Fire in Me

by Dawn Mattox

  “You told them?” I asked excitedly. I had told Logan the previous weekend that we were going to have a baby. I knew he was shocked and upset at first, but was confident that given a little time, he would love the idea. I knew we would be happy; he would settle down, maybe live full time at the cabin and be a great dad.

  “They already know. That's why we're here!” Logan said with a squeeze and another kiss. “Guess what?”

  I was confused. “I give up,” I answered with a shrug of my shoulders.

  He pointed with pride to yet another tattoo—fresh and painfully new— located just below the twin lightning bolts were the words Filthy Few. Those words are reserved for killers.

  “We blew up the Mongols’ Club House!” he rejoiced. “I told you I would get the guys that killed Lefty.” And he kissed me again. “I did it all for you, babe. God, I love you!” he exclaimed passionately, then turned to the other riders with a war-whoop shouting, “Par-ty!”

  The light blinked like a beacon of hope on my message machine. “You have two new messages,” the automated voice told me.

  “Sunny, this is Chance...”

  I skipped over that one with a drawn-out sigh. It was too early in the evening to put myself through an emotional wringer. Let the answering machine blink. Next, I returned Ashley's call.

  “Guess where Shane is?” It was Ashley on the girlfriend-grapevine.

  “Duh... at work?”

  She made frustrated noises, and I smiled. She is an easy tease.

  “He's helping Chance move from Mac's place back to his old house. The rental.”

  Now, this was news. The “rental” is located about fifteen minutes’ walking time, five minutes’ driving time and just a couple of beats as the crow flies from what is now “my” home.

  “What happened to the renters?” I asked.

  “Pastor Mac paid their first month's rent to move downtown so they could be closer to her elderly parents. I guess they aren't doing too good. But Sunny—I hope you don't mind my asking—I've been wondering. How come you guys bought a new house instead of moving into the one Chance inherited or the cabin where you grew up?”

  I was silent for a moment. Ashley’s question was a weighty one.

  Chance was moving into the “rental,” which was the same house he had grown up in and been living when his mother moved back to the city. It was his home when the terrible accident took the life of his father's best friend. It was where his dad had died while he was in the Army. And later, it had been the house that he and Megan Shaughnessy—make that Megan McLane—had shared during their short marriage. I once asked Chance the same question; why we don’t we live there?

  I had my own history and unspoken reasons for not wanting us to make our home up at the cabin.

  So I repeated Chance's simple answer for Ashley, “Too many ghosts.”

  I took my time changing out of my work clothes, pausing to do an in-depth, critical self-evaluation. I studied the stranger in the mirror and I hated her. I always look at my clothes, check my hair, and inspect my face for blemishes—but rarely look at my body or peer into my eyes at the risk of seeing my naked soul.

  I wonder when those white hairs happened. Old lady squint lines had formed in the corners of my eyes since the last time I looked. And I didn't need to step on the scale to know that I’ve kept the five pounds I gained over last winter’s food fest.

  I suddenly felt old, considering I was still relatively young, and could only guess at how I must look to Chance. Somewhere along the way, I must have become undesirable and uninteresting when I wasn't paying attention.

  Feeling wretched and aching with loneliness, I poured a glass of wine and sat down at my desk and began the depressing task of filling out divorce papers.

  “When are you gonna stop wearing those stupid clothes and start lookin’ like a real woman?” Logan drawled with contempt.

  That phrase would haunt me for years and became a pet insult of Logan’s all because I fired back, “What’s that supposed to mean? A real woman? What am I, huh? What?” My fury fueled Logan's delight.

  I glanced down at the tie-dyed t-shirt Starla had made me under girlie overalls that were trimmed with the lace and embroidery so popular with girls my age.

  “And you oughta cut your hair. You look like a freakin’ hillbilly.” This, coming from a man who always needed a haircut, a shower, and a shave.

  Love turned to hate. I learned to keep my mouth shut after the beating Lefty had given him and his resulting stay in the hospital. Logan was drunk and giving me “the look” that always preceded trouble. I wished with all my heart that my dad had finished the job and killed Logan before Logan killed me.

  “A fat freakin’ hillbilly.” Logan doubled over as if he had cracked the funniest joke in the world. But the fat in this case, was our baby in my eighth month of pregnancy.

  “Lose it,” was all Logan had to say when I’d told him I was pregnant. I was two months along at the time. “We got enough problems without adding a rat. I’ll drive you to the clinic in Chico tomorrow. Hey, don't worry girl, we got money to pay for it.”

  That night I ran down the dirt road to Joyce and Kenny’s for comfort and guidance. Joyce had given birth to nine children in her life, five of whom rested deep in the woods in the tiny Feather Falls cemetery, almost hidden under the dense foliage of tangled morning glories that always threaten to overtake the graves. Three of her children died before age three, one died of meningitis when she was seven, and her son, drunk at age fifteen, had slipped while hiking with friends above Feather Falls and plummeted some 640 feet from the brink of the falls to his death. Yes, Joyce knew about losing children.

  “When you abort a baby,” she told me, lovingly holding my hand in her sturdy wrinkled brown one, “you do much more take a life. You also destroy God’s plan for that child.” Joyce was wise. “You might be killing the person who would have found a cure for cancer. Every child has a destiny.”

  “If women don't want their kids, they should give birth and then abort themselves,” Kenny blurted from his recliner. “They had their shot at life. If death is good enough for the baby, it should be good enough for them.”

  While Kenny’s observation was both shocking and politically incorrect, it wasn’t without merit.

  I stayed at Joyce and Kenny’s house for the night and hoped Logan would be sober by the next morning. He was. But he didn't change his mind.

  “I’m not going and you can’t make me! It’s a baby, Logan. It’s our baby.” I stood my ground and refused to go to the abortion clinic, although Logan would eventually get what he wanted. He always did.

  Months passed and his visits home grew few and far between. We continued to fight and the abortion issue escalated when Logan pressed me to have a late-term abortion. That night, I told him I would die first, and then, I almost did. I woke up the next morning to discover that Logan had cut off my hair while I slept. I stood staring in shock and horror at almost two feet of braid lying on my pillow like a dead thing. The little cabin echoed with my screams until Logan walked upstairs, punched me in the stomach, and pushed me off the balcony.

  I kicked back on the overstuffed Lazy Boy with a bowl of Cheerios topped with a freshly sliced peach. Kissme wasn’t big on peaches but stood guard in case an O missed the mark. Stroking her head, I glanced at her “diamond” studded black velvet collar. I knew she wasn’t perfect enough by American Kennel Club standards to compete in dog shows. Her jaw is slightly undershot and she has a funny little kink in her tail that can't be seen, but a judge would feel. In spite of her flaws, she will always be Best of Show and Grand Champion of my heart.

  Distracting her with a milky O, I reached over her silky head and hit the play button on the message machine.

  “Sunny, this is Chance. Please don’t delete this without listening.”

  Now there was a thought! Responding to a power surge, I deleted the message without listening. “There.” Kissme cocked her head and whined. “
Not you,” I said, kissing her on top of the head. “You are all I need.”

  Years would pass before I would return to the cabin where my baby died. When Logan left the hospital, I rolled over and threw the single rose he had given me into the trash can next to my bed.

  My milk came in that night; bitterly reminding me of the child I would never hold in my arms, or nurse at my breast. Hope died along with my baby. I had dreamed of innocence and love. It had to be a dream because I hadn’t seen either of those things in life. Maybe I had read too many children's books from the school library that were set in more innocent times... like Little House on the Prairie, Swiss Family Robinson and Call of the Wild. We rarely watched TV because of the limited power supply to the cabin and because Starla said it would brainwash me. We used a tired old generator that would chug through the dinner preparation while pumping water into a holding tank and then turn it off when we lit the kerosene lamps. I read a lot of books, and they fed the dream of having a “real” family in my young girl’s heart.

  I wanted to be normal. My dream family would gather to celebrate holidays and milestones, sharing our tears and triumphs. We would sing in church on Sundays and go on family picnics. There would be doting grandparents, children who would grow to become loving parents and rambunctious grandchildren who would fill the house with laughter. Husbands were strong, honorable, and passionately romantic. Wives were beautiful, smart, and happy with their roles in life.

  Talk about a dreamer! There was certainly nothing in my life to support such naive fantasy. But those dreams birthed a great determination to escape from Logan and break out of the prison that had been my home.

  “If I can't have you, no one can. You're mine, Sunny.” But of course, I wasn't.

  I was the child who had raised herself. The one who could build a fire, tend chickens, work in the garden and orchard, and shoot a gun by age ten. I got myself up and walked to school in the rain, snow, and blazing heat. I enjoyed hiking in the forest, doing my homework, and reading library books. My straight-A grades pleased my teachers, my father, Joyce, and Kenny, and mostly, me.

  While my independence assured Lefty that I could take care of myself on one level, he was, nevertheless, a realist and a warrior.

  “Hey, sweetheart, Daddy got you something.” My ten-year-old eyes glistened expectantly. Every gift from my father was a treasure. Lefty didn't give gifts lightly. “It's not a toy,” he admonished, as he produced a small .22 caliber pistol for my very own. “Let’s take it outside.”

  I followed him dutifully and we spent a warm, happy day together in the orchard, laughing as we shot at beer cans and fresh eggs from the chicken coop. I was a pretty good shot at the end of the day, filled with happiness and basking in my father's praise. Then Lefty grew quiet and serious, falling into one of the moods he had brought back from the war.

  “Over there,” he said, pointing to the numerous birds that raided our cherry tree this time of the year. “Aim steady, Sunny. I want you to shoot a bird.”

  “No, Daddy. I don't want to. I like birds.”

  “That's why I need you to shoot one,” he said solemnly. “Do what I say. I want you to shoot a bird.”

  Animals were my friends. Besides Frito and the chickens, the wildlife; birds, deer, mountain monkeys (that's what my Dad calls squirrels), and raccoons were my friends. Eyes moist, hands trembling, I tried and missed, sending birds exploding from the tree like a flock of startled quail from under berry bushes.

  “Try again. Steady, girl. I want you to focus. Pretend they are beer cans in a tree. Keep your eyes open and squeeze. Don't jerk on the trigger.”

  It wasn't long before a beautiful robin that had moments before been full of life, song, and cherries, lay bleeding and flopping beneath the tree.

  “Pick it up, Sunny.”

  Tears ran down my face like twin leaky faucets as the lovely creature twitched and died in my hands.

  “Now bury it.”

  I did. And when I was through tamping down the dirt, I looked up at my father to see what I should do next.

  Lefty reached down and planting a lingering, loving kiss on my grubby, tear-streaked face said, “I know that was hard for you. But you needed to learn two things. One is that using a gun has consequences. Things can die when you shoot them. Two is that you know you can take a life if you ever need to, and it’s okay. This gun is a tool. Never use it lightly and never shoot just one bullet. If you ever have to pull the trigger, don't stop until it's empty. It's okay to practice but I want you to keep the gun clean, keep it full, and never put the safety on. And baby, never tell anyone you have it.”

  I never shot Logan, although I thought about it. I did as my father told me and kept the .22 both loaded and secret. As much as I grew to hate and fear Logan, I didn't want his blood, like the robin's, on my hands.

  Looking back, I would call what happened next, divine intervention. After my baby died, Joyce and Kenny picked me up from the hospital and took me to their daughter’s house on the outskirts of Oroville. I spent an uncomfortable month there healing from the “miscarriage” among strangers who lived in a residential housing tract. It was always noisy. Joyce's daughter, Jerusha was kind, as were her husband and four children. The TV was always on in the front room and a riot of noise spilled out from the kids’ rooms. I thought of them as kids, although the oldest wasn't much younger than I.

  The neighbors had a band that met in Jerusha’s garage several times a week and the jam sessions would rattle the windows until my head hurt. At night I listened to the wail of an occasional ambulance or police car out on the highway instead of coyotes hunting in the woods. In my heart, I longed to go home.

  It was Joyce who brought the news, along with Frito. Kenny had seen two sheriff's cars turning down the driveway to the cabin and followed them. He watched quietly over hateful glares from Logan as he was cuffed and taken into custody, along with a large quantity of methamphetamine and some lab equipment he had stored in the bathhouse. Fortune, God, or both had smiled on me. Logan had purchased the equipment from an undercover agent. I was going to be free for a long time—but not forever.

  With Joyce and Kenny’s encouragement, I left the cabin behind and moved to an apartment in Oroville. I got a job at a local car wash during the day and an after-hour job in the evenings sweeping up hair and doing laundry for a salon. It wasn't much, but eventually I saved enough money to buy a used beat-up motorcycle; a 1980 Harley Wide Glide.

  Cheap rent, cheap gas, an application for a PELL Grant at the college, and I was on my way. Logan had always called me stupid, leading me to believe I wasn't smart enough to get into college. But there I was, staring at my first-ever parking ticket on my first day of school, issued by Butte College Campus Police. Late as ever, I had raced from my apartment in Oroville to the beautiful sprawling college nestled in the soft, rolling foothills and pulled into the last remaining parking spot—in front of a fire hydrant.

  I figured I was as good as dead whenever Logan finally got out of prison, whether I returned to the cabin or started school. It didn’t matter anymore; dead or alive. That was the state of mind necessary for me to make my break for freedom. I was willing to risk everything, knowing at least I would die free.

  “What does the term ‘domestic violence’ mean to you?” The district attorney leaned back in his plush leather seat behind a rosewood desk, hands folded across his chest and his eyes assessing my every move and word.

  I swallowed hard, racking my brain. I wanted to say whatever he wanted to hear. This internship meant everything to me. “Umm...” Good start, Sunny, “ah... it means a physical assault by one spouse or intimate partner upon another... resulting in an injury?” When being interviewed for a job, one should always sound confident, even when you aren’t. I could tell the DA wasn’t impressed by the implied question mark in my response. That was a mistake I would never repeat.

  He studied me, and I silently hoped he was focusing on my potential rather than my shortcomings
.

  “We’re starting a new internship position here with a focus on domestic violence. You can have it if you’d like. You would be answering directly to me. Are you interested?”

  My brain was screaming, “Yes! Yes!” and I had to restrain myself from giving him a high-five and doing a Happy Dance on top of his desk. I kept my poker face and began an award-winning career that included the DA spending a small fortune on my training—back in the days when California had money.

  Two years later my job evolved into a paid position when I wrote the grant that funded the first Special Victims Unit in California. I would be an Advocate and my clientele would be victims of domestic violence and sexual assault.

  We were called the “Vertical Prosecution Team,” which meant that all three team members would take our cases from beginning to end instead of the usual passing them off to other attorneys for various court proceedings. SVU consisted of Deputy DA Amanda Cross, Investigator Davis Martin, and me—the Advocate.

  Later my job would expand to include my role as Expert Witness for the State on felony DV cases, Davis would be transferred to the Child Abduction Unit, and Travis, the man of mystery, would appear from out of nowhere to replace him. Travis; a man from all appearances without a past or present, and never talks about the future.

  “How can you stand your job?” curious people would ask. My answer is always the same: “I love my job.” But as I recovered from the motorcycle accident over those first weeks on the job—in fact on the very day that marked the sixth anniversary of my moving out of the cabin—the nightmare returned.

  CHAPTER 17

  My past caught up with me the morning I found myself grabbing my lunch and keys, headed for the county car—my county car. For a short time I had relied on public transportation, stumping my way to the corner bus. Then came the full-time use of a brand new county car.