by Cathy Lamb
I looked back at him when I was in my truck, trembling, wanting him so bad, at the same time wanting to have a meltdown. I had one cat on my shoulder, one in my lap, and two in the passenger seat. They had their paws on the window staring back at Marco as if they missed him already and their hearts were breaking, like mine.
I am doing this for your own good, Marco, so you will live.
* * *
On my way home, three minutes after I left Marco’s, I saw the police lights, red and blue and flashing, behind me. A second later the siren pierced through the night. Chief Ass Burn was behind me. He must have been waiting for me, right by Marco’s house. My stomach started to churn. How sick is that? I have a police chief stalking me.
I said a very bad word. Then another one. I wiped the hot tears off my face and told myself to buck up.
I was topless with cats meowing all over me. I searched frantically for something to put on, and I finally found it inside one of the cat kennels. Mars’s favorite cat blanket. It’s pink with white mice. I wrapped it around myself like a halter top, and in the nick of time I tucked it in under my armpits.
Chief Ass Burn rapped on my window, and I pushed the button to bring it down.
“Why did you pull me over?”
“You were swaying in your lane.”
“No, I wasn’t.” I sure as heck wasn’t.
“Step out of the car.”
“You have got to be kidding.”
“No, I’m not. I’m issuing you a Breathalyzer, Evie, to make sure you’re not drunk.”
“I’m not drunk. I haven’t had anything to drink.”
“Get out, Evie, or I’ll arrest you for not obeying my orders.” He smirked at me. Oh, how he loved this. Loved the power.
I climbed out of the truck, making sure the cats didn’t escape. In the distance I saw headlights through the darkness. How embarrassing. I was being tested for being drunk in this small town. It would be all over by tomorrow.
“State your name.” He eyed my naked shoulders, then his eyes dropped to my boobs.
“My name is Chief Ass Burn,” I said. I let my eyes fall to his shoulders, then his beefy chest, then lower, all the while keeping a disgusted expression on my face. “I like to ogle women’s breasts and make them feel judged and disgusted.”
He flushed. “One more small-aleck answer, missy, and I will have you at the police station, overnight.”
“Gross. Alone with you?”
“Name, Evie.”
“You already know my name.”
A truck stopped in back of Chief Ass Burn’s police car. Whew. It was Marco.
“What’s the problem, Reginald,” Marco said, his voice hard. Suspicious.
“This isn’t any of your business, Marco. And it’s Chief Ashburn to you.”
“I think it is my business, Reginald. Why did you pull Evie over?”
Marco stood protectively right by me, his shoulder in front of mine.
“Move out of the way, Marco, or I will arrest you.”
“You’re harassing, Evie. You’re stalking her. You were waiting for her right outside my house. As soon as I saw her leave, I saw you follow her.”
“I’m asking Evie questions, Marco, to make sure she’s not drunk driving. Step aside!”
“She’s been with me. She didn’t drink anything.”
Chief Ass Burn’s mouth tightened, he flushed, then swallowed hard. “Move out of the way, Marco, before I arrest you for infringing upon my investigation and interfering with a possible arrest of an inebriated driver.” He pointed at Marco, hating him.
“I’ll answer the questions, Marco.” I put my hand on his arm. He was so angry with Chief Ass Burn I thought we were going to have a fight. Marco was trained in the military. He was in top shape. He would whip Chief Ass Burn in two seconds, but it was Marco who would go to jail for years if he assaulted a police officer. I squeezed his arm, pressing myself closer to get his attention. “Please, Marco.”
Finally, Marco stepped back about six inches.
I answered all of the chief’s questions, including telling him the alphabet frontwards and backwards, counting by ten to two hundred, naming fifty states in a song when he asked me to name five, and I walked in a straight line in my cat’s mouse blankie. Chief Ass Burn was more and more disgruntled that I was passing the tests and he couldn’t take me back to the police station to be alone with him.
Marco stood right by me and fumed. At one point he said, “Why don’t you ask her to speak in French to ascertain she isn’t drunk?” and “Maybe if you had her count to a million you could get a better idea as to her inebriation. See if she can remember all the words to ‘Phantom.’”
Two cars pulled over. Three islanders crossed the street to see what was going on.
The chief finally gave me a Breathalyzer test. He tried to stand close to me, but I said, “I am not comfortable with you standing so close. I can smell the onions on your breath and your body odor.”
“Step back,” Marco said, glaring at Chief Ass Burn.
The three people, all longtime friends, crowded around Chief Ass Burn, Marco, and me.
I blew into the Breathalyzer. The chief was clearly disappointed.
“What did I blow?”
“I’m not required to tell you.”
“Actually,” Elizabeth Bellagiio said, who was a judge, “you are. What did she blow?”
“The test shows no alcohol,” Chief Ass Burn muttered reluctantly, with disappointment and embarrassment.
“Then she’s not drunk and she’s allowed to leave,” Marco said. He turned me toward my truck.
“That’s correct,” the judge said. “Unless there is another problem, Chief?”
“Yes. She was swaying in her lane, so I’m issuing her a ticket.”
“I was not swaying in my lane.” I had been upset, that was true. But my eyes had never left the road.
Marco said, “I’m reporting you again for false charges and for stalking Evie.”
It was Marco and me and the judge and the two other friends, all in line facing the chief, glaring.
“Go ahead, Marco. Be my guest.” He smirked at me. “If you want your ticket reduced, come and see me, Evie. You might get lucky.”
I grabbed Marco’s arm as he lost it with the chief, as did Mel Stanton, a brawny fisherman who got in Marco’s face and said, “Man, calm down. Don’t do it.” The judge, standing right in front of him, said, “Back off, Marco. You won’t win with your fists here.”
“Stop stalking me,” I said to the chief. Marco’s jaw was so tight I thought he might break his teeth.
“I’m not stalking you. I’m enforcing the law, Evie,” the chief said, smirking again. “And you will follow it. See you soon.”
We watched the chief drive away. I was so mad I wanted to spit nails. I glanced at the amount of the ticket. It was another fortune. If you received a certain amount of tickets in one year, couldn’t they take your license? Couldn’t they cancel your insurance? I would not be able to drive my truck.
“Give that to me,” Marco said, and took it, seething.
“I like that pink halter shirt, Evie,” the judge said. “Is that a new style?”
“It’s such a soft material,” Maci LaFolette said. “Plus, the white mice are cute.”
“Thank you.” I felt the anger drain out of me. I didn’t look at Marco. If I did, I would have laughed. Probably half hysterically, but I would have laughed.
* * *
After everyone left, Marco said, “I thought you might need this.”
He handed me my red lacy bra and red ruffled shirt.
“I’ll follow you home, Evie,” he said, so gentle.
I nodded my head, then turned around and gave him a hug, because the truth was that the chief was creeping me out and Marco was my hero.
He followed me home down Robbins Drive and turned off at my driveway.
The cats missed him immediately.
* * *
Lat
e that night I sat outside on my front porch and watched my mother and aunts’ flowers swaying in a slight wind, the darkness casting shadows. I tried to calm my anger. Sundance sat right beside me on the step, and Mars lay sleeping in my lap. I had a vase of Judi Dench apricot roses nearby, and their scent was sweet and pure.
Flowers are so delicate, intricate. They are natural wonders and miracles. How come daffodils look like the sun? Why are irises so elegant, a blend of colors that seem magically hand-painted? And peonies. Are they three flowers squished into one? So full, so perfumy.
I wiped away a few tears. Sundance edged closer to me.
“Oh no!” Mr. Bob and Trixie Goat ran over to me, their bells clanging in the night. I swear they were smiling. I laughed. “How did you escape again?”
That’s why I keep animals. I love them and they make me laugh, even when I’m crying.
* * *
Later, Marco sent me a copy of my ticket. He had paid it. But he attached a letter that he had sent to Chief Ass Burn’s superior, detailing the traffic stop and the exorbitant cost of the ticket and what Chief Ass Burn had said to me.
Wow. The man could write.
I thanked him by giving him five books I knew he’d love. I brought them to his clinic.
“Thank you, Marco.” I had given him a check for the ticket. He had ripped it up.
“My pleasure, but you didn’t need to give me these books. It was the least I could do. I’m sorry it happened.”
“I’ll be glad when Chief Allroy is back.”
“Me too.”
I wanted to hug him, but I didn’t. I smiled, turned away. I knew he was watching me get into my truck and drive away from his idyllic home on the island with, undoubtedly, a bouncy and comfy bed where I would not get to bounce or be comfy.
* * *
“You’re not selling pot out of Flowers, Lotions, and Potions, are you?” I set my fork down on my table. I had invited my mother and aunts for dinner at my place. I had candles down the center of the table, interspersed with Mister Lincoln red roses in three glass vases.
I’d made chicken parmigiana and lemon pie. No. That’s a lie. I bought chicken parmigiana from the new Italian restaurant and a lemon pie from Bettina. I had a small piece of lemon pie before dinner to cleanse my palate.
“No, heavens no!” My mother’s tone was outraged, as if I had asked her if she stole horses from neighboring farms.
“Goodness gracious golly! How could you think that?” Aunt Camellia said, all high-and-mighty. “Marijuana? In Flowers, Lotions, and Potions? Never.” She shook her finger at me. “Don’t even suggest it, young woman.”
“We are businesswomen,” Aunt Iris said, her brow furrowed at me. “We make decisions that positively affect our profit line and elevate the level of the company. We do not sell products that do not enhance this goal.”
“We can’t have people coming to the counter and saying, ‘One tulip bouquet, one joint,’” my mother said. “Or ‘Roses and mowie wowie, please!’”
“Oh, my gosh,” I moaned, knowing my question was perfectly legitimate. “I’m not intimidated.”
I had seen a number of people following my mother and aunts to the greenhouse. Chatting, laughing, gossiping. They would come out with a small bag of marijuana, wrapped in a pink ribbon. Yes, pink. And the pink ribbon always held a flower, a black-eyed Susan, white daisy, lupine, dahlia, or snapdragons, depending on what they had in the greenhouse and outside. They were selling pretty pot.
“Nothing wrong with making pot lovely,” my mother said when I talked to her and my aunts about it.
“Flowers add love to life,” Aunt Camellia said, clasping her hands together in joy. “Romance. A taste of floral heaven.”
“Packaging is important from a practical, marketing perspective,” Aunt Iris said. “We are a business.”
“I’m so excited about our Antarctica trip!” my mother said, clapping her hands after one more reprimanding glance in my direction.
“You’re not going to follow my advice, are you?” I said. Dang it. I had neatly piled up about twenty-five books against the light blue armoire into which my grandma Lucy used to climb and sing songs, and Venus jumped up on it and knocked it over.
“More lemon pie, honey?” my mother said, holding her hand out for my plate.
“Advice can be given but not acted upon if the receiver does not intellectually or spiritually agree,” Aunt Camellia said.
“If we want your advice on our Antarctica business, we’ll ask for it, young lady,” Aunt Iris said. Then she squeezed my hand to take the sting out of her words.
I stared at them with some suspicion as they dug into their lemon pie with an overload of enthusiasm.
They had the munchies, didn’t they?
Chapter 26
Betsy Baturra
Women’s Correctional Prison
Salem, Oregon
1978
After performing dish-cleaning duty in the kitchen one night, Duke lay in wait for Betsy. Duke had been able to switch shifts without much notice. There was a new guy handling the schedules and he didn’t know all the dynamics yet. He didn’t know that Duke had many enemies and he was not supposed to be near Betsy. He didn’t know that Coralee was doing her best to keep Duke away from her.
Duke excused one of the guards and said he would take Betsy back to her cell. The guard was new and young, and he knew Duke was the warden’s nephew.
Betsy began to shake as Duke took her elbow. “No, Duke, Carson is supposed to take me back. Carson, you take me back.”
“I-I . . .” Carson stuttered. “I’ll do it, Mr. Duke. I’m supposed to do it. I’ve . . . I’ve been assigned.”
Duke told Carson to stop “being a pussy. Shove off, Carson, or I’ll report you.”
Carson said, “It’s my job,” and Duke slammed him into a wall. Carson sunk to the ground.
“See?” Duke laughed, bending down and putting his face smack up to Carson’s. “You are a pussy.”
When they rounded that one blind corner, right by the supply closet, where Duke knew the cameras didn’t reach, he quickly opened the door. Betsy’s hands had not yet been cuffed by Carson, and Duke hadn’t noticed in his hurry to steal her away. He shoved her up against the metal shelves, her face crashing into an edge, then pulled on her orange pants, yanking them to her knees, as she fought through the dizziness.
Duke kept one sweaty hand pressed into her back, her face and chest smashed into the shelves. Through the ringing in her ears she heard him unzipping his zipper, undoing his belt, and pulling his pants down. He was panting. He was groaning. He said, his breath hot and putrid on her neck, “And now you’re going to get what you’ve been wanting, Betsy. Begging for.” He put his hand around her neck. “If you make a sound, I will snap your neck.”
For a second, she didn’t move, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, her head splitting, but then he moved his hand to take down her underwear, and suddenly she could breathe again.
She was disgusted. She was sick with fear. She was about to be raped by a repulsive, gross, violent man. All of her fury over losing Rose and Johnny, being constantly watched and harassed by Duke, being locked up, it all roared out. It roared out through the fog of depression that she lived in behind the cold, scary bars. It rose from the deepest part of her soul, this animalistic, teeth-baring, rollicking rage.
Betsy, her orange prison pants down around her ankles, a raw scream emanating from her throat, picked up a container of cleaning powder and swung it at Duke’s head with both hands, as hard as she could. The container bashed his cheek, and cleaning powder sprayed his face, burning his eyes. He let out a guttural yell of outrage and swore from the pain, temporarily blinded.
She then picked up a broom and rammed the handle right into his naked groin. He yelled and bent over, breathless. She yanked up her pants and kicked him as hard as she could in the head with another scream of fury, and he went down, stumbling to the floor, his eyes squeezed shut against
the stinging powder, one hand on his balls. For good measure, she kicked him in his huge gut, which blew his air straight out, his face red and strained.
She bent over his writhing form and told him about the premonition she’d had. “You’re going to hit a deer, Duke. It’s going to come straight through the window of your truck. Your truck will hit a tree. You will never walk again.”
Duke felt a cold rush of fear flood his insides. He wanted to kick her, shut her up, hold her down and finish the plan, but he couldn’t move. She kicked him in the head again and screamed as she opened the door to the supply closet.
Guards rushed in, hearing the screams.
“She attacked me,” Duke said, rolling on the floor, swearing, his face covered in cleaning powder. “Betsy attacked me.” He struggled to get up, still holding his balls, no one helping him. “That woman is a psych patient. She shouldn’t even be here. She’s a danger.” He tried to roll over, to stand up, but he forgot his pants and underwear were around his ankles. He tripped and fell, straight down, naked butt up.
No one helped him up. He swore again, rolled over, then bent to pull up his pants over his rapidly swelling groin, hardly able to see because of the cleaning powder in his eyes. “I need water for my eyes! Water! Water!” He stumbled out. “Get me water!”
“I didn’t attack him,” Betsy said, scared now, defeated, because she knew she would be in isolation by that night, probably for months. She wrapped her arms around her skinny waist and stared at all the guards, begging Coralee with her eyes to believe her.
“Duke made Carson leave so he could take me to my cell. He shoved Carson, and Carson hit the floor. Go talk to Carson. Duke knows there’s a blind corner here that the cameras don’t reach. He pulled me in and shoved me against the shelf.” Betsy didn’t know it, but her eye was black and swelling rapidly. She also had a swelling cut across her cheek that was bleeding down her neck. She was pale.
