The Abuse Excuse: 'Psychobabble' and the Protection of Basic Values

• Author: David M. Paciocco
• Pages: 297-324

CHAPTER

14

U

The

Abuse Excuse:

Psychobabble"

and

the

Protection

of

Basic

Values

uments like birth certificates

and

driver's licences.

One of the

last

official

documents

to

bear

his

name

was

typed

on 31

August

1986.

It was a

coroner's certificate,

verifying

his

cause

of

death

to be a

gunshot

wound

to the

head. That date

is a

vital

statistic

not

only

in the

brief

life

of

Kevin

Rust

but

also

for Lyn

Lavallee,

his

common-law

wife.

That

was

the day he

stopped beating her.

Angelique

Lyn

Lavallee

was

still

a

teenager when

she

first

moved

in

with

Kevin.

They lived together, although

not

without interruption,

for

the

next

three

or

four

summers,

but no one was

keeping careful track.

The

time

just passed.

One day

melted

into

the

next. Bruises simply

faded

and

disappeared while

new

ones took their place. From time

to

time

she

would leave him,

but

then return. That

was

just

the way it

was.

By the

summer

of

1986,

at the age of

twenty-two,

Lyn was

already

a

veteran

of

a

domestic

war

that

had

marked

her

time with

Kevin,

a war in

which

she

had

lost

all the

battles.

A

broken nose, black eyes, cuts, bruises

—

eight

separate

trips

to the

emergency wards

of two

different

hospitals.

These

were

the

wages

of

love

for

young Lyn.

As for

Kevin,

he had

felt

her

fists,

but,

not

surprisingly,

she

always

got the

worst

of it. It

seemed

the

only

times

that

she

managed

to

hold

her own

were

the two

occasions when

she

stuck

the

barrel

of a gun in his

face.

The

last time

it was a

loaded .303

calibre

rifle.

"If you

ever

touch

me

again/'

she had

said, "I'll kill you."

But

that

was

before. This day,

30

August, looked

as

though

it

might

be one of the

good ones.

The

summer

of

1986

was

closing down, they

had

"R

ooster" to his friends, he was known as Kevin Rust on official doc-

298

JUSTIFIABLE

HOMICIDE

just returned

on

their

bikes

from

the

Tourist

Hotel,

where they

had

shared

some beers with

friends,

and

Keith

and

Joanne were

now

planning

to

stay over.

An

impromptu party

was

breaking

out at

their

residence.

They

had

fetched some

wine,

hefted

the

"ball

of

beer"

out of the

fridge,

grabbed

a

pump

to

coax

it out

with,

and

made

their

way to the

picnic

table outside. Together they drew back

the

foam

that

filled

the

first

few

mugs,

and

then

got

down

to

some serious drinking.

At

first

things were

fine.

Kevin

had

showered when they

got

back,

and Lyn had

even

offered

to

wash

his

jeans

for

him.

As if out of

kindness,

he

told

her not to

bother.

The

pair

he had

would

be OK.

Then

Lyn

broke

a

wine

glass.

The

tinkling sound

of

glass

skipping around

the

sink

had not

even

stopped

before

Kevin

fell

into character: "You clumsy slut.

Be

care-

ful.

Who the

fuck

is

going

to pay for

that?"1

Without apologizing,

he

stomped

back out.

The

festive mood

and the

weather seemed

to

mollify

Kevin

and,

within

minutes,

it was as

though nothing

had

happened. More friends

arrived

and

they

partied

on.

Within

an

hour

or

two,

the

stale

ice

cubes

that

had

been cracked

from

the

plastic freezer trays

had

melted

into

a

pool

at the

bottom

of the

cooler.

The

beer

was

getting warm.

Kevin

decided

to go to get

more ice.

He

also planned

to

stop

at the

Canadian

Tire

to

pick

up

some wire

so

they could drag

the

speakers outside

to

keep

the

party

going.

He and two of his

buddies piled into

a car and

squealed

away.

Distracted

by

their

own

company

and

dulled

from

quaffing

beer

in

the hot

sun, they returned

a

short time later, having forgotten

the

ice.

Embarrassed,

Kevin

resented

the

criticism that

Lyn

levelled

at

him. Words

were exchanged.

He

refused

to go

back out,

so Lyn and

Joanne decided

to go. As she was

leaving,

Kevin

told

her to

drive

out to his

grandmother's

to

pick

up

some corn

for the

guests.

Lyn

refused,

and

they argued about

that

as

well.

The

women

left

for the

7-11.

When

Lyn and

Joanne returned

from

their errand, they dropped

the

"munchies"

and the ice on the

picnic table

and

settled

inside

to

watch

television.

The

party carried

on

outside

in the

failing

light,

a

dozen

flushed

faces

lit as

much

by the red

band

that

still

hung

on the

horizon

as

by the

bare bulb

over

the

patio door.

The

familiar

sound

of

drunk talk

and

uninhibited laughter carried through

the

still evening

air

into neigh-

bouring

windows,

but

Kevin

was

laughing less than

he had

been before.

He was

becoming sombre, quiet, brooding.

"Why

is she

avoiding me?"

he

thought

to

himself.

Without

leaving

his

seat,

Kevin

summoned

Lyn

through

the

open door. "Lyn. Lyn.

Get the

hell

out

here.

You

anti-social?

The

party's

out

here. Come

on, get the

hell

out

here."