by Dawn Mattox
I flipped through the pages of the county crime statistics that Victim Witness tracks and sends every month that enumerate cases categorically; summarized by felony and misdemeanor, case type, and the percentage of violent and nonviolent crimes. The compilation looked thorough at first glance. However, this report came about six months after the death of Kia and the same day Chance called me from the sheriff's office with information on Bobbi Lancaster and Dalton Freeman. That call had left me thinking about the domestic violence cases that nobody tracks.
“He begged me to kill him, I swear! That crazy SOB kept a loaded shotgun in the bedroom. Every time we'd fight, he'd march in there and get it, sit in his stupid chair and stick the barrel in his mouth going, ‘Pull the trigger... Just pull the trigger!’ Shit, I wish I had of. But I didn't. He even tried to get the kids to shoot him!”
Heroin addict, Bobbi Lancaster took a hard pull on her cheap cigarette, rolled her eyes and cursed some more. “Hell, I used to tell him to do it! Quit talkin' about it and just go for it! I mean, I didn't push too hard because I didn't want him to turn the gun on me. Crap!” She tapped the ash to the ground. “I never really thought he'd do it.”
But Dalton Freeman had finally done it. Men are the most likely ones to seal the deal and end their lives. I wondered about the demons that had haunted him. What internal pain or hollowness would lead a person to take their life? A deep sorrow swept over me. There had been no warnings, no domestic disturbance reports. Suicides weren't even a statistic; at least not on my desk. No one tracked domestic suicide, but Dalton was dead all the same.
Not everyone thought Dalton’s story was a sad one. Like Bobbi and the officers who had responded. They didn't lose a lot of sleep over another dead junkie. Moreover, when Kia had killed herself, there had been a lot of anger from the community over the loss of innocent lives at her hand, and only her family grieved for her. As for me, I felt a great sadness. Each suicide was an abortion of God's plan for their life. Both Kia and Dalton were much too young to die. How is it, that someone in their twenties, has no vision of being thirty or forty or sixty?
Everyone dies. I know that. Shuffling papers on my desk, I paused to wonder if statistics were kept somewhere on deaths that result from heartbreak.
Maybe in heaven, I thought, but not on earth.
“Hello, Sunny.” Travis leaned against my door with a no-longer-familiar latte in hand. It had been a long time. I had forgotten how much this simple gesture had meant. “I was sorry to hear about your mom. I can't imagine how difficult that must have been.” He seemed sincere, coming from deep within, but it failed to plumb any depth in me.
“Truce?” He offered me the coffee.
“Where's your wife?” I asked in a tight voice. Page had been out for a week.
He set the coffee on my desk and shut the door.
So much had happened since I had seen Travis at the hospital. When he left, I’d built a fortress around my heart, one stone at a time, determined that he would never hurt me again. Then later, when delivering the news of Bob's death, he’d kissed me, and his kiss had been like the trumpet that brought down Jericho with a single blow.
“Actually,” Travis said, “Paige is sort of an ex-wife.”
“And just what is sort of an ex?” I challenged.
His gaze narrowed. “An X,” he continued,” is where two lines or two lives intersect, and then move on in opposite directions. Paige and I haven't lived together for years.”
“An X is also a signature that establishes a contract or covenant.”
Travis's mouth tightened into a hard line. “You should have been a lawyer.”
“No, I should have been a prosecutor. They seek the truth. Lawyers deceive. You should have been a lawyer.”
“I am very sorry for the pain I’ve caused you, Sunny. But I'm not at all sorry or ashamed of how I feel about you.” He paused for a couple of heartbeats as his words sank in. Travis’s features softened, “Now... when and where is the funeral?”
I sat in silence for a moment, tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. “Saturday. Foothill Mortuary, at noon. It's not a funeral. It's just a memorial.”
I returned to the present and my eyes, which seemed to hold an exhaustive supply, filled with tears again. Travis pulled a tissue from the box on my desk, leaned close and dabbed at the corner of my eyes, then placed his hand on my shoulder with a gentle squeeze.
“You okay?” His eyes thoughtfully searched mine.
“No. But I will be. Starla wasn't a nice person, but she was still my mom.”
“Yeah, I know. But you are—a nice person that is.”
I had met with Pastor Mac at noon to begin the memorial service, such as it was. I opted to use a flower arrangement that beautifully framed the large canvas portrait of Starla I had made from an old picture. I chose a single image over the more traditional collages and mosaics that cover the course of a lifetime. I didn't think Starla's life would paint a very pretty public picture. If anything, I thought, a photo-documentation of Starla’s life would make a great deterrent for the “Scared Straight” program; where juvenile offenders tour the “Big-House” as a foreshadow of their destiny if they don't change their ways.
The portrait was a truly amazing picture of my mother. She looked like a radiant princess right out of a fairytale, draped in a flowing white gauzy dress with billowing sleeves and a wreath of tiny white flowers adorning her long, golden tresses. The picture appeared to have been taken somewhere on the coast, with sunlight filtering through towering majestic redwoods in the background. I thought it was her wedding picture and it came as no surprise that my dad was not in it. I suspect he was straddling his Harley somewhere behind the camera.
Some friends and work associates attended the memorial; Serena from Rape Crisis, the director of the SAFE Program, Mark from Search and Rescue, Gail, Amanda, and Jack, from work. Paige, to my great surprise, was there. Alone. She was dressed appropriately but didn't look well. She avoided eye contact as she mumbled her sympathies on the way out of the service. No one came for Starla, but of course, I didn't announce to the biker world where it would be or that I would be there.
I thought it ironic that the precious women from our little church in Concow were the ones who brought food and provided music for my Christ-hating mother's memorial. But that is the kind of women they are—genuinely kind and thoughtful.
Starla's life had been reduced to less than four pounds of natural elements, poured into an eight-by-six inch plain wooden box. I packed it up after the memorial and seat-belted her securely next to me, anchoring her like a priceless treasure for the drive home. I couldn't bring myself to put her in the trunk. That wouldn't be right.
More tears came when I told her we were “almost home.” This was something I had wanted over the past months, or perhaps years. It had been a long time since we lived together under the same roof in a place called home. It felt right. I wanted to look after her and talk with her for a while before releasing her ashes.
The phone rang almost daily. My always-caring Ashley provided me with a daily dose of scripture with the same fervor and conviction that Jewish mothers dish out chicken noodle soup to a sick child. Dear Ashley. At least she refrained from stating the obvious: that Mom is in hell.
Chance had given me a supportive hug at the service and continued to send fresh flowers to the house every week, and every week I would place them in a vase next to Mom's box on the end table.
Pastor Mac reminded me that my mom had vehemently rejected my repeated efforts to lead her to Christ. “Not everyone will be saved, Sunny,” he reminded me with conviction and sensitivity.
Travis assured me that my mother was “at peace.” I have no idea what in the world would lead him to believe such a thing, other than the hope that he too, will find peace when his time comes.
Joyce and Kenny from Feather Falls called with their sympathies and came to the memorial. Joyce said that Kenny had burned sage and beat his drums, singing an
cient songs to help Starla find her way home.
Taking off my shoes, I poured a glass of wine and pulled Kissme onto my lap as I pondered the differences in all of our beliefs. There is fate, and there is faith. If fate is true, then I am already a victim of an inevitable future. But if I have faith, then I have hope. Without faith, I have no hope. And my personal hope is that I don't end up in outer darkness with Starla. For the Bible says that the light came into the world, but people—like my mother—preferred darkness, seeking to hide their shameful deeds.
Kissme licked my face and wagged her tail, knocking over the Serenity Prayer plaque that rested against Starla's box. I think it was a special delivery message from God as I picked it up and read, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
“My heart is broken, Lord,” I whispered. “I don't want to be alone tonight, and I don't think I can survive another nightmare. If you are willing, I could really use a double-portion of the wisdom-thing.”
I must assume it was my answer to God's prompting—or maybe it was God's answer to my prompting—that led me to my next decision.
I don’t know what it is about sex and funerals. Studies have shown an extraordinary increase in sexual activity among mourners. Maybe it has something to do with sex being life affirming. Probably right up there with the heightened sexual activity that precedes an invading army. Perhaps it is instinctive; a God-driven desire to create and sustain life in defiance of the certainty of death. I can't guess. I suppose it is just as likely to be the result of the first three letters of the word “funeral” being f-u-n... and the fact that funerals are frequently followed by ingesting vast quantities of food and alcohol.
Then again, maybe the answer does not require an analyst. Perhaps it is as simple as a waterfall taking the plunge, a chick cracking out of an egg, or an infant reaching for a warm breast full of milk. Some things just happen. They are part of a greater plan that cannot be denied. All I know is that night; I longed to be a wife to my husband. I had a desperate need to be held and loved. To be swept away into the blissful land of sweet forgetfulness.
Wearing only a soft print beach wrap and my hair hanging loosely across my shoulders, I kissed my little dog good-night, assuring her I would see her in the morning and stepped out into the fading light.
Chance opened his front door, and there I stood, silently drinking him in with a hungry look that any man could read. His blond hair tousled, his blue eyes flashing like tinder and flint, they ignited a promise of warmth and fire to follow. His lips parted in response to my own stirrings, and I could see he was reading me with guarded caution.
“Sunny...” he began. I dropped my wrap with a single tug on the cotton tie, standing naked before him in the setting sun whose fiery colors kissed my skin and turned my creamy tan to polished bronze.
“Sunny...” he repeated in a low, husky voice. “Are you sure about this?”
A smile touched my lips. Wordlessly reaching for his hand, I led him across the porch. He stopped me at the steps, spun me around and easily caught me, lifting me into his arms and carrying me down the steps to the inviting stretch of lawn beneath the jacaranda tree. The last rays of sun turned his eyes to violet as he sat me down.
Kneeling next to me, he brushed my cheek lightly with his lips, nuzzling my eyelashes, then kissing my eyes, his breath as sweet and warm as the summer night. Whispering my name in my ear, he trailed kisses, deeper, more heated, down my neck—kissing, tasting, teasing, pausing. Drawing back, he stared, taking all of me in with his bold, confident gaze. Reaching out, he plucked a flower from the bed that wraps around the base of the jacaranda. Slowly, tenderly, he brushed its pink petals across my lips, tracing the contours my face, its velvet softness sliding down my throat and across my breasts, where he lingered until I was sure I’d cry out if he stopped. He didn't.
He moved lower and lower still, bending over my body as his mustache continued to tickle and tease every inch of my frantic skin until I shivered, flesh quivering with ecstasy. I cried out, gasping, trembling and eager—my love soaring, fresh and alive, as if carried on the wings of a bird's first flight.
“Open your eyes,” he whispered. “I want to see all of you.” He tugged his t-shirt over his head and spread it on the grass next to him, moving me onto the fabric still warm from his body. The musky scent aroused me, unashamed. I could see his muscled features against a darkening sky as he stepped out of his pants.
Again he slowed, restraining his need as he whispered in my ear; words of need, words of love, words that set my pulse racing and heart soaring as I returned touch for touch and kiss for kiss.
We embraced; locked into each other's arms and each other's gaze, all the while touching, touching. Running his fingertips over the soft curves of my body... stroking and pausing here and there... until I lay back in surrender, closing my eyes with a soft moan and little cries of urgency.
We kissed. Kisses that burned, kisses that devoured, kisses that were soft as butterfly wings, wave upon wave of ecstasy until we came to a place where sand and surf meet in an explosion of ecstatic joy, becoming one for a moment in time. All through the night we rode the waves, from all-consuming tsunamis to gentle fingers of probing inlets that joined in a single sigh of fulfillment.
The stars in the heavens seemed to whirl softly, colliding and cascading. Like the delicate sound of wind chimes, I could hear them singing praises to their Creator.
I woke up in Chance's bed, rolling over, drowsily plucking at the sheets and snuggling into his pillow. If not for his scent, I might have thought it all an exquisite dream.
I stretched and sat up. Pulled on one of his T-shirts and padded to the kitchen.
Chance left me a note propped up against the coffee maker, a sure-fire place where he knew I would see it. “Good morning Sunshine. Do you have any idea how beautiful you are when you are asleep? I'll stop by your place and let Kissme out and feed her. Mercy and I are heading down to Fresno for the field trials. Won’t be back until Sunday evening. Wish us luck. Better still, pray for us!
~ Chance
At first, I was relieved that he hadn’t signed it Love, Chance.
Then again...
CHAPTER 44
Victims don't visit perps in jail. It just isn't done, at least not by anyone thinking straight. The attorneys involved would have a collective fit, to say the least, and at most, Jack might have me fired for unprofessional conduct if my visit affected the outcome of the trial.
Ashley would have admonished, “Did you pray about it?”
In a way, I guess I did, if “God help me” counts as prayer.
My mind was made up. I refused to be bullied and live in fear for the rest of my life. When I left word that I was going down to the jail, no one thought anything about it.
I sat across from the smudged Plexiglas window that separates inmates from visitors. It wasn't as if I thought Logan could reach through the glass and strangle me. I felt safe enough with the two guards that took up their positions at the door behind him after depositing him in a chair across from me. He was wearing the striped jumpsuit that branded him as a violent inmate.
Inmates in Butte County Jail are classified by the color of their jumpsuits: orange for minimum security, red for high-security risk, yellow for anti-socials, and green for persons charged with sex crimes. Then there are the Logans; inmates who wear black and white stripes and are not allowed out of their cells without being handcuffed and accompanied by two guards.
His tangled hair was tucked behind his ears leaving his neck exposed. His sleeves were rolled up to show off his SS lightning bolts and Filthy Few tattoos. His countenance was arrogant and pretentious.
“Umm, baby.” He licked his lips and visually stripped me before I could speak or think.
Disarmed, but not dismayed, I managed to keep a poker face intended to reflect fearless determination.
“I want
you to call off your dogs,” I said in as commanding voice as I could muster.
“I’ve missed you, baby!” He grinned. “So much so, that I lie in my cell and picture you naked every time I think about your love bite,” he said, twisting his neck to expose a hideous scar; a thick scarlet-red rim that ringed a hollow cadaverous-gray crater.
“It looks good on you,” I said. “Fitting!”
Raw hatred flicked across his features before he resumed his act. “I know you're here because you miss me and you want me. You're mine, Sunny. You'll always be mine,” He whispered as his eyes melted into black pools.
“You never were very smart, Logan. I'm here to warn you to call off your pals. You’re not the only one with friends—and my friends are a lot higher up on the food chain than yours.”
And God, it better be you, I thought, realizing my mistake. I should not have come. Too stupid. Too late. But at this point, I had no choice but to play it out.
“Uh-huh.” Logan smirked. “Just remember, Sunburst, I got friends too, in low places. Really, really low places.”
“Of course you do,” I said, tossing my head in agreement, “but which of our friends run these facilities?”
Logan snarled as he leaped for the glass, pounding and yelling, “You can go to hell, Sunny!”
“After you, Logan! After You!” I fired back, pushing my face next to the glass and smirking as he pounded away.
“I'm not done with you, bitch! Not by a...” he continued his rant as the guards intercepted him, his threats trailing down the hall as they dragged him back to his cell.
“Lord, help me,” I gasped as I staggered outside. That was possibly the stupidest thing I have ever done.