by Dawn Mattox
“Thanks, Gayle. I love you guys. I’ll let you know how it goes and keep the offer in mind. Give my love to Rex.”
I wasn’t ready to tell her about Chance’s affair. X-rated images of him with Paige kept running through my head.
I stayed home but didn't pack. Let it burn. I didn’t care. No loss in this world could hurt half as much as the one I was going through.
I spent the day sailing with Captain Morgan, hoping to drown in a six-pack of Cokes. First feeling sorry for myself, then escalating to rage as the day progressed. Logan popped into my head to say something about revenge tasting sweetest when served up cold. So I indulged my imagination, which is fertile soil for action. How to get even with Chance. How I’d pay back tear for tear and hurt for hurt. Not very Christian, but it felt good.
Evacuations are an annual occurrence, sometimes more than once a year. I was still on stand-by and Kissme sleeping in my car. I was back at work and Paige wasn't. The DA thought I was home and sent her along with Travis down to the bay area to pick up evidence or something. I was relieved that she was gone and didn’t care why. I was holding my own in spite of my 8.5 on the Richter-Scale headache. I was sorry Paige hadn't quit her job and mildly surprised that I still had mine.
Office talk was all about the wildfires when the call came. From that moment on, the topic of fire would never be the same.
It is a tragedy to look at a home reduced to ashes, another to experience the flames of anger in your soul, and quite another to respond to a victim whose body has been charred by her boyfriend.
“Tamika?” I held my breath and tried not to gasp. One of the keys to being a professional advocate is a great poker face. Never give away your real emotions. I steeled myself as a young black woman, wrapped in a coat of white bandages and looking like a freshly clubbed baby harp seal, turned two brown eyes toward me. Sad eyes. Pain-filled eyes. Glazed, innocent eyes.
“Tamika, my name is Sunny. I am an advocate from the district attorney’s office. Can I talk with you?”
She turned her head back to the wall. The gesture looked a lot like “No” to me. Deputy Martel, a.k.a. Crazy Bob, had gotten the same response when trying to interview her earlier.
Deep breath and I prayed, Okay Lord, I can use some help here.
“Tamika, I’m here to help you. I thought you’d like to know what’s going to happen with your case. Marcus is in custody. He’s being held without bail. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
Not all of her fire was extinguished because flames shot out of those sweet little eyes as she turned back to me.
“What the fuck do you know? Marcus loves me! And now he’s going away forever. I might as well be dead.”
This is why my job exists. This is the head-banger for juries; someone sets you on fire and you resolutely declare, “He loves me.” I mean, if that is how this guy shows love—and I’m sure a jury would agree—I’d hate to be on his bad side.
I pulled up a chair and sat next to her. I had an idea. “I’m sorry. I was wrong. I can see that you love him. So... what’s Marcus really like? Tell me about him.”
She attempted a smile. A hint of an upturn at the corners of her mouth and I knew I was in.
“We’ve been friends since diapers. Our mamas were best friends. Never had a daddy. Marcus is the only one...”—she started to cry—“it’s my fault... all... my... fault. And now...”
I waited. What could be more tragic than looking at someone with burns over most of their body, yet dying of a broken heart? How could she excuse him? “How is it your fault, Tamika?”
Her lungs had been scorched from breathing the flames. Her words tip-toed like frightened children.
“I was screamin’ in his face. I know he hates that. I know it. But I just went on screamin’ and cussin’ at him, and then... and then... he just...” Her eyes rolled to the ceiling as she relived the memory. “I begged him not to do it. I begged him and begged him...” she gasped and then slept.
The State had affirmed my qualifications as an expert witness on the subject of domestic violence. Years of specialized training, hundreds of victims, and countless hours qualified me to educate juries. If Tamika lives, she will be an enigma to a jury.
The average person would expect Tamika to be enraged and eager for justice. I shuddered at what the jury would think if I wasn’t there to explain the dynamics behind her words.
As long as Tamika believes the incident was her fault, she retains some control and understanding of Marcus's egregious betrayal. If she were to let go of that belief, she would have to admit she had no control over the past or her future. She would have to accept that someone who swore he loved her, had, without remorse, doused her with gasoline and set her on fire.
I sat in my car, reeling with feelings of guilt that I dared compare my own trauma to Tamika's. I had lain awake last night wondering what I had done to make Chance cheat on me. If I could only figure it out, I could change it. I finally concluded that guilt is a lighter burden on the heart than hatred. Guilt requires acceptance. Hatred requires action.
Large drops of salty wetness tracked their way along my hairline before trickling into my eyes. The heat was relentless. Ugh! I never sweat. Why didn’t I put on waterproof mascara this morning? The combination of salt and mascara fried my “smoke-smuggered” eyes.
Day five of the crisis. The Concow Fire merged with the Empire Fire and was devouring everything in its path as it headed my way. Just seven miles down narrow twisting Concow Road lays the small subdivision of Camelot—just right of the Concow Campground, and left of nowhere. It was a combat zone complete with exploding propane tanks and homes that melted before the raging inferno.
Lines of weary evacuees headed for the highway. Trucks came, overloaded with tools and toys, hauling trailers that bulged with household goods and treasure boxes filled with memories. Cars teeming with amped-up kids, frazzled parents, weary grandparents, blankets, cats and dogs. People walked for miles, leading their horses up the road past exhausted firefighters that were driving in to relieve an even more exhausted night shift.
Everyone headed for Highway 70, then past the barricades set up by the highway patrol. Once passed the checkpoint, there is no returning until evacuation orders are lifted. No one can force people from their homes, but once they leave, the authorities can and will prevent them from returning. By evening the entire region was a ghost town except for the few residents who remained and the random patrol sweeps made by law enforcement.
“Air quality districts from Bakersfield to Redding have issued health advisories through the weekend, urging residents to stay indoors and limit their exposure to the smoky air. Air pollution readings in Northern California are two to ten times the federal standard for clean air,” said Dimitri Stanich, spokesman for the California Air Resources Board.
The local news repeatedly advised staying indoors and not running swamp coolers that would only funnel more smoke into the house. The result felt like being trapped in an oven with the kitchen on fire. As hundreds of fires continued to rage across the North State, thousands of firefighters began pouring in from across the country and from as far away as Australia.
The alarm buzzed. It was 5:00 a.m. when I opened the curtains to let another day seep in through gray shadows of smoke-laden air. Delicate flakes of soft swirling ash fell like the first snow of winter. The only difference was, these flakes carried fire instead of ice. The air was thick and oppressive, weighing down the spirit as well as the body. I looked around for my cleanest dirty shorts, made a mental note to do laundry and pulled on a white tank top.
I let Kissme outside to do her business and filled her dish with venison and sweet potato kibble. She was tired of the roasted duck and wild rice from the gourmet dog bakery. Kissme thinks she is a fearsome huntress—her ego being vastly bigger than the rest of her. I put her in the master bedroom for her morning nap, turned on her fan, and headed out to meet Ashley at the local Grange Hall.
It was a short driv
e above the CHP roadblock, so they couldn't keep me from returning home. I drove past the Arson Reward posters that go up every year. People watch for suspects like scratchers on a lotto ticket. I thought God might be the arsonist this time although that kind of thinking probably wouldn't net me any heavenly rewards. But I wasn't in a forgiving mood, and hell's flames didn't scare me half as much today as the ones burning in Concow.
Biscuits and gravy, home fries and scrambled eggs, and lots and lots of fresh hot coffee was prepared for over 200 hungry, exhausted, but very grateful firefighters. Both my work and life has taught me that the best cure for depression is expression. So I focused on something besides myself and volunteered to help cook and serve breakfast to these brave men and women.
My heart filled with gratitude for our local firefighters who had worked around the clock with an army of 3,000 other firefighters. Just two weeks ago they had labored around the clock battling a 23,000-acre fire protecting the town of Paradise. Sixty-six homes were lost in that fire, and they had been nothing short of heroic in their super-human efforts to control the blaze. Now here they were again, bone-weary but determined, and back on the line.
“Good news, Sunny,” said Ashley, already up to her elbows in flour kneading biscuit dough. “One of the fire captains came in for breakfast and said the fire is now ten percent under control.”
“I love you, Ash, but has anyone ever pointed out that is the politically correct way of saying the fire is ninety percent out of control?”
Ashley paused to think about it. “Haven’t had your coffee, huh?”
I frowned. Was it that obvious?
“Chai?” She waved a tea bag at me that she’d pulled from her shirt pocket.
“Gun?” I offered.
“O-kay. No problem.” She shoved the tea bag back in her pocket, leaving white flour smudged across the front of her shirt as I stalked to the coffee pot. I do not function without coffee.
“Have you talked with Chance?” No reply. “When’s he coming home, anyhow?”
Maybe he’ll drown, and I won’t have to think about it. Sweet Ashley. We share everything... except this. This one I intended to work out alone. Just talking about Chance was unbearable, so I dodged her questions and comments with all the grace of a matador trying not to get gored in front of a crowd.
“The biscuits are done,” I said, pulling some trays from the oversized oven. “I’ll run them out to the service area. They’re waiting.” I grabbed a tray and headed out. I figured as long as I don’t think or talk about Chance, I’ll be okay. Maybe. At least until I get home.
I found myself staring at the backside of a firefighter eating his breakfast as I dumped the biscuits into the warmer.
“What does that say on his shirt?” I asked Ashley.
I was impressed by how far many fire crews had traveled to our little neck of the woods.
Ashley squinted. “Napa City.”
I carried over a pitcher of juice and couldn’t resist asking, “What are you guys doing here? Napa Valley is burning, isn’t it? I heard evacuations are in progress. Aren’t your homes in danger?”
The entire crew pointed to a young man at the end of the table with sunglasses on. “His house could go any minute,” said an older man as he passed around a platter of bacon.
“Yeah,” the young man said thoughtfully between bites. “It doesn’t look too good.” In a heartbeat, he was my new hero. I touched him on the shoulder. “I’m so sorry.” I couldn’t say more.
Hours later I sat down in front of the fan with a home-made cookie I had brought back from the Grange Hall, contemplating Chance and our situation. I wondered about the young firefighter and if he had someone waiting for him back home. I resented Chance being away, rescuing others when I needed physical and emotional help preparing for my own evacuation. Maybe Chance was someone’s hero today, back in New Orleans, or wherever the heck he was now, but he sure wasn’t mine. I wanted to get even, and at the same time, I missed him. Go figure. Maybe I was crazy. Maybe I was more like Logan than I wanted to admit.
“Start talking!” Ashley stood on my steps, chin pushed forward and both hands on her hips. It was the following morning and Ashley, not usually an early riser, still had her slippers on. Her shoulder-length tawny brown hair, naturally shot through with shades of blonde and silver, was hastily tucked behind her ears. “Chance called us at 4:00 a.m. this morning. He’s worried sick about you. He said you won’t answer his calls.”
Sigh. “Chill. You want some coffee? I’ll make some.” I still had my jammies on and felt like I had an axe buried in my brain.
“Coffee would be good. Thanks. You look terrible.” Ashley is known for her double-barreled honesty.
I grunted, shuffled to the kitchen, started a pot of Rocket Java coffee and set out a pair of oversized mugs. Ashley popped some English muffin slices in the toaster without so much as another word. The sun was coming up, and we hauled breakfast and Kissme outdoors.
The wind chimes resonated in vibrant hollow tones, like the soft toll of a distant church bell, although church bells were historically used to sound warnings as well as calling the faithful. The breeze was the morning diurnal air current that blows up the canyon in the morning and downhill in the late afternoon. Like so many things that feel good, those breezes can also be bad. Our momentary reprieve from the smoke also fanned hungry flames. We seized the moment, perhaps appreciating it all the more because we knew it wouldn't last.
We sat in silence for a long time, as good friends are able to do; not feeling obliged to make small talk. Then I was ready.
“It’s Chance,” I said, staring over the rim of my mug at the first light of day, spilling over the mountain tops and running down the slopes. Fire meets fire. “He’s been having an affair with Paige.”
Ashley froze, dropping half of her English muffin onto the deck much to Kissme’s delight. The old adage: One girl gathers what another girl spills seemed to work for Kissme as well as Paige.
“Sunny?” She whispered my name. “Are... are you serious? I can’t believe...” Her beautiful gray-green eyes brimmed. “Are you sure? How long?”
“Yes, I’m sure and I don’t know for how long.”
Ashley’s brows furrowed as she reached over and touched my arm. “Do you want to pray about it?” It was more of a directive than a question.
“No. I don’t think so.” I took another sip of coffee. We listened to the tap-tap drilling of a woodpecker hard at work on a black oak and watched a blue-belly lizard do push-ups on the deck rail.
I sighed again. “I’m not sure which hurts most, Ash, the unfaithfulness of my husband or the unfaithfulness of God. At least Chance has an excuse. He’s a pig, and I hate him. But God has really let me down—again.” I settled deeper into the chair, bracing myself before continuing. “I don’t think I believe in anything anymore. I think I hate God.”
I waited patiently for Ashley’s sermon. I could always depend on her to chastise and correct me in all matters of faith, but she kept silent for a long time, staring off at the encroaching clouds of smoke, seemingly lost in thought.
Finally, having reached a decision, she took me by the hand and looked me in the eye. “You have to forgive him. It's not easy, but you have to forgive Chance, and then ask God to forgive you.”
“Oh, Ashley! Can’t I just shoot him?” I asked. She smiled sadly, and we laughed at the absurdity of my remark. Then she rose quietly and held me as my laughter dissolved into a stream of tears.
CHAPTER 12
I stared in wonder at the ruby-throated hummingbird as it hovered, sipping its cocktail from a scarlet bottle in front of a blood red sunrise. Why it didn’t drop dead from smoke inhalation, I had no idea. It was day ten of the firestorm. The sun and moon had become a perpetual reflection of the inferno below. Nothing more than diurnals had stirred in all that time. It was like having a campfire inside of a tent. The air had grown heavy; dense smoke deepened from haze to fog, to near-zero visibility. The h
ummer darted about as I coughed and sniffled. My eyes watered in an attempt to rinse out the grit.
People were now evacuating from more than their homes. Many were leaving Northern California altogether in search of fresh air. Others stayed behind with the less desirable: those people who had evacuated with their pit bulls, meth-lab equipment, and sound systems all crammed into old school buses. They refused to go to evacuation centers and chose instead to camp behind the Dome Store, a colorful self-descriptive survivor of a building trend that was California’s answer to earthquakes back in 1970-1980’s. The Dome Store, whose original name is seldom remembered, is a local mini market that specializes in tobacco and alcohol, bread and milk, lures and live bait, over-priced gas and riff-raff.
Our fires aren’t like the massive fires down in San Diego—where refugees gathered in the Charger football stadium and taxpayers brought in live bands and deli food. Got to love Southern California! By contrast, ours was more like a meth-fest with looting and home invasions happening in broad daylight.
I sat, glued to Chance's scanner, horrified as reports came across of “shots fired” at the firefighters battling a section of the blaze that had worked its way down into someone’s pot plantation. Some patches are known to be booby-trapped with trip wires and shotguns.
For a moment, I was glad I wasn’t a firefighter, and then realized that my job held similar risks. I risk getting shot for helping a woman like Tamika escape a meth-fueled gun-toting fire-burning woman-beater.
“Marcus is out? How is that possible?” Fear and anger flooded me.
Crazy Bob fell silent. For a heartbeat, I thought we had been disconnected. “I’m sorry Sunny. The jail said it was a clerical error.” I could hear him wince. “He was SWAP’d out.”
SWAP stands for Sheriff Work Alternative Program. The recent trend was to SWAP out the misdemeanor domestic violence cases along with other eligible misdemeanors. Too many offenders, not enough beds, and always—budget cuts. Inmates in the program report for roadside cleanup work instead of serving time in jail. Dangerous offenders remain held. Penal Code section §273.5 says domestic violence can be charged as either a felony or a misdemeanor.