Chapter 9 - The Flying Monkeys
When an abuser realizes they can no longer manipulate their primary victim directly, they invariably recruit external agents—friends, relatives, and mutual acquaintances—to launch a proxy war of guilt and emotional harassment. In psychological terms, these enablers are known as "flying monkeys."
By early September, Julian had deployed his remaining social network to target Clara. He knew that while I was an impenetrable fortress of financial and legal retaliation, Clara’s maternal heart was still scarred and bleeding from the loss of her relationship with her only son.
On a warm Sunday afternoon, while I was out at the local hardware store purchasing supplies to repair our garden fence, our home telephone rang. Clara answered it in the kitchen.
It was my younger sister, Beatrice—a woman who lived in Connecticut and had always favored Julian, frequently spoiling him as a child and turning a blind eye to his entitlement.
"Clara Thornton, what on earth have you and Thomas done to that poor boy?!" Beatrice’s voice boomed through the receiver, vibrating with self-righteous indignation. "Julian called me crying his eyes out from some motel room! He tells me Thomas threw him out of his apartment, fired him from his job, and stole his trust fund all because you had a little slip at the country club!"
Clara stood by the kitchen island, her knuckles turning white around the telephone handset. "Beatrice... it wasn't a slip. Julian and Victoria assaulted me. They broke my mother-in-law's brooch and pushed me into a wall."
"Oh, stop exaggerating, Clara!" Beatrice snapped, adopting the classic dismissive tone of an enabler. "We all know you’ve always been jealous of Julian’s success! Victoria is a gorgeous, high-class girl from a prominent family, and you couldn't stand the fact that your son was moving up in the world! So you fabricated this whole assault story to punish him for growing up!"
"I didn't fabricate anything—"
"You are a mother!" Beatrice shrieked into the phone. "A real mother sacrifices her pride for her children! Even if Julian was a little rough with you during a stressful wedding moment, you don't destroy his entire life over it! You tell Thomas to restore that boy’s trust fund and give him his house back right now, or I swear to God I will call every relative in New England and tell them what a cold, vindictive, hateful woman you really are!"
The back door opened, and I walked into the kitchen carrying my toolbox. I saw Clara shaking, tears streaming silently down her pale face as she held the phone inches from her ear, trapped in Beatrice’s toxic verbal assault.
I dropped my toolbox onto the floor with a heavy thud, crossed the kitchen in three strides, and snatched the receiver out of my wife’s trembling hand.
"Beatrice," I said into the mouthpiece, my voice dropping into a register so dark and lethal it instantly cut off her rant.
"Thomas! It is about time! You listen to me right now—"
"Shut your mouth and open your email," I commanded.
"What? I am not opening an email—I am telling you to fix what you did to my nephew—"
"Open your email right now, Beatrice, or I am driving to Hartford tonight to have this conversation on your front lawn," I barked, my voice vibrating with enough suppressed fury to make the line go dead silent.
I heard the clicking of her computer mouse over the phone. While she had been screaming at Clara, I had forwarded her a file from my phone: ROSEWOOD_ASSAULT_EVIDENCE.MP4.
"Click play," I ordered.
For forty-five seconds, the telephone line was filled with the sound of Beatrice’s heavy breathing, followed by a sudden, sharp gasp of absolute horror as she watched her beloved nephew seize his mother’s wrist and shove her into the wainscoting on high-definition 4K video.
"Oh... my God..." Beatrice whispered, her voice cracking as the reality of the footage shattered her illusions. "Julian... he... he pushed her..."
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"He assaulted an elderly woman and left her bleeding on a marble floor," I said coldly. "So here is how this is going to work, Beatrice. If you ever call my house again, if you ever speak to my wife again, or if you mention Julian’s name to a single member of our family without explaining that he is a violent abuser, I will send this video to your husband, your children, and the board of your local church. Do we understand each other?"
Beatrice hung up the phone without uttering another syllable. I turned around, took Clara into my arms, and held her tightly against my chest while she sobbed out the last remnants of her familial guilt.
