A letter to Katherine Moshiri

Dear Katherine,

Or do you prefer Kathy? Kate?

I wish I knew, because knowing would likely mean I'd taken the time to stop and talk with you one day.

I usually do when someone new moves to the neighborhood; sometimes I bake cookies -- just call me June Cleaver. But your house is just around the corner, just out of sight. I must not have noticed when you moved in.

You've probably seen me, walking along Mary Street after a stroll through the city park. We do that sometimes; most of the neighbors do.

Not so long ago, I knew what it was to be you. My feet weren't in the tragic shoes you're wearing today, but just a few short steps behind. Close enough to recognize your tracks.

And what I wondered then -- and what still angers me today -- is how we manage to ignore the screaming.

I've been the one screaming; the one pounding on thin apartment walls begging the neighbors to call the police when my phone lines had been cut, the wires under the hood of my car yanked out. No one ever made that call for me.

Once, I overheard a relative talking to aunts at a family gathering about a young woman they knew in an abusive relationship.

"Callie would never get herself into something like that," the relative said. I pulled my shirt down a little further over the bruises.

We live in a good neighborhood in Jackson. Right by the city park. You may have noticed how convenient it is for watching the fireworks on the fourth of July; or maybe for taking your daughters to play at Safety City by Rotary Lake.

Children run barefoot in front yards. The biggest uproar in recent memory was probably when the neighbors circulated a petition about a dog on the next street that kept everyone awake by barking all night.

I wish I'd heard your screams, Katherine, your verbal and nonverbal cries for help. Maybe I wasn't listening hard enough. Maybe that barking dog drowned you out.

I didn't hear the gunshots four houses away last Monday night either. I'm surprised by that; I've been an avid hunter for years. I should have recognized the sound of a gun firing. But you see, Kat, my stepson and I were playing video games and the TV volume was turned up.

I heard the sirens, though. I always do. There are very few things I can say "always" about; I always say a prayer for the emergency workers and whoever they're rushing to help when I hear a siren. So I did say a prayer for you around 5:15 p.m. Monday, though I didn't know it was for you.

Maybe you've noticed that church a couple of blocks from your house -- you might even have glimpsed the rooftop Monday as you ran to the sheriff's department, bleeding from three gunshot wounds to the head and one to the shoulder. Maybe you know that church, the one that has the clever anecdotes on the sign out front. This week's was: We would worry less if we would pray more.

I believe that. Prayers never hurt. But sometimes they're not enough. I think you knew that; maybe it's why you tried so hard to find a way out. Rumor has it you took your children to a local shelter Monday, but were turned away because your son, Michael, was too old. I hope -- pray -- that's not true.

Is it possible a society that purports itself to be staunchly anti-violence would have so few options for a woman in your situation? It reminds me of those TV commercials about the family that almost had food to eat because someone almost thought about helping them. How many almosts apply to you, Katherine?

I'm sorry it took a .38 for me to finally take the time to look around the corner. But you are still in my prayers.

Yours truly,

Cal Miller

The walls of our society aren't all that thick. If you hear someone on the other side screaming, don't turn up your TV.

Husband-and-wife journalists Bob Miller and Callie Clark Miller live four houses down from a recent tragedy in Jackson. Reach them at cmiller@semissourian.com or bmiller@semissourian.com.