Fire in Me

by Dawn Mattox

  “Hey, girl, that’s Logan. Be nice to him and get us some beers, then you can open your gifts,” Lefty said as he gestured to the newcomer.

  Logan didn’t say a word. The corners of Logan’s mouth twitched slightly up. He barely nodded, but I got the message and got the beer.

  “Mom, is it weird being with so many guys?” I had asked this very adult question of Starla when I was thirteen. She returned for a visit shortly after giving birth to my very dark, kinky-haired, adorable baby sister.

  “No, honey.” She said, in the same wistful manner she had once read me fairy tales. “It’s like a field of wildflowers. Each one is different, and God meant for us to enjoy them all.” My dad and the club seemed to share her views—at least about the enjoyment-without-commitment part.

  Starla’s “god’s intended purpose” was a lot different from what Joyce, who was very religious, had told me her God intended. Joyce said that God's plan deliberately, intentionally, and divinely, calls for one man and one woman, and that, in a married relationship. She also taught me that God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Tiffany and Bambi and Glow. “And,” she reminded me, that “God didn’t make Adam and Steve or Delilah and Eve, either.” She said homosexuality was an “abomination” to God and unrepentant gay people were destined for hell. Her husband, Kenny would nod in agreement but told me later that he didn't believe in hell.

  Lefty made fun of Joyce and Kenny, calling them Jesus Freaks when he was nice and a whole lot worse when he wasn’t. God knows that Lefty plowed his way through as many women as Starla did men.

  It was my sixteenth birthday, I was lonely, and I thought Logan was a fox—with his tall body, sharp features, dark in a Mediterranean or maybe Native American kind of way. Clean shaven with loose, shining black hair that seemed untamed and free as the man himself. His eyes were the color of dark chocolate with flecks of gold. Yes, I thought, Logan is a fox. But wolf would have been more accurate.

  “Chelsea, you don’t have to do anything in the future that you don’t want to do, but you won’t have this opportunity again.” I pressed her. “If you wait too long to make a report, the jury will be less likely to believe you. Right or wrong, most jurors think a victim should want justice and be willing to make a report,” I urged her, speaking clearly and distinctly in my most convincing tone. Decisions have consequences.

  I didn’t go on to explain that one reason jurors don’t understand the victim's reluctance, is because the pictures aren’t of their privates being passed around for everyone to see. And when there is a delayed report, coupled with an absence of pictures or witnesses, they are more inclined to believe an allegation is an act of revenge concocted by an angry woman.

  “You don’t understand,” Chelsea said bitterly. “How could you?”

  “Happy birthday, kid,” Logan drawled in a deep southern accent that gave me goose bumps. He was almost invisible as he leaned against the giant oak tree in the failing twilight. There was something terribly insincere and mocking in those words, but they made my heart race. “I got something for you,” he said, unwrapping his bandana and holding out his hand. Cradled in his palm were two white tablets with a yin-yang symbol stamped on top.

  Blushing and feeling like a kid, I said, “I don’t take drugs.”

  “Really. Well, how about a beer? Got a problem with beer—little girl?” his voice teased, but his eyes weren't laughing.

  He thrust it at me before I could answer.

  What would my dad say if he caught me drinking? Would he kill Logan? Would he beat me, like he did my mom? There was the beer, right in front of me. I turned to look at the fire pit where everyone was gathered, drinking and partying and breaking open a kilo of Thai-sticks. I located Lefty howling and stumbling with the redhead in tow into the house and no doubt, the upstairs bedroom.

  I looked back at Logan. He had popped the top and held it like an offering.

  “A little beer won’t hurt.” He smiled and moved closer, inviting and invading my personal space. I could feel the warmth of his body. So close. My heart kicked into fifth gear and breathing about stopped.

  “Logan...” My objection was as weak as watered down lemonade.

  “Girl...” he whispered in a husky voice.

  I didn’t think of Logan in terms of being sexy—I was too immature for that. I thought he was the cutest guy on the planet and I couldn’t believe that he liked me and was treating me like an adult. No one had ever wanted me that way!

  “Earth to Bob. Hello!” I waved a hand in front of his face. “Are you okay? You’re on. She’s dressed and wants to talk to you.”

  Bob snapped out of his daydream. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m good. Is she dressed?”

  I am probably the only advocate around who recognizes officer burnout when I see it. Other people call him “Crazy,” but I'd say “Toast” was more like it. I also called him “friend.” Maybe it's because he reminds me of a one-eyed Chihuahua or a one-handed man. Part of the whole is damaged, but there is still plenty left to love. Rumor has it Bob holds some political cards in the deck that keep him from being fired. Like others, I thought he should have retired long ago.

  “She’s dressed and waiting for you in the visiting room,” I said.

  Bob rose from his chair. “Good. They picked him up on Nelson Creek. I guess he really did go fishing.” Bob shook his head. “Oh yeah... Gina from CPS is on her way over now. Meet her in the lobby?”

  “No problem.” This was good news.

  I picked up a container of ice cream from the nurse's station on my way to the lobby. Within minutes Chelsea's daughter was sitting quietly between Gina and me, eating her ice cream and wearing a chocolate mustache. Her little face was blank, but her eyes were filled with questions. I wondered about the things she had seen and heard—and if she would ever be able to forget.

  Logan told Lefty the next morning that I had said, “I wanted it.”

  Did I say that? Did I even know what “it” was, that I was supposed to have wanted? It was hard to remember that night. I recall Logan leading me out into the woods. I told him things about my life and private thoughts I hadn't even revealed to myself. I giggled a lot. I guess I wanted Logan. At least I wanted him to like me in the way an adolescent child dreams of flirting with a rock star.

  I sure didn’t know that “it” was going to hurt so badly. I had cried and begged Logan to stop, but he just kept saying, “You know you want it.”

  I was still confused; my face burning red as much from the two double-stacks of Ecstasy Logan had slipped into my beer as it was from the burning shame rising up from deep inside. Pins and needles were jabbing my skin. I felt dirty. What I really wanted was enough water to drown in. I was dying of thirst wanting to die. Drowning seemed like the perfect solution.

  “Well...” Lefty’s eyes fixed onto Logan like a King snake on a rat. “Now you had my baby girl... you bet your ass you’re gonna marry her.”

  Everyone laughed, but tension crackled beneath the surface. Nobody crossed Lefty. Nobody. So, Preacher put down his breakfast beer and everyone gathered around as Logan and I were married biker-style. I don’t remember saying “I do.” It was more like “Okay,” because nobody crossed Lefty, and that included me. I had no desire to end up like my mother on the south end of his northbound hook.

  By the time Officer Bob finished taking the preliminary information, Chelsea had transitioned from tears to anger to extreme fear.

  “They arrested Gregg?” She cringed. “Where will I go? I can’t go home. God knows what he’ll do when he finds out I talked to you.” Her responses to our questions were typical. “No, I don’t have anyone to stay with. No, I don’t have any money. My name isn’t on any of the checks or credit cards.”

  The door to the Visitors Room flew open. In stomped Marne with more attitude than Angelina Jolie taking on a hoard of enemy combatants.

  “You don’t have to answer any questions... you haven’t done anything wrong. I’m Marne, from Rape Crisis. You have the r
ight not to speak with law enforcement.”

  I sighed. Just my luck. Why Marne, when Rape Crisis had so many other nice, normal advocates.

  Gray-haired, square-jawed, butch-cut, red-faced, with a noticeable mustache on her upper lip, Marne. Marne, who hates men and looks just like one. I personally disliked her for who she was not what she was, although I failed to see the difference between employing a lesbian-who-thinks-she-is-a-man as opposed using a straight man to work in female victim services. It is kind of like putting a wolf in a pen full of wounded lambs. Temptation abounds.

  Chelsea looked confused. “I don’t understand. I thought Sunny was from Rape Crisis.”

  “Hello Marne,” I said, with a mental eye roll, waving fingertips in feigned politeness before turning back to Chelsea.

  “I am. But I also work for the District Attorney.”

  Marne glared at me and said to a very distraught Chelsea, “She’s not your friend.”

  Officer Bob intervened. “Ma’am,” speaking to Chelsea, “you have a right to do what you think is best. I am taking this information now and you can decide later on whether or not you want to press charges.”

  “I’m tired. I’m tired and I’m scared. Who is going to protect me when Gregg gets out of jail? He’s beat me before.” She lowered her voice and folded the paperwork in her hands. “Next time he'll probably kill me.”

  Bob stepped in. “He will be arraigned in court tomorrow morning. He may be held in jail without bail or he may be given an opportunity to post bail. If he posts bail, one of the conditions the court will impose is called a Stay Away Order in the unlikely event he is released,” Bob flat-lined the refrain like a Miranda Rights advisement.

  “You'd let him go free?” Her accusation followed by a few demeaning curse words.

  “Ma’am. I have no authority...”

  “He will kill me. Don't you get it?” Panic flashed through Chelsea's sad eyes.

  “I am sorry, ma’am. If I had it my way, I'd...” Bob fingered his gun.

  “Thanks, Bob,” I interjected and grabbed both Chelsea and her Oroville Hospital take-home bag. Guiding Chelsea by the elbow, I propelled her to a heartfelt reunion with her daughter and then toward the exit. “I'll take you and your daughter by your home to get some things and then drive you to the SAFE House in Chico. I’ll call you from the court in the morning and let you know what happened.”

  Marne growled as she followed doggedly behind, “You can do whatever you want. You don't have to go to a shelter.” Ironically, Marne would have referred Chelsea to the same shelter if I hadn’t been there. What Marne really objected to, was the time I would have with Chelsea outside of her sphere of influence. That was too bad for Marne because Chelsea had already decided to come with me.

  Bob talked with me privately as we exited the building and walked through the parking lot. “This is the reason I decided on Montana... but maybe Montana isn’t far enough. Maybe Alaska...” he muttered, as he nodded farewell and climbed into his patrol car.

  It was late by the time I drove back up the hill. Abuse calls are always difficult, but in a way, my work helps me make sense out of my screwed up childhood.

  A question I am frequently asked (and occasionally ask myself) is, “Where was God when I was a helpless kid?”

  Sometimes I say, “He was right there. He never left you. Life can take you down, but God can lift you up.”

  Other times I simply don't have an answer. Sometimes abuse is too terrible for words. It is pure evil. Part of living in a fallen world where people are free to make choices and sometimes, directly or indirectly, die as a result. I guess I will have to ask God to explain everything to me some day. The path I have chosen is not called a Faith-Walk for nothing.

  Sleep was slow in coming in spite of my exhaustion. I curled up in the warm protective shelter of Chance’s arms. “I love you, Chance,” I mumbled as I reached up to kiss the soft skin that covered the inside of his strong arm. Finally, in search of peace, I let go, drifting away into the night.

  Chance, however, did not sleep very well that night. I was running from demons in my past, but his were very present, lying in our bed and delighting in tormenting his nights.

  CHAPTER 5

  “And I will always love youuuuuu.” The familiar tune belted out from within last night's clothes heaped next to the bed just ahead of the alarm clock. The good news was that it was Chance’s pile and not mine. The sad news was, I had spent the past ten minutes trying to rouse my husband in more ways than one.

  “Great,” I mumbled, resenting that he would come to life for a phone call, yet lie there like a dead thing while I ached for sex.

  If sex was ever good with Logan, the memory remains vague. I mean, nobody in a fiery car crash remembers that they were on their way to Disneyland. While there were good times with Logan, I have shelved them along with the bad to make way for new.

  Relations with Logan were usually fear-based experiences with a high expectation of performance, getting angry and abusive with anything short of an Oscar performance. Logan’s fantasies were mostly fueled by alcohol, ecstasy, cocaine, porn, strip clubs, and notorious Hells Angels parties.

  Loving Chance was so incredibly different. I had waited all my life for a love like this. I wanted so much to meld into him that I lightly told him, “When I die, I want our ashes 'shaken, not stirred' together.” But unless lightning hits us in one form or the other in the next few minutes, the merging probably wasn't going to happen today.

  Chance pressed the phone tightly to his ear, eyes narrowing as he listened intently. I sighed and handed him pen and paper. “What? No.” He frowned. “We didn’t watch the news. Yeah, right. Wow!”

  “Hey, Sunny! Turn on the news!”

  More talk. “Umm, yeah, okay, I can be ready to roll by noon.”

  I had known before he hung up that he would be leaving on assignment. The situation had to be far away or he would have been out the door in minutes, not hours.

  “Katrina,” he said solemnly. “Got the go-ahead from CalEMA. I’m headed for Louisiana. They say the levees broke last night and the city is flooding.”

  CalEMA is California’s version of FEMA's disaster relief coordination. I watched the news, feeling awful for the people in Louisiana. However, I was feeling sorrier for myself. Chance must have noticed because he took me in arms and said, “I love you, hon. I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted lately. I’ve got to go, but babe, I’ll call you every day.”

  Then we prayed together, hand in hand, which was something we have done religiously every day for the past two years. We prayed for the people in Louisiana, the rescue teams, and their safe return. Then Chance prayed for me—for my safety and good health. His words lacked something I needed to hear, but I couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Then he was gone with a happy Mercy who was just as eager as Chance to be off doing what they loved best.

  They fired up the monster truck, the Ram, and disappeared in a cloud of dust down our driveway and out towards Highway 70. I couldn’t blame them for being eager. I like the adrenaline rush when responding to a crime scene. Rescue and advocacy are both serious business, but they are also exciting and rewarding in their way.

  Hello guilt, thinking God must see me as selfish and petty. Then I took a deep breath, finished gathering my things, put Kissme in her pen, and followed them down the hill to work.

  Paige was there before me. I saw her car in the parking lot. Like her, it was hard to miss. Paige drove a candy-apple-red BMW Z4, a cool 50k sports car with a bumper sticker on the back that read IT’S ALL ABOUT ME, which might have been funny, except that it was true.

  Paige was currently a paid Advocate intern whose name first appeared on a list of potential candidates from Community Legal Services, a social service program connected with the university. She was pretty, perky, naturally blonde, and at least a hundred years younger than me. She calls herself a progressive liberal and is guided by a different moral compass than mine.


  Sometimes her vibrancy is downright annoying, but the men in the office were drawn to her like matches to fuses on the Fourth of July. Then again, a man would have to be blind or out of Viagra not to take in the short hair, short skirts, long legs, and enhanced breasts. She had pulled a few strings close to home to gain this very coveted position. Paige was dating Mark Anderson who was Lieutenant at Butte County Sheriff’s Office and acting Captain of Butte County Search and Rescue.

  Mark is a great guy who also happens to be Chance’s friend. Small world. One thing led to another and changes followed. Mark used to go fishing with us on Chance's beloved 1934 Chris-Craft Custom Runabout, so beautiful that we entered it in the Concourse d' Elegance at Lake Tahoe the year after we met. With friendship came changes. As Mark and Paige became a regular item, the guys dropped a 350 hp V8 engine into the boat, and fishing poles were traded in for water skis. Fishing became flashing.

  The heightened activity was reminiscent of our younger, carefree college days and easily enticed us at a time we thought we had grown mature and more sedate. Fall arrived, and we would gather around the chiminea on the deck for hot dinners on cool nights. Paige and Mark had no interest in talking “religion” and always deflected the conversation on to other, lighter topics. One of those topics included asking me to get Paige a position in the DA’s Office.

  I really liked Paige at first. She was fun and funny, and we got along well. I had always been an outsider going through school; friendless, withdrawn, and radically different from everyone else. It was easy to see that Paige had been the most popular girl on campus. I still felt shy around her lively, extroverted personality, and sadly accepted the fact that we would never reach girl-friend confidant status. My history was awkward and embarrassing. I hid that I had grown up without electricity, daughter of half-hippy half-biker parents who worshiped drugs, guns, and Mother Earth. Then too, there were seamier parts of my life that I was still trying to forget.