by Pamela Cowan
Tom groaned again and dug his fingers into her thighs as he pulled her down, harder and harder, until he came deep inside her.
He breathed out slowly and unclenched his fingers. She would have bruises. Storm didn't mind. There was a wide grin on his face as he slid his hands up to surround her waist to pull her down on top of him. She jerked back as if stung, rolled off and away from him to the edge of the bed. “Baby, baby, I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to.”
“It's okay,” she told him. “It's fine.” But it wasn't fine. Sometimes sex made her emotional, blunted her anger, and tore away her defenses. Stinging hot tears gathered behind her eyes. After a moment, her silent choking sobs shook the bed. He wrapped the sheet around her and then his arms, making certain he didn't touch the scars.
It was a long time before he knew about the scars. At first he'd thought she was simply shy or possibly frigid. What a mistake that was. She was anything but frigid, as long as he didn’t touch or see her scars. She had allowed him to look once.
“I want you to be sure you know what you're getting,” she told him. It was the day he asked her to marry him. They'd taken a long weekend and rented a vacation house in Rockaway Beach on Oregon's north coast. He was surprised she'd accepted his invitation.
During the first twelve months of dating, he'd never managed to get past second base. He was hoping for sex when she agreed to go away with him but rented a two-bedroom, just in case he'd misread the signals. If he had and she intended to keep him waiting until marriage—if that was what she wanted—well . . . that's how it would be.
He'd surprised her over dinner with a special lobster—a ring garishly tied to one claw. She laughed until she cried, but refused to give him an answer.
That night, she came out of the bathroom, her hair still wet from the shower, wrapped in the robe she'd bought for the occasion. She turned, dropping the robe. His eyes had followed its descent from her shoulders to the floor, where it formed a puddle of red Chinese silk at her feet. His eyes traveled upward from her slim ankles to her rounded calves, her firm thighs and buttocks and—the shock of it.
He was relieved she had turned away, hadn’t seen the look of repugnance that must have crossed his face, nor the morbid interest that had kept him from looking away.
Across most of her back was a tracery of raised flesh that was too white, surrounded by gouges of flesh that were too pink. The border of this tangle of tortured flesh was an uneven and unnatural series of blocks. The edge of skin grafts, he realized, that had been applied to replace the flesh burned from her back. The scars extended from buttocks to shoulder blades and across the back of her right arm, nearly to her wrist.
She bent down, gathered the robe around herself, held it closed with one hand, and turned to face him, a tentative smile on her lips. The bravery in that smile took whatever he had kept of his heart. He begged her to marry him.
She said, ‘Yes.’
A decade later, Storm put her head against Tom's shoulder and let the tears, and the images, come. She thought about earlier in the day, about Mr. Everett, but it wasn’t his pain or the brutality of his end that filled her eyes with tears. It was the picture of his son. She had stared at that boy's photograph until it burned into her memory as deeply as any of the scars in her flesh.
There had been nothing uncommon about that face. He had freckles, untidy brown hair, and ears a little too big for his head. It was his smile and his eyes that had drawn her. His dark eyes so filled with the anticipation of pain that they made a mockery of the small, hopeful smile he wore.
Taking a deep breath, Storm rolled forward and kissed Tom's chest. “Look what you do to me,” she whispered in his ear. “Do you make all the women cry?”
“Always,” he told her. “Unfortunately, I also tend to make them run away. Better?” he asked.
“Better. I think I'll get a shower.”
“You sure? I believe there might be a round two,” he said, a smile in his voice.
“Now you're just bragging. We'll see how you feel when I get back.”
“You sure you don't want to ‘feel’ how I feel right now?”
Despite the dark, Storm knew Tom was waggling his eyebrows.
“Animal. I also have to go shut off the television before it wakes up the kids.”
“Oops.”
“Yeah. Oops. Now behave until I get back.” Storm pulled on her old, white, terry-cloth robe and padded barefoot down the hall to the family room, the flickering television lighting her way. On her return, as she headed for her shower, she was greeted by the sonorous sound of Tom's snores. She would have loved to wake him up and tease him about round two, but she was a mess, untidy, emotional, and exhausted.
Better get some sleep. Tomorrow is a new day, a fresh start, another chance to fix all the things wrong with the world.
CHAPTER THREE
THOUGH STORM WOKE with a slight headache and puffy eyes, she was well rested and deeply calm. Sometimes a good cry was not such a bad thing, or maybe it was the sex. With a wry smile, she reached over and shut off the alarm, giving Tom a little more precious sleep. She slipped out of bed without waking him and quietly made her way to the bathroom.
Early morning was Storm's favorite time of day. She loved getting up at five a.m. while everything was still peaceful and perfect. She followed the same routine every day: a splash of cold water on her face; pull her hair back into a ponytail; dress in black spandex shorts, a long-sleeved T-shirt covered by a short-sleeved T-shirt, her newest pair of Nike cross trainers, and head out to the street. If it was raining, she would pull on a hat, slipping her ponytail through the hole above the band.
Only on rare snowy days, when the sidewalks were covered in dangerously slippery ice, did she miss her run. There was never enough rain, no matter how torrential the downpour, to keep her inside.
History taught her that there was something she needed from her morning run, something that fed her soul and made it possible for her to face another day with unruffled calm. At five, street lights still sent wide ovals of light across the sidewalks, porch lights cast their own weak yellow light across lawns, and sometimes a security light would sense motion and snap a harsh white spotlight on as she passed by.
That morning, her path took her from light to dark and back again, sidewalks sparkling as if imbedded with tiny diamonds, shadows holding mysterious shapes. She heard dogs barking in the distance, the lonely sound of a train. She smelled wood smoke and the wonderful scent of flowers that was probably someone's scented dryer sheets.
As she ran, she could hear her own breathing, feel the burn in her thighs and calves, the tiny ache in her lower back and the smooth looseness of her muscles and joints working, propelling her forward. Her thoughts, dark memories, ugly deeds—they were always there. But when she ran, she left them far behind in the dark, just more mysterious shapes not worth exploring.
She thought about the day ahead. As soon as she got back she’d make sure Tom was up, bully and beg the kids to get up, get dressed, eat breakfast, finish their fruit and juice, and brush their teeth.
Tom, not much of a morning person, would probably sip his coffee and stare at his family with a bleary-eyed look of total incomprehension. His normally cheerful disposition would kick in around the time he got up to pour his second cup. By the time the kids were gathering their bags, there was usually a good deal of silliness as the three climbed into Tom's car. Sometimes, Tom would still be in his pajamas, a cup of coffee in his hand, his sockless feet shoved into an old pair of Adidas sneakers he kept by the front door.
Storm thought about how lucky she was Tom worked from home. The task of delivering the kids to their schools and other activities had fallen to him.
On school days, she would watch from the window as he strapped the kids into their seats before taking them to their respective daycare and elementary schools. When they waved goodbye, a wave of fear would hit, a sense of foreboding that she was seeing them for the last time. She would
smile through the fear and wave harder, not willing to share her myriad of silly worries, determined that fear would not be a legacy she would pass on.
Panting, her feet flying across the pavement, Storm thought of her need for control. As soon as the car carrying her family was out of sight, that need would overcome her, and she would prepare for the day in her own carefully orchestrated way.
First, she would visit her closet. Tom had his own on the other side of the room. Hers was a small walk-in, its contents carefully segregated, with home and work clothes on different walls.
She had exactly ten work outfits, long-sleeved, button-front shirts in a multitude of solid colors, which she paired with black slacks. Her work shoes were black with square toes and chunky stacked heels that took her from a tall five eight to a very tall five ten.
After selecting a blouse and a pair of pants, she would choose a bra and panties, a silky camisole, and a pair of knee-high nylon socks, carrying everything to the bathroom. After locking the door, she would shower, fix her hair and makeup, and dress.
Usually, she wore her hair up for work, twisted into a neat chignon, held in place with a tortoiseshell comb that complimented her reddish highlights.
She always rubbed scented lotion into her skin and wore a floral-scented deodorant but didn’t wear perfume, which gave her a headache.
Instead of foundation, she dusted her face with tinted mineral powder and swept on a bronzer and some peach blush. She would apply two tones of earth brown on her eyelids and draw espresso-brown liner across the top and bottom lashes, not bothering with mascara, as her lashes were dark and long enough to suit her. She would wear berry-scented lip gloss, reapplying it several times a day. Her look was professional but not girly, neat but not obsessive.
Dirty laundry would be placed in the hamper and the damp towel hung to dry. She would make sure everything was in place and tidy before returning to the master bedroom.
She owned ten silver necklaces, some beaded and some with small pendants. All could be worn with either one of the three pairs of earrings she owned: one set of small hoops, one medium, one set of posts with a quarter carat inset diamond.
Sometimes she wore a tennis bracelet with matched sapphires. She depended on her cell phone to tell her the the time.
Because there were no special meetings scheduled for the day, she would select a simple silver chain and the medium hoop earrings. Finally, she’d slip into one of her five pairs of work shoes.
Standing in front of the full-length mirror, she’d hold up a hand-mirror and make certain the blouse she wore was not too sheer, that the camisole hid any sign of the mottled flesh on her back, that the cuffs of her blouse were buttoned at her wrists.
For twenty years, since the accident when she was thirteen, Storm had tried to conceal her scars. For the most part, she had been successful.
CHAPTER FOUR
THURSDAY MORNING, Storm settled into work with the anticipation of meeting more than the usual number of clients. New policies had been implemented requiring additional ‘face time’ with her clients, while at the same time, budget cuts had resulted in larger caseloads. There wasn't a thing she could do about it but try to wade through as many meetings as she could in the eight hours, that followed, nine if she skipped lunch.
She pulled all the files for the clients with whom she'd scheduled appointments that day. Each of the files was divided into several sections containing: court orders, general conditions of probation, a list of fines and fees, pre-sentencing investigation notes and chronos—a narrative written each time there was an interaction with a client—an action plan, police reports, criminal history, and copies of the client's pay stubs.
After scanning the files to familiarize herself with them, Storm sat back waiting for the phone to ring. She didn't have to wait long. At 8:05 a.m., the receptionist called to tell her that her first appointment had arrived.
Taking a sip of the latte she allowed herself on mornings she expected to be difficult, she headed down the hallway. After five years of walking that hall, she didn't really notice the rose-pink carpet or the beige walls hung with ugly examples of modern art.
She opened the door into the reception area, taking in the scuffed white walls, blue vinyl chairs and corkboards filled with posters for recovery centers and anonymous addiction meetings and said, “Eldon Shatterly?” Three men turned to look at her. One, a chubby blond who looked about seventeen, stood up.
Giving him a thin smile and a nod, she said, “Hi, I'm Storm McKenzie, your probation officer. Would you follow me, please?”
Her first appointment of the day suffered from having been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Eldon, who had no other offenses, not even a parking ticket, had accepted a ride from two almost-strangers he'd met during his first semester of college.
“They wanted to stop and buy some beer at Murphy's, you know, one of those stores at gas stations,” Eldon explained. “I was about to get out and start walking. They were acting weird, laughing about nothing, really. I figured they must be stoned, but it was raining like anything, and I had a tear in my backpack and didn't want my books to get wet. Anyway, they were in the store a long time, and I heard some big bangs, two of them, and they ran out and jumped in the car, and we took off real fast. I don't even think they remembered I was there. There were these cop cars and lights coming out of everywhere. The car slid sideways into a ditch, and they jumped out and ran, but I just stayed there.”
Storm looked down at the open file on her desk. “And after that, the police pulled you out of the car, and you learned that your friends had robbed the store and shot at the clerk?”
“Yeah, but they weren't really my friends. Plus, they didn't shoot the guy, just sort of at him, so—”
“So you didn't get charged with accessory to murder. You were lucky.”
“I guess,” said Eldon, his tone conveying he believed the opposite.
Storm sighed. He probably had a point. Luck—good or bad—was, like most things, a matter of perspective. “Well, it looks like you’ve been meeting the requirements of your probation. Your fines and fees are paid on time, and you've complied with everything the court ordered. I expect I'll be able to close your file in two months.”
“Okay,” said Eldon, with nothing in his voice or manner to indicate he was happy about that, either. Storm wondered if he realized how often she had to extend probation periods for clients, who, for one reason or other, didn’t fulfill their court-ordered sanctions or got behind with their fees. Maybe having a client who didn't know the probation system all that well was a good thing. Maybe this would really be the one and only time he'd be involved with it. She hoped so.
“Let me walk you back to the lobby,” she said. Traversing the same corridor, she said goodbye to Eldon and ushered in her next client.
The morning went much the same way until a little before noon, when one of Storm's coworkers, Nicky, stood in the doorway and said, “Want to do lunch?”
“Sure. My last client didn’t show, so I can even go now if you want.”
“Cool. Let's go get sushi.”
“Works for me.” Storm grabbed her raincoat and purse.
The probation department was on the third floor of the courthouse. There were twenty-four probation officers and four main teams, or units, that dealt with drug and property offenders, sex offenders, domestic violence, or parole and mental health. Storm was on the drug and property team, so most of her clients had been charged with using, manufacturing, or selling drugs, or with property crimes such as burglary, theft, arson, vandalism or shoplifting.
Nicky was new to both the job and the team, so Storm had been elected to show her around. From there, a sort of mentoring relationship had formed that was now moving toward a real friendship.
“So, what's Jackson done now?” Storm asked as they stepped quickly down the back courthouse steps. The sky was gray with storm clouds, and a light mist surrounded them.
“Jackson?” Nic
ky laughed. “Do I complain about him that much?”
“No more than anyone complains about an ex-boyfriend.”
“Right,” said Nicky, doubtfully. “Hold on a sec.” She gathered up her long white-blond hair, twisted it atop her head, and pulled on a knit hat she drew from her coat pocket. “Okay, good to go.”
They moved out from under the shelter of the giant sycamores lining the sidewalks around the courthouse just as the skies let loose and huge drops of icy rain fell. Storm pulled the hood of her raincoat over her head, and the two women ran across the road to the Japanese restaurant on the corner.
After running through the thunderous downpour, stepping into a warm, quiet atmosphere filled with delicious scents of cooking was a welcome change. Soft lighting gleamed across dozens of bottles of sake on
shelves lining the walls. Lute music from hidden speakers and the cascade of water across stones from a fountain just inside the foyer added to the ambience.
They hung their dripping coats on hooks by the front door and followed the hostess to a table. Immediately, hot tea and soup appeared. “This is what heaven must feel like,” said Nicky.
“Mmm,” agreed Storm, sipping her jasmine tea. The restaurant was busy, with diners seated at each of the tables of heavily lacquered raw wood. Their conversations seemed hushed. The pounding rain sliding down the windows created an atmosphere of isolation and calm, as if they were cut off from the world.
“So what did you want to talk about if it isn't Jackson?” asked Storm.
“Can't I just want to have lunch with a friend?”
“No, you're far too cheap for that,” said Storm.
“Frugal. The word you want is frugal,” corrected Nicky, smiling. She took off her knit hat and combed her fingers through her hair.