Fire in Me

by Dawn Mattox

  I had just finished reading Revelation about the End of Days when Logan found me. His nose was a bit left of center, but the scariest addition was the black patch over his left eye and its fractured socket.

  “We got six long months to make up for, sweetheart,” he had said with a leer. The “Beast” never left any visible marks on me again. It wasn't just the highs and lows that typify the Cycle of Domestic Violence; where an intense buildup of tension is followed by an explosive release of violence. Then comes the honeymoon phase: “Honey, I am so sorry...” and some romantic, repentant behavior—until the tension builds again.

  Logan's behavior was compounded by a mental disorder called bipolar, a condition characterized by dramatic shifts of euphoric, energetic highs followed by sometimes dangerous, depressive lows. Not every bipolar person is violent, but for Logan, it was a contributing factor. Logan liked the roller coaster ride and refused to take stabilizing medication, swearing loudly, “It's not my problem.”

  Logan had mental health issues, but he wasn't stupid. He replaced physical beatings with emotional abuse and spousal rape. There were times he would tenderly declare that he loved me and frequently told me I was the most beautiful and smartest woman he had ever known. He usually qualified “love” by adding, “If I can't have you, no one can.”

  I lived on the mountain and finished high school. I was in my last year and I had no friends, no family, no job, and no car. For some reason I thought my life would change and I would be free when I graduated. At school, kids talked about going to the prom; picking out their formals, their dates, and Grad-Night. Normal stuff.

  My normal was marked with guns, drugs, Harleys and intimidation. That realization brought tears that slipped out in secret one night as Logan slept with his vice-like arms holding me tight.

  It was strange going to church without Chance, although it wasn’t uncommon for us to be separated when duty called. Ashley and Shane slid into the seats next to me. When the worship music ended, Ashley leaned in and asked, “Where’s your Bible?”

  Bible? Oh yeah, Bible. “I thought I'd use this one,” I lied, reaching into the pocket attached to the seat in front of me.

  Ashley shook her head and frowned. “You should have brought your Bible. I always carry my Bible. It’s special to me,” she said, implying that she enjoyed a relationship with the Lord that I did not.

  I thought I had the Spirit of God in my heart, but sometimes she makes me wonder. The Bible says that God keeps a lot of books. Sometimes I imagine him like Santa Claus, making a list of who's naughty and nice. If God does keep score, Ashley's “nice” column is probably filled with happy faces. She would make a fine Sunday school teacher.

  Today, I was surprised that she didn’t send me to the corner. For all that I love her and appreciate her kindness and company, she has an overbearing way of making me feel insignificant in matters of faith. If faith were a horse race, Ashley would see herself as crossing the finish line with me—and probably the rest of the world—in the backstretch. I really love my friend, but sometimes I think it is people like her who make the world hate the Christian “holier than thou” attitude. Truthfully, Ashley has led many people to Jesus, but I wonder how many others she may have turned away with her religious arrogance.

  It was hard to sing. My lips formed empty words that rose from a hollow heart. I lifted my hands, but my heart remained somewhere under my feet. So I gave what is called “The Sacrifice of Praise,” meaning: you’re not in the mood to praise anything, but you do it anyhow because God deserves it. Lacking passion, I defaulted to obedience as I faked my way through the rest the service.

  After church, I went through the motions of, “Yes, I’m fine... Yeah, I really miss Chance when he’s gone... Okay, I'll tell him you said hello.”

  I felt abandoned, desperately lonely, and angry. I was mad at Ashley, nearly suicidal about Chance, and disappointed in God. All I wanted was to go home when Pastor Mac accosted me at the door.

  “Hey Sunny, would you mind sticking around a few minutes? I need to talk with you.”

  Oh, Lord. Is my hangover that obvious? “Sure.” I gave him my professional smile, an entry level requirement for public servants. It's all about the smile.

  I tried to make myself invisible as I avoided Ashley, ate too many cookies, and prayed everyone would go home so I could too. Finally, it was just Mac and me.

  “Sorry, we didn't get back to you, Mac. Chance is in Louisiana. That's why he can't do the Bible studies.” Mac waited patiently while I rambled. “He should have called you,” I said with more anger than intended.

  “He did.” Mac's voice was soft. “I am so sorry.”

  “Well, maybe another time,” I continued lamely.

  “Sunny. Chance told me about the affair.”

  How could he? My head swam with humiliation, embarrassed that he had already told Mac his shameful secret. My stomach clenched. Would it make headline news on the next prayer chain?

  “What do you say we talk?”

  “Mac,” was all I could choke out before the tears came.

  There was no feel-good sermon forthcoming from Mac, just unconditional love. And that was just what I needed.

  “Let's pray for him, Sunny.”

  “I don't want to pray for him,” I said coldly. “I don't care what happens to him.”

  Mac eyed me. “I know you feel that way now, and that’s okay. I'll pray for both of you. How about we meet here on Thursday? I'm free after the AA meetings.”

  “I don't know,” I replied. “I don't think I believe in God anymore.” Then I went home.

  I was a wounded creature, spiritually snapping at the hand of God and his servants.

  As a child, it never occurred to me to question where Lefty lived during the week or why he never took me with him when he left. For that matter, I never wondered if any of the Angel family had homes, jobs, or families. They were bikers, and Lefty was my dad. I guess I thought they all lived the rest of the week riding around on their motorcycles, which probably wasn’t far from the truth.

  It wasn’t until years later that I discovered my father had another home and family down in Oakland. It wasn’t until years after that, I considered the possibility that Lefty might not even be my dad. After all, Starla had been the Johnny Appleseed of Hippyland, planting kids all over the place and then moving on.

  Hells Angels typically reject bureaucracy except for hiring an attorney when they need one. But calling an attorney is different than making a police report. So, odds were against anyone calling Child Protective Services when Starla left me behind and headed off into the sunset in search of herself.

  Childhood was confusing at times. I loved my dad, although there were times when I’d hid under my bed while he slapped my mother around. She would lie on the bed above me and cry herself to sleep without bothering to check on me. She didn’t look for me in the mornings either. More often, I would look for her and find her, wash the dried blood from her nose or hold a cold washcloth to her eye or cheek. I loved my mom, but she never had much time for me.

  Starla was convinced that she deserved what Lefty dished out. After all, she had been drunk and flirting with the guys, or had failed to buy food because she was too wasted from getting high. Even worse, were the times Starla had screamed every curse word she could think of at Lefty in front of his brothers. Not smart.

  Much like Paige in my present life, Starla could have put a bumper sticker on her van declaring that life is “All About Me” and been ahead of her time. Not that Starla’s behavior justified Lefty beating her. After all, Lefty could have stayed in Oakland. No one made him come back.

  I think in part, the beatings were fueled by expectancy from Lefty's biker brothers who witnessed Starla’s tongue-lashing and cutting remarks. After all, Lefty had a reputation to defend; he was a Hells Angel. The MC was his protection, his suit of armor, and one day, it would be his downfall. Like Roman Emperors of old, someone—usually family members—were always
looking to take them out.

  There were things Starla loved. My mother loved her garden, her books, and the stars. She loved the mountains, yoga, meditation, playing the recorder, and Lefty. I was more on par with Frito, our one-eyed Chihuahua, something to be fed and tended and sometimes petted. Like most children in a home where there is domestic violence, the child takes on the role of the adult, and the adult becomes the helpless child.

  I learned to take care of myself and I learned to take care of my mother. I fixed her food and sometimes brought it to her in bed.

  How could I love someone who hit my mom? In part, I am certain I loved Lefty because he never hit me. Lefty gave me unconditional love and attention whenever he was around and he wasn’t wasted. Maybe Lefty gave me the love he couldn’t give my mom. Or maybe he just had a soft spot for strays like me and Frito, and himself.

  CHAPTER 10

  Evidently, Travis had a problem reading the “Do Not Disturb” sign I’d hung on my office door in an attempt to avoid contact with both Paige and him. But then, for a Starbuck’s triple shot venti latte, I would have opened the door for Jack the Ripper.

  “Good morning, beautiful. I thought you might like a little pick-me-up.”

  “You can’t read?” I snarled while chugging the coveted latte.

  “You’re welcome. I take it you’re not a morning person,” he quipped.

  Travis smelled good. Umm. Maybe even fantastic. Was it him, his body wash, or his deodorant? Best not to dwell on it. Whatever it was, he exuded a warm masculine fragrance that was so inviting I found myself sampling it before I caught myself—but not before Travis caught me.

  “You like?” Travis’s eyes darkened into pools of liquid jade. He smiled and narrowed his eyes, probably the same way he had peered through his sniper scope during the war.

  I felt a slow heat rising and averted my gaze.

  Ring-Ring. Thank you, Lord! The sound of the phone shattered the sexual tension of the moment.

  Jack Savage is a tough DA. His hair is salt and pepper, a little heavy on the salted top with a striking pepper-colored mustache that makes him look like the career politician he is. Good looks blended with intelligence and charisma kept reelecting him District Attorney for so long that people were hard pressed to recall the name of his predecessor. It might have been Moses or some such. As much as Jack likes to joke around with his people, when he cracks the whip, we make the trip. Next thing Travis and I knew we were scurrying across the atrium towards his office. Jack may be friendly, but he is not a patient man.

  Two federal agents rose to greet us as Jack ushered us into his conference room. They seemed to know Travis on a first name basis which only added to my partner's mystery.

  Two hours later, Travis, Paige, and I were on our way to Feather Falls to meet with Keira Gilman and her two young daughters—who were also her sisters.

  I kept my eyes on the police report and tried not to look at Travis who kept glancing at me. He was avoiding Paige who was watching him.

  “This is so disgusting.” All of our cases are disgusting to Paige. “I’ll never understand incest cases. I mean, how can a woman have two children by her father? I can understand her being molested as a helpless child, but she’s almost twenty for God's sake. The oldest kid is nearly four! Wouldn't you think she would have told the police or a teacher or family member, or someone before this?”

  I clenched my teeth. I didn’t want Paige to come with us, but then didn’t really have a choice because I didn't want to be alone with Travis. To my thinking, Paige was toxic waste and Travis a box of chocolates when you're supposed to be on a diet. Travis kept glancing at me expectantly as if waiting for me to answer her questions.

  “Probably fear of her father who has always controlled her,” I reluctantly volunteered. “She’s been brainwashed and threatened. Being a victim is probably her normal at this point. Then again, maybe she doesn't want him to go to jail,” I added, thinking of my dad. “Maybe she was too young to know she was a victim when it happened and doesn't hate him for what he did. Anyhow, she did go to the police when he started messing around with her, uh... sister-daughter… the three-year-old.”

  Travis glanced again. “Read on,” was all he said.

  “Hmm...” I skimmed the investigator’s report looking for specifics we hadn't covered in the meeting. “It says here they started having sex after her mom ran off with another guy. She was about eight or nine. Dad drove her to Southern California for an abortion at age twelve and again at fourteen. Then she had babies at sixteen and nineteen.” I flipped the page.

  “OhMyGod.” Paige paled at the information. “How sick is that?”

  “Dad would drive her up to Reno,” I continued, “and pimp her out to truckers across the state line.”

  “That's what the Feds said,” Travis added. “When was that? How many years ago?”

  “Uh, ages fifteen to eighteen. This is what happens when Planned Parenthood breaks the law,” I interjected. “I hate people who think their personal agenda is above the law.”

  “What law did they break?” Paige hurried to defend Planned Parenthood. “In case you didn't know, this is why the law says girls can get an abortion without their parents’ consent.” She snatched the report from my hands.

  “Thanks for making my point, Paige. No one cares about the kid! In case you didn't know, the law also says medical practitioners are mandated to report child rape. But they don't. It's more profitable to go on running their little abortion mills, making billions of dollars every year off kids and their dead babies. Oh, but it makes headline news whenever the SPCA uncovers a puppy mill.”

  “But it wasn't rape,” said Paige, “or she would have said so. It says here she agreed to it. That is called consensual sex.”

  “That's it! I am asking Jack to transfer you to Animal Control or maybe Environmental Waste,” I fumed. I’d had more than enough of Paige for more reasons than this.

  “Why? Because I am more progressive than you?”

  Travis laughed heartily and handed me a stick of gum. Paige just sniffed.

  “So the case still falls under the statute of limitations,” said Travis.

  “Which is?” Paige demanded.

  Totally blonde. I rolled my eyes, not in disbelief, but sheer amazement. How was it possible that she worked for the district attorney and didn’t know about the statute of limitations? Her bra size and IQ must be the same. I blew out steam.

  Travis looked in the car mirror before answering Paige. He seemed to study her for a long time and I felt a pang of jealousy as I imagined some flirting going on between them. But then, I have grown used to the fact that all things male stare at Paige.

  “It’s the amount of time a prosecutor has to file a case. The amount of time varies, depending on the nature of the crime. Some, like murder, have no time limit; others have a very short time.”

  “Knock it off, Travis. I'm not stupid. Paige huffed. “I know what the statute of limitations is. What I want to know is how long is it in this case?”

  Travis and Paige again exchanged verbal eye contact in a language I couldn't decipher before he continued. “A rape case has to be prosecuted within ten years. But if the victim was a minor child, or if the act happened more than one time, or if it included the use of a weapon, oral sex, sodomy, or other variables over the years”—he caught his breath—“the filing time can be extended. The number and types of charges can all impact the filing time and length of the final sentence.”

  “Well, I hope he gets a life sentence because that's a rotten thing to do to your kid.”

  My eyes narrowed, and lips pinched. Speaking of rotten... What about what you did to me? Me! The one who got you this job. I tried not to think about poor Mark who had been dumb enough to love her... the way I had loved Chance.

  Paige and I reached a new level of antagonism. It seemed incredible that we’d ever had a relationship, even a superficial one. Yes, Paige had tried to extend the girlfriend-tells-all t
hing, but I had kept my distance. Not only because of my past but because we are polar opposites. Sort of like the difference between cats and dogs, or maybe butterflies and scorpions. Instead of girls-day-out at the mall, I liked to imagine ripping her hair out and jabbing a finger in her eye. Lucky for her I exercised restraint.

  Keira’s mobile home screamed “quarantine.” It was little more than a rust bucket tucked behind a tall fence that barely contained two large pit bulls lunging at the gate that was guarded by a Rottweiler—that was not behind the gate.

  “Where is my Glock when I need it?” I smacked my forehead with my palm as the Rottweiler jumped against the car door. Okay, it lunged at the car door slinging drool everywhere. Paige was screaming, freaking freely in the back seat as she fumbled to power up her window.

  “I got a gun,” Travis threw me a dazzling smile. He loved this stuff.

  “Good. Shoot the bitch, will you?” I said, gesturing towards Paige, who was scrambling to get behind Travis in the driver’s seat, “then I can deal with the dogs.” Paige wouldn’t stop screaming and Travis couldn’t stop laughing, so I rolled down the window and called the dog.

  “Hey, Stupid! Come here, boy!” The Rotty, who had been circling the car, spun around and took a short cut over the hood, unaware that I was having a really lousy day. I rolled the window up before he could reach me and kicked the door open with both feet, sending him yelping, head over paws, across the road and into an irrigation ditch. As if by magic, it was suddenly quiet—except for Paige, of course.

  “Shut up!” Travis and I yelled in unison. Paige’s mouth hung open, but no words came out. I slammed the door shut and waited. A minute passed, and I figured it was safe to move. Hopefully, I hadn’t killed Keira’s dog.

  “Shuger... Honeee... come here, babies.” A soft voice called from the porch.