Fire in Me

by Dawn Mattox

  After the service we found ourselves standing outside on the porch near our usual spot at the usual corner with a great view of the mountains and easy access to the coffee and cookies. “Are you going to do it, Chance? Are you? Huh?” I fairly bounced up and down next to him, beaming with more pride than a wealthy neighborhood’s Christmas lights in December. “You have to admit, it’s an incredible opportunity. Not that we are exceptionally qualified,” I added, thinking that I had yet to read the Bible in its entirety. “Still, we should do it.”

  Somehow, Mac's request to Chance had morphed in my mind from he to we. Unlike me, Chance had developed a thorough, comprehensive knowledge of the Bible and a rare gift for rendering it into simple terms that apply to everyday real-life situations. I knew my husband had the heart of a preacher and loved to share the Word, whereas my enthusiasm probably stemmed from pride and need to control and lead. Not that I am domineering. Just independent.

  Chance has a long history of leadership. He is the strong, quiet type that men instinctively follow in a tight situation. He is a natural leader who prefers anonymity but frequently ends up in the spotlight due to his dedication and courageous actions. Then also, his six-foot-four and 220 pounds of well-placed muscle make him stand out in any group. He is the guy who left football coaches drooling and high school girls dreaming. Still, Chance is more of an easy-going country boy than a hardened mountain man like his dad. He comfortably interchanges his rock-climbing boots for his cowboy boots and running shoes.

  Chance frowned for a moment and then smiled his slow, easy smile. “Nope!” he said with conviction. My shock reflected in his mirrored sunglasses.

  Okay. That was direct, but unexpected and out of character.

  “Why not? It sounds like something you’d love. You're always preaching,” I said with my perfect pout. Bottom lip pushed out, head tipped down, sad eyes up. I like to think Chance was defenseless against such a face. “We could do it together,” I coaxed with a suggestive finger tracing the buttons down the front of his shirt.” We hardly have any time together anymore.”

  One thing about mirrored sunglasses; they are easy to hide behind. Chance hung his head, frown lines deepening along his forehead as he shook it back and forth. “Um-hum,” he confirmed.

  I paused to study him, thinking I must have missed something. What I saw was California bronzed skin with a rugged, outdoorsman toughness to it, untamed hair, and a hint of a mustache that perfectly framed sensual lips that drive me crazy. Today he wore a blue dress shirt, denim pants, and tan cowboy boots, looking like a poster boy for a Marlboro ad; although today his cowboy hat was sitting in the truck next to his baseball cap. Hidden behind those Oakley sunglasses was a pair of baby blues that seem to turn purple when we make love. However, when I tried to read between his frown lines, I came up empty.

  I have been told that we look like a “pair of bookends,” except I don’t have a mustache yet. Maybe after menopause. Or maybe it is our character projecting through us that that people see as similar. I am a young thirty-two, size ten, and my best friend Ashley labeled me a “hottie.” That probably means my character reflects my famous jalapeño poppers—they go down easy but are a pain in the butt. Okay... well, if not a “hottie,” I like to think I at least rate “not-bad.”

  Chance is four years older than I. He is a man of stark contrasts in that he is determined and quiet, manly but sensitive, battle-hardened, yet tenderhearted.

  So, we really don’t look like bookends. It is just that we might have been fished from the same gene pool. I am tall, but he is taller. I have long “dirty dishwater blonde” hair, which doesn't sound all that sexy, and he has rough-cut dark blond hair that the sheriff is always reminding him to cut.

  Not to be deterred, I continued, “So... is that an ‘um-hum maybe’ or a ‘um-hum no-way’?” Guy grunts can be hard to interpret sometimes unless you are a guy. Kind of like men trying to figure out why women cry.

  “I don’t think so, hon,” he said, pushing out his jaw and shoving his hands deep into his jeans pockets. His tone had an unfamiliar an edge. Rough words slipped out between tight lips.” I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  Really? When a woman says I don’t want to talk about it to a man, they are cool with that, which women usually interpret as he doesn’t care. When a man says I don’t want to talk about it to a female, he may as well wave cape in front of a bull.

  “Why not,” my voice raised an octave and face scrunched, adding to the frown lines that are such a turn-off in old age. “How can I understand if you won’t talk? Say something already!”

  Piles of cookies and a ginormous pot of coffee graced a table on the porch after the service. Usually, this repast compensates us for us skipping breakfast, allowing us to sleep in on Sunday mornings and still make it to church on time.

  Chance reached over, picked up a cookie from the tray and stuck it in my mouth. I was horribly offended and would have said something unchristian if it hadn’t been one of those fabulous shortbread cookies that look and taste like a pound of snow-white lard blended with a sack of sugar, hidden beneath a trench coat of rich dark chocolate. The argument melted in my mouth with an “Umm” of a different kind. The cookie was sinfully delicious, and I savored the moment while making a mental note to continue our dispute at a more opportune time.

  My friend Ashley had been browsing through the cookies, choosing a healthy oatmeal one to go with her cup of herbal tea as she moved closer to us. Ashley has the ears of a feral cat, the eyes of an eagle, and the heart of a newborn babe.

  “Wow, Chance, I hear you're going to be leading Bible Study,” she said.

  “I never said that, Ashley.” Chance removed his glasses and flicked his eyes on high beam, tightening his expression in annoyance.

  Undaunted and perky as ever, Ashley admonished, “Well, you should, you know. How can you say ‘No’ to God?”

  “I’m not saying 'No' to God. I’m saying 'No' to Mac,” Chance countered.

  Shane joined us with coffee in hand and tale-tell crumbs in the dark beard that tickled the top of his leather vest. The four of us share a love of God, motorcycles, and cookies.

  “Hey buddy, good to see you,” he said to Chance with a fist-bump to Chance's arm.

  “Back at you.”

  “What did you think about Mac’s message today?”

  Chance's countenance softened, welcoming the diversion. Mac’s message had been about our identity in Christ. To Him alone, we should give honor, as opposed to putting ourselves on a pedestal.

  “It was good, but kind of tough,” Chance said thoughtfully. “You know, it's really easy to get caught up in our daily work. People generally hate me as a law enforcement officer, then call me a saint when I save their lives.” His comment sounded a lot like people's relationship with God.

  “Yeah,” Shane agreed, “women practically fall at my feet in idol-worship.” They laughed in mutual guy understanding. Shane owns the Harley shop in Chico and has his own fan base.

  Chance paused thoughtfully. “I hate to admit it, but I can’t imagine doing anything other than what I do. It’s hard to see myself apart from it. I like the rush and the danger, but I confess, I like the hero-thing too. It's like a natural high.

  “What do you say, little Miss Sunshine?” Chance asked, turning to me. “You’re in the hero business.”

  Flattery will get you everywhere,” I said. “I think you’re still my hero. Three years of picking up your socks and underwear from under the pedestal I've put you on, and I’m still crazy about you.” True enough. I loved this man more than anything and everything in the world. In fact, I owed him my life.

  Pressing against his hard body, both arms wrapped around his neck, I fully embraced him in front of God and everyone.

  “Gross! Get a motel! Don’t you know children are watching?” Shane always makes us laugh.

  “Watch and learn,” I quipped.

  “Hey, how about some lunch,” asked Ashley as sh
e rubbed her stomach. “Anybody hungry for something besides cookies? How about something healthy? We could barbecue some veggie burgers,” Ashley offered as Chance’s fingers responded, tapping out a “NO!” on my back. Ashley and Shane live just up the hill from us.

  Barbequing is more than a way of cooking. It is a lifestyle. However, Shane and Ashley—okay, mostly Ashley—has gone Vegan. Barbecuing veggie burgers seems like a perversion to a great American tradition. It just feels “wrong,” although we occasionally indulge because we love Ashley and Shane.

  Ashley smiled. She was a beautiful woman inside and out. “Come on, veggie burgers on organic wheat buns with alfalfa sprouts and soy milkshakes. You guys can’t say no to that!”

  Oh yes, we could.

  “You need to eat better,” she declared. “I bought you guys a cookbook called The Vital Vegan. You're going to love it.”

  Poke-poke-poke. Chance continued to tap his finger into the small of my back.

  “The cookbook is really thoughtful, but I promised Chance to help him—uh... um...” I said weakly.

  “... give Mercy a bath.” Chance was so helpful.

  “Yeah... right. She smells like a dog. Besides, Mercy and Chance are having their pictures taken for Search and Rescue Magazine tomorrow. You know what they say. ‘Look sharp, be sharp.’” I interjected, not even feeling guilty for lying as I reached for another cookie.

  “Oh.” Ashley was clearly disappointed. “Too bad. The contractors finally got the new barbecue installed. I really wanted you to see it.”

  I must have looked confused. “Contractors? You need contractors to install a barbecue?”

  “You know the one. I emailed you a picture.

  “Ashley, you sent me a hundred pictures,” I reminded her.

  “The one with two built-in brick ovens? The sink with a worktable on the side? Gaslamp overhead? Matching fire pit?” She gave up trying to explain which picture. “It looks great next to the fountain.”

  “Bet you’ll get some air miles on that one,” said Chance, looking at Shane sympathetically.

  “I paid for it myself.” Ashley glowed. “Did it with my last sale on eBay!”

  Ashley is the Queen of eBay. She can sell anything and usually does. And I mean anything. A “power seller” with an online store called Ashes for Roses; she started out selling pinecones some ten years ago. Really! We were burning them while she was selling them. I guess you just have to know your market. But she has moved up in the world to high-priced items like the sale of a rare, mint-condition 1929 three-speed Harley-Davidson JD. Of course, it didn't hurt that Shane owned a Harley dealership.

  More prodding from Chance. He was anxious to go, causing a thought to flit through my mind. I wondered if he was eager to escape veggie burgers, Mac, or just eager to get home, get naked, and get in the hot tub. I was hoping for the latter. We hugged Shane and Ashley goodbye with promises to get together another time. Ashley whispered into my ear, “You guys need to pray about the Bible study.”

  I jumped into the Dodge Ram thinking; Boca Burgers on a barbecue costing thousands of dollars. “Life is so unfair. They don't even need the money,” I mumbled to Chance, feeling jealous. Shane was born into money and owns the largest motorcycle dealership in the North State. He always rides the latest, greatest cruiser. We had all bonded from the day we met. Shane is always trying to sell us motorcycles, but it's not the right time. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  Chance loves bikes, but I was glad he had to sell his hog long ago as part of the traditional California divorce settlement, where he lost everything but his boxers to his ex-wife, Megan Shaughnessy. His had been a typical small town story where the head cheerleader married the golden boy quarterback right after high school graduation. Less than two years later, she gave up her job as an aerobics instructor at La Spa Massage and Sports Club and ran off to San Francisco with Chance’s sister, Crystal. We don’t talk much about Crystal or Megan.

  Mercy never did get a bath, but Chance and I did manage to pour some sparkling mineral water into some wine glasses and climb into the hot tub long enough to enjoy the view of the Coastal Range mountains. I let go of the argument that started at church for enjoying the moment.

  Both of our lives revolve around our cell phones and the stand-by status of our work. We both make a living out of rescuing others. In a way, our jobs reflect the fundamental differences between men and women. For the most part, Chance rescues the external and I rescue the internal. His clients are literally at the end of a rope and mine are figuratively at the end of their rope.

  In our spare time, we tend our mountain home, sharing it with Mercy the Magnificent and Kissme, my dizzy blonde Pomeranian, enjoying all the benefits of life in Northern California. We boat, we fish, and we fish and we boat. Well, at least we used to.

  Chance was my forever hero. No doubt about that. I believed he was my heavenly reward, God’s way of assuring me that I had done something right in my life. Lord knows I have made mistakes. But coming down off the mountain to rescue me from the river that day, when I looked up into his face, I was certain he was an angel sent by God. It was so different having a man in my life that I could trust with my heart. I had never felt safer, happier or more complete than I have these past three years of marriage. It feels like heaven after surviving many years in hell.

  “And I will always love youuuuuu.” The theme from Bodyguard came out of our pants pile. It was our simple tribute to the memory and angelic voice of Whitney Houston.

  “Hey babe, they’re playing our song.” Chance untangled from our intimate embrace, pulling away, he stood, dripping, steam rising from his bare body as he climbed out of the hot tub. It wasn’t one of our smarter ideas to have same phones with identical ring tones—cute, but not smart. We never knew which of us was getting the call until we traced it to the red or black phone.

  Red phone. I knew I’d be heading to the hospital. A woman gets battered every nine seconds, and three out of five will be sexually assaulted at some time during her life. The oldest reported rape victim was a ninety-eight-year-old woman in an Australian nursing home; the youngest was only eight days old. There is never a safe time in the life of a woman and never a convenient time to be brutalized.

  I let out a long, dual-purpose sigh; some genuine feelings for my victim and a lot of pity for myself. I made the call to Rape Crisis. Butte County averages close to 1,000 domestic crisis calls a year. Most of the serious ones seem to occur on weekends and holidays—specifically, my weekends and holidays. I had the fire of desire for my husband, but lately, it never seemed to get stoked.

  Dressing required one more glance in the mirror. Satisfied, I picked up my keys then paused for a quick moment to inhale the fragrant essence of the latest bouquet my sweetheart had bought me that brightened our table with a promise of romance. It calmed my flesh and deepened my appreciation as I walked out the door, counting myself the luckiest girl in the world to have such a thoughtful husband.

  CHAPTER 3

  Hunkered down in my Volkswagen Beetle, I cannonballed down the mountain as fast as my TDI could go without getting caught to Oroville, the county seat. I love my car, bought in part with insurance money from the Great Harley Barrier Reef that now lay corroding beneath the Feather River. My bike had become a safety barrier for the little fries to hide behind, even as it had once shielded me from my problems. Riding a motorcycle had been therapeutic. It had been my vain attempt to regain control over my past—which is impossible, and also my future—which is just as futile.

  The road to town winds down out of the mountains and past the district attorney's office perched high on a hill. Not by coincidence. The county buildings are laid out like the feudal system of old: the Welfare Department on the bottom of the hill, then Juvenile Hall with its counterpart, Child Protective Services, at equally low levels on the opposite sides of the hill. Midlevel is the Sheriff’s Office and adult jail. Next up is a modern, imposing two-story building built around a large open atrium, ho
using County services that include the Auditors, Recorders, Taxes and Voting on the bottom, which is eye-level with the Probation Department and Mental Health stuck out in left field. Upstairs is where the heavyweight's reign—the County Supervisors and Criminal Division of the District Attorney’s Office, including my little corner office, with a window facing the atrium and my name on the door. Dreams do come true. I sit level with the top of the hill crowned with the Judgment Seat, also known as Superior Court.

  It takes twenty minutes to drive to work, barring road construction, logging trucks, RVs, and the highway patrol. Tonight I made it safely in fifteen. With just about five minutes to go before reaching Oroville Hospital, I called to check with today’s referral source, Rape Crisis.

  “Hey there, Serena. What are you doing on the Crisis Line on a Sunday?”

  Love my hands-free car phone. California is cracking down on no seatbelts, no phones, no texting, and no dogs in your lap in a continuing effort to save us from ourselves. Any day now they will outlaw watching DVDs, changing clothes, putting on makeup, polishing your nails, and eating meals while driving. Not that I have ever done those things. Much.

  Serena, the Director for Rape Crisis, hacked up phlegm-ball on the other end of the line.

  “Ugh!” I exclaimed, instinctively reaching for the Germ-X on my console.

  “Sorry,” Serena croaked in between sniffles. “Everybody’s sick with the flu, including me, but somebody had to come in.”