Storm Justice

by Pamela Cowan

  “Man, you know what he did Friday? He told me I’ve got a ten-o’clock curfew on the weekend.”

  “On the weekend? No shit!” some admirer would say.

  “Yeah, well . . . mine took away my car keys and said I don't get them back until I get my grades up.”

  “No wheels? Dude.”

  “Yeah, well, mine . . .”

  And so the game would continue while Joe Dean's daughter sat, tired and cold, squinting into the smoke. Unbidden, her thoughts would slip backward to the previous night, lying in bed and listening to the sound of slaps and her mother's voice pleading quietly, the sound bleeding into the night.

  There was no conflict, no confusion, no choice to be made. There should have been. A war should have raged between fear and anger. Between hiding under the covers or going to the kitchen for the turkey knife.

  Shame shivered through her body at the memory of that night and others before it because there had been no inner conflict, only cowardice. The memory of that sat like an icy fist in her stomach, sending waves of cold through every vein and artery. Lying there, her blankets pulled up around her, head buried under her pillows, she had shivered as if she were buried in snow.

  When the noise stopped and the heavy silence of the early hours settled over the Dean household, only then did the coward slide free of the icy sheets and reach cautiously into a drawer for a flashlight.

  Holding the flashlight under the pillow so that no one could hear the snap, she turned it on, lifted it clear, and set it, oh so carefully, on her nightstand. The light reflecting from the chalk-white ceiling was feeble but enough.

  Opening her Star Wars lunch pail of treasures, she took out the single-sided razor blade she'd stolen from the garage. She hadn't taken a new one, afraid he'd notice. She pulled one from the trash and disinfected it with rubbing alcohol. It was shiny, clean, and sharp.

  Cutters cut their arms. She'd seen them at school. They looked like they'd been playing some sort of game, a boring, unidirectional tic-tac-toe. She was much more creative. Besides, she couldn't risk getting caught. Her cuts had to look like accidents.

  Pinching the razor between her thumb and the first two fingers of her right hand, she sliced across the back of her left hand, scoring a diagonal line from the base of her pinkie to her wrist. Blood beaded along the cut.

  She cut twice more, shorter but deeper slices, placing the cuts one on either side of the first. She held her arm up and watched the blood gather and slowly slip down her arm. It was warm against her frozen skin.

  Then the cuts began to hurt—sharp, biting pain that made her smile.

  Roses. Thorns. It was easy to explain the scratches when her mother saw them. Because she had the world figured out, a lot of things were easy.

  This storm would pass.

  On the Friday, she spent the night at Annie's. Her dad liked Annie. Sometimes, when the thunder rumbled, she would signal her by toggling the back porch light switch up and down several times.

  If Annie saw the signal, she would go over and be polite, sweet, and very attentive, causing a slow rise in the barometric pressure and a delay in the appearance of the lightning.

  That day, Annie didn't have time to go in. She'd walked around the block with her friend but then hurried on to meet another schoolmate to get some notes for a class she'd missed. So when Storm got home, late the next morning, she was alone.

  “Where's your buddy?” her father asked as soon as she closed the living-room door.

  He was sitting in his chair, oriented to face the fireplace and television. On the cigarette-scarred end table next to him sat half a bottle of Bacardi 151, an ashtray with two smoldering cigarettes, his Zippo lighter, and a plate with a sandwich that looked untouched.

  His hand was wrapped around a tumbler of amber liquid and he sat erect, legs crossed, corduroy slipper dangling from his foot.

  Joe Dean's daughter recognized his body language. Her father was drunk—beyond drunk. He was in that quiet place, somewhere between tempest and passing out. Being wise, she knew all she had to do was be calm, be still, and let the eye of the storm pass.

  “So what you and that girl do, you spend the night with? You lesbians? You like to play with each other?”

  The accusation was so unexpected, so inappropriate and tasteless that it was like a fresh wound, something so raw, she had no time to develop a defensive scar around it.

  Shocked into forgetting prudence and even fear, she raised her chin in defiance, stared into his dark eyes and spat out the words. “Fuck you. Fuck you, you fucking bastard.” With tears blurring her vision, she moved to run past him, to seek the cave of her bedroom and the sharp, shiny relief of the razor.

  But he was fast, surprisingly fast for a drunk. He caught her blouse in his fist and yanked her back against him, into the chair and onto his lap. The same lap where she'd snuggled to read stories, to have a band aid placed on a scratched elbow, to fall asleep when a summer barbecue lasted too long.

  He wrapped one arm around her narrow waist; his watch dug sharply into her ribs, and she couldn't catch her breath. His breath, hot and rank with rum and tobacco, was in her ear. “What did you say to me?” he demanded, his voice gravel, all fury and hurt.

  Her arms flailed and she kicked her feet. The heel of one of her shoes came into contact with his shin. He grunted and wrapped his other arm around her, squeezing harder. She coughed, fought for air but couldn't get enough. A wave of dizziness swept over her. She stopped struggling as a gray blur began to move in from the periphery of her vision.

  “That's right,” her father growled. “That's how you behave. You do what you're told. I say jump, you ask how high. I feed you. I buy your clothes. I work my ass off for you. I own you. I own this. Not some fucking lesbo.”

  As he spoke, he moved one of his hands to her chest, found her breast and enclosed it, his fingers pressing into the flesh. “This is mine,” he said. He squeezed so hard, she couldn't help the moan of pain that escaped her. “I want to touch it, I touch it. Me, not your lesbo bitch friend.”

  Releasing his hold around her waist, he slid his other hand up to grab and torture her other breast. “This one too,” he snarled.

  She whimpered as fresh pain shot through her body, but she was too terrified to move. A lifetime of obeying the monster in the lightning was not easily abandoned, even when everything screamed for her to fight, to break free.

  But she was a coward, so she slumped against him, every nerve and muscle tense, her body poised for flight but caged in fear.

  He continued to knead and squeeze her breasts but not as painfully. When she didn't move, he loosened his grasp even more. Instead of hurting and punishing her, his touch grew tender. He cupped her small breasts gently, ran his thumbs across her nipples.

  The pain she could survive. This, she could not.

  Twisting, she sank her teeth into his arm, and ground in, her jaw clenching. She felt her lower teeth slide across bone. He grabbed her shoulders, pushed her away and tore loose. She attacked mindlessly, her teeth snapping, looking for a fresh hold. She was facing him now. Her hands, curled into small hard fists, struck at his face, his shoulders, anywhere she could reach.

  He grabbed a handful of her hair and jammed her face against his chest. He held her close, making her fists ineffectual.

  The cold splash of liquid against her back was a shock. The strong smell of alcohol told her what it was.

  Reaching awkwardly, he fumbled for the lighter, grabbed it from the table, flipped the top, spun the wheel with his thumb.

  Her shirt went up fast with a whooshing noise. It startled him, and he pushed her away. As he explained later, “I was surprised. I mean, it happened so fast. I was drunk, but it was crazy. She was mad, mouthing off, told her old man to get fucked. Hell, I'm not even sure I was the one with the lighter.”

  Mrs. Dean walked through the door a few minutes later, took in the sight, and dropped the two bags of groceries she was carrying.

  “
I put her out,” her husband boasted, his shirt covered in blood stains and soot. He was sitting on the scorched carpet clutching the blanket he'd used to smother the flames. His daughter was on the other side of the room, where she'd rolled trying to escape the pain and him—Joe Dean—her loving father.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THANKSGIVING was the one holiday Storm felt she had nailed down. The turkey was in the oven, baking. No fancy brine, no deep-frying, just an old-fashioned turkey, its skin bathed in butter and rubbed with a mix of spices.

  The table looked like something out of a magazine, with white tableware, red goblets, a centerpiece the kids had helped her make out of evergreens and red candles. Every place at the table held a setting, ten in all. Six guests were expected, none of them family.

  The Mackenzie tradition had always been Thanksgiving with friends, Christmas with Tom's family in Boise, Idaho. For the first time, Storm actually looked forward to getting out of town and driving to Boise. Every time the phone rang or there was a knock on the door, she was sure it was her father. The one she'd told Tom was dead. The one she'd said was a policeman, out of some weird belief it would make her own fascination with criminal justice seem more natural.

  She had certainly never divulged that her father was in prison doing ten to twenty for aggravated vehicular assault.

  The doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of their first guest. Storm swept the door open to find Nicky, a vision in pink mohair, black ski pants and white, furry, knee-high boots, standing beside her plus-one. “This is Jackson,” she said, gesturing to an incredibly handsome African-American man in an expensive tailored suit and a gorgeous fur-lined leather jacket.

  “Jackson Wallace,” the man introduced himself.

  “Come in. Come in. It's freezing out there,” said Storm. “Tom's tending bar and dying to actually mix a drink, so if you give me your coats, I'll put them in the guest room and you can go straight back. You know where the kitchen is, Nicky.”

  “Yes, but I'm pretty sure Jackson can find it all by his little self. He’s a man and does not need directions. Right, baby?”

  “That's correct, honey.” He shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to Storm with a smile. Storm smiled back and rolled her eyes. She felt an immediate sense of kinship.

  Jackson moved down the hall to the kitchen while Nicky followed Storm to the guest room, where she tossed the coats onto the bed and turned to her friend. “Oh my gosh, you never told me he was. . .”

  “Tall?” Nicky asked impishly.

  “I was going to say gorgeous and follow up with freaking rich.”

  “I know, right? He's something and a half.”

  “And this is the guy you break up with every five minutes?”

  “He has baggage!”

  “Who doesn't? What kind of baggage?”

  “You heard his name, Wallace.”

  “So?”

  Nicky waited a few seconds, but when Storm didn't immediately get it, she said, “What if I told you Jackson Wallace is an attorney?”

  “I'd say he has a good name for an attorney. It's the same as Shirley Wallace.”

  “His mother!” Nicky exclaimed. Like the most famous lawyer in Portland, and guess who the other Wallace in Wallace and Wallace is?”

  “Holy cow!”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Only Storm wasn't thinking about the prestigious law firm, she was thinking about how close she'd come to trying to involve Nicky in the justice killings. “I need a drink,” said Storm.

  “Me too,” said Nicky.

  By six, everyone had arrived. The guests consisted of Nicky and Jackson; Tom's partner, Rylan, and his boyfriend, Evan; and their closest neighbors, an elderly couple, Alex and Grace Goodenoff, both retired professors. With all the company, Tom and Storm and the two kids, the house was full of voices.

  Storm felt as if she were moving through a lucid dream. Like a Stephen King scene where the loving family gathers around the warm kitchen, unaware the howl outside is more than just the wind.

  More than once, her nerveless fingers dropped things: a knife, two forks, the cutting board, even a precious red goblet with gold etching that shattered into a hundred pieces when it hit the kitchen's ceramic-tile floor.

  “Hey, we're just your friends. You don't have to be that nervous. We're not judging you,” said Nicky, after the goblet fell.

  “Actually, we're always judging,” corrected Grace as she swept the tiny shards into a dust pan. “Yes, judging, testing, looking for patterns.”

  “Don't listen to her,” said her husband standing at the bar between the dining room and kitchen, with a cup of eggnog in one hand. “She's always overanalyzing things. Clinical psychologist,” he explained, nodding to Jackson and Nicky, with whom he'd been chatting a moment earlier.

  “Oh, like he's much better. Don't ask him anything about interfaces. Please, I beg of you.”

  The Goodenoffs looked like a sweet, elderly couple who had slowly, over the course of decade, morphed into each other's doppelganger. They were both, stout, plump, tweedy, and kept their hair cut short and styled in a way that might, generously, be called windblown.

  Storm saw them most often out in their garden, pulling weeds or planting flowers or rows of vegetables while holding lively conversations with each other. Their large corner lot held an astonishing amount of plants and not one blade of grass. At other times, she'd see them wandering alone, muttering to themselves.

  At first she'd thought they were eccentric or even slightly demented. That was before she’d had a conversation with them.

  Storm felt the need to explain. “Grace was a professor of psychology at Portland State University. She's kind of famous for her studies on women in leadership.”

  “Because she overanalyzed that too,” joked her husband. "Bored them into giving her that award so she'd go away.”

  “Boring, huh?” she asked, glaring at him and shaking the cane she'd started carrying since a fall two weeks previously. “Just don't ask him about structural equation models or meta-analytic methods,” she warned.

  “Grace, that's not going to be a problem, I assure you. Not one person here has a clue about what you just said. Was that French?” Tom had come into the conversation. His tone and sober expression made them all laugh. The silliness was contagious. The kids got excited and started running around the room, scampering under the dining-room table and hiding under the folds of the tablecloth.

  When they'd recovered and Storm had made sure the last of the glass was picked up, Grace continued. “Your friend was right. You really don't have to be nervous. We judge that dinner was wonderful, you made too much pie, and the coffee smells like heaven. Decaf, right?”

  Storm nodded.

  “Well then, judged and given the gold star. Hand me a cup, my dear.”

  Ever since receiving the letter announcing her father's release from prison, Storm felt as if she were moving in and out of the world—connected to it one moment, detached the next. When she was disconnected, sound was muffled, light was dim, and all she knew was a quiet, focused waiting. In the other, there was too much noise, light, and motion, but still she tried to absorb the evening, the laughter and chatter and the good-natured jokes.

  What an odd couple Jackson and Nicky made, she pondered, in one of those moments. He was so tall and dark, with big, white, feral teeth while Nicky, with her short pink hair and mohair sweater, was like a fluffy bunny sitting too close to a predator, oblivious to the danger.

  Yet Storm also saw how Jackson looked at Nicky, and she wondered if the dangerous one might be the bunny in this case.

  The kids were having a blast. Uncle Rylan had bought them early Christmas presents. They were inappropriately expensive electronic games that he seemed to enjoy playing as much as they did. He spent a lot of time on the living-room floor, teaching them this or that move, while his handsome, Nordic-looking friend with the chiseled cheekbones sat at the table, drinking wine at a steady rate, pointedl
y checking and rechecking the expensive watch he wore and sighing.

  Since Storm hadn't liked him from the moment he'd given her home an unpleasant lookover and squeezed her hand while avoiding all eye contact, ignoring his discomfort did not detract from the evening's pleasure.

  Jackson was eventually co-opted by Alex and Grace, who soon learned he did estate law and planning. They wanted to know everything he could tell them about reverse mortgages and how they could finance a move to a warmer, drier climate. Thrilled with what he told them, they left early with plenty of smiles and leftovers.

  After dinner, Joel fell asleep on the couch, and Tom carried him to bed. When he returned, Storm dimmed the living-room lights and turned up the gas fire. Everyone sat around the living room in companionable silence, full and content. A Christmas song began playing on the radio, and Nicky sang along with it softly. After a moment, Jackson chimed in. Soon everyone was singing Jingle Bells, followed by Auld Lang Syne.

  As she sang, Lindsay crawled into her mom’s lap and shut her eyes. Storm stroked her hair and let the warmth of the room and of friends and family sink into her bones. Outside, the wind howled, the victim she and Howard had targeted was eating her last Thanksgiving feast, and her father walked free like an ancient curse.

  This night was not a cure for the cancer eating through her life. It was just a mixture of vitamins, fortifications against what was coming.

  For the moment, it had to be enough.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “WHAT DO YOU WANT?” Storm asked as soon as Howard was close enough to hear her. He wore jeans, a burgundy rain jacket, and a brown cap. He looked like someone on a lunch break, out for a stroll.

  She’d agreed to meet him at the Jackson Bottom Wetlands Preserve, a 635-acre wildlife preserve located within the city limits of Hillsboro, a quick, ten-minute drive from work.

  “Take the far right trail and walk until you get to the third picnic table,” he’d instructed.