life— something of what your life was like. You have
given them some idea of the living hell you existed Let me ask in.

you one single, vital question: Did you premeditate and plan the
death of your ex-husband, Mickey Hughes?"
"No."
There was a silence in which no one spoke; no one moved. Grey-
danus stood still, his eyes fixed on Francine while her answer
seemed to hang in the air. Then he relaxed and turned to the judge.
"Your Honor, that's all I have to ask." Hotchkiss announced a re-
cess of fifteen minutes as the courtroom broke into a roar of noise.
Greydanus took Francine's hand and helped her down from the
stand. She looked exhausted, too tired even to feel relief. Sitting at
the council table Greydanus told her she had done wonderfully.
Then he reminded her that she wasn't quite finished yet. Though
she had testified for almost four hours, enough time remained for
Palus to begin his cross-examination. "Just remember," Greydanus
said, "that you have no reason to be afraid of him. You're telling
the truth and when you tell the truth there is nothing he can do."

As Palus approached Francine in the witness chair he wore the

look of a man resolved to make the most of his last chance. In the
six days of the trial the clean-cut, sincere young prosecutor in his
modish suits and polished boots,who had entered the courtroom
representing righteousness, had been unable to conceal his dismay
as witness after witness testified not against Francine, but against
Mickey Hughes. Sometimes Francine had felt almost sorry for him;
itwas evident how intensely he wanted to win and that every
reverse increased his nervousness.
"Mrs. Hughes," Palus began, "did Mickey Hughes ever tell you
that he loved you?"
The question was bold and unexpected. Francine felt a wave of
fear.Would he be able to twist her answer to this— and other ques-
tions about her feelings— and use them in unexpected ways? She
remembered Greydanus saying, "Just tell the truth." She answered,
"Yes."
"Did he tell you that he loved you within a year of the day that
he burned to death?"
276 Tlie Burning Bed
"Yes." She was thinking of the spring and Mickey's vain attempt
to rehabilitate himself.
"Within a month?"
Francine considered. "I don't remember."
"Did you ever tell him that you loved him?"
les.
"Did you tell him that within a year of his death?"
"Probably."
"Isn't it a fact, Mrs. Hughes, that on March ninth, while the
police were there, you called Mickey Hughes a bastard at least
once?"
"I might have."
"Isn't it a fact, Mrs. Hughes, that on March ninth when the
were there and Mickey threatened you, you turned
police officers to
him and said, 'Oh shut up!'"
There was a low laugh in the courtroom. Francine ignored it
"No. I don't remember saying am-thing like that."
"Isn't it true that you told the officers not to worn' about threats
because Mickey Hughes was always making them?"
"No. I don't remember saying that."
"Isn't it true that you told the officers you could handle the situa-
tion?"
les.
"Now, Mrs. Hughes, after these beatings that you've described,
wouldn't Mickey apologize to you?"
"He did a long time ago, but he got to the point where he didn't
No." After several more questions in the same vein, Palus turned to
the letters to Walkup.
"Now, did you write to him ." Palus picked up a page from
. .

his desk and read it. "Did you write, Tou have to keep that body
of yours in shape for me, you know?"
"Yes, I did."
"Did you write it because you didn't want to have a rela-
tionship?"
Francine appeared momentarily puzzled. "I wrote it because I
remembered him telling me that he worked out at the gym."
"Do you remember writing, 'It's just like I felt when I was near
you, I didn't ever want to leave you'?"
"Yes. I remember writing that."
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 277
"Did you mean that? You didn't want to ever leave him?"
"When I first met him and he was so nice to me and everything
I .
." Francine paused as though to think of the right words in
.

which to explain a difficult concept to a child. "When I was in jail I

let my imagination go. I was imagining what it would be like to be
near someone who was kind to me and cared about me."
"But you are telling us you never thought about that between
the time you stopped seeing him and the time that you were in jail;
is that correct?"
"That's right; I didn't."
"Do you remember writing to George Walkup, 'Like right now I
feel warm all over. Like when you looked at me the way you used
to. You know, when you did that to me with your eyes, I felt like

the closest I could get to you wouldn't be close enough'?"

remember. I read the letters just the other day."

"Yes. I
"Did you mean that when you wrote it?"
"I am trying to tell you that the things in that letter were written
six weeks after I had been in jail."
"Do you remember writing, 'Since you, no one measures up*?
Did you mean that?"
"There wasn't anyone else."
Now Palus tried to tie her relationship with Walkup to a motive
to get rid of Mickey.
"While Mickey Hughes was around you couldn't have George
Walkup or anyone else, could you?"
Francine shook her head in contradiction. "I could have, if I
wanted. Mickey would go off with other women. He'd even tell me
he was going. I could have."
Palus dropped Walkup and tried to establish that there had been
a normal married relationship between Mickey and Francine.
"Did you and Mickey go out together at night?"
"Yes. We'd go out sometimes."
"What would you do?"
"Oh. It wasn't very often, but sometimes we would go to the
movies; sometimes we would go down to the bar and I would
watch him play pool."
"Did you have a good time when you did that?"
'
"No."
Palus had equally little luck with a series of questions asking if
278 The Burning Bed
Francine had attacked Mickey on a number of occasions. She said
she had not and Palus was unable to produce any evidence that she
had.
At last Palus gave up efforts to discredit Francine and went to
the heart of the case for the prosecution: the time in which she
might have premeditated murder. He questioned her about her
thoughts while she sat with the children.
"Were you thinking about how tired you were of Mickey
Hughes?"
"I was thinking about how tired I was of living the way I was
living. Yes."
"And the person making you live that way was Mickey Hughes."
"Yes."
"And when you decided to leave you decided you didn't want to
leave anything behind; is that right?"
"Yes."
"Is that when you decided you didn't want to leave Mickey
Hughes behind?"
Francine sat in silence. As she had when Greydanus questioned
her, sheseemed to look inward. There was a long pause. Her face
became a mask of pain as she answered slowly.
"I don't know. So many things went through my mind." She
paused again. "The kids said, 'Let's not come back this time,
Mommy.' I remember thinking that we wouldn't because there
wouldn't be anything."
"Okay!" Palus raised his voice and confronted her with her own
words. "Did that thought, 'there won't be anything/ include a per-
son, Mrs. Hughes?"
Francine nodded. "Everything]" she said. Tears appeared in her
eyes. She wiped them away and raised her head, waiting for the
next question.
Palus went on to question Francine about her actions after
Mickey went to sleep and for the second time she described going
out to the garage and being unable to open the door, going to the
basement instead, bringing up the can of gasoline and placing it by
the door.
"How long after you brought the can upstairs did you pick up
Nicole and say, 'Now, it's time to go'?"
"I don't know."
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 279
"Did you do any more waiting before you did that?"
"I remember being at the window. I remember being in the
chair. And at the window again. But I don't know how long."
"Now you took the children out to the car. Is that correct?"
"I carried Nicole because she was sleeping."
"And then you went back inside?"
"Yes."
"Now what did you go back inside for, Mrs. Hughes?" Francine
thought for several seconds. Her answer was plain and vehement.
"To get To destroy everything that had any-
rid of everything!
thing to do with my up to that point!"
life

"Including Mickey Hughes?" Palus' voice was vibrant with tri-

umph.
Francine nodded. "Yes," she replied slowly, with evident pain.
"Yes. IncludingMickey Hughes."
"You went into the bedroom?"
"Yes."
"Where Mickey was sleeping?"
"Yes."
"Then what did you do?"
Francine looked down. She was crying as she answered, "I
started to dump the gasoline around on the floor."
"Where? Under which bed?"
"Under his bed."
"Where he was sleeping?"
"Yes." Francine wiped away the tears as rapidly as they ap-
peared, as though determined to complete her task. In brief sen-
tences she told once again of holding the match inside the door, the
wave of panic that swept over her as the fumes caught and the
door slammed; then running to the car and driving away.
Palus circled back in time. "Were there ever other times when
you wanted to kill Mickey Hughes?"
"No. I can't remember any."
"Okay." Palus looked stern, as though evidence to the contrary
were in the palm of his hand. "Now, the time he gave you two
black eyes and a split lip twelve years before this time, did you
want to kill him then?"
"No."
280 The Burning Bed
"The time he got you down on the floor with a knife, did you
want to kill him then?"
"No."
"What was different about this time than the other times, Mrs.
Hughes?"
Francine considered the question: the question by which Palus
hoped to show the jurors that her motive to kill Mickey was re-
venge and that it had smoldered in her mind for years. Seconds
went by while Francine stared at Palus and the courtroom hung in
suspense. Finally she said slowly, "I don't know, Mr. Palus. I just
... it was just everything over the years; everything that had hap-
pened. .
." Again tears ran down her face. Ignoring them, she
.

leaned toward Palus. "Don't you understand, Mr. Palus," she said
earnestly. "It wasn't like you are saying. It wasn't because twelve
years ago he gave me a black eye. It was everything that happened.
Everything] Everything]"
Palus wouldn't give up.
"But this time he made you burn your schoolbooks, didn't he,
Mrs. Hughes?"
"Yes."
"And you enjoyed going to school?"
"Yes."
"And you didn't go to school you wouldn't get to be with peo-
if

ple you wanted to be with, couldn't get the job that you wanted,
right?"
."
"That wasn't the reason. . .

"And on March the ninth, Mrs. Hughes ." Palus paused to

. .

emphasize that he was coining to the climax of his cross-examina-

tion. "On March the ninth, you were tired of your life?"
Francine looked back steadily and answered with quiet scorn.
"Mr. Palus, I was tired of my life long before March the ninth."
"And you were tired of Mickey Hughes?"
"Yes. I was."
"You wanted to leave that life behind you?"
"Yes. I did."
"You wanted to leave Mickey Hughes behind you?"
"I wanted a different life."
"And so you left that life and that man behind you?"
Francine closed her eyes for a moment. After a pause she said
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 281

slowly, "Yes, Mr. Palus. But you see what kind of a life I have
now."
Palus turned away and announced that his cross-examination was
ended. Greydanus came forward and led Francine from the stand.
The audience, which had been utterly still during Francine's testi-
mony, broke To Greydanus' ears it sounded
into a tumult of noise.
performance had been superb.
like applause. Francine's
Although it was midafternoon when Francine finished testifying,
Greydanus decided to bring on his next witness before the mood
Francine had created could slip away. He called Dr. Arnold Berk-
man, the clinical psychologist who would explain Francine's act in
terms of temporary insanity.
Berkman, a man
with glasses and a shock
small, serious-looking
of dark hair, conformed perfectly to the popular image of a learned
doctor. He described visiting Francine in jail and giving her a bat-
tery of tests. When Greydanus asked for his evaluation of Francine,
Dr. Berkman read from his report: "My examination revealed no
evidence of psychosis but did reveal defects in psychological func-
tioning and personality development which reflect significant psy-
chopathology characterized by deeply ingrained maladaptive
. . .

patterns of behavior which have brought her tremendous

."
pain. . .

Greydanus feared that much of this technical language would

confuse the jurors, but as the doctor went on his meaning became
plainer. "Mrs. Hughes has a strong need for approval, developed in
response to her lifelong feelings of vulnerability and pow-
erlessness. She experiences little sense of competence, self-
. . .

confidence, or autonomy, making it easy for her to be over-

whelmed, tremendously threatened, and easily controlled by those
whom she perceives as more powerful than herself."
Dr. Berkman explained that Francine's strong need for approval,
coupled with her belief that to be a "good wife" meant to be a
slave of one's husband, and her well-founded fear of retribution if
she angered Mickey, caused Francine to suppress her own anger
year after year, until the marriage became "a horror show," in
which she was almost literally imprisoned. Berkman testified that
her terror of Mickey's revenge if she tried to leave him was vividly
rjeal, and was constantly reinforced by his beating her if she dared

even to visit a friend or her family. "She believed he would find her
282 The Burning Bed
and kill her wherever she went. She was hopelessly trapped both
by her own profound psychological conflicts and by her realistic
fear of her husband."
Berkman described how much had meant to Francine to go to
it

school. By Mickey "was forcing her

forcing her to burn her books,
to kill that part of herself which was on the threshold of inde-
pendence ... to symbolically kill herself and all that she had
invested and suffered in trying to be a person."
When Francine killed Mickey, Berkman said, "she was over-
whelmed by the massive onslaughts of her most primitive emotions.
Emotions she had suppressed for so many years overwhelmed
her. . She experienced a breakdown of her psychological
. .

processes so that she was no longer able to utilize judgment ... no

longer able to control her impulses unable to prevent herself
. . .

from acting in the way she did.

"Anger is an emotion which creates considerable distress for her
and since anger runs counter to her quest for approval she is una-
ble to express anger directly. In terms of her life, particularly her
marriage, it is appropriate she should be enraged. It is part of her
psychological sickness that she could not get angry, feel angry,
react with anger to a situation that was so deeply humiliating,
."
dehumanizing, and physically cruel. . .

When Berkman finished reading his report, Greydanus asked,

"Dr. Berkman, is Francine a person who could plan a murder?"
"No."
"Why do you say that?"
"The ability to plan a murder would require an ability to think
ahead, wait, plan for the proper time. Francine is not good at doing
those things. Her style is to behave very impulsively, sometimes
with very poor judgment. Also, it is not in her character to plan
something with such a degree of violence. Something like this
would be abhorrent to her if she thought about it in advance or
tried to plan it."
It was time to ask Berkman for the diagnosis that could win
Francine's freedom.
"Dr. Berkman, at the time Francine committed this act was she
mentally ill?"

"Yes, she was."

"Was she mentally ill to the extent that she could not conform to
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 283

the law, or control her behavior? Was she operating under an irre-
sistible impulse?"
"Yes, she was."
"And at the time you examined her subsequently she was not
mentally ill?"

"That is correct."
Greydanus could only hope he had sufficiently underlined the
distinction between temporary insanity and mental illness. He
thanked Berkman and the session ended. The jury would have all
night to mull over Berkman's words.

When court convened the following morning, the seventh day of

Francine's trial, Palus questioned Dr. Berkman in an effort to con-
strue his diagnosis in a way that would, under Michigan law, make
Francine criminally responsible for murder.
"Dr. Berkman, would you tell us what your diagnosis of Francine
Hughes was?"
"Borderline syndrome with hysterical and narcissistic features."
"Isn't it true that many people with borderline syndrome can tell
the difference between right and wrong? Can understand the na-
ture of their acts?"
"Yes. That's true. However, you are leaving out a crucial point.
People with borderline syndrome, when a certain kind of stress im-
pinges on them ... at that particular time those people can fall
apart. It's what we call psychological decompensation. It's very typ-
ical of these people."
"Now, Doctor, isn't it a fact that lots of people who are not men-
ill do things that are wrong and that they know are wrong?"
tally
"Yes, that's true."
"And lots of people who are mentally ill do things that they
know are wrong when they do them?"
«rr-i t>
True.
"The fact that the defendant may have done some wrong things
doesn't prove that she didn't know they were wrong, does it?"

"No. prove that; it doesn't show that she necessarily

It doesn't
did or didn't know
that they were wrong."
"All right. In your opinion when did Francine Hughes recover
from borderline syndrome?"
"She has not as yet recovered from it."
284 The Burning Bed

"So, borderline syndrome is not a psychosis; is that correct,

Doctor?"
"My diagnosis is not a diagnosis of what she was like during
those moments on March ninth, 1977. It is a diagnosis of her entire
personality."
For several minutes Palus chivied Dr. Berkman in an effort to pin
down the moment when Francine's psychotic state began and
ended, and challenged Berkman to name the facts, aside from
Francine's own account of hearing voices and feeling "unreal," that
would show that Francine was insane at the moment the fire was
lit. Berkman could only repeat that her fragile personality made her

vulnerable to becoming temporarily insane under certain types of

stress.

With a went on. "Let me ask you a hypo-

skeptical shrug, Palus
thetical question, Doctor. Someone waits for two or three hours
while a person sleeps before she sets fire to the bedroom where that
person is. Would you say she had waited for the proper time?"
"No. I would not say that."
"Is going to a police station immediately after committing an act
and confessing to the police, evidence of a consciousness of guilt?"
"Yes. It would be."
With that Palus allowed Dr. Berkman to step down.
As his final witness Greydanus called Dr. Anne Seiden to the
stand. Dr. Seiden, a small woman in her early forties, gave the
court her extensive credentials, including her current position as
staff psychiatrist at Michael Reese Hospital in Chicago. In a firm,
quiet voice she described Francine's moment of "decompensation"
inmuch the same terms Dr. Berkman had used.
"On the basis of that, Dr. Seiden," Greydanus asked, "did you
make any findings concerning Francine's criminal responsibility at
the time she committed this crime?"
"Yes," Dr. Seiden said. "I believe she was mentally ill at that
time. She was unable
form a criminal intent because she lacked
to
the capacity to appreciate the difference between right and wrong."
"Dr. Seiden, could she have stopped herself from doing what she
did?"
"I don't believe she could have. She was in a state of ego frag-
mentation."
"What do you mean by ego fragmentation?"
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 285

"By that I mean that the part of the personality which ordinarily
keeps one's understanding and impulses under control was not
functioning. She was, in other words, acutely psychotic."
"Is that what we laymen call insane?"
"That's right," Dr. Seiden replied, and, as Greydanus questioned
her, went further than Berkman had in pinpointing the moment
Francine's mind snapped. The psychotic state, Dr. Seiden said,
began at the moment of Francine's surrender: when she crouched
in the corner of the kitchen with garbage smeared in her hair and
told Mickey she wouldn't go to school any more.
Greydanus' final question for Dr. Seiden was designed to deny
Palus' implication that Francine had acted in cold blood.
"Dr. Seiden, is Francine what we would call a compassionate
person?"
"Yes. I think one might say excessively so."
Greydanus thanked Dr. Seiden and stepped aside. It was Palus'
turn to cross-examine her. As he had with Berkman, Palus badgered
Dr. Seiden about the terms she used to define Francine's lack of
criminal responsibility. Seiden stuck to her guns, and as she finished
her testimony Greydanus was satisfied that whether the jury fully
understood the complex distinctions involved was less important
than the fact that Seiden had firmly reiterated her professional
opinion that Francine had been temporarily out of control.
Dr. Seiden was the final witness for the defense. When she
finished Judge Hotchkiss called a short recess. The trial would close
with the testimony of Dr. Blunt, the expert in legal psychiatry en-
gaged by the prosecution to refute Berkman and Seiden. The bru-
talities of the life that Francine had endured with Mickey had been
as clear to Blunt as to Seiden and Berkman, and in his written pre-
trial report Blunt had cited very similar details.
Where Blunt differed with Seiden and Berkman was whether, at
the moment she poured the gasoline and lit it, Francine was legally
insane. Michigan law defines insanity as "a substantial disorder of
thought or mood which significantly impairs judgment, behavior,
capacity to recognize reality, or ability to cope with ordinary de-
mands of life." At the conclusion of his report, Dr. Blunt wrote: "In
my opinion, Mrs. Hughes shows no evidence of any disorder that
would render her mentally ill in accordance with MCL 330.1400a
[the statute defining mental illness], either at the time of the inci-
286 The Burning Bed

dent or at the present time." When he read Blunt's report Grey-

danus had wondered how Blunt could have understood Francine's
situation as fully as he seemed to, and yet consent to give testi-
mony that might send her to prison for a long term.
Now, walking down the corridor by the judge's chambers, Grey-
danus spotted Blunt, a tall, sandy-haired man in a light blue suit,
waiting to go on the stand. On an impulse Greydanus walked over
to him. "Dr. Blunt," he said, "I want to talk to you for a minute."
Taking the surprised doctor by the arm, he led him into a vacant
office nearby. "I've read your report," Greydanus told him. "I want
to know what you're going to testify. How are you going to answer
questions on premeditation? How in the world can you take the
stand and say that Francine planned this thing?"
Looking acutely uncomfortable, Dr. Blunt defended his opinion,
reiterating that Francine had been legally sane. Greydanus
persisted in his questions, pointing out that Blunt had agreed with
Berkman and Seiden in almost every other respect. Beads of sweat
appeared on Blunt's upper lip. "What are you going to answer,"
Greydanus demanded, "if I ask you if Francine premeditated this
crime?"
Blunt hesitated and said, "I can't say she premeditated it. I will
have to say to the contrary. I don't think she was capable of plan-
ning it."

For Greydanus that was enough. Premeditation is an essential in-

gredient of murder in the first degree. He thanked Blunt and
walked out of the room. In the corridor he encounted Palus.
"Marty," Greydanus said, "I think you'd better go talk to your doc-
tor. He's got something important to tell you." Palus hastened to
confer with Dr. Blunt. Only a few moments later Judge Hotchkiss
returned to the bench and the session resumed. Greydanus could
imagine how Palus must feel as he called Dr. Blunt to the stand; if
he asked Blunt the question Greydanus had, he would torpedo his
own case. If he didn't ask it, Greydanus surely would.
Palus did not ask the question, but led the doctor through the
other points on which he differed with Dr. Seiden and Dr. Berk-
man.
"Did you, Dr. Blunt, examine Francine Hughes for purposes of
evaluating criminal responsibility?"
"Yes. I did."
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 287

"Did you arrive at an opinion concerning whether or not Fran-

cine Hughes had a mental illness?"
"It is my opinion that Mrs. Hughes does not suffer from mental
illness as defined by the Michigan statute."
"On the evening of March the ninth, 1977, was Francine Hughes
criminally responsible?"
"It was my opinion that she was criminally responsible on the
night of March nine, 1977."
"You, sir, have heard of the term 'temporary insanity'?"
"Yes, I have."
"Did you find any temporary insanity in this case, sir?"
"I did not feel there was any temporary insanity. I felt that Mrs.
Hughes was extremely frustrated by the situation, by the particular
episode that day. I would think this was more of an episode that
caused her to finally just explode because of the things she was
going through."
Palus asked Blunt to give his views on "borderline syndrome,"
and Blunt agreed with Seiden and Berkman that such a category of
illness exists, "but I question it very highly unless there is a pattern
of this kind of thing— evidence of it in the past."
"Dr. Blunt, did you, sir, find Francine Hughes was a borderline
syndrome type of person?"
"No. I did not."
Prudently, Palus ended his questions there and turned the wit-
ness over to Greydanus for cross-examination. As he rose to address
Dr. Blunt, Greydanus felt like a card player with an ace up his
sleeve. He intended to play it last.

"Dr. Greydanus began. "How long did you examine

Blunt,"
Francine Hughes?"
"For one hour and forty minutes."
"And you have testified that she gave you her entire history, all
the background, an explanation of what her character is like, and
her motivations?"
"Yes. I think she did."
"Do you feel you acquired all the information you needed in that
hour and forty minutes?"
"Yes, I did." Dr. Blunt bridled. "Or I would have taken longer."
Wasn't there a possibility, Greydanus insisted, that deeper exami-
nation might have turned up the "previous episodes" that Blunt
 "

288 The Burning Bed

had would be needed to convince him that Francine was sub-
said
ject to borderlinesyndrome?
"Yes," Blunt acknowledged after considerable hairsplitting. "You
could always miss something." But he continued to maintain that
Francine had not "decompensated" into an abnormal state of mind.
He considered the voice she had heard urging her to "Do it! Do it!"
to be evidence of a conflict of feeling rather than a hallucination.
Greydanus turned to Blunt's report on Francine.
"Doctor, on page six you indicate that her pent-up hostilities
reached a stage where she 'chose' a course that would 'end the situ-
ation forever.' My question is, how do you know she could make a
choice at that time?"
"By my interview with her. By talking with her about it."
"Well, Francine is the one who told you she heard voices; isn't

that correct?"
"She told me she heard a voice saying, T)o it! Do it! Do it!'

"And you just sort of concluded that that wasn't the case; that
she actually didn't hear those voices?"
"I did not feel it was an attempt on her part to feign halluci-
nation. I felt it was her way of explaining how she felt at the time—
of expressing her strong conflicting impulses."
"But despite your statement that you didn't feel she would make
it it, you are making the end judgment that she didn't
up, or feign
really hear those voices?"
"I am making a judgment based on my clinical experience and
training."
At had admitted that Francine hadn't feigned
least the doctor
hearing a voice. Now
Greydanus asked if Dr. Blunt hadn't contra-
dicted himself when he said that Francine "chose" a course, but at
the same moment her "pent-up hostilities broke forth."
"No, I don't think so. I think that some things happened that
night that were particularly devastating to her, and this brought a
level of hostility which she was no longer able to keep under
wraps.'*
"Did Francine have an immense fear of her ex-husband?"
"Yes.She did."
"And isn't it true that there is an element of self-defense in what
she did?"
"Yes. Yes. She was defending herself in a sense. Not directly, be-
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 289

cause he was certainly not attacking her at that instant, but he had
told herhe would always follow her if she tried to get away— find
her and harm her. I think she believed that was a real possibility;
that wasn't an idle threat on his part."
Dr. Blunt had made a concession of great value to Francine's de-
fense. Now Greydanus decided to play his big card.
"Let me ask you, Doctor, in studying Francine's character and ev-
erything that happened that night, in your opinion did her actions
that night indicate premeditation and planning?"
"In my opinion," Blunt replied, "I do not think that her actions
represented premeditation and planning. In other words, she did
not sit back and think, I'm going to kill my husband now It was I'

an impulsive thing that happened."

Greydanus felt a rush of triumph as he repeated the doctor's
words, nailing them down.
"It was an impulsive thing? There was no planning? No premedi-
tation?"
"I see no evidence of that."
"Thank you very much, Doctor," Greydanus said with sincerity,
and sat down.
"Further questions, Mr. Palus?" Judge Hotchkiss inquired.
"No redirect. Thank you, Your Honor," Palus replied, and the
testimony in the case of The People versus Francine Hughes was at
an end.

The following morning Francine was brought to court for the

eighth and final day of thetrial. The crowds and excitement in the

corridors of City Hall were greater than ever. Greydanus had to

fight his way through photographers and reporters to lead her into
the courtroom, where she took her usual seat. A moment later she
glanced up and her heart lurched. The children, including Nicole,
were sitting with her mother and sisters in the second row. Grey-
danus had forgotten to warn her that he had asked to have them
brought for the benefit of the jury. Francine quickly looked away.
At that moment she knew her self-control was fragile as spun glass.
The trial had moved faster than anyone expected. Nothing re-
mained but the closing statements by the opposing attorneys and
the judge's instructions to the jurors. Then the case would be theirs
to decide. Hotchkiss opened the proceedings with his usual
29° The Burning Bed
briskness and called on Mr. Palus to begin. Looking serious and
more than a little nervous, Palus rose and stood before the jury box.
"Members of the jury, good morning. Those of you who have sat
on a trial before know this is the time we argue our positions and
try to convince you to rule in the way we would like. Let's . . .

consider the evidence. First we have shown that there was a

. . .

death. You have seen the body of Mickey Hughes. We have . . .

shown you that he died as a result of acts committed by Francine

Hughes. Have we shown you that there was malice afore-
. . .

thought, or intent? We have indeed done that! There can be no

question that Francine Hughes knew that as a result of lighting a
match to that gasoline Mickey Hughes would die."
Palus reminded the jurors of other evidence that Francine had
acted deliberately and premeditated her crime. On the afternoon
before the fire she had told the deputies she could handle Mickey
and needed no further help; Christy had testified that her mother
was calm, "acting normal," as she made her preparations to burn
the house. Francine's own testimony, Palus said, showed that she
had had ample time to cool off, but instead had sat for a long time
and thought about "how tired she was of living with Mickey
Hughes."
Palus dismissed Mickey's abuse as a prime motive. "It is claimed
that these beatings went on for thirteen years until suddenly, on
this day, Francine decided to stop it." Palus shook his head. "We
have heard testimony that Francine Hughes received more severe
beatings than this one. What made this day different? What
. . .

made it more compelling, more necessary to get rid of Mickey

Hughes? We have a couple of suggestions for you. One is that she
wanted to go to school and Mickey Hughes had told her she
couldn't do it. Isn't it interesting that he burned her books and she
burned him? The other suggestion, members of the jury, is George
Walkup!"
Palus picked up Francine's letters and read torrid bits aloud.
"Consider those letters very carefully . . . there are things in there
such as 1 have loved you since the first day I saw you. Since you
there has been no one else.' There are also such things as 'And that
night you were bowling, God, I couldn't keep my eyes off you.' And
'Did you know that your eyes are so sexy? Everytime you looked at
me I got heated up. Our time together just wasn't long enough. It
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 291

was likehaving something you have wanted all your life and only
having for five minutes/"
it

Palus laid the letters down. "I am asking you to consider whether
those letters were written by a woman who saw a man just once or
twice and then completely forgot him. Or did she want to be with
him the rest of her life?"
Now Palus tackled the question of Francine's mental state and
the opinion of Dr. Berkman and Dr. Seiden that Francine had
crossed the borderline of insanity and then recovered after the
murder had been committed. "Isn't that a little bit too convenient?"
Palus asked.
In conclusion Palus again stated The People's case: "We submit,
members of the jury, that Francine Hughes acted in the cool of
reflection: that she decided to get We ask
rid of Mickey Hughes.
that you find Francine Hughes guilty of first-degree murder. Thank
you very much."
As Greydanus rose to answer Palus, he knew this was the most
important moment in what had become the most important case in
his professional career. He touched Francine lightly on the shoul-
der, and then walked over to stand before the jury box. His first
words came from the heart. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I
have become terribly aware of the tremendous burden that I carry
in this particular case. The prosecutor has presented it to you as
being a simple case, but we are talking about much more here than
Mr. Palus wants you to believe."
Greydanus reminded the jury of facts Palus had ignored. "Mr.
Palus admits there were beatings and then, incredibly, he skips
over the fact that these beatings went on for twelve years. Twelve
years of abuse of every conceivable kindl" He listed the worst
atrocities of Francine's life with Mickey. She had put up with them,
he said, because of a fatal combination of personal traits: her com-
passion, her tendency to accept guilt, her resolve to be a good wife
and mother, no matter how impossible the circumstances.
Greydanus picked up Francine's letters to Walkup and held them
before the jury. "I submit that the prosecution has operated in bad
faith," Greydanus said. "She was charged with first-degree murder
months before anyone knew these letters existed. Now Mr. Palus
,says that these letters are the focal point of this entire trial. These
letters show that Francine broke off with George Walkup before
292 The Burning Bed
March nine, 1977, but Palus doesn't tell you that. He says these let-

ters are evidence of Francine's motive. I don't understand how he

can say that in good faith when what these letters really show, la-
dies and gentlemen, is what a pitiful creature Francine Hughes had
become as a result of her husband's inhumanity. Francine in her
helplessness, in her absolute agony, when someone reached out a
hand to her, responded in an almost pitiful manner."
Greydanus faced the crucial question of Francine's sanity. "Mr.
Palus placed a psychiatrist on the stand and what does he say?
Something that Mr. Palus obviously must have known. Dr. Blunt
said that Francine could not have planned and premeditated this
crime! In spite of that, in spite of Dr. Blunt's opinion, Mr. Palus in-
sists that she did! Mr. Palus insists that these letters, and the se-

quence of events that evening, prove premeditation. But Dr. Blunt,

the psychiatrist for the prosecution, says her act was impulsive— ut-
terly spontaneous. Our own witnesses, Dr. Seiden and Dr. Berkman
and Francine herself— and even the prosecutor's witness, Dr. Blunt
—have testified that Francine was compelled by an irresistible im-
pulse. I submit to you, based on that testimony, that Francine
Hughes was temporarily insane. The testimony has also shown that
she was acting against an evil force that was threatening her life.
She was acting in self-defense, protecting herself. Even Dr. Blunt
indicated that."
Finally Greydanus asked that the jury exercise mercy. "A life has
been lost. No one denies that. That is a tragedy. But this woman
has suffered immensely. She feels a deep guilt. Within your hands
is the destiny of Francine Hughes— the destiny of her children. I am

appealing to your mercy, your compassion. If you can't understand

how anything like this could have happened, at least try to under-
stand how horrible it was.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am convinced that justice will be done

if you return a verdict of Not Guilty. I ask you to bring in those two
words that will set her free, 'Not Guilty.' Thank you very much."
When Greydanus sat down, Judge Hotchkiss asked Palus if he
had anything to say in rebuttal. Palus rose and for a moment
seemed to grope for words. "May it please the court, members of
the jury, now is my last time to speak to you and I will try to keep
it brief. First, as to the statements of the psychiatrists. They were

here to aid you. I urge you to consider what they told you in the
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 293

context of all the evidence. You have to decide whether or not you
are convinced Francine Hughes was temporarily insane." Palus
turned to the letters. "It is not our position that the letters are the
focal point of the trial. It is our position that you must consider all

the evidence. .
."
.

As Palus talked on, repeating that phrase again and again, Grey-
danus believed the prosecutor was floundering; that he had been
unprepared for the way in which Greydanus had moved from the
defense to the attack, putting not only Mickey Hughes but the en-
tire prosecution on trial.

"I think what you should remember," Palus continued, "is that
the main issue here is whether or not Francine Hughes in fact com-
mitted murder on March the ninth, 1977. A person claiming self-
defense cannot be a person committing assault at the same time.
When Francine Hughes poured gasoline under Mickey Hughes'
bed and lit the match, which was the aggressor? Which one of
them was assaulting the other with deadly force?
"As for 'temporary insanity,' I ask you to consider that during
that day Francine Hughes appeared calm and normal. I would like
you to consider the convenience of her claim that after all those
years of stress, she has a breakdown on the night that she set fire to
Mickey Hughes! Rely on your own experience and decide!
"The question before you, members of the jury, is did this
woman, Francine Hughes, did she, on March the ninth, 1977, did
this compassionate, fearful, beaten woman
wait for two hours after
Mickey Hughes went about her life and what he was
to sleep, think
doing to her life, decide she didn't want that to happen anymore,
decide that she wanted to get rid of him, decide that she would
burn Mickey Hughes to death? Did she plan that? Did she premed-
itate it? That is what we ask you to decide and all we ask is that
you do justice. Thank you."
While he addressed the jury Palus' back was to Francine. Listen-
ing, she felt, for the first time during the trial, anger and a touch of
contempt rather than fear. She was watching as the prosecutor, his
sincere young face flushed with the effort of his oration, returned to
his seat. His eyes met Francine's. He quickly looked away.
Judge Hotchkiss began to instruct the jurors on the possible ver-
dicts from which they could choose. The prosecutor had asked
them to find Francine guilty of murder in the first degree. If the ju-
2Q4 The Burning Bed

rors believed Palus had proved that the crime was carried out with
premeditation and malice, this would be the proper verdict, Hotch-
kiss said.
On the other hand, there were other degrees of guilt to be con-
sidered. If Francine had acted with malice, but without premedita-
tion, the verdict should be murder in the second degree. If she
acted in the heat of passion, without either malice or premedita-
tion, she had committed manslaughter.
It was also possible, the judge explained, to find her guilty of
murder or manslaughter and at the same time mentally ill. Finally,
the judge had found the defense more credible
said, if the jurors
than the prosecution, they could bring back a verdict of not guilty
by reason of temporary insanity, or even simply not guilty.
As Francine listened to the judge's quiet, even voice she thought,
"He's being fair. He's not trying to influence them one way or the
other." She watched the jurors. Their faces, attentive and serious,
were turned toward the judge. The married student, a young man
named Jeffrey Hill, had been elected foreman. He looked like an
ordinary, reasonable young man, but Francine wondered what he
could ever have known or felt that resembled her life. The other
man, also young, with long blond hair, fitted no standard type, nei-
ther hippy nor conservative. His face gave no clue to his feelings.
Of the ten women, eight were married and older than Francine;
two were young and single. They had all looked shocked by some
of the testimony, but that alone was no indication of what they
would decide.
The jurors seemed conscientious people who would try to make
an honest decision, but Francine still believed it must be impossible
for normal people to understand her life. The most likely verdict,
she thought, was murder in the second degree. Blunt's testimony
that she was incapable of premeditating Mickey's death made a
first-degree verdict unlikely, but beyond that she dared not hope.
Judge Hotchkiss concluded his instructions at ten minutes to
three. The jurors got to their feet and left the room in single file.

When the door closed behind them, Francine for a moment felt
giddy with fear. Impulsively she looked toward her family. They
were looking in her direction, and Francine felt her eyes brimming.
Greydanus took her hand and pressed it as they silently wished
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 295
each other luck. Then Shelton took her arm. Francine was glad to
leave the courtroom quickly, before she broke down.
In silence, Shelton took Francine to the detention cell and locked
her in. This time there were no other prisoners. Francine was alone
within the black walls etched with graffiti by the despairing women
who had preceded her there. She lay down on the steel springs of
the bunk and shut her eyes. The bunk began to spin and waves of
nausea came over her. She got up and washed her face in the
brown water that came from the tap, thinking: "I can't let go now.
Not yet. When the verdict comes I have to be ready. I have to hold
up my head and take it, whatever it is. I'll be in front of all those
people. No matter what happens, I've got to look proud. The kids
will be watching. It will hurt them worse if they see me cry!"
Greydanus had prepared Francine for a long wait, probably
overnight, and possibly stretching into days. Prisoners are not al-
lowed watches. For Francine it was one of the small cruelties of her
situation that she could not estimate the time; sometimes when she
fell into a reverie hours passed like minutes; sometimes every hour
seemed like a day. Cigarettes— the time it took to smoke one—were
a measure of time. Francine had saved a pack for the wait in the
cell. She had twenty cigarettes. If she smoked one an hour and
managed to sleep that night, the pack would last well into the fol-

lowing day.
Francine walked up and down the cell, looking at the walls, the
bars, the gray ghost of daylight on the brick wall outside the win-
dow. "I thought, 'My God, this is terrible. This is awful. It's black
in here. It's dark. I'm cold and I'm afraid. How long is it going to
be?"'
She prayed, "God, you know what is in my heart. You know
what happened, and you know why it happened. You know who I
am, what kind of person I am; whatever you decide for me, please
God, just give me enough strength to be able to take it." She sat
down on the bunk and thought, "It doesn't matter how long I wait
today. If the verdict is second-degree murder I'll be in prison for
ten or fifteen years. Tomorrow I'll be back at the jail, packing my
things and leaving, the way I've seen other girls go. What will state
. prison be like? They say it's worse in some ways, better in others.
There's no more uncertainty, no more doubt. You know what you
296 The Burning Bed
face. Then all you have to do is pray and God will give you the
strength to stand it."

The door clicked open and Nancy Shelton appeared. "They want
you downstairs," she said. Francine thought, "Oh no!" Suddenly
she wanted the verdict put off a little longer; she wasn't ready for it
after all.

When she reached the defense table the jury was already seated.
Jeffrey Hill rose and addressed Judge Hotchkiss. They had not
reached a verdict, he said. The spectators groaned in disap-
pointment. The jury wanted further instructions, Hill continued.
There was doubt in their minds on the distinctions between the
various verdicts. Once again, Judge Hotchkiss explained them. The
jury retired and Shelton took Francine back to the cell.
The falsealarm had unnerved her and waiting became almost
unbearable. When her fear threatened to overwhelm her she paced
and prayed.
She had no idea how long she had been in the cell for the second
time when Nancy Shelton returned. Her face was without expres-
sion. She beckoned, took Francine's arm, and in silence they went
down in the elevator, along the corridor, and into the courtroom.
Greydanus was already at the table and the jury in the box. The
courtroom was hushed. Francine did not look at anyone. She held
herself stiffly, concentrating on keeping her self-control. "In a mo-
ment it will be all over. Just hold on to yourself, no matter what it
is." She did not look at the foreman, Jeffrey Hill, as Hotchkiss asked

if the jurors had reached a verdict. She heard him reply that they

had. Judge Hotchkiss asked what the verdict was. Hill announced,
"Not guilty— by reason of temporary insanity."
For a moment Francine was stunned. Then she burst into tears.
She had steeled herself for the worst, but not for the best. She
looked at Mr. Greydanus and grabbed his arm, and said, "Thank
you— thank you! Oh my God!"
"I looked at my family— the kids, Mom, my sisters. Mom was just
sitting there— her face was white and she was staring straight
ahead. Joanne told me later that she had to poke her and say 'Mom!
Mom! She's free!' Suddenly I realized I could get up. I could go to
my kids! Nobody could stop me now; nobody would grab me if I
got up. So I jumped up and ran over to them. I hugged them and
kissed them. Nothing had ever felt so good in my life. Christy was
 The People vs. Francine Hughes 297
crying. I said, 'Christy, what's the matter? It's over! You've been so
brave. Don't cry now!' She just laid her head on my chest and kept
saying, 'I know it, Mom. I know it!' but she couldn't stop. Jimmy
and Dana had tears, too. I kissed them until they began to smile.
"Greydanus came and got me. He explained that there were still

formalities to go through. Court was still in session. That I'd have

to sitback down and that I couldn't go home that night. I'd have to
spend one more night in jail. Nicky was clinging to me and wouldn't
let go. I gave her my hairbrush, that I had in the pocket of my

sweater. I told her to keep it for me so as to help her believe that I

was really coming home."
There had been an uproar in the court when the verdict came.
When quiet was restored, Hotchkiss thanked the jurors and told
them they had done their job well. The jurors were dismissed and
the courtroom was cleared. Hotchkiss told Greydanus that on the
following morning Francine would be released on bond. Greydanus
explained to Francine that though she would be actually free she
would be technically under bond until she had been examined once
more by a psychiatrist and pronounced sane. Then her release
would be complete.
When the courtroom had been cleared, Nancy Shelton and two
detectives led Francine out a back way to avoid the reporters and
photographers besieging the front door, and took her to a police car
for the drive to the Ingham County Jail. Francine discovered it was
now after ten o'clock at night. The jury had reached its verdict at
9:15, after a little more than five hours of deliberation— a remarka-
bly short time.
At the jail a number of deputies smilingly congratulated Fran-
cine. All the world loves a winner, it seems. In cell #6, there were
hugs and kisses from the other women. She was told that when
news of her acquittal had been flashed over the TV everyone had
screamed with excitement. Assuming that Francine would not re-
turn, her friends had packed her things for her and taken the sheets
off her bunk. A matron brought new sheets and Francine made her
bunk for the last time. Even the matron on duty that night joined in
the festive spirit. Bending the rules, she went to the kitchen and got
the makings of a party: fried eggs and toast. The women also
wanted soda pop and potato chips, two luxuries denied in the jail.
One of the male officers gallantly went out and fetched them.
298 The Burning Bed

The party went on until late that night. When the others went to
sleep Francine lay awake for a long time, wide-eyed, trying to be-
lieve that on the following day she would actually be free.
In the morning Deputy Shelton took Francine to court for the
last time.
At the Lansing courthouse Francine was again held in the up-
stairs cell for several hours. Again she paced and smoked, and

prayed, but this time she was thanking God. Every time the matron
passed, Francine asked what time it was, and the matron would
say, "Almost time. Any minute now."
"I was thinking, I'm going to be walking out of here. I'm going
to walk on the sidewalk. No handcuffs. Nobody holding my arm.
I'm going to walk out with my head high. I don't have to be
ashamed anymore. I don't have to be afraid!'"
At ten minutes after ten on the morning of November 4, 1977,
Judge Hotchkiss pronounced Francine Hughes free.
"When it happened, it felt just like I thought it would. Just ex-
actly! Mr. Greydanus and I were in the courtroom— at the defense
table— and there was some legal mumbo-jumbo. Then Judge
Hotchkiss said, 'Court dismissed.' I got up. There was a roar of peo-
ple talking. I didn't hear anything anybody said. I just wanted to
walk out the front door.
"There was such a crowd Mr. Greydanus had to fight a way out
for the two of us. We had to stop for a couple of minutes outside
the courtroom to talk to the reporters and TV people gathered
there. Somebody had sent me red roses and Greydanus handed
them to me in front of the cameras. I put them to my face to smell
them. Their fragrance made me shiver. The card said 'To a bat-
tered rose who blooms again/ but there was no name. I looked at
the flowers, at their velvety redness, and felt a kind of awe. Then
we were out on the sidewalk. The sun hit my face. Iheard my feet
clicking on the sidewalk. My lungs expanded. I breathed so deep I
got dizzy. Even the tears on my cheeks felt good. I wanted to
shout. Under my breath I said, 'Thank you.' God had given me
back my life."
 Epilogue

In the three years since Mickey Hughes' death, Francine has rebuilt
a normal life for herself and her children. She lives in a neat and
pleasant house in the Jackson area and has supported herself with a
series of factory jobs. Unable to find the secretarial work she hoped
for, she has enrolled in nursing school. For the firstyear or more
after her release from prison she suffered tremendously from guilt
and depression. She reports that gradually her state of mind has im-
proved and she now feels "normal" most of the time. She is still
greatly absorbed in her children. All of them are doing well in
school and show no signs of permanent damage. Francine is opti-
mistic and tries to avoid thinking about the past. When she is
forced to recall it, as she was during certain stages of the prepara-
tion of this book, it remains harrowing for her.
Francine still cannot fully understand what happened. She be-
lieves that her fault lay in overestimating her strength. "I tried to
take too much until my mind snapped." Mickey, and the causes of
his behavior, remain as much a mystery to her as ever. She realizes
that at the end he was a very sick man. But what about the early
years? Was he crazy then? Why was he violent toward her from the
very beginning of their relationship?
The question is one whose social importance transcends the trag-
edy of two individuals. No one knows how many women are cur-
-rently enduring what Francine endured, but legal experts think that
only one of every ten instances of wife-beating is recorded—the
300 The Burning Bed
other nine cases fail to become part of the statistics. Family vio-

lence had barely been investigated when Richard J. Gelles pub-

lished his now-famous book, The Violent Home: A Study of Physi-
cal Aggression between Husbands and Wives, in 1974. Gelles began
his research among families in which social workers suspected vio-
lence had occurred. Not surprisingly, 55 percent of the husbands
admitted hitting their wives. The more shocking finding was that in
a representative group of families with no known history of vio-
lence,one in eight wives had been beaten. Dr. Gelles believes that
there are at least six million abused wives in the United States
today.
The only thing new about wife-beating is that we are beginning
to see it in a new light. An article by Dolores J. Trent in a 1979
issue of The Women Lawyers Journal points out that in the Middle
Ages in Europe a man's right to beat his wife was unquestioned,
while a woman who so much as threatened her husband could be
burned alive. In England, as late as 1395, a court confirmed the
right of a husband to inflict extreme punishment on his wife on the
grounds that it was "reasonable and solely for the purpose of re-
ducing her from her errors."
The first judicial opinion suggesting that correction might be
"unreasonable" was voiced in the case of Sir Thomas Seymore in
the early 1600s, who repeatedly beat Lady Seymore. Shortly after,
English law recognized the "Rule of Thumb" which allowed a hus-
band to chastise his wife with a whip no bigger than his thumb.
American common law followed the British tradition and was
upheld in state courts. InNorth Carolina in 1864, the court de-
clared that even though a husband had choked his wife, "the law
permits him to use such a degree of force as necessary to control an
unruly temper and make her behave herself."
However, a change of opinion was brewing. In Alabama in 1871
a landmark decision stated that the "privilege, ancient though it be,
to beat her with a stick, to pull her hair, choke her, spit in her face
or kick her about the floor ... is not acknowledged by law." Since
then the privilege of wife-beating has been revoked everywhere.
But the law remains inconsistent, for it still provides virtually no re-
course or protection to the beaten woman.
"Even today," Mrs. Trent writes, "criminal law protection is vir-
tually impossible to invoke. . . . The police are often a direct ob-
 Epilogue 301

stacle to a battered woman who seeks the protection of the law . . .

they do not see wife-beating as a crime." The training bulletin of

the International Association of Chiefs of Police declares family dis-
putes "personal matters requiring no direct action." What is in fact
a felony is covered up by euphemisms— "domestic disturbance" or

"family squabble." "If the battered wife succeeds in having her as-
sailant arrested the prosecutor often becomes her next adver-
. . .

sary. . . . The burden of proof is on the victim, who must over-

come centuries of male bias toconvince the prosecutor of the
seriousness of her charge. . . . The ultimate adversary of the bat-
tered wife is the judge. . . . Few judges will issue a warrant or
convict a man on the evidence of just one beating. The woman
must show a history of beatings and those she endured before
calling the police don't count." As for other remedies, restraining
orders and peace bonds, Mrs. Trent dismisses them as "meaningless
pieces of paper." In short, she concludes, a battered woman's legal
rights are flagrantly denied.
Mrs. Trent's report confirms that Francine Hughes' experience
with the law-enforcement agencies was entirely typical and rooted
in centuries of custom. As a wife-beater, was Mickey equally typi-
cal? Dr. Alan Willoughby of the University of Rhode Island, a clin-
ical psychologist specializing in the treatment of alcoholism and au-
thor of The Alcohol Troubled Person, was asked to comment on
Francine's story and explain, if he could, why Mickey behaved as
he did. Dr. Willoughby had this to say:
"What Mickey did to Francine is horrifying, but not surprising.
'Craziness' is not the issue. It is possible that Mickey had some sort
of brain damage dating from early in his life and that this exacer-
bated his rages, but no such explanation is needed to account for

his behavior. In some cultures wife-beating is so frequent as to be

statistically normal. Mickey reflected a subculture in which male vi-
olence is not only accepted but admired. Mickey Hughes enjoyed
and sought it. Machismo is sometimes misunderstood as being
directed only toward women. In fact the macho code has to do with
maintaining territory— as dogs do. In the human male it is not terri-
tory in the literal sense, but self-esteem that is physically defended.
Apparently Mickey's parents lived by the same code. They did not
deplore his violence, though they probably felt it went too far.
Francine's own family— her father, her mother, and her brother—
302 The Burning Bed

failed to defend her. Mickey and Francine's relationship occurred

against a background in which male violence was tacitly accepted.
"Itwould be a mistake, however, to believe that wife-beating is
confined to situations in which it is socially tolerated. I am
impressed by the frequency of wife-beating among people to whom
physical violence is ostensibly taboo. I know of judges, lawyers,
businessmen, and doctors, among others, who beat their wives on
occasion. Mickey beat Francine openly. These men beat their wives
in secret. They are angry men who don't dare attack their business
associates and use their wives as safe targets.
"I see several themes shaping Mickey's behavior. In addition to
the cultural theme there is the likelihood that he belonged in the

diagnostic category of the 'inadequate personality.' These are peo-

ple who have no impairment that you can put your finger on, but
their judgment is poor, their behavior erratic, and they are failure
prone. For them, things invariably go wrong. They are angry, frus-
trated, and was born of these feelings;
insecure. Mickey's jealousy
his fear thatsomeone would take away the attractive woman he
had captured. Ripping her blouse was a statement that he owned
her.
"The inadequate personality feeds on the strength of others. The
moment Mickey married Francine he began to feed on her as he
had previously fed on his mother. There are cannibal tribes who
believe they draw strength by eating the hearts of fallen warriors.
Figuratively that was what Mickey did. By physically dominating a
strong woman he reassured himself that he was stronger and tried,
somehow, to draw her strength into himself.
"A third theme in Mickey's life was alcohol. We must stop think-
ing of people as being influenced by alcohol only when they are
drunk. Alcohol's effects are much more profound and long-lasting
than has been previously realized. For a number of days after
heavy drinking there are symptoms of anxiety, depression, poor
judgment, irritability, over-reactivity, and suspicion— a syndrome
that resembles paranoia. In Mickey's case, when Francine may have
thought alcohol had no part in an episode, it may actually have
been the precipitating factor.
"Alcohol was critical in Mickey's final deterioration. It is possible
that he sustained some neurological damage in the automobile ac-
cident—that we will never know— but even without it, his heavy
 Epilogue 303

drinking added to his defects of personality and, multiplied by frus-

tration and loss of self-esteem after the accident, were quite
sufficient to account for his behavior. Mickey was not a sadist. Sad-
ism implies an intertwining of sexual and aggressive impulses.
There was no evidence of that in Mickey or of masochism in Fran-
cine. At the end, his apparent sadism was a crazy, desperate at-
tempt at control. Alcohol makes people irrational. Even while
Mickey was going to AA and presumably sober, his years of drink-
ing were still affecting his thinking.
"It may take months after alcohol is withdrawn for the brain to
readjust. In addition, during withdrawal, there can be a lot of anger
over being forced to give up this candy. Francine, the children,
even the dog, were safe outlets for Mickey's fury.
"The value in the story of Mickey and Francine is that it helps to
heighten awareness of the violence all around us. The numbers of
people who are being tortured, either physically or psychologically,
are horrendous. The victims are not only wives, but children
abused by parents, and even parents abused by their children. Such
violence is not a new condition, but we are just beginning to per-
ceive its dimensions and its terrible implications. Francine's story
makes clear the enormous suffering that it brings about, but we
should not write off her case as being entirely extreme or unusual.
There are countless Mickeys and countless Francines. We must
stop reacting to these cases as isolated and aberrant, but see them
as a broad stream in our culture and think of solutions in these
terms."
(Continued from front flap)

She describes her inmost thoughts as

she poured gasoline on the bedroom
floor and lit the fatal match.
Francine's arrest, imprisonment, and
months of suspense while her dedicated
young attorney struggled to find a ten-
able defense, culminated in a dramatic
trial in which difficult moral and social
issues were laid before a jury while Fran-
cine's future hung in the balance. Her
extraordinarily moving story exposes a
shameful social problem and shows how
any woman might be trapped as she was.
The book's powerful message tran-
scends the fate of one woman and
touches us all.

Francine Hughes and her attorney, Aryon

Greydanus, leave the court in Lansing after
the jury's verdict, November 5, 1977.

Jacket design by Anthony Russo

PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

 The Burning Bed is the best piece of journalistic
writing to emerqe from a
decade of change. With the control of a novelist
and the instinct of an
investigator, faith McNulty has chronicled
the transformation of a woman
from victim to purveyor of justice. A classic for
feminists, journalists and
anyone interested in survival and growth."
Ellen Frankfort
"A shattering, compelling anatomy of the murder that lies in the
heart of
every woman who has ever been mistreated psychically or
physically bv a
man. The Burning Bed tells of the burning inside
one battered wife who
finally fought back in the only way
she had ever known-violence If ou
cannot shed a tear for francine H ughes, you cannot V
shed a tear for yourself."
— Lucy Freeman
"No other available book or article on the subject
of violence towards wives is
as sensitively written or as moving as the story
of francine Hughes. In it Faith
McNulty, wi h the insightful assistance of
Francine Hughes, vividly captures
what it is like to be a battered wife. While in
the past ten years we have
learned a great deal about violence against
wives and the terrible toll of the
physical battering, there are few available
books or articles which tell what it
is like to be the victim, or show the
deep psychological harm done to wife and
children in a home where a wife has been
beaten over a long period. This
book is absolutely essential reading for police officers,
judges, members of
the helping professions and others who
work with battered wives and to need
understand what it is like to be one. Truly
masterful. The Burning Bed
touches a full range of emotions-anger, pity,
fear and a deep sympathy-it is
impossible to put down." y y

— Richard J. Gelles, Ph.D.

Author of The Violent Home
"The Burning Bed is a devastatingly powerful work about a hideouslv
common American way of life-woman battering. Francine
Hughes was a Judy
who punched back, and her story is one to make a reader weep, understand
<>m»uj,
and never forget."

"This story of an
"~~~~~— —— Robin Morgan

abused wife who was driven to murder is an important

book-scary, dram atic reading for every thoughtful woman."
~~~ ——— Barbara Seaman

Frlnri'n^H
ZZ m
Cd and

1?V2
H
t'
T^' ^ '
Cheered for here are ^° modem heroines-
'

° rma,,y r ° Se above sexism to do what she had to do, and

Faith McNulty, who tells this real-life horror story with remarkable control."
——— Mary Scott Welch

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