Big Girls Don't Cry

by Taylor Lee

  “Jai Li. Stop.”

  In a stupor, Lexie heard Master Wan’s warning and pulled back, her body shaking with the effort. Stunned, she focused on Ming Su, who crouched on the floor, her eyes wide with fear. The silence in the dojo was deafening. Fighting the wave of panic threatening to overwhelm her, Lexie broke through the fog and rushed to the young girl huddled on the floor. Ming Su’s eyes were wide, her lips trembling.

  Lexie fell to her hands and knees and reached for the young fighter.

  “Damn, baby, are you okay? God, Ming Su, I’m sorry, baby. I…I don’t know what came over me. Are you hurt? Tell me if you are hurt?”

  Ming Su shook her head no. With a valiant effort she mumbled, “No, no. I’m okay. You just surprised me.”

  Lexie helped her to her feet and frantically checked the young girl for injuries, murmuring apologies. Over and over, she said, “Baby, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  But she did. Even after ten years of concentrated effort, she still had flashbacks. If an uninformed fighter made the mistake of driving her to the floor, without warning, the strike could trigger a wave of panic. But she’d gotten better, she reassured herself, so much better.

  Master Wan placed a firm hand on her shoulder. His voice was calm, but concerned. “You are okay, Jai Li?”

  Lexie nodded. “Yes. I…I lost my concentration. I…I…thought she was…” Her voice trailed off. She didn’t need to finish her sentence. Master Wan knew only too well the demons she’d faced over the years. She leaned into his knowing comfort.

  Master Wan pointed to the young girl, who had picked herself up and was smiling shyly at Lexie, “You see. Ming Su is fine. Okay. If I am not mistaken, she seems proud that she dropped Jai Li, the super star, to the ground, toppled the master.”

  Lexie gave him a shaky, grateful smile, memories flooding her.

  Ten years ago, a few months after Anthony brought her to Master Wan’s, she entered her first tournament, confident that she was now a martial artist. Her opponent was a young Chinese boy who came to Lexie’s shoulder. Before Lexie got off her first strike, the boy whirled in a circle, capturing Lexie’s feet and pinning her to the floor. Lexie struck out in a blind rage. It took three fighters to pull her off the terrified young man.

  Master Wan carried her in his arms from the tournament. Over the years, his uncompromising belief in her extraordinary talent and his skill as a teacher helped her overcome the terrors that would have cowed a less indomitable fighter. Her trophies and awards lining the dojo wall testified to the determination of them both. Two years ago, Master Wan made her a full partner, adding the Chinese name they gave her to the dojo masthead. Most of her students called her Jai Li. It meant strong leader.

  ~~~

  Later that day morning, Lexie corralled all the women for the final rehearsal.. Little girls from the age of six to elderly women seventy-five years old had practiced for weeks, excited to showcase their fierce moves and valiant spirits.

  The celebration started at three. Anthony’s flight was due in at one p.m. and she wanted to be ready when he arrived. Once again, she breathed a grateful sigh. Two years earlier, Anthony had decided not to reenlist, choosing instead to join the Yuma Police Department. For the first time in their lives, Anthony was a regular presence. They saw each other at least once a month. He attended every one of Lexie’s tournaments, was her most ardent fan. He built the shelves and cases to hold Lexie’s trophies, groaning in mock dismay when he had to add yet another shelf. Master Wan laughingly said that they would need to build a larger dojo just to house her awards.

  Lexie looked over the thirty women standing in front of her. Most of the women came from homeless shelters or safe houses and brought their daughters with them. In a life filled with uncertainty, they never missed their five times a week practice. For many, it was the only sane times in their lives.

  Lexie smiled in delight, watching each group perform. The women came in all sizes, shapes, and levels of ability. Even in their stark white uniforms, few looked like martial artists--until you saw them spar. Whatever their ability or physical condition, they all shared the same fierce determination.

  Shouting to Maribel, a corpulent woman who nine months ago could barely hoist herself from a chair, Lexie hollered, “Don’t hold back, Maribel! Punch! Kick! Punch! Sadie can take it.”

  The rail thin woman sparring with Maribel grinned a toothless grin.

  “Youse sure damn right ‘bout that, girl. I can kick her fat ass!”

  “Not if I get your skinny ass first. I’ll wipe up the floor with you!” Maribel scoffed.

  Lexie swallowed a laugh and exchanged a shrug with Master Wan. Their work with these abandoned women had lessened many of the telltale signs of the hard street life they lived, except for their language. Even in the dojo, where decorum was expected and enforced, the rough language was the last to go. Anthony always said, “Lexie’s ‘women’ would make a platoon of soldiers blush.”

  Turning to the group of young girls, Lexie chanted instructions as they moved in formation across the mats. “Kick, strike, turn! Kick strike, turn!”

  When they reached the other side, their young faces glowing with the effort, they bowed low to Lexie and Master Wan. Shouts and applause rang out.

  Lexie smiled at Graciella, at six, the youngest of the group, and Tanya, her seven year old sister. Both girls showed extraordinary promise. Lexie’s heart clenched. The girls looked so much like Jill, it was painful. Shoving down the ache, she focused on her gratitude. Somehow out of the tragedy, they had been able to save the two little girls.

  Glancing at Jill’s picture in the center of the trophy wall, Lexie reminded herself how proud Jill would be of her girls. They were survivors.

  Jill was one of the first students in Lexie’s women’s self-defense class. The phone call in the middle of the night was as clear, as chilling today as it had been three years ago. The nightmare woke her often. Jill’s frantic whispers, begging her to come. “He’s going to kill me, please come, Lexie…please...”

  They didn’t get there in time. Jill’s husband beat her to death in front of their wide-eyed three and four year old little girls.

  Lexie had planned to be a social worker, but after Jill’s death she decided she preferred a profession where she could carry a gun. From that moment on, her mission in life was the women and girls in front of her and the throngs of others that would constantly fill their ranks.

  After each group performed and had been cheered by their admiring peers, Lexie pulled them together for last minute instructions.

  “Remember, we will have lots of press people here today. We have three television stations coming and both newspapers.”

  Tanya interrupted, her eyes glowing with wonder, “You mean we will be on television?”

  Lexie, laughed. “You sure better be. That’s why we’ve been working so hard to get your routines perfect. Now, the reporters are going to ask you questions. Don’t be afraid, and don’t be shy. Tell them why you are here and show them all the things you are learning.”

  An older woman, her face disfigured with an ugly scar that kept one eye permanently closed, interrupted, “No, Jai Li. They don’t want to talk to us.” She pointed to the trophy wall, “They want to talk to you. You’re the star.”

  Lexie put up her hands. Her voice was fierce. “Oh, no, I’m not, Margaret! I’m your sensei. All of you, every one of you, is a star!”

  She looked from woman to woman, holding their gaze. When she reached the young girls, she nodded to Graciella. “Even you, Graciella. You are a strong little girl.”

  Turning back to the group, Lexie shouted, “What do strong girls become?”

  The responding shout was as fierce as Lexie’s.

  “Strong Women!”

  At that moment, the two young men perched on tall ladders hanging a banner across the doorway let the banner unfurl. In big bold script it said “Strong Women Survive!”

  A chorus of ch
eers broke out as the women gazed up at the banner that claimed their victory.

  Lexie turned to the women, many of whom had tears in their eyes. A few were openly crying.

  She chanted.

  “What do strong women do?”

  The chant came back.

  “Survive!”

  Lexie shouted again.

  “What do strong women do?”

  “Inspire!”

  ”Who are we?”

  “Strong Women!”

  “Who are we?”

  “Strong women who survive!”

  In the chorus of laughter and excitement that followed, Lexie permitted herself a flush of pride. The banner was her line in the sand. She swelled with satisfaction and determination, vowing as Anthony vowed to her, she would never let these women down. Never let anyone hurt them.

  ~~~

  In the midst of the chatter, the door between the dojo and Master Wan’s home opened. The delectable smell of pastries filled the air.

  Several of the little girls dragged on Lexie’s arm. Mindy pleaded, “Oh, Jai Li, please say there’ll be those puffy cookies with the sweet stuff inside at the party?” The other girls’ shrill voices added to the clamor.

  Lexie laughed. Madam Juen had been baking for two days in preparation for the celebration. The little girls had come to love the lotus paste pastries as much as Lexie did, preferring them to Oreos and chocolate chip cookies.

  Lexie looked up in time to see Schen’s frown and turned to see Master Wan in the doorway. She stepped back, startled by his appearance.

  She’d known his black hair had grayed over the years, but he looked ten years older. The pain on his face was so intense, so blatant that she struggled to find her breath.

  Swallowing hard, she whispered, “Madam Juen?” praying with all her heart that it wasn’t.

  Tears streamed down Master Wan’s face. He shook his head no.

  The pain that had begun to grip her tightened, a vice squeezing every drop of blood from her heart. There wasn’t enough spit in her mouth to say the word. Lexie could only mouth it.

  “Anthony?”

  Master Wan closed his eyes and then nodded. He handed her the official looking document with the black and gold insignia across the top: Yuma Police Department.

  Chapter 2

  Jake slipped in the conference room in time to hear Chief Burton say “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Beloi.” Even to Jake, the words sounded hollow. The tense young woman sitting across from the chief responded like he’d lobbed a gallon of gasoline on smoldering coals.

  Her voice was incredulous, laced with fury. “You are sorry for my loss, Chief?”

  Is that what you have to say to me? You are sorry for my loss?” She tossed her head and leaned forward, grasping the arms of the chair, her fingers white with the strain.

  The chief squirmed. The slight flush on his cheeks and greasy sheen on his upper lip telegraphed his discomfort. Jake breathed in the heavy tension in the room, tangled with the smell of burnt coffee and industrial cleaner. The six men huddled around the scarred table looked as uncomfortable as the chief. Distinguishable only by the colors of their uniforms, they were a striking contrast to the blond woman in her fitted red suit glaring at the chief.

  Her anger was harsh, unrelenting. “Who taught you to say that, Chief? Some shrink years ago told you that’s what grieving families wanted to hear? That you were sorry that they lost something? Like a dog or a cat?? How about if they “lost” a mother or a father or a child--or in my case, a brother? Did it ever occur to you, Chief, to change your script? To look the person in the eye and say to those shattered souls sitting across from you, ‘I’m sorry as hell, ma’am, that your husband was killed?’ Or, ‘sure am sorry that your kid drowned, or hate like heck that your wife was murdered, sir!’ Maybe, Chief Burton, that way you could establish the fact that they “lost” something important!”

  Chief Burton breathed an audible sigh. “Look, Miss Beloi, I know what you are feeling…”

  Her voice shot out emphasizing the sharp crack of her hand on the table. The chief visibly jumped. “No, Chief Burton, you do not know how I feel. You cannot begin to know how I feel. And you don’t need to know. You don’t need to know what Anthony meant to me. You don’t deserve to know that. You don’t deserve to know that he was the finest brother anyone could have. The finest man I’ve ever known. But you already know that, don’t you, Chief? You know what kind of a man, a cop, Anthony was.”

  The chief swallowed and leaned forward, the creases on his lined forehead knotted in deep crevices.

  “Miss Beloi, I know you are upset. Can I get something for you, a glass of water, a cup of coffee? Maybe, it…would be better to have this conversation when you settle down…”

  The words weren’t out of his mouth when the woman leapt to her feet. She planted her hands midway across the table, her face inches from his. Her voice shook with anger. “Don’t you dare patronize me.”

  The men around the table looked down. The sounds of uneasy coughs, shuffling papers, and chairs scraping against linoleum, filled the heavy silence following her impassioned outcry.

  Jake took this moment to move toward the table.

  “Mind if I join you, Chief?”

  Relief flooded the older man’s strained face. He met Jake’s eyes with a grateful nod and motioned to the chair at the end of the table.

  “Please, Jake, have a seat.”

  Several men in military uniform rose as Jake approached. He waved them down with a flick of his wrist.

  He stood behind the chair at the end of the table and waited until he had the young woman’s attention. He nodded to her. “Special Agent Jake Gardner, Army CID. Please, ma’am, sit down.”

  She glared at him, transferring her palpable anger from the relieved police chief to him. She raised her chin defiantly and straightened her slim shoulders.

  “Why should I?”

  Jake allowed a slight smile to cross his lips.

  “For one thing, protocol demands that I stay standing as long as you do.” He added, his drawl deepening, “And because my Grandmother Winnie Mae would have my hide if I sat down before a lady did.”

  Lexie glared at the tall dark haired man at the end of the table. The bars and scrambled egg insignia decorating his camouflage signified his status. She knew she was close to losing it. Her heart pounded and she struggled to breathe. Her legs were shaking, a combination of stress and rage. The sea of faces blurred. Only the man’s piercing blue eyes holding her gaze made any sense. She realized with a start that he would stand as long as she did. With a dismissive shrug, she sunk down in her chair, wondering incongruously if real people had grandmothers with names like Winnie Mae.

  Refusing to acknowledge the concern that she saw in his eyes, she snapped, “Why are you here? What does CID have to do with my brother’s death? Didn’t the army get enough of him for eight years, sending him to every hellhole in the world? Now you need to be involved in his death, as well? Or do you need to write up one of your fancy reports so that the army can close one more troublesome file like Chief Burton is trying to do.”

  She ignored the gasps from several of the younger military personnel and the chagrin tightening the chief’s face. Agent Gardner threw the chief a quick glance, frowning slightly. Lexie refused to look away when he turned his full attention to her. His easy smile and southern tinged drawl were noticeably absent when he replied.

  “In answer to your question, Miss Beloi, I am here because Anthony’s body was found on the base. This means that even though he was an employee of the Yuma Police Department at the time of his death, the army is directly responsible for finding his killer. I assure you that no reports, fancy or otherwise, will be written, or files closed by the army or the YPD, until the person or persons responsible for his death are apprehended and punished.”

  Lexie was startled. No one had told her they found Anthony on the base. She stared at Special Agent Gardner for a long moment, s
urprised that he called her brother by his first name. She decided she would deal with him later. For now, she wouldn’t let him take the heat off the unfortunate police chief. She knew that she was being rude, challenging, but she refused to let these men push her aside, not answer her questions. To relegate her to the bin of grieving family members begging for information that never came.

  She opened her leather portfolio and removed a sheet of paper with the YPD logo inscribed on the top. Ignoring Special Agent Gardner, she shoved it across the table toward the chief.

  “I assume you are the Chief John Burton who sent me this letter. The letter indicates once again that you are ‘sorry for my loss’ and goes on to say that to date you have no suspects or leads to the people who killed Anthony.”

  The police chief’s ruddy face flushed a dangerous purple. He shook his head and rubbed his fists against his receding hairline.

  “Look, Miss Beloi, I’ll admit, given the circumstances, that letter does seem ….

  Lexie interrupted him with a fierce glare.

  “Seems what, Chief? Not helpful? Dismissive? Thoughtless? But you didn’t let me finish reading. I was particularly interested in this last sentence.” She stopped and looked up at him and pointed to the letter her eyes flashing. “Here, where you say that ‘due to the lack of hard evidence, I do not expect to have additional information for you any time in the near future. Cordially, John Burton, Chief of Police, City of Yuma.’”