by Cathy Lamb
“bad boys.” One was in a rock band that today churns out hit after hit. We’re still friends.
One was a motorcycle rider who wrote a book about his adventures that sold widely, then he became a college English lit professor with six kids. When I knew him he had long hair, a bandana, a bike, and no money. With six kids he probably still has no money.
But those two men, under the bad boy persona, had soft hearts, and we were all hurt when I broke it off before they could breach the wall around me. I can’t be honest with a man about who I am. I can’t tell them I have premonitions. They would think I was looney. I could prove it to them, but then they would know I was looney. Plus, my premonitions are a huge part of who I am, what I battle. If I can’t share that, we don’t have an honest relationship.
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Besides, who would want to live with, or be married to, someone who not only sees premonitions but tries to stop them, rescue people or not rescue people based on objective/subjective/playing God reasons? It’s head-case city up in my brain, with moderate to high doses of depression and anxiety, with some of that depression and anxiety buried in the sand and flames of a faraway place.
I have a put-together front, a smile that says all is well, like many women, but beyond the smile, scrape it a bit, and you’d see a semi-wreck who tries hard not to give in to many mental health issues.
I would like to sleep with Marco. I would.
But how do I sleep with Marco, walk away, and not let the relationship grow into something else? Marco is super interesting. He’s deep. And he’s a thriving, sexy man who would not sleep with a woman who he knew would walk away. That’s not who he is. He doesn’t deserve that kind of meanness and disrespect, either. No one does.
Marriage is out of the question, even if I allowed him to get to know the true me.
I don’t want to have children. What if this premonition thing is genetic, starting with me? My mother doesn’t have it, my aunts don’t have it, Jules doesn’t have it, but my grandma had mental health issues galore. Maybe she was having premonitions. She never mentioned it, never had any predictions, but maybe she had something and it was passed on to me in a different form.
I will not risk passing along this terror to any other human being. I will not inflict this on someone else. I will not have my kid suffering as I have suffered.
The most insurmountable problem was this, though: I could not be with Marco, as it would be a threat to his life. My premonition had told me so.
Chief Reginald Ass Burn watched me climb into my truck after work on Wednesday. He was parked at the end of Chrysanthemum Way, between the bakery and library, and standing like a beached whale next to his police car. I saw him spying on me when I was
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chatting with Ernetta Oliver outside the bookstore, people playing in the waves of the bay behind us.
Ernetta is in her forties and from the South. She is a southern belle with steel in her spine (as in, she grew up in Louisiana near the coastal marshes and is not afraid of alligators), iron in her fists (bar fights, only occasionally), and a brain that earned her a doctorate in math. She has zero belief in my premonitions, which means we get along well because I know she will never bug me about any predictions about herself. She is a true book nerd, however, so we can talk forever.
Before we parted, Ernetta said to me, “Chief Reginald Ass Burn is watching you, that possum.”
“I know he’s watching me. He’s creepy.”
She glared at him. “What are you staring at?” she yelled at him across the road. For such a small woman, she has a boom-ing voice. The southern accent added flair. People on the street turned to see what the commotion was about.
He did not respond.
“I said,” Ernetta boomed again, “Chief Ass Burn, what are you staring at? Speak up! You got grits stuck in your throat?
You got your tongue stuck in a swamp? Bless your heart, has your brain decomposed again?”
I could see his face twist in fury and humiliation.
“I’m fixin’ to come on over there and ask you these questions face-to-face, Chief.”
“I don’t need you telling me what to do, Ernetta. Quiet down, or I’ll give you a ticket for disturbing the peace.” He settled his wide girth back in his car.
“I don’t like being quiet,” she shouted, her southern accent even stronger. “I like for people to hear my voice, especially men.”
We chatted about what a swamp monster Chief Ass Burn is.
“I’m going home to cut a pile of flowers for my mom and aunts.
They’re making bouquets titled ‘Don’t You Mess With My Womanhood,’ and they need more flowers. I’ll see you later, Ernetta.”
“Don’t let that chief intimidate you. I’ve seen him watching you before. We’ve all seen it. He likes you, but in a dangerous
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way. I think he hates you, too. You should be married to Marco.
Now there’s a man’s man. Plus, he’s hot. I’ll be in tomorrow. I want to find books on genetics, mastering chess, and the migration pattern of South American butterflies.”
I headed out of town in my truck, driving the speed limit. I ignored the chief’s car following me. As soon as I rounded the corner, out of North Sound, and turned left down another road toward our property, then to Robbins Drive, he was right behind me. He waited a minute as I drove in dread, farther away from town, then flashed his lights, turned on his siren, and rushed up on my bumper.
“I could foresee that one all on my own,” I muttered. “No premonition needed.” We were alone, which made my spine start to tingle.
“Evie,” he said to me after he waddled up alongside my truck.
“Yes?” I wasn’t giving him anything. I glanced at his face, his stomach bulging against his uniform. He was staring down his nose at me. For one second his eyes dropped to my chest.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?”
“No.”
“License and registration and insurance.”
I didn’t want to give them to him, but I did. He stared at my license for way too long. “Is there a problem?”
He didn’t answer me, and I knew he enjoyed that. Enjoyed the power of choosing not to answer a direct question. He took his time memorizing, I suppose, every detail on my insurance card and registration. It is utterly fascinating information.
He gave the license and registration and insurance back to me. I deliberately made sure I did not touch his fingers. The chief was a stew of misogynistic crap.
“Why did you pull me over?”
“Well, Evie, it seems like you have a little problem with one of your taillights. It’s out.”
“Oh. I didn’t know.”
“Now you do.” He tried to smile, but it came out lecherous.
“I’ll fix it.”
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He nodded. “I think that’d be a smart idea. So, Evie. We haven’t had much of a chance to talk. Tell me about yourself.
How did you get the name Evie? Like Adam and Eve. Are you the temptress? Are you the woman who leads a man to evil? Are you a woman who brings sin to others?” He smirked, as if he was so self-satisfied with his cleverness. I could tell he’d been thinking about this speech.
“First off, all Eve did was eat an apple because she was hungry and it was hanging in front of her face. Apples are not sinful. Adam hardly tried to prevent it, did he? Then he tattled on Eve to God. What a man. He blamed Eve. Second, Eve didn’t lead Adam to evil. That’s ridiculous. Adam was already weak and disloyal to her, though he was her husband and should have protected and stood by her, even in front of God. But then, the Bible was written by men, and men are known to blame women and want to control them at the same time. Eve did not bring sin to the world. Men have been gloriously successful since the beginning of time at bringing sin and violence and other depravity in without any help from women at all. Maybe you need to read that Bible story again.�
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His smirk faded. He could tell I was mocking him. And he had been so clever!
“I’m a Christian man, and I do know that story, Evie, which is why I brought it up. I think it’s you who has it wrong. Eve sinned. Adam did not. Eve led Adam to sin—”
“Are you going to write me a ticket?”
He stopped. His face flushed.
“If not, I need to go. I have plans for tonight and I’ll be late.”
His whole body tensed, chest up. “Got a date?” The three words seemed as if they were torn from his tight-lipped mouth.
“I’m not required to tell you my plans.”
His eyes narrowed. He liked the power to ask questions and get them answered even when they weren’t his business. “I will be giving you a ticket. A car must be in working, functional order at all times, and yours is not.” He turned on his heel and waddled back to his car and heaved himself in. I knew I would
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have to wait for a while. This was all part of controlling the situation. He would make me wait. He wanted to make me late for my plans tonight.
I called my friend Bettina at the bakery and ordered a key lime pie. I love those. I think they calm my nerves. Hence, nutri-tionally speaking, they’re good for me. We also talked about the other cakes and treats she would be delivering to the bookstore in the future. Next I called Sandy at the hardware store because I needed to add more support to one of my bookshelves—too many books, too much weight. She knew just the thing I needed!
I texted my mother and aunts in our group text and wrote,
“Pulled over by Chief Ass Burn on Robbins Dr.”
“I’m coming,” Aunt Iris said.
“There’s no need to,” I texted back.
“I’m coming,” Aunt Camellia said.
“Don’t bother,” I texted back.
I called Tiala at the bookstore to make sure all was well. The science club was meeting that night. She expected, as I did, that there could be heated discussions about current scientific break-throughs and discoveries, but we knew that there would be nothing thrown, including punches or plates, as they are a dignified group.
Finally Chief Reginald Ass Burn tumbled himself and his gut out of his car. I was on the phone with my mother. When he was in front of my window I said to her, “I love you, too. I’ll see you later,” and hung up.
I could tell he thought I was speaking to my “date.”
“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone,” he said.
I put my hand out for the ticket.
His jaw tightened and he gave me the ticket.
I looked at the amount. “You have got to be kidding.” It was outrageous. “That’s outrageous.”
“No, it’s the price for a car that is not in proper working order. If you would like to argue, we can go down to the station and discuss this.”
That was a threat. “I’m not arguing. I’m telling you it’s an
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outrageous amount. Chief Allroy would never do this to anyone on the island. He would pull them over, let them know about the problem, chat for a while, and that would be it.”
“I am not Chief Allroy.”
“We all know that.”
“Look, Evie, don’t get smart with me,” he huffed. “I can have you out of your truck and into the back seat of my car in two minutes with handcuffs on, your rights read to you.”
I stared at him. He was a dangerous man. He would like that.
He would like to yank me out of my car, manhandle me, shove me up against the back door, press his body into mine, and rip my hands back and into handcuffs. There was no one out here to see what was going on, and he would love that. He would rel-ish it. He would take his time, he would taunt me, degrade me, his hot breath on my face, his skin to mine. That image made my stomach churn as if someone were spinning it as hard as they could with a wooden spoon. I turned to look out my front windshield and said nothing else.
“Got anything else to say?”
I didn’t move.
“What?”
I said nothing.
He loved this, I could tell. He loved to put women into a submissive position. He loved to shut them down.
“I can’t hear you,” he said. “Any more smart-aleck remarks?
Any more back talk? You want to tell me what you think?”
“You’re trying to bait me. I have nothing else to say.”
I did not look at him, which I could tell made him even more angry, but I was seething now, too.
He seemed to relent slightly, probably because there were cars coming from both directions. “Go and get the taillight fixed, then bring me the ticket and I’ll reduce it. Maybe if you’re lucky, and nice to me, I’ll get rid of it.”
I wanted to hit him. He wanted me to come to him, to be put in a position of supplication, to be groveling for something.
Then he could have more power over me. He wanted me to
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want something from him and to ask for it. He wanted to spend time reducing me to nothing, and if this was the way he had to do it, he would.
My phone rang again. I turned it over so he couldn’t see it was my mother calling again. Ah. It was my aunts in their cars approaching quickly from both directions.
They stopped in front of and in back of me, brakes squealing.
“What’s the problem?” Aunt Iris said, darting out of her car.
She was so mad she didn’t have a hat on, and neither did Aunt Camellia, her white curls flowing behind her.
“Evie here has a broken taillight,” Chief Ass Burn said.
“So what? She’ll get it fixed,” Aunt Iris said.
I told them what the ticket cost.
“You gave her a ticket?” Aunt Iris said. “Chief Allroy never would have done that. He would have informed us of the problem and stayed to talk, a reasonable response to a minor problem.”
Aunt Camellia said, “I didn’t know we were going to get robbed by our new police chief. Was that in the monthly newsletter?”
Aunt Iris said, “Your job as the chief is not to shaft the islanders. Were you informed of that?”
Aunt Camellia said, “All I see is blackness around him. It’s like this dark, clingy, slimy aura. I’ve never felt slime before, so this is a curious situation.”
“All I see is a lawsuit if he threatens to run me down to the police station for a broken headlight again,” I said.
It was three against one, and he argued with them, tried to be the tough guy, but finally backed off but not before he said, “Do not interfere in a police matter again, ladies.”
He drove off in a wave of dust.
“That one is trouble,” Aunt Camellia said. “I can feel the evil circling him.”
“What a dick,” Aunt Iris said.
I looked at the ticket. Hundreds of dollars. For a broken taillight.
Aunt Iris took a photo of it and texted it off to friends. By the
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end of the evening the whole town knew about my outrageous fine for a broken taillight.
The next day, before work, I fixed my broken taillight. I mailed a check for the full amount to the address on the ticket. I would not, no matter what it cost me, go to the chief and ask him to reduce the amount. Sounds ridiculous, but I would not be in his presence and feed his ego or put myself in a position to plead. It was worth paying more to get my power back.
I did, however, identify Chief Ass Burn’s superior to complain about the amount of the ticket. I made a copy of the ticket and my check at the bookstore and mailed the whole thing in, along with my summation of what happened, down to every last word that the chief said to me.
My question to his superior was, “Is this how a normal traffic stop should occur for a broken taillight?”
“What is that?”
“It’s a tube. Duh.”
“Gee, thanks, Jules. I was absolutely baffled.” I turned the small tube
around in my hands, the packaging from a DNA company around it. “I thought you had handed me a miniature elephant. Or a barbeque. Who knew it was a tube?”
“Very funny. Spit in it. It’s new gene technology. I don’t think I said that right.” She tapped her temple. “Maybe I should call it DNA Detective Work.”
Jules pushed back her long blonde hair. She had arrived from Seattle last night and had spent the night at Rose Bloom Cottage. She was in a tank top, so her tattoos were on full display, including my pink rose. She was wearing a number of necklaces and fabric/silver/gold bracelets up her arm. She always looked cool. Jules couldn’t not look cool. I, however, thought I looked cool enough if I could fit into my jeans and my flowing shirts were clean. “I don’t get it. Spit in it?”
“Yep. Think of it as spitting for genes. We’re going to send both tubes off to this lab and find out where our ancestors came
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from. Mom and the aunts have always said that Grandpa was Norwegian and English, mostly, they think, and their mom said she was French and Greek. Again, they think. Nothing’s for sure.”
“And Dad said he was Scottish and English. We’re mutts,” I said. “American mutts.”
“But let’s find out what kind of mutts. Mack and I want to see what our kids are going to be made of. He already sent his test off, so I’m late. We’re late. Spit away, sister!”
“So we spit and we can find out where our ancestors are from?”
“Yep. You got it.”
“Why do we both have to do it? We’re sisters. Won’t we be the same?”
“Nope. We won’t. Only identical twins have the same genetics.”
“Huh. But we’re both from Mom and Dad.”
“Right. But you get fifty percent of Dad’s genes and fifty percent of Mom’s genes. Same with me. You and I get different percentages from each parent. It’s like all the genes get shaken up in a genetic bottle and they spill out differently when the swimming sperm meets the innocent egg.”
“That would account for why you’re tall and blonde and have dark brown eyes and I’m black haired and somehow have gold eyes and I’m short and squat like a turnip with two pumpkins for a behind.”
“Uh, let’s rephrase, book nerd, and get the vegetables out of your language. You have magnetic gold eyes that everyone loves. You are short but you are not squat, and you have a figure that curves and men love. Anyhow, you might have more of the Greek blood because of your black hair, and I might have more of the Norwegian blood because I’m blonde. But maybe not. I might have more Greek blood and ended up blonde because of the other genetic ingredients. You could be the Norwegian Viking. I can totally see you in one of those steel bustiers holding a sword on a ship.”
