Chapter Five
Rick Evers had told me early on that he expected to leave this mortal plane at thirty-three because that was the age Jesus had been when he died. Rick also believed that before he left this mortal plane he was destined to have a profound influence on the world through his music. Despite objective opinions to the contrary, Rick considered his songs melodic and had no doubt that his lyrics contained messages that the world wanted to hear. He was convinced that he was a good enough singer to achieve renown equal or superior to that of the Moody Blues. My professional opinion was that he had a long way to go to match the success or the talent of the Moody Blues, but I was smitten enough to believe that anything was possible with this man.
After our visit with Yoko and John, Rick’s determination to become a star kicked into overdrive. He didn’t see his lack of musical training as a drawback. He thought of it as an asset that made him more original than songwriters and performers with an actual knowledge of music. He compared his rudimentary guitar playing in unconventional tunings to Joni Mitchell’s inventive tunings, and he viewed her success as a logical consequence for himself. Rick’s way of applying himself to the pursuit of stardom was to insinuate himself more deeply into my songwriting and recording. He became my songwriting partner by verbalizing ideas that he expected me to turn into songs—which I did. As Rick pushed himself more persistently into all aspects of my life, it was clear to everyone but me that he thought our association would accelerate his rise to fame. The indications were there, but I was a woman in love. I didn’t become aware of the net of Rick’s behavior tightening around me until I was too enmeshed to get out.
It’s really difficult for me to write this.
Rick Evers physically abused me—not just once, but many times.
This is even more difficult to write.
I stayed.
As powerful as my initial attraction was, it had become even more so with my view of Rick as the sole person who could help me move out of L.A. It was a view he did everything to encourage. The more dependent on Rick I became, the more the net tightened. The more it tightened, the more dependent on him I became. The more I lost myself, the more disposed I was to believe Rick when he characterized himself as the only way I could find myself. It was a self-destructive cycle in which I willingly participated.
The first sign of Rick’s abusive nature had occurred early in 1976, just three months after we’d met. I was in the bedroom putting away some folded laundry when Rick entered the room and asked about a phone call I had received earlier. He wanted to know who it was. I answered truthfully that it was someone in my business manager’s office. Without warning, he struck me with his right fist. He hit me hard, as if he were in a boxing ring, except he wasn’t wearing gloves, and he wasn’t in a boxing ring.
What…? I thought as I crumpled to the floor holding the left side of my face. Did Rick just hit me??
I never saw it coming. I had been putting Rick’s jeans in a drawer. Now I was on the floor, sobbing, with tears of pain and outrage soaking my cheeks. I couldn’t tell which hurt more, my face or my heart. Meanwhile, Rick, seeing me on the carpet holding my face and weeping, broke down completely. Seemingly aghast at what he had just done, he picked me up off the floor, sat down on the bed, and cradled me in his arms. Now he was sobbing inconsolably and swearing that it would never happen again.
“Oh my God, Carole, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Oh, baby, I can’t believe I hurt you. I love you so much. I didn’t mean to hurt you. You’re my lady. I would never do anything to hurt you.”
The man who had just hit me was crying harder than I was. He began chanting, “I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry, so sorry. I’ll never do it again, never, never again. I love you so much. I’ll do anything to make it up to you. I promise, I’ll never, ever hurt you again.”
Foolishly, I believed him.
Rick was on his best behavior for the next couple of months. He was sweet, kind, loving, and generous—until the next time. It happened the same way, without warning. As before, we were in the bedroom. I had just said something perfectly innocuous when, Bam!!! Again I crumpled to the floor, but this time I was less shocked and more outraged.
“Why did you do that??”
Rick broke down. He dropped to the floor and held me while he sobbed and repeated, “Carole, oh baby, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I promise, I’ll never do it again.”
After a while he pulled back and regarded the left side of my face. Seeing that it was beginning to swell, he lifted me up, laid me tenderly on the bed, and went to the kitchen to get some ice. He came back into the bedroom with the ice wrapped in a towel and applied it gently to my face. Feeling the cold seeping through the towel, I thought, Look how lovingly he’s taking care of me. It was so thoughtful of him to get the ice. He’s so remorseful. And he did say he’d never do it again.
The memory of how far I was willing to go to rationalize Rick’s behavior is beyond even my own comprehension as I write this, yet it was I who did the rationalizing.
Wasn’t it?
Well, yes, it was me. But it wasn’t me.
Okay, then, who was it?
It was a woman who let herself be manipulated into a dangerously abusive relationship by a man with so much emotional hunger and misguided sensitivity that he could intuit her every insecurity and play her like the musician he wanted to be. It was a woman who didn’t want to let go of her belief that the relationship was fundamentally as good as she had always wanted a relationship to be. This woman—it’s so difficult to say “I”—I thought of his tender moments as his normal state of being and viewed the moments of abuse as anomalies.
I developed a litany of excuses: He’s helping me find my home in the mountains. He’s under so much pressure because he’s getting all this negative energy from my friends. Everyone resents him for taking me away from them. It’s hard on a man when a woman makes all the money. He never hits me in front of the children.
The list could have gone on endlessly. And not one of the excuses justified my staying.
During 1976, Rick would allow just enough time to go by for me to believe that our relationship consisted of nothing but peace, love, joy, and happiness—and then, Bang!!! I never knew what would set it off. Maybe Rick thought his journey to stardom wasn’t happening fast enough. Maybe I was getting too much attention. Perhaps I had been on the phone with a female friend a little longer than he thought I should be. (By then I knew better than to be on the phone with a male friend.) Each time something set Rick off, his insane jealousy and explosive temper would take over and he’d throw a jab at my face with his fist. His fist!! After a few such times you’d think I would have figured out that this was a pattern and removed myself from harm’s way, but I was beyond rational thinking. I was completely lost. The relatively confident woman I had been had all but disappeared. Externally I appeared to be going about my work and my life as usual, but inside I had become a small distant creature wrapped in fear, shame, and guilt.
Every so often, a vestige of the woman I used to be would ask in a tiny voice from a far corner of my mind: Why are you staying with this man? But rather than look for an answer, the manipulated woman to whom the question had been directed—there I go again; I—ignored the question and continued to let my abuser off the hook.
One of the most appealing things about Rick was that he knew how to come up with activities that were fun. My younger children in particular seemed to enjoy those activities. I often described Rick as “good to my children.” My Larkey children never reported otherwise, nor did I ever see him being anything but kind to them. Had I ever seen or heard about him lifting a hand to Molly or Levi, I would have protected them. I would have taken my children and left without a backward glance. But because I didn’t value myself in the same way, I didn’t protect myself. With his twisted sensitivity, Rick knew exactly how far he could go and still retain his emotional hold on me. He knew that he would lose me instantly if he said a cross word to the children, so of course he never did. The truth is, Rick never felt the need. He felt safe in the company of children, animals, and the elderly. It was prime-of-life adult humans—specifically women, and at the time, most specifically I—who threatened him the most.
It took me a long time to realize that Rick had a very serious problem. It took me even longer to admit that I, too, had a problem. By staying, I was complicit in creating a space in which the abuse could recur. The same gift for denial that had led me to commit so readily to Rick in the first place allowed me to characterize his irrational anger as an aberration. I set it aside, as if it weren’t part of our “real” relationship. My reluctance to leave was exacerbated by the psychological bond that formed between us every time he became abjectly apologetic. When he cried and said he was sorry, swore he didn’t mean it, and promised he’d do anything to make it up to me, I felt sorry for him. And then when he avowed his undying love and devotion, I was so grateful to be kissing and making up that I was willing to believe whatever he said.
It was a perilous yet irresistible dynamic. One moment I felt completely powerless. The next moment, all the power shifted to me. Rick was so full of remorse that I could say anything at that moment with impunity. I could speak my truth and tell him with righteous passion all the things I expected from him. With conflicting emotions obliterating any possibility of levelheadedness, I was drawn in again and again by Rick’s repentance. I so desperately wanted to believe him.
Before Rick I couldn’t imagine myself in such a relationship. I thought abuse happened only to women who were uneducated or unsophisticated, women with no money or confidence whose fathers or other male family members had been alcoholics or addicts or bullies asserting control through physical and sexual abuse. My father had done none of those things, nor had any other man in my life. I had my own income and a prior history of worldly success. I had plenty of friends and family members to whom I could have turned for help. I could have left Rick with complete safety. I had always been judgmental about women who stayed in abusive relationships. I’d always thought, If I ever found myself with a man like that, the first time he struck me I’d be out of there in a New York minute. I would never stay with an abuser. Until I did.
And through it all, my career went on.