Just Fire

by Dawn Mattox

  I prayed for the first time in days and was grateful to remember that the God I worshiped was more faithful to me than I was to him.

  “I don’t want to do this Lord, but here I am. Can you help me out?” For the faithful, God says not to panic. When the time comes, he will have your back. I had not prepared for what came out of my mouth next, but I am pretty sure it was answered prayer.

  “This presentation is not about you. It is not about whether you believe in black magick or if the Devil is real but whether you believe that there are others who sometimes act out such beliefs through criminal activities.

  “This is not about whether you are a Christian and believe in heaven or hell but whether you understand that cults exist and they espouse opposite values of Judeo-Christian beliefs, particularly those ceremonies that are sacred to the Catholic Church.

  “This is not about witches, Wiccans, neo-pagans, agnostics, or atheists. Neither is it about freedom of speech or freedom of religion. It’s not about heavy metal music or current trends that lead to destructive behaviors.

  “We are here for the victims of ritual abuse and the roles we play—either in their rescue or their continued victimization.

  “We cannot address a problem until we admit that a problem exists.”

  The room was silent. Somewhere along the opening lines, my palms had dried, my knees stopped shaking, and my voice returned to normal, acquiring a tone of authority that I did not feel.

  “The purpose of today’s training for law enforcement is to affirm the existence of ritual abuse as it relates to unlawful activities. For mental health providers to consider Dissociative Identity Disorder. DID’s is commonly referred to as having “multiple personalities.” Code §5150 of the Welfare and Institutions Code allows law enforcement to place a person suspected of being suicidal, homicidal, or gravely disabled, into the restrained custody of a mental health facility for up to seventy-two hours of observation. For prosecutors, we will talk about evidence and legal response.

  “And, last but not least, for advocates—how to identify the presence of ritual abuse activity, validate the victim’s story, and provide appropriate referrals.”

  Welcome to the ritual-crime buffet, serving a little something for everyone.

  Power Points fulfilled the promise. The presentation was enriched with pictures and case studies, thanks to Old Wally the Witch Hunter.

  Gaining confidence and finding my stride, I emphasized, “The greatest obstacle to helping victims will always be agency disbelief. Without the support of your office, it is hard, if not impossible, to provide help. And you can TWEET that!” I added, partially joking.

  A metal chair scraped as it scooted backward over the hardwood floor, clanging and echoing as it banged into another chair. Chief Probation Officer, Marianne Marshall, stood, an imposing nearly six-foot-tall figure. Curious eyes turned to track her departure, her heels tapping a sharp cadence as she retreated from the conference room, followed by a slight jolt when she slammed the door.

  Stunned silence reigned as all eyes shifted back to me. It was a defining moment as I fought a rising tide of panic. I didn’t know what to say. And then . . . God bailed me out for a second time.

  “Thank you! Thank you, Ms. Marshall. I intend to send Ms. Marshall a formal thank-you card for her outstanding demonstration. She proves my point more than words ever could. Let me repeat; “Without the support of your agency, it is difficult, if not impossible, to provide help for victims of ritual abuse.”

  Then I went on to fulfill my training objectives.

  “Way to go. Damn fine job,” Duncan said as he took down the set. “I don’t know how you do it, Sunny. That stuff is downright disturbing. I prefer fantasy to reality—you know, with wizards and zombies.” He packed the coils of cords into a crate. “The real stuff sure takes the fun out of it.”

  Out of the mouths of babes.

  “Maybe you’re onto something there, Duncan. If people understood the real horrors of crime, entertainment wouldn’t be entertaining. We’d have to replace movies with educational films.”

  “Then again,” Bonita joined in as she opened the trunk to the car, “people celebrate murder and mayhem at the Oscars every year. Where would Hollywood be without violence?”

  “I got into the occult,” Paige said defensively, “…when I was a kid,” she hastened to clarify.

  We all turned to stare at her since she still looked like a teenager.

  “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  Her words were like an appetizer, and we all waited expectantly for more. It didn’t happen.

  CHAPTER 9

  It was hard looking my boss in the eye as my gaze kept straying to the veins that beat like war drums at his temples. Chief Probation Officer Marianne Mitchell stood behind him.

  “Sunny—a word please.” Jack stood tall while I cringed behind my desk. Paige bailed from my office like the rat she was, and Duncan shrank his massive body to invisible as he narrowed his focus on repacking the box of cables we had brought back from the presentation. Only Bonita leaned forward with interest.

  “Ms. Mitchell says your presentation on ritual abuse was an embarrassment to this office.” Jack frowned, looking like a judge handing down a sentence for mass murder. “She says it was highly inappropriate and unprofessional. I’d like to hear what you have to say.”

  My heart stopped, and my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth. The corners of Marianne’s mouth inched up and her eyes and flashed like sunlight on shards of glass. Much to her disdain and satisfaction, she seemed to enjoy watching me swallow the lump of fear in my throat and my need to wet my lips.

  Don’t be a wimp—think fast. Better to go down in flames.

  Pulling myself upright to sit tall, I clasped my hands on the desk in front of me and looked Jack in the eye and countered, “I would say sir, that in my opinion, Chief Probation Officer Marianne Mitchell is the one who behaved unprofessionally. She created a scene when she walked out.” I pointed to Exhibit A and tapped my pen on the stack of papers sitting on my desk. “I have about forty reviews right here. I’d say about two-thirds are positive and the other third neutral. No one else walked out. I believe that Ms. Mitchell was the embarrassment—to both of our offices.”

  A smile played on Jack’s face, and I was rewarded with a look of respect. Ever the politician, Jack turned to the Chief Mitchell and said, “Thanks for stopping by, Marianne. I’ll take your concerns under advisement.”

  Within days I received notice that I would be attending the National Victim Assistance Academy in Fresno the following week—with Paige.

  Shane waved as he cruised past on his motorcycle. Ashley was expanding the women’s Bible study group to include the first Saturday morning of each month, and I imagined that Shane would rather be at his Harley shop surrounded by burly bikers than trapped in a house full of chatty women.

  Since Ashley and I seem to be on a no-need-to-knock basis, I opened the door and slipped inside to the sound of laughing women and boisterous children.

  “I wonder what it’s like being married to a pastor,” a musical voice sang out from the den.

  “Always doing it in the missionary position?” came a giggling reply.

  “Thank God he’s in the mood!” quipped another.

  “Praying for the big one?” added Ashley.

  “Screaming Oma God—Oma God,” I chimed in, not considering for a heartbeat that one day I would be a pastor’s wife and the butt of hurtful, blasphemous remarks.

  Everyone froze, and then rose laughing and joking as they greeted me, embracing me and making me feel like I was one of them. Which I wasn’t. And never would be. But the feeling of acceptance was intoxicating.

  The woman with the musical voice had been bottle-feeding a baby. The second woman had a toddler clinging to her skirt and claimed another one that was bouncing on the sofa. Then there was Ashley, looking like she had swallowed a big blue exercise ball.

  “I’m so glad you could
make it,” followed by chants of “Sit down, sit down.”

  “Oh, I can’t. Thanks anyhow. I have to go. I’m just dropping off some scones. This is such a terrific idea that I wanted to support all of you.” The lie slid as easily as oil on a baby’s bottom. The heartache didn’t come until I cradled Kissme back in the safety of my home. I had never felt more alone.

  When the sadness had passed, there was nothing left to do but wash my face, wash my car, and wash my clothes for the trip to Fresno. The best cure for internal pain was external action. It was never what I felt like doing. I would much rather have eaten a bag of potato chips and crawled under the covers into the safety of the void. The problem was when I’d finally crawl out, I would still be here, and nothing would have changed. At least this way my car would get cleaned.

  It was times like these that I could still hear my dad’s instructions: “You got to toughen up, baby girl.”

  Rule #1: Never go into the eighth-grade bathroom until you are in eigth grade.

  It didn’t matter that the other bathroom was down by the little kids’ rooms or that your knees hit your chin whenever you sat on their tiny toilets. There were some tough girls at our school, and they ruled the eighth-grade bathroom with the same fervor that Crips and Bloods rule LA. As long as you follow the rules, nobody gets hurt.

  I broke Rule #1 when I dashed to the nearest toilet. When you got to go, you got to go. Three big girls were waiting when I left the stall.

  When I say “big,” I don’t mean older, even though they were. The two Maidu girls were built like skid loaders, and the freckle-faced white girl was third generation logger stock. The girls left the bathroom with me curled up on the floor holding my ribs when the bell rang. When I got up, I didn’t run to the principal’s office. I limped home.

  Lefty bristled like a wolverine when he saw the tears flowing from my swollen eyes. He held me close until the tears stopped, then washed my face and led me out to our little lawn. I didn’t want to learn hand-to-hand combat. I wanted to be rocked until I fell asleep.

  “You got to toughen up, baby girl,” he said.

  “Daddy, I don’t want to—”

  “I know, I know. Those are the times when you have to make yourself. Always remember, Sunny: offense is the best defense.”

  I was never sure if my dad learned that line from playing football or as a POW, but that afternoon Lefty taught me how to gouge out someone’s eyes with my thumbs, “doorknob” them in the boobs (or scrotum), jump on their feet and shove them, rip off an ear, throw dirt in their eyes, and finally, how to kill someone by ramming their nose through their brain with the heel of my hand. But he made me promise never to kill anyone at school.

  The following day I ambushed the largest girl as she walked home. After strategically placing a crumpled dollar bill on the dirt road near her house, I waited for her to bend down and pick it up before springing out from behind some shrubs and charging her from behind. She launched like a bird in flight, straight into an ancient thicket of blackberry brambles—where gnarly old vines clamped around her limbs and tore her skin like steel teeth on a bear trap. The harder she struggled, the deeper she sank.

  My dad had been right. No one messed with me at school after that. Still . . . there were times when I wondered if the decision I made that day marked a turning point that would set me on an irrevocable course with destiny. Had I crossed the line and become an outlaw like my father?

  In the end, I could have taken her place in the badass hierarchy and become the newest school bully. But I didn’t. I still preferred the company of the little kids.

  Getting “tough” was sometimes easier said than done.

  Casey had been born blind, but she wasn’t disabled. Casey lived in her own apartment and attended school at Chico State with the very noble goal of becoming a counselor for the blind. But for all her intelligence, all her courage, and all her skill at living independently, she had been a repeat victim of rape by different men.

  Casey learned that when she didn’t fight and didn’t struggle, she didn’t get hurt. By contrast, I had frequently fought Logan, often struggled, and was repeatedly punched or sexually assaulted. Maybe Casey had the right idea. Different people employ different mechanisms for coping and surviving.

  There was that time with Logan.

  It seemed like fun. Daring. Erotic beyond belief—when Logan had taken me behind the high school. He had picked me up on the motorcycle and cruised around to the far end of the baseball field, where he dismounted and told me to remove my gym shorts.

  Hormones exploded like the grand finale on the Fourth of July as I looked around, fearful and searching. I was eager, embarrassed, terrified—of being caught by the school and also of not obeying Logan’s directive.

  He took me there, behind the dugout, where I writhed and moaned in ecstasy until the sound of voices pierced the haze of passion as efficiently as a bucket of wet sand dumped on a bonfire.

  “Stop! Stop. Logan, stop. Please. People,” I panted as I struggled in the dirt to escape from beneath him.

  Logan looked up. What he saw only fueled him to greater heights. Logan went crazy—and I went limp. When he was done, he stood up and laughed, wagging his man part at the girl and boy who had frozen, gaping in horror. They turned and ran hand in hand as hard as they could.

  For Logan, it was all about his lust for power and control. But like Casey, I felt responsible for agreeing—up to a point.

  Shamefaced, I became the overnight subject of gossip; ridicule and sneers from bitchy girls, lusty leers and obscene notes from the boys.

  It was a relief when I was finally questioned and suspended from school. I didn’t try to deny that I had engaged in sex on campus, but I would not disclose who my partner had been.

  I was tough, but I didn’t have a death wish.

  Driving to Fresno was about as exciting as sitting on a boat in the middle of the ocean—except you were looking at rolling waves of golden hills instead of water, the scenery occasionally broken by schools of big rigs and island farms. Behind us, a motorcycle traveled close enough for me to hear his tailpipes, breaking the hum of the monotonous flow of trucks and cars.

  Paige idly pressed buttons on the radio, the channels jumping from droning Christian sermons to energetic conservative talk shows, to mysterious ethnic stations of unknown composition. Then, for whatever reason, she hit the CD button, and I freaked, overcorrecting and narrowly missing the truck and trailer to my right.

  “One way or another, I'm gonna find ya . . .” The car filled with the squealing of tires and acrid smoke of burning rubber. “I'm gonna getcha, getcha, getcha, getcha . . .” Bump, bump, bump as we spun across the median strip. “I'm gonna meetcha, meetcha, meetcha, meetcha . . .” The piercing sounds of Paige screaming mingled with the throbbing beat. “One day, maybe next week . . .” I screamed in rage. “I'm gonna meetcha . . .” And then:

  I will drive past your house

  And if the lights are all down

  I'll see who's around . . .

  “Turn it off! Turn it off!”

  Hysteria made me lose it. Rage helped me refocus.

  One day, maybe next week . . .

  I'm gonna give you the slip!

  Cursing, I slammed the Eject button, and the disc slithered like a cold-blooded wraith under a door into my hand. I didn’t wait to open the window but jerked the car door open, jumped out, and threw the vile thing into oncoming traffic, panting and watching as a line of untroubled cars demolished it.

  My head was still spinning even as the dust settled.

  Logan was in prison. Behind bars.

  I leveled a vicious glare at Paige and demanded an answer. “Did you do this? You! Is this your sick idea of a joke?”

  Paige sat there wild-eyed, petrified. “You’re crazy! You know that? You should be locked up with your psycho ex! You almost got me killed!”

  Back in the car, I clenched one hand on the steering wheel and one on the back of the car sea
t to keep myself from tearing out her throat. “Did you put that f-ing disc in the car or not?”

  Paige struggled to compose herself. “A freak. That’s what you are. A psycho freak. If I put a disc in this car, it sure as hell wouldn’t be Blondie. I’m not that old.”

  I shook my head, stupefied. Only Paige could come up with an answer that stupid and honest. I didn’t know what to think. It was a message from Logan, but I had no idea how it got there.

  In the end, there was nothing to do except to get back on the freeway and rejoin the endless stream funneling south. Hours and miles slipped away in stony silence.

  I-5 is a long north-south freeway alongside which gas stations, coffee shops, and bars were scarce. Bikers usually prefer Highway 99 that runs parallel to I-5 and hit every town down the central valley.

  Bathrooms are also scarce on I-5, but Paige needed to stop at every one, adding two hours to our four-hour trip and landing us in rush hour traffic. Okay, I admit, central California wasn’t New York or Chicago or LA bumper-to-bumper traffic, where cars moved slower than an old person in a power chair, but the cars did bunch up, shoulder to shoulder and nose to tail as you neared Fresno.

  “Can’t you hold it?” Stress had taken its toll. I was tired and anxious and somewhat disassociated. Like a turtle, I had pulled my mind into the dark shelter of my shell, telling myself that I would think later about the CD and Logan how the disc got in the car. We were still ninety minutes from Fresno State with the check-in time in sixty.

  “I can’t help it. I’m pregnant. Look, there’s a Pilot truck stop up ahead.”

  It couldn’t have been worse. Pilots are the Disneyland of gas stops—sort of a gas station-Walmart-fast food-Good Sam campground for big rigs all rolled into one. Paige would probably take a shower and shop for baby clothes on her way back to the car.