by Dawn Mattox
Chance’s eyes deepened to midnight blue as he gazed into mine. I knew he wasn’t joking. I knew he was capable of killing Logan, which brought its own set of worries.
Just because Chance dedicated his life to rescuing people didn’t mean he wasn’t a trained killer. Not only was he an officer in the sheriff’s department, but the army had also fully equipped him to do what needed to be done. Chance wasn’t afraid of Logan, but I was afraid for Chance.
“You can’t always be with me, Chance. Promise me you'll let me handle this my way. Trust me.”
I was afraid to tell him about the murders—afraid to file charges, too. Mostly I was afraid to testify. I only had favor with Oakland Hells Angels because I was Lefty’s kid. Now Lefty was dead and Logan had moved up in rank. Logan had been promoted to Sergeant of Arms and it was his duty to carry out the dictates of his newest tattoo—Taking Care of Business—and I had no intention of becoming his next order of business.
Chance took me to Nice Shot gun range a few days later and presented me with a Darth Vader-looking 9mm Glock.
He placed it in my hands. “Kiss it,” he said.
“I am not going to kiss a gun. That is the corniest thing I’ve ever heard. Why would I kiss a gun?”
“Because you’re a woman,” Chance said, stating the obvious. “A man can become friends with a gun just by holding it, but a woman needs to have a relationship with it. She needs to trust it. Trust me. Kiss the gun.”
Lame or not, I kissed the stupid thing and, wham, he was right! My weapon instantly became my protector. I was no longer afraid to lock and load.
In my heart, I knew I was not the same person that I had been back in Feather Falls. It is true that I am afraid of Logan, and as Chance observed, that was smart. But Logan was not afraid of me, and that was not so smart.
It was just an old shoebox. Stained, crushed on one corner, mummified under layers of filthy duct tape. It sat in the driver’s seat of my car, parked in the lot below the courthouse. It had baked all day in the blazing sun. I beeped the car open with the remote. The handle was hot enough to burn my fingers, yet the presence of the box pierced me with a chill so deep, I shivered. The box smelled of death.
My heart hammered erratically, and I morphed into a full-scale panic attack. I fought back the scream that clawed its way up from my throat and lay trapped like a wild thing behind clenched teeth. I slid in, timidly moving the box to the passenger seat while holding my breath. Still being relatively new on the job, the last thing I wanted was to attract negative attention with a scream.
Run! It’s what I do best. Run! Don’t look back. Run! Run! “I can’t. I can’t. No. Oh God, I don’t want to do this! I can’t,” I told myself.
Drive! Okay, I was pretty sure I could drive. He’s watching me. My instincts rocketed to code red. I could feel his eyes boring into the back of my head. The smell! Sweet Jesus, save me from the smell. I turned the key and slid the moonroof open. I kept the tinted windows up and eyes straight ahead to avoid eye contact with anyone. Driving out of the lot, I looped down to the sheriff's office and parked, hoping to throw Logan off my trail.
Ten minutes later found me merging into the five-o'clock employee migration heading north on Highway 70. I kept my eyes on the rearview mirror and cracked the window, partly to let out the smell and partly to listen for the sound of Logan’s motorcycle. Away from my apartment, up the canyon and then turned sharply towards Cherokee and the sheer cliffs of Table Mountain. Pulling off the road and pausing at the intersection, I waited five minutes and five million heartbeats to see if I’d been followed, then continued to the top of the mountain. Terror, outrage, and dread churned deep in the pit of my stomach.
Dear God who controls all things, please don’t add to the smell. Please don’t let me vomit inside of my car.
Wheeling the car into a fenced parking area, I jumped out and lost it: lunch, tears, and all. I was alone.
After wiping my mouth and drying tears on my shirtsleeve, I took the shoebox and cradled it my arms like the precious treasure it was and walked across the flat surface of the mountain, weaving through the tangles of yellow and purple wildflowers. Before me was a fragile stream that wandered through the meadow, tumbling downward until at last, it spilled over the sheer cliff in a glistening ribbon to the valley far below.
There, at the edge of the world, I clutched the box to my heart. “Frito,” I cried. “My little dog. My dearest companion. When I was alone, abandoned by my parents, you comforted me. When I was afraid, you made me feel safe. I am so sorry.”
A little thing in the eyes of the world, he had meant everything to me. It is no small wonder that d-o-g is G-O-D spelled backward. His enduring love, unconditional forgiveness, and unbridled joy were such God-things. Frito never hurt anyone. He was just a little dog with a big heart. He was my friend, and I laid him to rest beneath an undercut in the bank, enclosing his tomb with rocks to keep out predators. I picked some wildflowers that grew nearby, placed them next to the entrance, and watered them with fresh tears.
I never opened the box. I couldn’t bear it. But in my nightmares, in the dead of night, the box sometimes opens to the grotesque and macabre: Frito, half-mutilated, half-alive, whimpering in pain, trusting me to rescue him, or riddled with maggots wriggling through dismembered parts. Hideous. Horrible.
“My friend.” I would wake sobbing, “You never let me down. I let you down. I couldn’t save you. Please, please, forgive me.”
Chance screeched down the road, leaving three feet of skid marks in front of my apartment. He jumped out with clenched fists and thunder on his brow. I had called him at work and told him about my dog. Now he wanted to avenge his fiancée, the love of his life.
“Babe, I don’t want to wait any longer. Let’s go to Reno. We can be married in just a few hours. I want to take you home and protect you,” Chance said earnestly. “I can’t stand around waiting until Logan does something to you. Please, Sunny. Make a report. And if you won't do that, then marry me, for God's sake. Marry me now.” He swept me into his arms kissing every bit of resistance away. “Yes.” I caught my breath. “Yes. I'll marry you.”
Not exactly the romantic circumstances and proposal a girl dreams of, but it was sincere. I wanted him badly, but not because I needed his protection. I wanted Chance because the thought of marriage was both right and proper. I wanted this man for my husband, forever.
We didn’t get married in Reno, but we did move the date up about six months, trading in “The Biggest Little City” in Nevada for the tranquility of nearby Lake Tahoe. Lying awake in the dark, I would wrestle with old demons. These were more than pre-wedding jitters. I needed to make a decision, and it was a tough one.
I really wanted my mother to attend the wedding. With all of my heart I wanted her there to see me beautiful, happy, and on the road to success. Isn't that what parents want for their child? Then again, I was afraid of what Chance might think. I was overwhelmed with what-ifs. What if Chance is disgusted or thinks I will end up like her? What if Starla gets drunk and tells Chance about Hells Angels business or the baby? What if she totally ruins my wedding?
I still had some time before the wedding. Unable to sleep, I decided to call Sheena, my mom's old biker friend. Maybe she would know where Starla was staying. I hadn't heard from my mother in years, but if anyone knew where she was, it would be Sheena.
“‘What do ya’ expect from the daughter of a crack whore?' His words, Sweetie, not mine.” Sheena apologized sympathetically as she made her way through Johnny’s Bar so she could talk privately out on the sidewalk. The club was drinking it up at 1:00 a.m. at the ever-popular biker bar in Hollister listening to Logan rage about my mom and me.
“According to Logan—if you can believe anything he says—he heard Starla got arrested right here at Johnny’s because she wouldn't stop dealing drugs on the job.” Sheena laughed as if we shared an inside joke, then caught herself. “Ahem,” she cleared her throat. “Sorry, Sunny. Your mama had a a
wful habit to support. She sent me a letter saying she has a parole hearing coming up soon and wants to stay with us when she gets out. Cheech about flipped out. Can you imagine those two under the same roof?”
My mother was in prison? My head spun until Sheena asked, “How you doin' girl?” We talked for a time, and I asked her to call me when my mother had a release date so I could meet her at the bus station. She said, “No problem,” then promised not to tell anyone we had spoken.
Like so many of the hippy generation “in search of” themselves and the purpose for their lives, Starla had spiraled downhill from LSD and dancing in the park with flowers in her hair, to narcotics, cuffs on her wrists, and prison garb. Her other three kids, only one of whom I had ever met, had been taken from her early on by Child Protective Services in the Bay Area and placed in foster care. Starla only cared about herself, always putting her needs and desires above everyone else’s.
In the end, no parents attended our wedding. Starla was still serving time in Chino Women’s Correctional Facility located in Southern California. It turned out, as so frequently happens, that I ended up losing a lot of sleep worrying about something that was never more than fanciful imagination.
Chance's mother and new husband had been two of the people on the Bay Bridge that fateful day in 1989 when a 6.9 earthquake caused the upper level to collapse, killing sixty-two and injuring almost four-thousand others. The tragedy had significantly influenced Chance's decision to commit his life to search and rescue. And his father, Michael McLane, had committed suicide-by-alcohol, one day at a time—one drink at a time, after his wife left and friend, Dave had died.
As to absent siblings; Chance’s little sister, Crystal, wasn't invited because Chance didn't want his ex-wife, Megan—who was shacking up with Crystal—to show up. As for me, I never had contact with my siblings who, like their fathers, had vanished off the family radar.
We invited a few close friends from work and our new neighbors, Shane and Ashley. Mark was Chance's best man and Ashley was my maid of honor. Captain Leo Sun gave a beautiful secular service aboard the Tahoe Queen.
I guess it's one thing to say that Jesus is Lord of your life, and another to live it. It takes practice to incorporate the spiritual into the physical on a daily basis. Like dieting or exercising, spiritual insight is a process, not an event. Jesus didn't even make the guest list at our wedding. We were so filled with each other that we never noticed his absence until it was too late.
Joyously honeymooning in a beautiful cabin nestled under an aspen grove with a magnificent view of the lake for five wonderful, fun-filled, romantic days, we jet-skied, rode horseback, hiked, and dined—when we weren’t making up for six months of sexual restraint.
Chance was first to move into our new house, making the place ready for his bride. He laughed and I cried for joy as he swept me off my feet and carried me across the threshold into our new life together. I returned at last to the quiet tranquility of my beloved mountains. We walked out on the deck holding hands, and I spoke with a kind of reverent awe and wonder. “Oh Chance, it's a view of eternity.” And it looked bright.
There was the Coastal Range, all dressed up in winter white, glistening across the vast valley like a bride on her wedding day. The scent of pine filled the air bringing pleasant childhood memories, the quiet of the woods broken only by the occasional tap-tapping of a red-headed woodpecker, an occasional squawk of a blue jay, and the chatter of mountain monkeys.
Chance brought out soft pillows and cold champagne. We nestled together, waiting for our first sunset. Dusk brought the inevitable chorus of insects and the lonely echoing cry of the who-who-me: the Concow Indian name for the night owls. Breathtaking beauty. Our lips met and we made slow, sensuous love that transported us through the cosmos and back again under a canopy of stars. I knew I was home.
The next morning Chance insisted on returning to my apartment alone for the last load of boxes saying, “I got this, babe.”
“Hurry home,” I blew him a kiss.
When he returned, Chance emerged all smiles—holding a swaddled infant tucked in a pink baby blanket. “Honey, it’s a girl,” he announced, handing me the bundle.
A little black nose poked out, followed by a tiny pink tongue. Kissme had arrived.
PART TWO
“I survived because the fire in me burned brighter…”
CHAPTER 19
“And there will be wars and rumors of wars... earthquakes and hurricanes... and these will be the beginning of sorrows.” —Jesus of Nazareth
I woke up bleary-eyed having weird dreams from the Bible, inspired in part by a double-pepperoni pizza and staying up to watch a movie called Armageddon. Doomsday movies are my favorites: an asteroid heading for earth, flesh-eating virus devours New York, a mega-volcano unleashes in the heart of L.A.
I don’t completely understand the attraction, but I have always had it. I guess it is my version of a thrill-ride; like the Kingda Ka roller coaster that goes straight up for 456 feet then drops down at 128 mph, or bungee jumping 708 feet off the Bloukrans Bridge in South Africa. There’s nothing like experiencing cataclysmic danger from a recliner. The appeal does make sense in a way. After all, I was raised in the shadow of impending disaster, living in the “Safe-House” in Feather Falls.
Starla and Lefty were part of the great back-to-the-land movement of their generation. It wasn’t just a feel-good migration motivated by a desire to commune with squirrels and eat organic food. It was also fueled by copious amounts of paranoia-inducing drugs and the resulting compulsion to escape the city and Big-Brother government that was coming to take our guns at a time when people felt they needed them most.
My parents had been taught to “duck and cover” in school. Scheduled air raid sirens would scream across the city on the first Monday each month, and the children were told they could survive a nuclear bomb by diving under their desks and putting their arms over their heads. Their teacher’s would caution them not to “look at the bright light” or it would burn their eyes out.
Lefty’s Uncle John had a real bomb shelter in his back yard. The neighborhood kids would play in it during the hot summer months because it was always so cool down there, in every sense of the word. When he was young, the bomb shelter served as a boys-only club, but when he got older, Lefty started taking girls down there and telling his buds to get lost. Buying a cabin in the outback of Butte County's Sierra Nevada Mountains and putting in a bomb shelter was the one thing my parents agreed on.
After Vietnam, when Lefty got out of the hospital and earned his patch with Hells Angels, the cabin quickly became a refuge for members with arrest warrants or who were lying low after a major drug bust. I was too young to understand what was going on.
Years later, during one of her rages, Starla told me about Lefty and the Altamont shoot-out at the Rolling Stones concert. According to Starla, Lefty’s participation had resulted in one person's murder and the accidental deaths of four other people. When I came to my father's defense, yelling “My Daddy never killed anyone!” she had replied with cold calculation, “Don't be stupid, Sunny! He was in the army. He killed lots of people. Probably even women and kids your age.” She let that sink in, and when I started to cry, she added, “But he felt awful about those concert goers.”
By contrast, Logan, who had also killed people, typically slept with his gun at night and would run out the back door into the woods whenever strangers arrived at the front gate.
It was Lefty, not Logan, who explained survival to me. Lefty always thought the world was coming to an end, unlike Logan, who thinks he is going to live forever.
Harriet Johnson, a thirty-four-year-old short, exceedingly obese woman who required a power chair to move her bulk parked in front of my desk. She was shabbily dressed with tangled hair that hung to her shoulders. Harriet had broken blood vessels in one eye and emotional pain that glistened in the other.
I had read the police report first thing in the morning, hand delivered
by Crazy Bob from the sheriff’s office. This wasn’t the usual method of delivery, but I was pretty sure Crazy liked me as a person and maybe even had a little crush on me. Maybe because I was one of the few, if not the only coworker who liked him at all. And I did like him. Crazy was a bit of an outcast, like me.
The report stated that California, AKA “Cal” Johnson, had been married to Harriet for almost four years, was about six-foot-two, and weighed in at 135 lbs. Cal liked to drink, and he liked to go on an occasional meth run.
Harriet loved to eat—lots. This is not an uncommon arrangement in Butte County and elsewhere: couples enabling each other in their own addictions. Cal paid the rent and married Harriet, getting her three beefy kids as part of the deal. Harriet spent his money on fast food and groceries. She bought cases of soda, prepared junk food, lots of beer and sometimes, cheap whiskey. In return, Cal got great sex, adoration, an okay housekeeper, and didn't feel like a loser without a family of his own. He commandeered the TV remote at night while she lived life vicariously through reality shows and soap operas during the day. Harriet kept the boys out of Cal’s way, never complained about his drug and alcohol binges, and Cal never told her she was fat or undesirable.
That arrangement worked out just fine until she caught him bouncing between the sheets with her trim little sister. Harriet flipped out, screaming at the top of her lungs, and Cal had silenced her with a punch. The sister took off in tears and ran back to her boyfriend’s house, demonstrating a classic pattern of codependency, frequently interwoven throughout the fabric of domestic violence.
Harriet was a person I would suggest try a Codependents Anonymous (CODA) class along with making appropriate referrals to Victim Witness and counseling through the SAFE Program. There are many wonderful counselors in the world, but figuratively speaking—just as I would not refer a person with hemorrhoids to a brain surgeon—I do not recommend family therapists for domestic violence. I prefer to send participants to specialists who are excellent at what they do.