Fire in Me

by Dawn Mattox

  “Mark! Where did the fire come from? I gasped. “I thought it was still miles from here.”

  “I don't know, Sunny. Maybe the tan oak. The oil in the leaves gets hot and propels ‘em up. Sometimes the wind can carry them for a mile and start a whole new fire.” He wiped his brow again. “That's one possibility. I'm just guessing. But I intend to find out,” he added.

  He turned to eye Travis as if seeing him for the first time. Travis stood there, his clothes still clean, not a hair out of place, looking confident and relaxed.

  “Uh, Travis this is Mark, Chance's boss. Mark, this is Travis. We work together. I think I introduced you guys on one of your drop-ins at the office to see Paige.

  Mark paused, his eyebrows drawn, penciling black lines across his sooty forehead

  “You guys know each other?” I asked, voicing the obvious.

  “We’ve met,” Travis interjected, reaching out and shaking Mark’s hand. “Inter-agency pow-wow.”

  They nodded, making polite acknowledgments to each other, but the air had become tense from more than one near crisis.

  Mark scanned me briefly and I prayed I hadn't left my bra in the bedroom or put my shirt on backward. I could only imagine what I must look like.

  “You should be okay now. These guys got a handle on things. I need to go check on this from the bottom of the hill. I'll be back later,” Mark said with a candid look at Travis, who turned and placed his hands on my shoulders. Travis looked me in the eye, unafraid and completely unintimidated by Mark’s presence.

  “Will you be okay?” His face filled with concern. “Should I stay?”

  I noticed the muscles in Mark's jaw quiver as if working to hold back anger.

  Oh, God. He knows! Is it that obvious? My phone rang providing a temporary reprieve.

  “Hold on, Ashley. I'm okay. How about you? Yeah, the plane freaked me out too. Listen, Mark's here with half of the fire department. It was a spot fire, but it’s been contained. They're mopping up now. Let me call you back. Better still, how about coming over here? Good. Bye.”

  “Sounds like you're in good hands. I have to go, too. But don’t forget,” Travis added as a soft smile played on his lips, “if you need anything at all, call me.” And Travis was gone.

  How does he do it? Travis was different from anyone I knew. Always calm, always au fait, on top of his game.

  Mark grunted in farewell, his eyes narrowing as he watched Travis depart through the house.

  “I'll be back,” Mark said, kissing me on the forehead. “I'm glad we saved the house.”

  I hugged him with genuine affection. “Thank you.”

  I felt more than guilty. I was blanketed with shame. I had come dangerously close to making an irrevocable decision. Only fate, or God, had interceded on my behalf keeping me from acting exactly like the people I judged as immoral. What a time for Marne to pop back in my head. Like her, I had almost become the very thing I resented. I was no different from Chance, Paige, Logan, or my parents.

  Mark was gone. I tried to come to terms with myself. After all, this wasn’t the first time a husband had cheated on me. All those years with Logan should have prepared me for this. But somehow, it hadn’t.

  My new life was supposed to be different. We were Christians and I wondered what happened to my “blessed assurance;” believing I would never again be sad, sick, or have to suffer. Be careful what you pray for, I concluded, recalling that I no longer pray for things like patience and strength because patience is born through trials, and strength through temptation. Recently I prayed for growth, forgetting that growth begins with birth, and birth always starts with agonizing pain. Now I pray for things like a raise.

  Another disruptive knock at the door and I knew it was Ashley this time. I greeted her with a loving embrace.

  “Oh Sunny, I was so scared,” she said with a warm hug. “It’s absolute insanity out there. I was worried about you all alone over here,” she said, as she took my hand and made our way outside to survey the damage.

  The trees on the slope were still smoking beneath the deluge the firefighters continued to pour on them. Other crewmembers stirred pockets of sludge using mattocks and Pulaskis, the tools of their trade.

  “Mark just left. He said he'd be back soon. Let's go back inside.”

  I poured us ice water and we talked about the fire and borate bomber. I was carefully avoiding any mention of Travis when a blaze of fur blew past. Kissme had found a new treasure and was burning off adrenalin as she played her favorite game of keep-away. We both smiled as she pranced and spun around, showing off... what is that?

  “Is that what I think it is?” Ashley inquired.

  Men's underwear. More specifically—Travis's underwear. The chase was on. Kissme had more moves than a rock star. The more I tried to grab them, the more she gleefully dodged about, flaunting a pair of black silk boxer shorts clamped in her jaws.

  Ashley shook with laughter, catching her breath before catching Kissme as she cannonballed around the sofa for the third time. Her eyes widened in joyful speculation.

  “Hmmm? Chance in silk boxers? Nice! I should get Shane some of these.”

  Red-faced and puffing, taking Kissme from her, I finally wrenched the boxers from Ashley’s grip and walked back, tossing them on my bed where pillows remained scattered and sheets rumpled.

  “He sleeps in them,” I lied. I suspected Ashley was mentally adding up the number of days since Chance had left.

  “Are you sure you're okay? You look a little flushed.” Ashley observed.

  Only a “little flushed?”

  “Ya think?” I answered sarcastically as I led her away from the scene of the crime. “Considering everything we've been through today, not to mention chasing my stupid dog.”

  “Where were we?” Please let it be “goodbye,” I thought.

  Lies are like that. Like having your dirty underwear dragged into the open.

  Ashley rose, removing the glasses from the table. Walking to the kitchen, she asked, “Have you talked with Chance?”

  “No. I fought with Chance. We broke-up.”

  Ashley's mouth twisted in skepticism. “You break-up when you’re dating,” she said meaningfully. “Marriages end in divorce. Have you been praying for him?”

  I had studiously avoided prayer. “Sure,” I said.

  “You need to keep praying for your marriage—without ceasing.” Ashley admonished.

  I would like to eat ice cream without ceasing, lie on a beach without ceasing. I could even fish without ceasing. But I really didn’t want to give Chance another thought, let alone another prayer.

  “When Chance gets back, you guys will work things out,” Ashley said confidently.

  Or not, I thought, at this point leaning more towards the not.

  “Anyhow, I understand if you don’t want to talk about it,” she continued lamely.

  “Good. I don't.” My tone was hurtful, and I thought it was a good thing that friends can’t read each other's minds. If Ashley could read my thoughts regarding Chance—or my fantasies about Travis—she would not approve.

  I figure God sure knew what he was doing when he made Eve. Sex is the greatest blessing in life. It is the glue that strengthens marriage, a mini-vacation for the tired, mental health for emotional pain; always a blissful escape from brutal reality.

  But I also knew that sex could be the greatest curse. Rape, child molestation, sexual-addictions, perversion, and a weapon for revenge “served up cold.”

  Sex is two people melting into one. Sex is the absolute ultimate, intimate gift of giving and receiving—or stealing and deceiving—depending.

  It was almost dark when a haggard-looking Mark returned to give me the initial results of his cursory investigation.

  “Dave-the-baker”—a neighbor who lives below me and makes manna-quality bread from grains that he grinds, and then bakes in wood-fired brick ovens—“said he saw a motorcycle parked off the side of the road. He didn't see the owner and fig
ured he was piss—uh, relieving himself in the bushes somewhere. Could be a coincidence, but it's enough to justify an arson investigation.”

  Mark didn't know the details of my life with Logan. Withholding information now was intended to protect both of us. But to be on the safe side, I suggested that he investigate Tamika's boyfriend, Marcus Kane, who had walked away from the SWAP detail on the first day of the firestorm.

  “Where is Chance now?” I finally asked, trying to seem indifferent as I brought him a glass of ice water and sat next to him on the sofa, touching his arm in friendship. Mark looked uncomfortable as he held the glass, swirling the ice around with his finger and then almost knocking it over when he set it down.

  “Chance is fine. Don't worry about him. I sent him and Mercy down to Baton Rouge a couple of days ago. He asked me if he could come back so he could be with you, but I really needed them there. The world is falling apart with disasters. I came back to California because he made me promise to help you evacuate.

  It was surreal to be talking about floods in light of today's experience.

  “The Army Corps of Engineers says it will take almost three months to pump all the water out of New Orleans after the pumps have been repaired. I came back here because of the fires, but I am... um... sending some replacements so Chance can... uh... come home.”

  Mark was acting weird. “So, how is Mark?” I asked him about himself with genuine care.

  “Sunny. I don’t know where to start. This is tough. I’m not exactly an emotional guy.” A bitter chuckle escaped his first line of defense.

  “And...?”

  “It’s about Paige. Well... actually...” Prolonged pause. “It’s about Paige and Chance.”

  Imagination usually exceeds truth, but I didn't want to hear the truth. I already knew it. My breath stopped, my heart stopped, and time stood still.

  I was in a car once with my neighbor Kenny driving us down from Feather Falls, when a deer launched off the mountainside sending its hindquarters through the front windshield. I never saw the deer, but the resulting explosion sounded as though someone had blasted Kenny with a shotgun. The car seemed to whirl through space and time. A soft white fog of shattered glass rolled in as we spun across the bridge. Time slowed as we continued to turn around and around. Fragments of glass suspended in space. I don’t know why God would slow time in that way unless maybe he is giving us one more chance to accept Him as Lord and Savior before we are catapulted into eternity. But the five-second spin-zone had felt more like five minutes.

  I could see Mark’s lips moving, but I didn’t hear a word he said. Stranger still, I had no idea how long he had been talking.

  “What?” I interrupted.

  “Yeah... that’s what I said. I couldn’t believe they would do this to us. I really love her, Sunny.” A tear slid down his weathered cheek, making a tender contrast to the hardened lines on his face, “and I know how much you love Chance.”

  I shook my head to focus. Oh, boy! Of course, I knew about the affair before Mark arrived, but life had been more promising just a few days ago. Glaring suspicion had been one thing. It left a comfort zone of doubt and hope. Hearing the truth again took me beyond despairing, all the way to hopeless. The Bible says “Truth will set you free,” but I didn't feel free. I felt crippled. Being shot is one thing—being shot in the heart is another. One is a serious wound—the other is fatal.

  I woke up screaming in the dark to flames licking the walls and Kissme licking my face. I stumbled to the bathroom thinking that I really needed a Xanax, then used the toilet and went back to bed without one. Nightmares were a regular part of my life. Nightmares without Chance to rescue me were the worst.

  The prescription for Xanax started when Logan began stalking me, and my dreams had taken me captive, revisiting the night terrors of my youth. The difference between a nightmare and a night terror is that dreams are remembered, and night terrors are not. Both leave you drenched in fear. When I asked the doctor for sleeping pills, he had prescribed Xanax instead. Great stuff. Too good, really, so I try to take as few as possible.

  Back then, I had Chance to hold me, and he would chase away my fears with his great strength and his great love. Or so I had thought.

  Okay, let me think this through. My life is ruined, the world is on fire, and I am having a screaming nightmare. So, if I don’t need a Xanax now... if this isn’t stress...

  Kissme started spinning in circles, doing her strange Pomeranian-thing on the bed and barking her head off. Kissme isn't really the yippy-type, so I needed to make a quick decision. Grab the gun or grab the Xanax. I heard the distant rumble of a motorcycle coming down the driveway and opted for the weapon, which in this instance, was better than Xanax.

  I can shoot Logan, go back to sleep, and call the cops in the morning. No regrets.

  Opening the bedroom blinds, I peeked between the slats, making a mental note to dust them if I was still alive in the morning. The motion lights went on, lighting up the front porch. He was here; black bike, black leathers, black helmet. My heart hammered. Drawing back, I kissed my dog in case I died and never had another chance to say good-bye.

  Moving fast, I retrieved the Glock from my sock drawer, chambered a round and took a deep breath. It didn't matter that I wasn't the world's best shot. It's not as if I was planning on wounding him. My plan was to fire every one of the fifteen rounds in the clip right into his worthless heart, with a few pointed south for good measure. I doubted if he even had a heart. Besides, it only takes one bullet to do the job. I felt confident that I could probably land at least one round out of fifteen.

  The tile was cold under my feet as I made my way into the front room, a sharp contrast to the sweat breaking out in my armpits. I picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1. The doorknob rattled, then shuddered under a couple of hard shoves.

  “Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

  Bam! Bam! Bam! I fired at the door. Three down, twelve to go.

  “Sunnnneeee! What are you doing???!!”

  I dropped the gun and it fired once more, nearly hitting Kissme who was cringing on the back of the couch as the bullet whizzed over her head, through the French doors, over the deck, and possibly across Highway 70. Yikes!

  “I’m sorry! Honey... please, don’t kill me!”

  “Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

  Chance was home.

  I opened the door, or what was left of it, to a white faced Chance dressed in black leathers.

  “Hello. You’re back.” I stated the obvious, certain I was dreaming.

  “Yeah,” he said, raising his eyebrows as he scanned the room for booby traps. “Is it safe to come in?”

  Now there was a thought. Only minutes before I had been aching for my husband. Now I had a loaded gun just inches away and let my imagination run amuck. Walking back into the living room, I picked up the phone and informed 911 that the call had been a mistake. Wordlessly, I stomped to the bathroom and took a whole Xanax, then grabbed my still-trembling dog before slamming the bedroom door and going back to bed.

  It was Saturday morning and I thought I was dreaming again when I woke to the smell of bacon and waffles. Chance was home. I tried to burrow deeper in the bed, but Kissme pitched a fit and kept head-butting me. It was her not-cute way of forcing me to get up and let her out to go to the bathroom. Probably the smell of bacon had gotten her attention too. Such a demanding, bossy little dog! I reached over and kissed her furry head when my mental light bulb clicked on.

  Oh my gosh. Had I really shot at Chance last night? I flew out of bed and hurried to the kitchen. There was Chance, stirring batter in a mixing bowl. He had slept on the couch, using a black leather coat for a pillow. Dang! I wished he didn't look so good in the morning... tousled blond hair over hopeful, big sky-blue eyes, shirtless, wearing only a loose pair of cotton drawstring pants and holding out a fresh, hot cup of coffee. He was such a rat, playing on all my weaknesses. I simply can’t say no to coffee.

 
“Good morning,” Chance said. His expression transitioned from hopeful to cautious as he extended the peace offering.

  I took the coffee, took the dog, and paused to inspect the shattered front door on my way outside. Ouch! That’s going to cost a bundle to replace. Kissme took her own sweet time as I checked out the gleaming Honda 1800 VTX sitting in the driveway.

  Okay. It definitely hadn’t been a dream. Apparently, the motorcycle-gun-thing had actually happened. I went back in. The Glock lay on the breakfast bar with the clip out.

  Chance held out a plate of food. “Are you going to shoot at me again?”

  My eyebrows narrowed as I considered the question. Taking the plate, I piled butter and syrup on a steaming waffle.

  I thoughtfully chewed a piece of bacon before replying, “I should! Anyhow, I thought you were Logan. And where did the VTX in the driveway come from?”

  “The vet. I bought it from Craig down at Look Ahead. He’s treating Mercy.”

  Panic gripped my heart. “What’s wrong with Mercy?”

  “I think it was Papite’s Alligator Jambalaya from the farewell sendoff dinner.”

  “What's a Papite?”

  “Not a what, he's a who. He was our Cajun cook.”

  “Huh! Where'd the alligator come from?”

  “Uh, I shot it. That's why I'm home; pending review for disciplinary action. Anyhow, Mercy ate the leftovers and then threw up in her airplane crate on the trip home. You wouldn’t believe the stink! Mac picked Mercy and me up from the airport and insisted that she smelled like death and said I should take her to the vet. So we dropped her off on the way home for a checkup and a bath.” He buttered and syrup’d be his waffle.

  “You shot an alligator?”

  “It was already dead. Who knew? Long story. So,” he continued eating his breakfast, “my truck is at Mark’s. Craig gave me a deal on the bike since it was the middle of the night and since Mac wanted to get home... It’s a great bike.”