Fire in Me

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Fire in Me Page 32

by Dawn Mattox


  Braden Steffey was a handsome, virile young man who had graduated with honors from high school and enrolled for his freshman year at Chico State. Always funny, known for his practical jokes, he and his buddies had saved and planned their outing for months.

  They packed a cooler with beer that one of the older guys had bought, grabbed some swim gear, lots of junk food, and rented a party barge, launching into a day that would change Braden’s life forever.

  The day started out hotter than a blonde in a thong bikini on the back seat of a Ninja motorcycle. Braden's prescription-strength antihistamines fueled a burning thirst. He hit the beer and hit it hard. His friends were getting angry that he was sucking down all of their beer when he suddenly puked it back up and passed out. Not only did his friends lose out on the beer they bought, but now they were furious at having to clean his vomit so they could get back their deposit.

  As they worked, they devised a plan to get even with Braden. First, they bought more beer with the deposit money. Then they pulled off his shorts, leaving him naked and passed out in the bushes behind the marina parking lot. Good joke. Bad ending.

  Braden woke up scared and angry. It was dark, the marina closed, and the parking lot empty. Braden, thinking he might find clothes or at least a beach towel, was walking along the dock under the lights when a car with three young women pulled up. Catcalls and whistles from the girls, Braden quickly forgot his anger. He thought he’d died and gone to heaven when they invited him to get in the car and “party” with them. Braden was laughing—all the way home to their lair.

  Teased into the bedroom, they tied him to the bedpost where he was stroked, then tortured for hours. He was repeatedly raped and anally raped with several objects. He thought he was going to die. He cried and begged them to let him go. The women laughed. Braden was ashamed that his body responded to their touch, even though a knife was held to his throat. Then it was over.

  They took him for a ride and let him out near his apartment complex. Next, Braden did what rape survivors should never do; he took a long hot shower, watching his blood, his innocence, and all of the admissible evidence swirl down the drain before calling the police.

  Braden never recovered, physically or emotionally. His friends laughed at him and told him he was “gay” for not enjoying his “good luck.” Terrified of people, unable to sleep or focus on his studies, he soon dropped out of college and walked away from his friends and his dreams. He didn't like men and couldn't trust women. He refused to press charges because he couldn't bear the publicity. Depressed and isolated, unable to live with the past or face the future, Braden finally found peace with a handgun to his temple.

  Life with Chance back in the time of Braden's case had been more than happy. It had been deeply satisfying. Like brandy and cigars, or a Harley ride on a California Sunday morning; all sunshine and smooth sailing. Chance possessed wisdom and spiritual insight beyond his years back then. He was also my best friend. The kind of friend you could always count on when having a bad day.

  Inconsolable, possessed with the spirit of What-if and its twin Spirit, If-only, I had wept for Braden. So young, so young. His whole life ahead of him... I could have, should have, might have...

  “Sunny... shh. Stop. Babe, listen to me for just for a minute.” Chance had wiped tears from my face with his fingertips, tenderly kissing my cheeks. “Honey, this isn't about you. Don't personalize everything as if Braden had no choice in the matter. As if he had no destiny. Braden's death isn't about you, and in a sad way it isn't even about Braden.”

  He drew me close and we sat on the lawn gazing at a doe and two fawns nibbling brush as they worked their way up the facing slope.

  “The real loss,” said Chance, “is to all of the people whose lives he might have touched.”

  Looking into his crystal blue eyes, I saw him drawing his thoughts from the Holy Spirit within.

  “Everything we do has an eternal effect. The world calls it 'cause and effect.' And it's true. But what they don't understand is that the effect ripples beyond time and space. Braden's grandson's- grandson's grandchild might have influenced someone to run for president. Or ten generations from now, a Braden offshoot might have comforted an advocate who cried for the loss of one young man.” He sighed in calm acceptance.

  “We have an eternal purpose, Sunny. The beauty is that we all get to make choices. The sadness is, that some of those choices turn out wrong. You are blessed to understand that more than most people. When Braden killed himself, he didn't even see that he had a choice. All he could see was the present going on forever. No faith. No trust that God can work all things for good.”

  “How could God or anyone make anything good come from what he went through?” I asked, drying my eyes.

  “Braden could have used his tragedy to be a blessing to men in the same way that you are a blessing to women. But instead of helping others, he ended up hurting others by choosing to take his life. He couldn't see that his life still had a purpose.” Brushing the hair from my face, he cupped my chin in his strong hands and softly repeated, “This isn't about you, Sunny. Be sad for him, but not for yourself.”

  The deer had worked their way to the top of the hill. The sun dipped low, casting a soft golden mist across the sky, silhouetting their forms and turning the trees to deepening shades of red. The doe turned to gaze at us for a long time, until at last her babies nudged her to move on.

  CHAPTER 32

  We had passed each other in the halls and in the restroom almost daily for three years, and in all that time, I had yet to see to see Ivy King smile. Her face seemed to have frozen like a dour Beijing Opera Mask, as though someone had run their fingers through the fresh paint and stretched her countenance into a permanent state of melancholy. She was the Queen of Grim, but then, she had every right. She was the county’s most respected child abuse investigator, and I told myself, the day I look like that, is the day I quit.

  But I hadn’t quit. Not even when I saw my reflection in a window that mirrored Ivy’s after working a case where a child had watched her father stab her mother sixteen times. I kept my job but gave in to a burning desire to see my mom. A couple of months had passed since the call from her PO.

  Rain clouds slid in like stealthy dark spirits that stopped to hover over the Port of Oakland. An early fall storm had crept down the coast from Alaska and would probably never reach the central valley. Rain began to fall, and a cold wind blew in off the ocean, chilling my heart.

  I wanted—I needed to find my mother, and the Port of Oakland wasn’t the safest place to hang out after dark. Day workers were already sitting behind locked doors eating their dinner and channel surfing through dreams and fantasies. It was time for the night shift. Time for night-people to take to the streets: the pimps and whores, stealers and dealers.

  Still, I’d followed Mac's advice. Thinking a bodyguard might be a good idea, I’d told Chance I was going to look for my mother and asked if he wanted to join me. I was determined to be alone with her once we got to Oakland and rudely insisted that Chance wait in the truck when we finally arrived.

  Chance sitting behind the wheel of the Dodge Ram made a much stronger impression than my little Volkswagen would have, but any empty vehicle, even a Heavy Duty Ram truck, made a likely target a for smash and grab. Then too, I needed to do this alone.

  I found Starla’s building by using the number that Tom Aural had provided and entered through a dingy glass door into a run-down tenement building. Cautiously, I stepped inside to find myself directly under a staircase adjacent to a long hallway. The sharp, pungent smell of urine, both fresh and old, tore at my lungs and stung my eyes. Couldn't they hold it two more minutes? I hustled down the hall checking room numbers as I went.

  Gangster rap blasted from an open door about halfway down the corridor. Doing the math, I figured Starla probably wasn’t on the ground floor. She must be up another level, so I retreated back to the stairwell.

  Laughter floated down the stairs as a
pair of women, one black and one white, clung to each other as they made their way down. Stumbling drunk, drugged, or both; it was evident by their excessive makeup, tawdry outfits, and spiked four-inch do-me-heels that they were on their way to the streets to conduct business.

  “Excuse me. Excuse me. My name is Sunny. I’m looking for a woman named Starla. Do you know which unit is hers?”

  They exploded with laughter and repeated, “Do you know which unit is hers?” in mocking tones. Somehow it didn’t sound quite the same.

  “She’s my mother.” I offered.

  “You Starla’s baby? Well, why didn’t you say so?” The black woman asked. “You look just like your mama.” Not sure that was a compliment. “Upstairs, end of the hall.”

  “If she’s not there, she’s probably already on the street,” the white woman added as they went on their way.

  I didn’t think anyone would be on the street in the pouring rain. Must be a figure of speech, I thought, guessing the prostitutes would probably work the local establishments on a night like this: bars, hotel lobbies, and the like.

  Squaring my shoulders, I made my way to the next floor. A trail of graffiti marked the way, and I paused to read the words of the local prophets. “God is Dead” and “Welcome to Hell,” along with numerous other epithets and sexual references. I moved down the hall. Numbers were missing on both sides. TV was blasting on the left, so I knocked hopefully on the door on the right. No answer. No luck.

  Taking a deep breath, I knocked on the left. A middle aged black man, shirtless and shoeless, opened the door, checked me out and grinned. It was not a nice, “Hello. How are ya?” kind of smile. It was more like a cat gloating over a bird hooked its claws.

  “Hello. I’m looking for Starla.” I said, totally intimidated by his predatory gaze.

  He slammed the door in my face. Sighing, I turned to go just as the door popped back open.

  “Mom?” I was so happy to see her.

  “Sunny? Wow! How the hell are you? Come in, come in. Don’t let Darnell scare you. He don’t bite. Not hard, anyhow.” She laughed and led the way into the dark room and turned down the TV.

  If possible, my mother had lost even more weight than when I had last seen her at the bus depot. She stared at me with glassy eyes and a contrived smile plastered on her face, absently scratching at her arms. I got the feeling she wasn’t exactly thrilled about my visit.

  “Sit down. Sit down.”

  I looked around at the living room—two mattresses on the floor with space in-between full of trash, dirty clothes, and dirty dishes.

  “Hey!” Darnell barged in between us. “I want what I paid for, Starla. Hear me? Now,” his voice low and threatening as he unzipped his pants and thrust his hips.

  I was stunned, and Darnell loved the shock that registered on my face.

  “Hello! This is my mother!” I got in his face with my shoulders squared, trying to act braver than I felt and regretted leaving Chance in the truck.

  Darnel ramped up the intimidation. Belligerent, he shoved his face in my face. “You put out? I’ll do you too! Probl’y got less chance of catching a fucking disease wichchoo anyhow. I can do you both; mama, baby.” He rocked his head side-to-side. “Come on, girl, les play.” He rubbed his nose on mine.

  I jumped back, repulsed as his slimy eyes raked my body. I shouldn’t have come. Starla barely knew me from the doorknob, but... she was still my mother.

  Starla snapped out of her drug-induced stupor for a moment. “Baby, you go wait in the other room.” She looked at Darnel with disdain saying, “We’ll be done here in just a minute,” and then to me, “then you and I can go have a drink or somthin'.”

  Did she really mean to “do” this guy right here, right now? With me in the other room?

  I was in her world. Turning away, I walked numbly into what passed for a kitchen. My nose wrinkled with disgust as I studied an open can of beans with mold bubbling up from under the lid and some fast food bags sitting on a filthy counter with bits of wadded wrapping sticking out of them.

  The Taco Bell bag next to me began to shake. Earthquake? I looked for a safe place because this is California, and that is what we do. The bag rattled around a bit more, then a furry little gray head with inquisitive beady eyes poked out. The mouse looked at me, twitching his whiskers, unimpressed. Apparently, humans weren’t much of a threat, and I didn’t bother to chase him away. Instead, I focused on his antics to blot out the sounds of my mother’s orgasmic screams from the front room.

  My mother was right about it only taking a “minute,” but the minute was enough to pound yet another filthy and indelible memory into my brain. It made me long for a hot shower under a steady stream of antibacterial soap.

  Darnel left with a smirk as Starla tapped a cigarette from the pack she pulled from beneath her dirty mattress. She looked at me defiantly. “What? You got a problem?”

  “No. I...” I looked at the floor to avoid her stony stare and sat down next to her. “Did he hurt you, Mom?”

  “Not as bad as I hurt him. Don’t you worry, baby girl.” She laughed heartily as she flicked her Bic. The hardened lines of her face deepened in the flickering glow of the disposable lighter. She sucked in smoke with deep satisfaction, then jet-streamed it out with a sadistic smile. “I just gave that little turd AIDS.”

  My old friend, disassociation, came to my rescue. I must have misunderstood. As fast as I heard her words, I dismissed them—for a time.

  “I gotta go, Mom. It's a long drive home.”

  “Wait, honey. Gimme a minute. You just got here. Don't go yet. Just sit back down,” she urged, rising and pushing me back onto the mattress. “I'll be right back.” Starla slid around the corner, and I heard her mumbling on the phone. Probably lining up more clients, I thought bitterly.

  She came back with two cans of generic beer. “Hey now, you can't leave without having a drink with me.”

  “I hardly ever drink, Mom. And I have to drive home.” I didn't mention Chance.

  “Here!” She thrust the open can at me. “Stop acting so damned prissy. What's wrong with you, Sunny? Lighten up, for God's sake. One beer isn’t going to kill you.”

  Logan had once said the exact same thing. My lips fluttered as I exhaled frustration. I had made a big mistake. But I took the beer obediently and listened to Starla ramble on about different people we both knew from the old days.

  Thinking about Chance waiting for me in the cold truck, I slammed back the beer as quickly as possible and rose to leave over her protests. Between inhaling a tall can on an empty stomach and the slow acceptance that my mother had HIV, my head spun.

  I have no memory of saying goodbye, good luck or get well soon. I was numb. Not even tears could break through my invisible wall of self-protection as I backtracked down the dimly-lit smelly hall on autopilot, scarcely noticing the man who was moving purposefully toward me. Avoiding eye contact, I dropped my gaze as he drew near, hoping to walk past him without incident. Then I froze as his vest came into focus. Bandido Nation.

  I never saw the punch coming. Hollywood teaches us that a strange man will grab the woman from behind or tackle her and wrestle her to the ground, but guys just don't sucker punch a strange woman into a wall. Except in my case. My world shrank to the size of a blurred stain on the carpet as I doubled over fighting for breath, stunned that the impossible had happened. Then reality grabbed my hair and yanked me upright, slamming me back against the wall.

  A brown face with a scraggly beard hovered inches from mine. Sneered, “Hey, Chica. Been lookin' for you for a long time.” His words slurred, diffused through a fog of alcohol. I might have been tipsy, but he was hammered. Cold, wet hands clutched my throat as he leaned into me. “Where're the fuckin' guns? Huh? Your boyfriend thinks he can double-cross me? He left the money with you, maybe, huh?”

  I struggled, pulling wildly at his muscled forearms to free myself.

  “Maybe your boyfriend wants ta trade, huh? You for my guns!”
>
  I gagged, and he relaxed his grip enough for me to answer. This allowed three things to happen; his face came into focus enough for me to see his rotten teeth, watery brown eyes, and pocked skin. I saw that he wasn't much bigger than me. I could breathe again and sucked in enough air to clear my head and charge my senses. Tried and true; I recalled Ramiro on the ground and that a knee to the crotch always worked in the movies. Turns out the move also works in the slums of Oakland.

  The tables turned. Now the biker was the one bent over with bulging eyes, fighting for breath, thinking the impossible had just happened. I shoved his fat butt with both hands and heard his head bounce off the wall, then took off down the hall like my pants were on fire. I cleared the stairs two at a time and grabbed an anchor post, swung around and down into the lobby— right into the arms of a second biker.

  Another round of grappling ensued. I kicked and fought the new guy as he strong-armed me backward, under the dark recess beneath the stairs. One arm clamped across my chest, another over my mouth, he growled, “Shut up!” And again. “I said, ‘Shut up!’”

  I redoubled my efforts. When sweaty hand over my mouth failed to muffle my screams, he reached up with his other arm and pinched my nose. I kicked and thrashed, madly fighting for air. And then, night fell in the already dark hall, as if a soft black blanket were thrown over my head. Everything w fading into darkness when I thought I saw Chance. Maybe I'm dead, I thought. Then—blackness.

  I opened my eyes with thoughts that transcended time and space. Was I dead? Chance was speaking to me through a white haze. Had I drowned in the Feather River?

  “Sunny. Oh, baby. Oh, God. What happened?”

  “Where am I?” I squinted and tried to sit up without throwing up as the world around me spun and teetered.

  “Thank God.” Chance was crying, tears streaming over the angles of his rugged face as he pulled me onto his lap and rocked me in his arms. His heart pounded out a love song through his shirt. The world slowly came back into focus. I was looking up from the underside of a stairwell into the faces of several tenants who looked back, their expressions ranging from mildly curious to totally bored. Starla was not among them.

 

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