From the memoirs of Felicia Mohs, compiled by Claire Yeon, her longtime student, associate, and friend, and by Emily Rutledge, her life partner of thirty-seven years. Published posthumously by the Never Again Foundation, a New York City-based nonprofit focused on providing women with support and resources to leave abusive relationships at the first signs.
We met in the summer of 1971, at the open bar in a mutual friend’s East Village loft. The occasion was the successful landing of Apollo 15 on the moon. I doubt anyone there cared overmuch about the space program, but the host was a distant cousin of Jim Irwin and never passed up an excuse to throw a party. The drink of the night was, appropriately, the Moonwalk: grapefruit, orange liqueur, and a few drops of rose water topped off with champagne. I was on my second when he came up to me and said I was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. I admit that I liked what looked back at me in the mirror every morning, but I was also clever enough to recognize a line when I saw it. I had a method of weeding out potential suitors who weren’t up to my standards, so I began to pick his brain on such unladylike topics as the Pentagon Papers, the construction of the World Trade Center and its implications for New York and the world economy once it opened, and the recent ratification of the Twenty-sixth amendment. To my surprise and delight, he proved to be a lively debate partner whose wit, charm, and impassioned arguments met mine at every turn. At the end of the night - and the bottom of my fourth Moonwalk - we exchanged contact information and made plans to meet in a few days.
In the beginning, our relationship was everything the halcyon days of young love ought to be. How beautiful the city looked in the light of our happiness, and how its streets rang with our laughter! My heart would swell with pride when he put his arm around me in public. If the glares he shot at other men when we were together were a bit pointed, what of it? He knew he was the only one for me. We weren’t living together, but we might as well have been. He had a key to my place and a drawer in the bedroom. I barely noticed that my other relationships were suffering because I spent so much time with him. When one friend said she hadn’t seen me in weeks, I brushed it off as jealousy. Other people just didn’t understand. They couldn’t. Our love was as rare as it was powerful. Nothing like it had ever existed before, nor ever would again.
The first conscious realization I had that something was wrong was when I was admitted to law school. I thought he’d be happy for me, but he couldn’t understand why I thought I needed to continue my education. I already had a master’s degree in art history, which was more than any woman needed to begin with - and not even in something of any value. How were we supposed to start a life together if I was off with my head buried in dusty tomes in an attempt to break into a field where I wasn’t even wanted? He wanted me, and that should have been good enough. During one heated argument on the topic, he became so angry he threw a glass on the floor, where it immediately shattered. The fight stopped at once. He bent to pick up the pieces, stammering over and over about how sorry he was and that he hadn’t meant it. His hands were shaking so much he ended up cutting himself on the shards, so I told him to take a walk and that I would clean up. By the time he returned, the blood and glass were gone, and so was his anger. If it meant I wouldn’t leave him, he would allow me to go to law school. Someone had mentioned the “a” word to me once, but that was insane - it wasn’t abuse, obviously, because he was sorry, he supported my decision, and he said we were going to start a life together. Abusers didn’t do that.
Two months went by without an outburst, and most of the time, he was the dashing gentleman who charmed me over Moonwalks the night of the lunar landing. What did it matter that he didn’t want me to wear high heels anymore because he didn’t like it when I was taller than him? Heels didn’t really become a woman of five foot ten anyway. And it was only natural that he’d be concerned if I was out studying until midnight. That was late, and anything could happen to a young woman walking home alone after dark. Then, one night, I made the mistake of correcting the assumption that I walked home alone by pointing out that two of my study partners, both men, lived a block and a half away, and they walked home with me. He became angry, called me such names. I didn’t want to risk another glass-breaking incident - he’d hurt himself and felt so badly after - so I told him that my feminine wiles would have no effect on them because when I said that they lived nearby, I meant that they lived nearby together, with each other. He stared at me for a moment, and when that horrible, repulsive, hate-filled look twisted his face, I knew he understood. The anger wasn’t directed at me, though, so it wasn’t abuse.
Nothing happened right away, but about a week later, my study partners stopped meeting with the rest of our group. We still saw them in class, but they were no longer sitting together. One day, the lecturer asked a question, and one of them offered up an answer. It was incorrect, which would have gone unregarded but for someone in the back of the room, who had never volunteered an answer all term, said in a carrying whisper: “What else would you expect from a…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t have to. A few people snickered, and some looked angry; most pretended not to hear even though they definitely did. I kept a straight face, but inside, I burned with humiliation. This was my fault. It may have been an open secret, but no one had said anything until I told him. Not long after, they both dropped out. Rumors spoke of a conversation with the dean of students where the words “conduct that does not align with the standards of behavior set forth by our esteemed institution” were mentioned. I wanted to hate him for it, but I could only hate myself. He was just trying to protect me, and since his intentions were good, it couldn’t possibly be abuse.
Life went on. I drifted apart from friends because any minute I wasn’t studying was spent with him - it was only fair because, as he reminded me often, he did so much for me and school already took so much time there was hardly any room for anything else. My grades began to suffer. I had thrived in the old study group with my peers, but he refused to let me join another one because, invariably, they were mostly men. He told me that if I spent too much time with them, something would happen, and they wouldn’t be able to stop themselves because I was just so beautiful. I came home one night to find him drunk and sobbing, a new hole in the plaster wall, because he missed me terribly and had to numb the pain somehow. His hand was in bad shape, so I took him to the hospital, where an X-ray revealed two broken fingers. I wept with him, said I was sorry that things were hard now, and promised they would get better. He said he believed me. After that, there were a few times where he hit walls, slammed doors, or broke dishes, but he never hurt himself like that again, and he never once raised a hand to me. That meant it wasn’t abuse.
In April of 1972, John Young and Charles Duke of Apollo 16 landed on the moon. It was an anniversary of sorts for us, since we met at the last moonwalk, and we decided to throw a party. The event wasn’t as grand as last summer’s East Village affair, but it was far more memorable, because it came on bended knee and declarations of eternal love. Of course I was going to say yes - I would have even without the audience, because I would never find someone like him again. I was, if you will pardon the pun, over the moon with happiness. Yes, there were a few times his face darkened in a way that concerned me, but we were going to be married. Things would be fine after that. They threatened to be fine ever sooner. When spring term ended, I didn’t perform as well in my final exams as I’d hoped. His idea of cheering me up was to announce he’d bought a home for us: a lovely little brownstone in Brooklyn, close to his work, complete with a coveted backyard, and we could move in at once. Not my first choice of address - it was almost a two-hour commute to and from school - but it was ours. I would find a way to deal with everything else.
When the fall term started, I was met with a surprise: my adviser had retired, and his replacement was the university’s first female law professor. I was in awe of her. She was one of the first women to graduate from Harvard Law School and had worked several high-profile cases. She invited me to her office for an introduction, which reignited my spark and love for learning. For a few weeks, I felt like myself again. However, the long commute from Brooklyn, the lack of a support system, and the constant demands on my attention at home proved too great to overcome. I was now missing classes and failing exams. She called me back into her office at the end of winter term to deliver an ultimatum: effective immediately, I was on academic probation, and if my grades did not improve in the spring, I would be dismissed. Me, the one who, until a year ago, had been at the top of every class since my playground days. I could hardly believe it. Neither could she, which made what came next was even worse.
It seemed my professor had taken a special interest in me. In his notes, her predecessor said I had started out strong, but as time went by, the quality of my work went down and I seemed to lose my focus. She wanted to know why. She examined my transcripts, test scores, and entrance exams, finding that I invariably received top marks in everything I attempted. My LSAT scores were by far the best of my entire admission class - something I had not dared to believe even at the height of my confidence. That I’d cheated was a possibility she had to consider, but no, cheating wasn’t consistent with the years and years of proven performance under the highest standards of quality control. She asked around a bit - not too much, just enough to form a vague idea as to the reasons behind the shifting trend. How, she wondered, had someone with so much potential found herself at risk of flunking out of law school? She had enough to go on to form an idea, but she wanted to hear my thoughts on the matter.
To this day, I’m not exactly sure how I ended up telling her the whole story. Lawyer guile, probably. I talked for almost an hour while she took notes, provided a gentle “mmm hmm” or “tell me more about that,” punctuated by the occasional probing question that always hit close to the mark, but never right on it, lest I raise my guard again and end the conversation. Finally, she stopped writing, and I stopped talking. She pushed her notes toward me. I looked at them, and then at her. We were both silent for a time, and then she voiced the most important question I had ever been asked: “Do you see the pattern here, Felicia?”
I did. And I knew what I had to do.
I practiced what I was going to say over and over again in my head the whole way home. I had to walk slowly and carefully up the steps of the brownstone, partly because they were dangerously icy in the mid-December freeze, and partly because the weight of dread was shackled to my feet like an iron ball and chain. Before I opened the door, I looked up. The half-moon shone brightly in the cloudless sky, oblivious to the happenings in the world below. At that very moment, somewhere on its surface walked the astronauts of Apollo 17. How fitting that a moonwalk was to coincide with another major milestone in our relationship.
The smell of roast beef and fresh-baked bread assaulted my senses as I opened the door. He was an excellent cook, and had never seemed to mind assuming that particular domestic duty. Did I thank him enough for that? Would things be different if I had? He greeted me warmly, rushed over to take my coat, kissed my cheek, and asked if I wanted a glass of wine now or preferred to wait until dinner was ready. I followed him into the kitchen, steeling myself for what was inevitable and necessary. Of course, this had to be the side of him I saw today, the very thing that would make me doubt my resolve and wonder if all the things I’d said in my adviser’s office were really accurate. He bustled about the stove, took lids off and on pots, asked me to pass a spoon with a please and thank you, and relayed the significant events of his day. I couldn’t look at him, so I looked down. Next to the sliding glass door leading out to our small backyard was a spool of barbed wire. He’d bought it weeks ago to put around the top of our fence for security, after one of the neighbors had a break-in. Seeing it reminded me of how it was just like him: how it could protect you on the right side, but get on the wrong side, and it would rip you to shreds. I was ready. I was done.
I said his name, and something in my tone must have conveyed the gravity of the situation, because he immediately stopped what he was doing and gave me his undivided attention. I said my piece, took the ring off, and set it on the counter. At first, he didn’t do anything but stare. I started to back away, said my father and brothers would be along in a day or two to collect my things, and I would prefer that he not attempt to contact me. The storm broke. He was incredulous at first, then angry, and then sobbing hysterically. Didn’t I know how much he loved me, that he’d given me everything, and that it would destroy him completely if I were to leave? How could I be so cruel, so selfish, so stupid to walk away from the life we were building together? How could I do this to him? To us?
And then he was throwing things. I dodged the spoon, and the first pot lid, but not the second. It struck me in the middle of the forehead, and I stumbled backwards, dazed. Suddenly he was on top of me, fists flying. One punch was all it took to drop me the rest of the way to the floor, and from there, he started kicking me in the stomach. If he couldn’t have me, no one could. Through the haze of blood, pain, and spinning stars, I saw him go for the barbed wire.
I tried to run, tried to stand, but I only made it halfway, which just made it easier for him to wrap the cord of steel and spikes around my neck. Agony beyond what I thought was possible overwhelmed my senses and drove all reason from my mind. I didn’t know how I was going to escape, only that I must. I couldn’t see through the haze of pain, but I had the vague idea that he was standing behind me, which meant his knees were about at the level of my flailing arms. I fought to regain control of my mind, and I knew had to do something - right now - or I would never do anything again. I gathered what strength yet remained in me, and drove my elbow into the side of his knee. I don’t know if I actually hurt him, but at the very least, it startled him enough to make him slacken his grip. It was all the opening I needed to slip out from under him. I couldn’t stand, but I could crawl. I could escape.
I used one hand to feel my way to the door, the other to stem the flow of blood spouting from my throat. It took a few tries to find and turn the doorknob, but I did it, and the blast of frigid winter air that hit me was the most welcome sensation I’d ever experienced. I tumbled onto the landing, and down the icy steps. Once I hit the sidewalk, both hands went to my neck. Blood streamed through my fingers in rivulets. My vision started to drift into focus, then back out, and then in again. A dark blur was growing more solid - was it him? No, there were two of them. A woman screamed, and then a man’s voice: “Go! Get help! Now!” The last thing I saw as my eyes rolled into the back of my head was the moon. I would be walking with them soon...
It was the moon again that met me when I came back around, or at least, I thought it was. I found out later it was actually the lights of a surgeon’s operating table. The next thing I remembered was a voice: a new one, a strange one, and one to whom I would be eternally grateful. “She’s lost a lot of blood, but she’s stable now," the voice sighed. "I’m afraid she’ll have the scars for life.”
I tried to smile. I don’t know if I managed it, but I tried. She’ll have the scars… for life.
I was going to live.
