How to Bury Your Abusive Husband and the Laws That Shielded Him

Domestic violence isn鈥檛 funny. But Alexia Casale鈥檚 debut novel finds humor in survivors taking matters into their own hands.

Domestic violence isn鈥檛 funny; a burial club that disposes of abusive dead husbands is, which is the reason I chuckled while reading . Alexia Casale鈥檚 debut novel is set in the early days of pandemic lockdown, when . It follows Sally, who accidentally kills her husband with her granny鈥檚 cast-iron skillet in self-defense鈥攁nd realizes she is more upset about her ruined heirloom than her dead husband. After meeting three other abused women in her British town whose husbands are decomposing in their homes, she decides to form an unusual support group: the Lockdown Ladies鈥� Burial Club, publicly known as a 鈥済ardening鈥� club.

As the survivor of domestic abuse perpetrated by my, if you had asked me before reading the novel if it was OK to imbue humor into the discourse surrounding domestic abuse, I would have said, 鈥淗ell no.鈥� But Casale doesn鈥檛 make light of violence; instead, she uses humor as an advocacy tool to illuminate a grim truth: Too often, the legal system rather than abusers. To stay safe and out of prison, women frequently have to (green thumb or not) take matters into their own hands.

If that鈥檚 too dark a thought, Casale gets it. 鈥淧eople don鈥檛 want to hear about the grim reality of male violence against women and girls,鈥� she writes in her author鈥檚 note. 鈥淭his novel is an attempt to use humor to cut through people鈥檚 reluctance to engage.鈥� If readers giggle along as Sally covers her husband鈥檚 body in cat litter to dry it out, sprinkling on some rice for good measure鈥斺€渏ust like our wedding day!鈥濃€攖hen they鈥檙e not looking away from domestic abuse. And that鈥檚 the whole point.

The Lockdown Ladies鈥� Burial Club never had the pandemic luxury of baking sourdough or tie-dyeing tees. If their common bond was a love of Agatha Christie mysteries鈥攔ather than surviving abuse鈥攖hey might have met in a virtual book club, cementing their friendship over wine-induced theories on how to get away with murder. Instead, they鈥檙e tasked with something much more difficult: figuring out how to avoid prison.

Women who claim self-defense against their abusers are than men who shoot strangers under. The law is more willing to side with a man who fires a gun at a nonviolent burglar than a woman who fights back against a husband who鈥檚 abused her for (as in Sally鈥檚 case) 20 years. That means Sally鈥檚 likely at fault, legally, when her husband, Jim, 鈥減unishes鈥� her for making his tea too light鈥攂y pouring boiling water over her hand鈥攁nd she reaches for her granny鈥檚 skillet to defend herself.

鈥淭here is a practical side of self-defense that can be empowering,鈥� says Shaunna Thomas, co-founder and executive director of UltraViolet, a feminist advocacy organization. 鈥淏ut the concept is often grounded in a misogynistic idea that women who are harmed are and are solely responsible for their own safety regardless of the circumstances.鈥�

In Sally鈥檚 case, the 鈥渃ircumstances鈥� seem pretty clear-cut: Jim attacked her, and she defended herself, accidentally killing him in the process. But 鈥渟elf-defense law was not created with women or victims of abuse in mind,鈥� says Elizabeth Flock, author of . Flock, an Emmy Award鈥搘inning journalist whose book examines what happens when, says the 鈥溾€� was 鈥渃reated by and for property-owning white men to protect their so-called 鈥榗astles.鈥欌€�

If that sounds disgustingly patriarchal,, and outdated, that鈥檚 because it is. The law allows deadly force to protect your home but 鈥渄oesn鈥檛 account for women who defend themselves and their bodies against abusers who reside in their home and often have wielded violence for years,鈥� Flock says. The result? 鈥淲omen claiming self-defense often get convicted of murder or manslaughter, or take and end up spending years in prison.鈥�

More years, in fact, than men who kill their female partners. Abusive men who kill women face in prison, while women who kill men鈥斺€攁re sentenced to an average of. Unsurprisingly, prisons are filled with .

After Sally fights back, instead of calling the police, she eats some cake. Jim鈥檚 rotting on her kitchen floor, no longer capable of telling her she鈥檚 too fat or undeserving of treats. So she pours herself a glass of wine, grabs a bag of chips, and takes a bubble bath. The sense of relief and possibility Sally feels in Jim鈥檚 absence is overwhelming, so she makes a 鈥渂e happy鈥� list to extend her serotonin boost (bake! rescue a cat! get a job!). Then her 鈥済et rid of Jim鈥� list takes precedence, because if she waited this long to call the police, would anyone really believe she acted in self-defense?

鈥淚n a court of law, a woman can put her hand on a bible and swear to tell the whole truth, but if her word isn鈥檛 valued, the whole truth may not be heard,鈥� domestic violence court advocate Tonya GJ Prince says. Prince can still remember the haunting screams that pierced the courtroom 20 years ago when a survivor she was assisting played a recording of her violent attack.

She was seeking a restraining order, but knew that without proof of violence, her request was likely to be denied. Her abuser was鈥攁s is often the case鈥攕een publicly as a 鈥渘ice guy.鈥�

鈥淲hen the recording ended, no one in the courtroom moved,鈥� Prince recalls. 鈥淚t was one of those moments where you had to remind yourself to breathe.鈥�

The judge granted the woman鈥檚 request for a restraining order, but not without chastising her 鈥渄ramatic and over-the-top鈥� screams. If that sounds familiar鈥攁nd sickening鈥攜ou may remember that Amber Heard鈥檚 of was seen not as but of her.

The inherent in our is why an NYPD detective told my mom in the 鈥�90s that the law couldn鈥檛 protect us from my father and that our only options were for my mom to either kill him or go into hiding with my sister and me. (She chose the latter, and if this sounds like a Lifetime Movie, it.)

New York didn鈥檛 have any stalking laws at the time, so my father鈥攁nd the hit man he hired鈥攚as free to hunt and terrorize us. Unless it became a murder case, there was nothing the cops could do.

Before we escaped our home in Canada and fled to New York, my father attacked my mom outside his office in Michigan and threw her into oncoming traffic. He spent a single night in jail, and the felony assault case against him was dismissed in less than 30 minutes. Despite my horror-fueled objections, I was forced by court order to visit him. If my mom refused to hand me over, she would be held in contempt and possibly jailed.

Too often, the law protects abusive men and abused women, and the media aids and abets this abuse. Recently, The New York Times when it wrote鈥攖hen seemingly鈥攖hat O.J. Simpson鈥檚鈥渨orld was ruined鈥� after being charged with killing his ex-wife, Nicole Brown Simpson. Yet problematic language remains in the paper鈥檚 of Simpson鈥檚 obituary, which briefly mentions that he Brown Simpson鈥攚hom prosecutors said he 鈥攜et calls him 鈥渃ongenial鈥� and his marriage 鈥渟tormy.鈥澛燭he way the press has while is eerily reminiscent of the that failed Brown Simpson鈥攁nd continues to fail domestic violence survivors 30 years later.

In the U.S. legal system, only dead women鈥攚ho can鈥檛 speak up or defend themselves鈥攁re considered. My mom, thankfully, was not a perfect victim. Neither were Amber Heard or any of the members of fictional Lockdown Ladies鈥� Burial Club. These women didn鈥檛 only fight back; they survived.

Brijana Prooker is a Los Angeles鈥揵ased freelance journalist covering health, gender and culture. Her bylines include The Washington Post, Elle, Shondaland, Good Housekeeping, and PopSugar. Her two peanut butter鈥揷olored rescue girls (a pit bull named Ivy and an orange kitty named Doosis) are her everything.

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