by Dawn Mattox
“It means roll over and be nice. Give me a little bit of Lefty. It’s payday.”
Logan was always talking like that, so I didn’t give it a lot of thought at the time.
Experience had taught me there was no denying Logan when he wanted sex. I could give it nice, or he would take it with violence. It was all the same to him. I was his. Signed. Sealed. Delivered.
“I guess I’m ready,” I shrugged. Chance helped me into the Dodge.
January was always a strange month for California weather. Some days it snows, and other days will find people dressed in shorts and tank tops. Californians usually economize; heavy jackets over shorts and socks with their Birkenstocks. Today, ragged clouds scudded across the foothills, sunshine occasionally popping out between them, offering shimmering rays of hope.
Kenny’s daughter arranged for his memorial to be held in the administrative buildings of Feather Falls Casino, far from the brassy business of taking money. His surviving sons and daughters sat near Joyce, who stood up when I walked in. Head held high, Joyce boldly crossed the room, daring anyone to give me hostile looks or murmur accusations.
“Sunny. Chance.” Joyce welcomed us. “Come. Sit with me.” Joyce was an amazing woman. How was it possible that she could be thinking of me and my feelings on this day, of all days, with anything other than blame or rage?
The service was simple. Kenny would have liked that. Friends and family took turns standing up and sharing memories. Some funny stories, some generous stories—all a testament to the wonderful man that Kenny had been. Typical of the Maidu people, the tables along the walls were overflowing with homemade food: platters of carved meat, tempting casseroles, baskets with warm bread, steaming vegetables, and bright-colored desserts. The delicious smells were intoxicating as they drifted silently around the room, inviting life and stirring appetites on this sad occasion.
After the storytelling came the feasting. After the feasting, the drumming. Outdoors the drummers gathered in a circle, the circle of life, blessed by the warmth of the pale winter sun that came to say goodbye. With the drumming came the songs. Songs that invited the Maidu ancestors to come and sing and guide Kenny home.
Saturday was spent packing and making the three-hour drive to the Bay Area for Paige’s funeral.
“I don’t want to stay with the Atchisons,” I said with a scowl. “Cali hates me.”
And I don’t need Paige’s ghost tiptoeing into my room.
“We need to.” Chance was insisting as much as I was resisting, and things were tense. “It’s the best way to talk with Cali and Perry about the baby.”
There was something incredibly attractive, yet unbelievably foolish—possibly even stupid—about Chance’s obsession. What baby? Chance needs to get a clue. Ridiculous! But I held my tongue for love’s sake. Who is he kidding? We both work in law enforcement and know that the odds of recovering Quincy significantly decrease day by day. It had been weeks now, and the odds were still slipping, landing somewhere between slim and none. Yet Chance talked as if Quincy were at Grandma’s house. Oh well . . . I let him hope for the both of us. For me, I had none.
Rain clouds wrung every drop, and we were not only grateful but sorry to see it slacken as we neared the Bay Area. Another year of drought, I thought as I gazed at the windshield, watching the rain turn to a drizzle, then a mist, then looking like glistening cheeks after the tears.
We finally arrived in beautiful Sausalito, where I gawked like the country bumpkin that I was.
“Wow. What you think these homes cost?”
Chance snorted. “Probably somewhere between a half-million and multimillion.”
We took a narrow road that wound to the top of a hill and turned into the driveway of a sleek modern two-story home with a commanding view of the ocean. We got out of the car, and I breathed in the rain-washed salt tang of the air, admiring the house as I stumped my way up the drive. Their home was breathtaking; the front of the house, mostly glass, was framed in white and bounded by a pair of gnarled cypress trees that grew from an outcropping of serpentine. The trimmed lawn hugged sweeping stairs of flowers and shrubs and vines that defied the winter weather.
I gripped my crutches, already feeling awkward and out of my element.
Paige’s mother greeted us at the door with an assistant guiding her wheelchair. She looked one step away from being next in line for a funeral. I shook her hand, thinking, I hope they bought a family plot, before turning red and mentally making the sign of the cross.
Everything was formal. Her greeting was formal, the decor formal, the hired help formal, and the conversation stilted and formal. I found myself squirming inside my bandages.
“It was hard to find shoes to match my outfit,” I joked, feeling underdressed in my pants and unflattering shoe with a thick rubber tread. The last thing I needed was to do “a Duncan” and slip on the Atchison’s polished wooden floor and break a leg.
I had to hand it to the Atchison’s—they didn’t serve wine from a box. The wine came with corks, and it came in abundance. There was a pop and a sigh when they uncorked; wine flowed, and appetizers arrived, served by one of those ageless Asian women who wore an apron and a smile that lit up the room.
A little while later, there was a knock on the door.
“Please, come in.” There was some friendly bantering between the staff when a familiar voice made me gasp and inhale a brioche-and-crème-fraiche tidbit into my lungs. My eyes watered as I coughed and sputtered as Travis entered the room. “Need a drink?” Travis asked, looking amused as he snatched a glass of wine from a tray and handed it to me.
Chagrined, I gulped the wine and held out the empty glass. “More?” Travis’s back was to everyone. I was the only one who saw his dimples deepen and green eyes dance as he nodded to the hired help for more wine.
Travis was all business when he turned back to the group. Everyone did the meet-and-greet thing as if they had not seen each other in years. Travis kissed Cali on the cheek and shook hands with Perry and Chance.
The domestic help brought me another glass of wine that I nursed through their discussion regarding Quincy. Everyone acknowledged that there were no updates and then proceeded to talk about her as if she were in the next room. I sat there, biting my tongue and wagging my finger whenever my glass ran dry.
Admittedly, I had never sat in the company of so many idiots gathered under one roof to debate an issue that had no possible solution. But then, I have never engaged in politics. I listened to their conversation in amazement. First, Chance argued that he and I would make the best parents, then Travis countered by saying, “You don’t know that.” An hour later Cali said, “The child is all I have to remember my daughter by . . .” with a surreptitious glance in my direction. Finally, everyone agreed that Cali would keep Quincy until bio dad could be determined.
It was a good thing that no one attempted to engage me in their stupid conversation. The floors were starting to move, when the help finally announced, “Dinner is ready,” and Cali turned to ask, “Is that agreeable to you, my dear?”
I looked at her, dumbfounded. “No. It is not agreeable,” I said, mimicking her tone and snooty expression. “What the hell is wrong with you guys?” I was sloshed but not slurring. Woozy, but I could stand and probably walk in an almost straight line considering the condition of my foot. I held my head high. “I think you are all stupid beyond belief. You’re all sitting here acting as if Quincy is alive—when we all know she’s as dead as her mother.” Turning away, I made my way to the nearest exit; through the door that led to a balcony overlooking the ocean and threw up.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and then looked out at a sky the color of bruised plums and a restless sea of angry blue-black waves that crashed along the shore. The wind was fresh, and the cold helped to clear my head. I blamed the salt air for making my eyes water.
Chance followed, furious. “Is this how you show the Atchisons that you can be a good mother? By getting drunk an
d being rude and profane and . . . Did you throw up? Dammit, Sunny.”
“I’ll do what I want and say what I think,” I told Chance. “And I’m not hungry—go have dinner with your friends and leave me alone.”
Chance stormed back in, and Travis drifted out. After a short period of silence, he said, “They have a great cook here. They planned tonight’s menu with you in mind.”
My eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Oh really, and what is that? Crème de Bologna?”
Travis’s laughter was as light and refreshing as the breeze. “Salmon.”
We stared at each other in silence. Travis knew that the wild salmon was symbolic for me, that their life cycle reflected my own spirit: dedicated, self-sacrificing, devoting their lives to benefit their species. They were nature’s advocates.
Nothing more needed to be said. Travis took me by the elbow and guided me to the table. He was right. The salmon was delicious. I ate in unapologetic silence while the others made small talk and went to bed early without saying good night.
When Chance finally came to bed, he was holding a thick leather-bound book. “What’s that?” I asked as he placed it on the table next to the bed.
“Cali gave it to me,” he said, his voice low and tight. “She told me that she knows she is dying and believes that the baby is . . . should be . . . ours.” He sat on the edge of the bed staring at his feet. “Even if Quincy turns out to be Travis’s child, Cali hopes he will give her to us to raise.”
The words slid through clenched teeth. “Are you guys for real?”
The soft light from the nightstand was just enough to see Chance’s face darken a couple of shades. His eyes blazed in the half-light as he worked the muscles along his jaw. “Cali wanted me to have Paige’s personal effects: her scrapbook and some keepsakes. She hopes that one day we will give them to her daughter.”
There was the daughter thing again. I couldn’t take it any longer.
“Why do you guys persist in believing Quincy is alive?”
Chance took offense and returned my glare. “Why do you have to insist she isn’t?”
Another losing battle.
“What did Perry have to say about you getting the scrapbook and the baby?”
“Cali told me in private. She says that Perry acts tough, but he’ll be as lost as yesterday when all his girls are gone. She figures that when she dies, Perry will probably have some cleaning service come in and throw everything away and that he is too set in his ways to raise a child alone.”
Chance paused and then added, “I gave them your apologies.”
My face tightened, and I held my pillow in a chokehold. “Never, never, apologize for me again. If I want to apologize to someone, I will. My choice. Not yours.”
Chance drew back. He looked stricken for a moment and then agreed. “Of course. You’re right. I’m sorry.” With that, I rolled over, and Chance laid our fight to rest. I think he knew that different people coped with grief differently and attributed my outrageous behavior to the fact that I had been through hell.
This was true, but he still missed the point.
We were the first to arrive at the funeral home, having traveled with Cali and Perry after a light breakfast. The sun sent pink threads that wove their way through a gray-blue sky above the horizon. The ever-present tang of salt seasoned the morning breeze. The white mortuary with a red tiled roof reminded me of Tara in Gone with the Wind, with high marble columns on the portico and a sweeping emerald lawn and circle drive, perched on the side of a hill with a view of the ocean. Inside, the anteroom led to an elegant atrium that reached up to the second floor and was filled with the scent of exotic flowers and a delicate mist from a cascading waterfall.
Perry stood well away from Cali, who was clinging to Chance, her shoulders heaving like a pair of angel wings taking flight, her tears deepening the charcoal black of his suit as she wept on his shoulder.
Paige’s funeral was nothing like Kenny’s. Instead of pickup trucks and used cars, the funeral home looked like a car lot for the rich and famous—shoulder-to-shoulder Cadillacs, Lexuses, Mercedes-Benz, and BMWs. Congressmen and senators arrived via their private jets from Washington, DC. And of course, with money came the press with microphones and cameramen in tow.
Perry shook hands with Senator Keeler and Director Sanger from Homeland Security. They had not come to pay respects to Paige but to Perry. Travis was standing behind Perry and off to one side, wearing a black suit and a pair of Oakleys, looking more like a mobster’s bodyguard than a mourner.
I was shocked to see Jack Savage shaking hands and talking to Perry at the front door, but then, Paige and Travis had both worked undercover within our district attorney office. The bust in Feather Falls that led to Logan’s imprisonment had been a coordinated effort between Butte County Sheriff’s Office and ATF. Besides, Jack would never have missed the free drinks and the photo op that was sure to follow.
Perhaps even more surprising was the sight of Duncan hobbling in with a cane and Bonita trailing behind. Duncan and Bonita are not here for me, I told myself. They’re here for Paige, their friend, and coworker. Well, coworker, anyhow. And maybe Duncan really was here for me. Hard to say.
Unlike Joyce, I had no support coming from Cali. I didn’t blame her. Not at all. Cali Atchison and her sisters and in-laws withdrew, sequestered in a private room with a one-way window. I would’ve thought a person of Cali’s caliber would have had the grace to invite me into her sanctuary to protect me from the family’s hostile, grieving friends, much as Joyce had done. Instead, she threw me to the sharks.
They say that San Francisco Bay is one of the most shark-infested waters in the world. I can tell you that the funeral home contained even more; the waters fairly chummed with beautiful young women with killer eyes and an instinct for blood. Their words—polished white—were razor sharp and cut deep. Oh, you’re the one. Oh yes, I saw you on the news. I’ve heard so much about you. And, of course, Paige told me all about you. I would have left, but Chance tightened his grasp on my hand and kept me anchored to the seat.
Travis joined the peons sitting in the nave, and I was shocked to see him arm in arm with a tall dark-haired woman wearing an elegant black dress and a sweeping black hat. Our eyes briefly touched from across the room, when an usher intercepted them and attempted to guide them to the front seats. Travis declined, giving their seats to an elderly couple, and took a seat further back.
Something tugged at my heart as I pondered my feelings for Travis. Once you have given someone a piece of your heart, you can’t just take it back. It can wither and die, but you can’t take it back and pretend that you are whole again—not any more than you could donate a kidney and get it back and pretend nothing had changed. It is bound to incur some damage.
I considered any traces of love I might still have for Logan. Like residue in a burned-out building, I mused, as soft background music filled the air. People often wonder why a victim of abuse would return to their abuser. They don’t understand that men like Logan weren’t always abusive. People can’t imagine that soft, seductive words were whispered long before the cruel, damaging ones. Caresses and touches that once culminated in orgasmic ecstasy came long before his fist ever blackened my eye. I had given Logan my heart and could not take it completely back either. I had lived for years on the hope that one day Logan, the charming man I had so glibly given my heart to, would return. He did not.
Some last-minute flower arrangements were delivered by a couple as colorful as the flowers themselves; she was as black as night, and he was an albino, and they placed large silver and black urns on either side of Paige’s casket as the music began.
Is it possible? Warning bells went off in the back of my mind.
“Chance . . .” I tugged his sleeve, whispering into his ear as the pastor stepped up to the pulpit followed by silence.
Chance patted my hand absentmindedly.
“Chance!” I cried out as I rose from my seat.
There w
as a flash—a bang—and all hell broke loose. The smell of smoke roiled through the room like a thick black fog as people screamed, pushing and shoving their way toward the exit. Panic reigned—but my husband instinctively covered me with his body while assessing the situation, then swept me into his arms and carried me to safety.
Please, God, give me another rape case. Another domestic violence case. Anything—anything at all, except another ritual abuse case.
I was the first one to arrive at work in the morning and the last one to go home at night. I hid in my office behind my door and dined on salty tears for lunch. I didn’t want to remember. I didn’t want to go home. Home had become an emotional cauldron, simmering, steaming, and occasionally boiling over.
“I tried to tell you,” I told Chance. “The albino—it was him at the cabin, at the lake. My God, he’s the one that cut my throat.”
“If we had just known sooner,” Chance said.
But we hadn’t. Poor Paige had never made it to the cemetery. Her remains were incinerated along with her mother and several other members of the Atchison family. Not Perry. Perry was in front of the mortuary greeting the governor, whose limousine had been delayed in traffic.
There’d been no other fatalities. The bomb seemed to have been set to do the maximum damage to the family sitting in the private room. The guests, including Travis and my coworkers, were not seriously harmed. The investigation revealed that pipe bombs had been planted inside of the two urns that bordered either end of the casket, and the casket had been snugged up beneath the viewing room window.
Cali was dead. Leave it to Chance to say that it was a mercy, sparing her from a prolonged and painful death. For myself, I remained numb and disassociated. I was not going to one more funeral. Ever. Not even Cali’s.
Chance played the guilt card. “But she’s the grandmother of our child.”
I completely lost it. “Shut up, Chance! Just shut up! You’re insane—listen to yourself. There is no our child. Quincy is gone—dead, just like her mother and grandmother. Get over it already!”