Along the back of the dance floor rose another set of decorated stairs topped with tall Corinthian columns made of white marble. They were symmetrically placed except for the center, where a larger open space begged you to enter.
And that is when he appeared. Standing tall and beautiful with long black hair. A prince among princes. He gazed at the dancers below and sighed. Our eyes met. He drew me to him as he glided down the wide staircase. Such an elegant man, but serious in manner and stride. Our bodies slowed as we drew nearer to one another. I took a long look at this soul entity and saw it was not a human man. But he was agreeable, nonetheless, and his energy fascinated my desire. He gestured to me with the movement of his arms, the breadth of his smile, and his wide, expressive eyes. “May I have this dance?”
I accepted his invitation and we joined hands and rhythms in three-quarter time.
For a few moments, I felt sheer bliss. Breathe deep was my instinct. “Deeper!” a voice was goading me on. “What do you see?” the voice pressed. “What do you feel?” it said, still persistent as we made our way around the floor.
His visage became more translucent and light patterns began to shift to my eyes. Now I realized he certainly was not human, but I stretched my neck and turned my eyes away from him to see in my peripheral vision. And that is when I saw that he was Fear. The realization threw a current through my body but I did not let go. He saw that I knew and did not draw away, nor did he hold my waist any firmer. It was I who had to decide how close I wanted to dance with Fear.
My eyes leveled with his as an unspoken mutual acknowledgment. I consciously understood that a kind of karmic lesson was presenting itself to me in this dream and I made the mental decision to continue in the dream state and not awaken. I wanted to dance with Fear for a few moments longer. I wanted to understand how I felt in the presence of Fear, and not bolt. I realized that Fear had created the music, the scene, my dress, and his vision to make me more at ease and allow me to come to him when we first met across the floor. This was a life lesson for me to embrace deep in my soul. When I was ready, the music stopped, the scene gradually faded to dark, and Fear as a flame placed himself in my arms. I moved away and awoke purposely.
“So,” I mused, “it is possible to embrace Fear and even dance with Fear provided that I recognize the situation and don’t fall prey to the ‘flee’ instinct.” I pulled out my journal and captured the dream on paper. “This is a life lesson I need to remember.”
16
NASTY HEALING
Over the course of the next several months, my mother, and later my close friends, took over my care. I looked like something out of a horror movie and moved with great difficulty. Demerol helped calm my deep muscular pain. My face was bandaged, and my back was covered by a huge sterile cloth supported by layers of sterile cloth bandages, all of which made me look and feel like The Mummy. I was so stiff. The scabs were beginning to form, which made it hurt worse. Pus was everywhere, it seemed. I felt like a leaky faucet. I picked at the scabs to fill the time.
Honestly, I didn’t know what I felt like. I didn’t like feeling at all. It hurt too much to feel. That unusual numbness persisted under my left lung, even more pronounced now. Poke. Poke. No pain but still there. I began to mentally process news items that got past my mother’s firm and restrictive handle on her daughter’s environment. Triage, in a way. Friends had been calling on me, but no, no visitors, not yet. I was glad to learn this because I thought no one had come by to see me. I realized later my mom was being protective. I was weak, more than I would like to admit, and still looked terrible.
But there were some pressures too persistent for even my mother’s closed-door policy. The police and lawyers were lining up in the outside world asking questions, questions, and more questions. The good news was from the Texas legislature. My enterprise zone bill had passed both chambers! Wow! I was elated for the first time in what felt to be a very long time.
People recover and heal from vicious assaults in a myriad of ways. Some people even manage to grow from the experience. While I knew it only at a very deep instinctive level at the time, I began the long road to recovery both with the healing of my physical wounds and the emotional trench I found myself dug into. The emotional trauma I was going through was terrible. Prior to my attack I had a very strong self-concept and self-identity. I didn’t have any problem with me as a person in society and being accepted by it. I had to work through a lot during this time. The possibility of being considered an outcast, being considered—maybe—a wanton woman for letting this person in my hotel room. Being an outcast because of scars on my face and on my back. Being a freak in my community.
I returned to my work perhaps as a way to settle in and begin the healing process. That was when I began to hear the nasty rumors and whispered social chatter. I only recognized it in a vague way early on. But like a drumbeat the feeling bore down on me in the way people looked at me with sideways glances. The underbelly of the town—it was hard to pin down who, exactly—had a theory that I, in fact (in reality a fallacy), did know my assailant and I was “asking for it.” I wasn’t only stabbed but I “had” to have been raped and there was this cover-up going on. But “they” didn’t believe it.
What finally became clear to me was an undertow of sentiment that followed the same “logic” as that of a woman asking to be raped because she was wearing a miniskirt. It was a kind of holdover from a male-dominated society where females themselves were to be blamed for both their contemporary self-expression and whatever resulted from it, be it clothes, choice of work, or outgoing personality. The last of the 1950s mentality that ostensibly guarded women and secured the male dominance in the world outside the home. It was a particularly nasty and ugly realization.
I wasn’t as strong as I was used to being and I simply was not able to dust it off as I could before. It was so thoroughly untrue—not a shred of truth to it—and that was why it was particularly painful. “How could I be regarded that way?” I implored selfishly. Sassy? Sure! Outgoing? You bet! Flirtatious? Why not? I was smart, pretty, and single. But lurid? Absolutely not. Drag a complete stranger to a hotel room and ask to be mauled, stabbed, and nearly killed? What are they thinking?
I have to admit, I was taken completely by surprise with such gossip. My associates and friends blunted the torrid titters when they could and after a while they subsided. Later, when I befriended Catherine, the emergency room nurse, during the formal court proceedings, she shared that she had had to tolerate the same sentiments and same experiences from the “old white guys” in her small town. She was pretty, playful, and smart too. They meant to put her in “her place” as they wanted to put me in “my place.”
“Maybe it’s from a real desire to control or perhaps blaming the woman was the only way men from that generation could cope with such tragic victims,” I speculated over and over to myself during the years when I tried to make sense of it all.
17
SUCCESS!
Life and healing progressed and work was a convalescent space, even at the frantic pace in the office. In a few months’ time, I was back in the lobbying mode of my profession. I didn’t have much choice and would have liked to jump back into professional gear more slowly, but the dictates of legislative and congressional calendars demanded a command performance before various state and national committees that had my tax incentive proposal on their agendas of formal deliberations.
Representative Hinojosa and the sponsoring state senator decided on a two-house legislative strategy. That is, introduce the bill in both the House and the Senate and see which bill passed through committee hearings and full chamber vote first. Representative Hinojosa was able to get his version out first. Another state senator cosponsoring the bill motioned for the House version to be substituted for the Senate version, which was finally coming out of committee hearings. The House bill was voted to the full Senate floor where it encountered significant opposition from large city interests and regions of th
e state. We at the Chamber of Commerce had done our lobbying effort, and the Senators were informed. However, some serious concerns were expressed by at least two other senators. Interestingly enough, these concerns surfaced about ten minutes before the bill went to vote on the Senate floor. Staffers were running frantically back and forth from the lobby to the floor. We held firm on what we considered critical elements and compromised on sections we felt would not endanger the intent of the legislation. The compromises were accepted minutes prior to the bill coming to a vote.
Perhaps the most crucial blow to the bill was a floor amendment offered by Senator Farabee, making our act contingent on Federal Enterprise Zone enactment. A senator on the dais of the committee hearing room carefully explained that the state tax incentives of the bill did not become effective until the federal program was enacted. Luckily, the final voice vote had the “ayes” carrying the bill. Now the bill was in Representative Hinojosa’s chamber. He decided to risk a conference committee vote. The downside would be an enterprise zone act stalled in committee, effectively killing the bill; the upside was a strong independent bill to take to Washington, D.C., when we were to lobby the twenty-seven Texas congressmen for passage of the Federal Enterprise Zone Act. We successfully persuaded Senator Farabee to back off his amendment. The bill came out “clean” and was sent to the governor’s desk for signature.
The biennial session was over, and the enterprise zone program had been passed by the legislature. Now all we—and the community I represented—needed was the governor to sign the bill. Word had come from Austin that he was not inclined to sign the legislation. He was a Democrat, and since President Reagan had already endorsed the Federal Enterprise Zone Program, he characterized it as a “damn Republican bill.”
I called and then finally went back up to the capital and explained again and again the provisions of the bill to the governor’s political advisors. Eventually, the governor changed his mind—oh thank you!—and signed the bill into law on June 19, 1983.
18
CONGRESS COMES CALLING
Far away from the events that surrounded my gruesome ordeal, the friends and leaders I had met in that 1982 Washington, D.C., conference had made some legislative headway with the Kemp-Garcia bill. One of the cute guys I had befriended was an unemployed journalist and sometime stringer who had now become a speechwriter in the White House. I had also been invited by a member of the president’s cabinet to share my proposed Texas legislation with him and his intergovernmental team of advisors. That letter was buried in the stacks of mail thus far unattended. But, sure enough, it surfaced and I agreed to another D.C. trip.
Soon after arriving in Washington, I met the executive director of the Council for Urban Economic Development in his office. Mr. Finkle supported the bill and had agreed to accompany me to the Hill to explain my plan to various Washington elected officials. He had a quiet, efficient way around the marble corridors and knew many members of Congress who might coauthor this legislation. I, too, had already made many friends at the Capitol because they were from Texas and were aware of the pervasive and systematic economic stagnation that plagued their respective districts. So we were warmly received into many of the offices within the stately granite office buildings.
Only a few looked long and hard at my cane and wondered why I sat so stiffly, never leaning back on the chairs or sofas graciously offered to me. I couldn’t. My back was too sore and still wrapped with layers of white gauze. What wasn’t stiff from bandages was painful to the touch. I left all painkillers behind because my mind had to be on full alert. These senators and representatives did not have much time for anyone, much less for a woman who had never donated a cent to any campaign. But to their credit—or perhaps they were simply curious—each gave me a good half hour to present our Texas idea.
In the end, my work, with that of others from other states and think-tank supporters, garnered sufficient votes on the necessary committees to bring it up for a formal hearing before the House Ways and Means Committee. I left the nation’s capital deeply encouraged on a professional level. On a personal level, I was absolutely awed inside!
19
AN UNEXPECTED APPOINTMENT
Back in Texas, my work continued to be challenging. The legislative session and special called sessions had closed sine die. It was another hot, humid summer in south Texas. Resaca had struggled for a year or more to move from the economic mire created by the fall of the Mexican peso. I continued going to the office and working as hard as I was physically able. I had so much to do but was exhausted long before my work was finished in the time frame it required. I was always in a hurry, pressing the people around me to get off of dead center and follow my suggestions. Sometimes, at my desk, I closed my eyes and held my face in my palms and wondered if nearly being killed propelled me harder and faster than I had run before. I could not decide how much of it was me and how much of it was the looming legislative session or even how much of my strength was drawn from the appalling conditions that festered in the neighborhoods of deep and unabated poverty. I did not ponder long—the intercom jolted me out of my personal pity party.
“Mirabelle, line 2.”
“Hi, this is Mirabelle.”
“Hi, Mirabelle, this is John Fainter. How are you?” I recalled the state secretary saying.
I covered the receiver with my palm and held it away from my mouth to catch my breath for a moment. I casually replied, “Well, thank you, Secretary. A little hot down here at the border, sir, but that is no surprise this time of year.”
“I understand you know a little bit about this bill on enterprise zones. Is that right?”
“Oh, yes sir, I know very much about that bill. In fact, I know the provisions inside and out.”
“From what I have been told, I have no doubt, Mirabelle. Let me ask you something. Would you be willing to serve on the Board of Directors of the Enterprise Zone Program?”
I sucked in my breath. “Indeed I would, sir. It would be my honor. And I think I could really help implement the program since I am also familiar with what other states are doing with their enterprise zone programs.”
“Okay, then. Let me communicate your interest to the governor and we will see what happens. You are aware, of course, that this possible appointment is subject to senatorial privilege, am I right?” His tone was quite formal.
“Yes, I am aware that the senator from my district must support my appointment or he may use his senatorial privilege and vote my appointment down, and the rest of the Senate members will follow that lead as a courtesy.” It never once occurred to me then and through the ensuing months that a senator would actually do such a thing. After all I had endured. I was so naïve in those early days.
“Thank you for calling me, Mr. Fainter!”
I jumped up from my desk and went running down the hall to my colleagues. Gloria was the first in the hallway to receive the news. “You won’t guess who just called me!”
About two months later, I was driving my sporty Porsche 924 on the way to a city council public hearing. One of the items on the agenda was a motion to establish an enterprise zone in Resaca, Texas. The majority of the council was in favor. The mayor was adamantly opposed and believed that the council would obediantly follow his “nay” vote. I knew all that as I was driving down to the meeting. I had my radio on the local AM station and a newsbreak came on with an announcement.
“This just in, Valley. Our own Mirabelle Garrett, with the Chamber of Commerce, has been appointed chair of the newly established Texas Enterprise Zone Board. Congratulations, Mirabelle!”
I veered over to the shoulder and stopped the car, sinking into my leather seat. “Wow, this is amazing. I never believed this would happen. I’ve got to call Representative Hinojosa right away to thank him!” I paused my racing mind for a moment and realized the more important thank-you would be to the man who had handed me a scratched out business card so many months ago.
I blinked a couple of times to
jolt myself out of my reverie and saw that the light had turned green. I floored the Porsche and zipped through traffic to City Hall. The business community had rallied. The council chambers were packed—standing room only. “Whew!” I blew out my breath and searched the crowd. Yes, both bank presidents were here. Good. Several business owners. My buddy and supporter Mike Blum from the City Utility Commission. The chamber president and my direct boss, Clayton, who immediately saw me and motioned as if to say, “Where have you been?” I flashed him an okay sign with the thumb and forefinger of my right hand.
I could tell that some in the room had already heard the news, including the city planner. She was pointing my way and whispering to the city attorney on the dais.
The meeting began in the usual way with the Pledge of Allegiance. After the minutes from the previous meeting had been approved, the only woman on the city council paused in the agenda to recognize my appointment. “Did I hear correctly that someone here was just appointed to the Texas Enterprise Zone Board?” she asked, smiling directly at me and giving a thumbs-up.
“Yes, ma’am but it still hasn’t sunk in!”
“Congratulations are certainly in order,” she continued, and every council member nodded in happy agreement. The mayor looked straight ahead over the crowd and was unmoved. Business as usual returned to the meeting.
At the posted hour for the public hearing, the mayor jumped over the enterprise zone issue to the next item on the agenda. I scribbled a note to the city planner that said this topic was formally on the agenda of a posted public hearing and the mayor had to call it. She took my note up to the city attorney, who read it, looked at me, and nodded. He went to the mayor and whispered in his ear while some other discussion was going on. The mayor’s grimace spoke volumes.
Blood on the Threshold Page 6
