Straight From the Abyss

By Bill Hembree

If you liked “Sons of Anarchy” or “Breaking Bad,” you will thoroughly enjoy “Straight from the Abyss.”
The bikers who cause the school bus to crash do not stop or even look over their shoulders. As they top the third hill nearly two miles away, the bus erupts into a ball of flames. Two of the men are brothers: Chino, the elder, and his “little” brother, Baby-D. The third biker, known as “Kickstand,” is related to brothers through the blood of others who have crossed their paths.
We follow the villains from birth until Chino and Baby-D stand like giants at six-foot-six and six-foot-four; Kickstand, the runt, is a mere five-foot-eleven. The men, known as “The Mean Three,” are a force to be reckoned with, loyal to their pack, defiant to the end. They live in a rundown warehouse and manufacture methamphetamine so powerful it is worth its weight in gold. They consume their product in mass quantities and, when they run low on supply, hoard it for themselves, ignoring their customers and the widespread panic that rides on the coattails of their addiction.

Seventeen-year-old Curtis loses his parents in an auto accident while they are en route to buy his birthday present. Tormented with guilt, he moves in with his grandparents and attends a new school. Because he is pursued by Cathy, the quarterback’s love interest, incensed members of the football team beat them senseless. Curtis seeks revenge with a baseball bat and winds up prison until he turns twenty-five.
Stephanie grows up in upper-class suburbia. Her neighbor, Becky, daughter of a prominent physician, is her best and only friend. As the girls blossom, the doctor’s lust for Stephanie runs amok. His attempt at a late-night rape goes awry when Stephanie gives her hot chocolate to Becky who overdoses and dies from her father’s illicit concoction.
Curtis gets out of prison, settles down in Santa Cruz and becomes a local hero when he pulls Stephanie and her students from a wrecked and burning school bus, an accident caused by three vicious bikers high on meth and low on accountability. After the children are safely transported to the hospital, Curtis mounts his Harley and disappears into the night, leaving Stephanie and her “kids” wondering who he is, where he has gone and if he will be back. Pining for Curtis, Stephanie tracks him down, and these tragic and attractive characters come together and fall desperately in love.

Curtis and Stephanie cross paths with two of the bikers at a local saloon. When one of them lays hands on Stephanie, Curtis comes to her rescue. Badly beaten and humiliated, Baby-D seeks revenge, and our friends find themselves in for the ride of their lives, hunted like game on the highway to hell.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Buu_PnKmbAA

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Hembree
• Release date: Jul 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005521332

Book preview

Introduction

Prologue

Santa Cruz, California, October 1991

In the Beginning

Straight from The Abyss

Epilogue

From the Author

Back to the Future

Dedication

This novel is dedicated to my wife Jan for choosing me when the world lay at her feet.

Special thanks to Mike Grossman, my confidant from Burbank, California, for engineering the covert operations that helped bring this saga to fruition.

The recollection of these events is dedicated to the memory of Hank Barker, one of my best friends ever.

Introduction

As I researched and chronicled the lives of Curtis Lewis and Stephanie Baxter, I lived through the highs they shared and the lows they endured, often wishing I were not the person accountable for bringing their saga to fruition. I wish I could have helped them avoid the snares that befell them, and I apologize for exposing the tumultuous events of their lives. However, their story must be told.

Additionally, I salute Curtis for being the only man I have ever known other than me who had the balls to ride a white Harley.

As the story unfolds, please keep in mind: John Lennon once said, Life is what happens while you’re making other plans.

Prologue

Curtis and Stephanie drove to her parents’ house to feed the fish, water the plants and bring in the mail. Mr. and Mrs. Baxter were on vacation. Stephanie checked the answering machine; both Mom and Dad took turns checking in. Mrs. Baxter talked forever. Your father and I like Curtis, he seems like a very nice man. When we spoke to him on the phone, it was obvious how he feels about you.

The tape fouled out and cut her mom off mid-sentence.

Stephanie stared at Curtis, meeting his eyes across the room. She smiled proudly and blew him a kiss. She held her hand up to the chandelier; the ring on her finger sparkled.

Curtis and Stephanie had known each other for all of twelve days, though it might as well have been twelve years. There was no doubt that they would remain together forever, though forever sometimes ends as quickly as it begins. They were on the run, trying to stay one step ahead of skeletons in the closets and the men who were hunting them down.

Nothing could have prepared them for the trials and tribulations lurking around the next bend. The lovers’ fate would prove to be as unbalanced as the scales of justice. Their love for one another would be the one factor that would stand the test of time. At the time, they were safe and sound.

I’m so exhausted. I need a nap, Stephanie sighed. She lay down on her parents’ couch, kicked off her shoes and pulled the afghan up to her chin. Give me a hug, she whispered. Her heavy eyelids remained open just long enough for Curtis to fulfill her request.

Curtis watched her sleep, happy to see her at peace. He took the opportunity to peruse through the Baxter family photo albums. The pages therein were filled with snapshots of Stephanie, the newborn baby, dressed in her first Easter dress, a lug full of brightly colored eggs at her feet. A picture taken at the county fair, Stephanie clutching a big blue ribbon, arms wrapped around her prized pig. When Curtis came to a page further into the album, around the time that Stephanie appeared to be fourteen or so, a bright-eyed girl her age, but a foot taller, began to appear in the photos. Curtis knew the girl had to be Becky, Stephanie’s best friend. He examined picture after picture of the girls. The girls did everything together, enjoyed life and danced in circles, their feet high off the ground. Season to season and year to year, transformations in Stephanie’s life were chronicled in photo stoic moments.

Curtis smiled and slid the photo album back into place, ready to take hold of Volume Two when he took notice of a compilation of VHS tapes, one in particular labeled Stephanie’s College Graduation. He removed it from the shelf, slid it into the VCR and turned on the television. The camera panned the auditorium then zoomed in on Stephanie, who stood center stage, smiled radiantly, and accepted her diploma and teaching credential. The college dean and master of ceremonies asked for a few words from the star student and class favorite. A round of applause encouraged her to the podium.

I love children, Stephanie said with a smile. "I chose to become an educator and join hands with my peers who believe that principled education for our children is the square root of our future. My goal is to teach our children and help them develop their skills in an effort to open their minds to the endless possibilities that await an educated individual. It is so very important that they enjoy reading…and want to write to the best of their abilities. Mark Twain once said, ‘The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.’"

The audience buzzed with pleasure, tickled by her words.

A fellow student seated on stage with the graduating class, obviously enamored with Stephanie and positively resentful that she had never given him the time of day, blurted out, If you spent less time dressing in style and more time addressing your studies, perhaps your passion for creative thinking would have afforded you the luxury of dispensing something a bit more original than quoting Mark Twain’s words of wisdom.

Sounds of silence shattered the ambient effervescence. The crowd awaited with bated breath, hoping and praying that Stephanie would pass, not fail, the challenge of such a rude remark.

Stephanie glanced back at her heckler but stayed with the microphone. She addressed him as if she were admonishing one of her future students. Well, young man…dressing nice is another of my passions…and by the way, the difference between wearing the right clothes and almost the right clothes is the difference between being in fashion or being a fashion bug.

The auditorium burst into laughter and applauded Stephanie with a standing ovation.

Santa Cruz, California

October 1991

Chapter 1

The sun basked like a king in an ocean of crimson gases and blazing bastions of fire. The wind held its breath as the guiding light plunged down into a mirror image of itself, melting like gold across the waters into a sea of madness and the hope of a new tomorrow.

Highway 1 stretches north and south on the coast of California. It ties all destinations in the Golden State together, including death. Small wooden crosses stand vigil on either side of the highway, paying homage to those who met their maker sooner than later.

On his way home, Curtis Lewis dreamed of food. He pushed his Harley to the limit and raced the daylight like there was no tomorrow. The only thing he had eaten all day was the occasional unlucky bug. Curtis gained ground on the car ahead of him, coming forth in the Mustang’s rearview mirror. He checked his fuel gauge; he needed gas and something more substantial to eat. A few miles ahead, he geared down and turned off the highway into the parking lot of Pirates’ Cove.

Pirates’ Cove, a quaint décor by the sea, was home to two businesses—Uncle John’s Store and the Pirates’ Cove Bar and Grill. The structures were built in the 1950s; after many decades of life by the sea, they resembled driftwood more than redwood.

Careful not to run over potholes, Curtis pulled up to the gas pump. The sound of his engine knocked against the store. The roar of the ocean and the sea gulls’ squawking provided a discord of unrest. After he filled his tank and paid for the gas, he tooled over to the tavern, parked his bike and went inside.

Curtis bellied up to the bar. It was obvious the proprietor, Capt’n Hook and his squeeze Deana (pronounced D-nah), whom the Capt’n referred to as his first mate, were as high on methamphetamine as the skull and crossbones on a pirate ship flag. Deana, charmed by Curtis and his good looks, welcomed him aboard.

Capt’n Hook wore a black patch over one eye. What will it be, mate?

I’ll have a Barnacle Bill Burger, Scallywag Soup, a side of Ships and draft ale. Curtis grinned, Ships being the gold coin-shaped fries.

Capt’n Hook’s pupil grew wide as a black medallion. Is there anything else I kin fetch fer ye?

Methamphetamine abuse was more rampant than the swine flu epidemic, and Curtis, not one to infect himself with damn near incurable diseases, declined to investigate any hidden meaning. I’ll have a shot of yer finest Irish whiskey.

Deana, hot and steamy as a bowl of clam chowder and eager to please, leaned forward and smashed her breasts flat on the bar. She spread out a placemat, napkin and silverware, and left behind two moisture marks large as dinner plates where her breasts had lain.

The saloon doors swung open. Curtis stared straight ahead through the liquor bottles, into the beveled mirror backsplash. He swiveled around on his stool and looked across the highway, beyond the cliffs and out to sea.

Pirates’ Cove had lots of character. Fishing nets, lifesaving rings, oars, seashells, crab nets and trophy fish decked the exterior and interior walls. Great white shark jaws hung from the open wood-beam ceiling—a subliminal warning to those who cared to take heed. Time-stained and frayed, newspaper clippings tacked to the walls reported shipwrecks, record-breaking waves and record-breaking fish.

#

Just north of Pirates’ Cove, a school bus of second graders returned from an extended field trip to Waddell Beach. Imprints of hands and small smiling faces smeared the windows, a reminder of the jubilation that possessed the tykes earlier in the day. No longer pumped up with excitement, the kids were depleted, deflated and fast asleep. Their cute little heads bobbed this way and that as they leaned into the curves and one another for support.

Miss Stephanie Baxter, affectionately known by her students as Miss B, walked up the aisle using the backs of seats to steady her balance. She watched over her children like a mother hen. One by one, she pulled their jackets tight and wedged beach towels under their precious little heads.

The field trip had run into overtime. The bus driver, Mr. Parks, had made the unfortunate mistake of setting the keys to the bus down on the beach while he and Miss Baxter guarded over children playing in the surf. Children promptly covered the keys with sand. Mr. Parks said he thought they stood a better chance of digging a hole to China than finding the keys. After making an exhaustive search, Stephanie asked a man and woman walking the beach if they would drive to a pay phone and call the school to advise them of their predicament and ask the principal to call the parents who were available to come to their location and bring their garden rakes. In the meantime, Miss Baxter used a piece of driftwood to map out rectangular grids on the beach. When the parents who were available finally arrived, she directed them to rake through the sand. Lo and behold, fifteen minutes later in six inches of sand, one of them hit paydirt when the rake’s teeth bit into the key ring in an area already searched by hand. Everyone complimented Miss Baxter on her excellent idea as if she had just unearthed Blackbeard’s buried treasure.

The parents offered to drive some of the children home, but the students, ever faithful to Miss Baxter, climbed on the bus to return to the school as planned.

Stephanie watched over her students. She sat down between two of the children, resting their heads in her lap. They are so cute. She smiled. Especially when they are sleeping. The sun was setting but did not take with it the glow on the children’s cheeks and cherub faces.

Mr. Parks glanced in his left side mirror. Three motorcycles were right on his tail, revving their engines, looking for an opportunity to pass on the blacktop ahead. The bikers, anxious to get by, seized their first opportunity. They jumped the gun and shot out beside the bus, the roar reverberating off the side of the bus. Remarkably, the children were so exhausted that the clangor of noise only wrinkled their noses. The bikers, high on meth and low on common sense, misjudged the lay of the land that was diminishing twice as fast as the distance was long. Vehicles traveling in the oncoming lane laid on their horns and peeled off the road like lemmings.

Mr. Parks slammed on the brakes. The school bus veered precariously toward the right shoulder of the road. From inside the bar, Curtis watched in horror as the bus careened up on the right side tires. He was up and running before the bus crashed down.

Windows exploded like shrapnel and children spilled into the downed side of the bus as it plowed into the road and ground to a halt. Electrical wires crackled in the engine compartment and a geyser of steam burst out from under the hood. Curtis smashed through the remains of the front windshield and tossed Mr. Parks out. He plucked up a cluster of kids and handed them out to helping hands.

Under the hood, gasoline ignited, providing Curtis with a sure set of directives. Panic set in. Curtis grabbed up the next kids he came to, and those who could follow their leader toward the emergency exit at the back of the bus.

Miss Baxter had been knocked for a loop. She bolted up from between the seats. A cathedral of flames danced on her face and highlighted the knot and bruise on her forehead.

Curtis led the way. Miss Baxter followed behind with children in tow. Curtis kicked out the emergency door. He moved to the side and motioned for the teacher to duck down and out. She followed his lead without hesitation.

Suddenly, the front of the bus burst into flames causing the children to scream out at an all-new level. Curtis made his way back through the wreckage and grabbed the kids who were too scared to move. Acrid smoke engulfed the interior as Curtis popped out of the emergency exit with what appeared to be the last two children tucked safely under his arms. The rancorous odor of burning petroleum and vinyl permeated the air. Flames leapt to the sky.

Carrie Anne clung to Miss Baxter while she took a head count. Janie’s not here! She’s still on the bus!

Curtis, without hesitation, disappeared into the miasma of smoke and toxic fumes. He felt his way back through the wreckage, checking every spot where the child could possibly be.

Then, as if Janie was reaching out for him, Curtis came across her arm stretched out between seats. Curtis dislodged her and made a break for it. A gaseous cloud ignited and burst into flames. A ball of fire rumbled down the aisle toward the back of the bus chasing Curtis and the child like a fire-breathing dragon. Curtis leapt through the emergency exit and they both tumbled to the ground.

Janie was not breathing. Miss Baxter dropped to her knees and began CPR. Janie’s chest raised and lowered with each breath forced into her lungs. Miss Baxter cradled Janie’s head and tilted it back further to fully open her airways. Again, she put her mouth over Janie’s and continued the life-saving effort. Suddenly, with a sputter and a spurt and gasp for air, Janie burst into tears.

Curtis followed Miss Baxter’s ambulance into town. Doctors and nurses came out of retirement to lend their hands to the catastrophe and overload at the local hospital. The emergency room was in full swing, the lobby filled to capacity. Relatives, friends, school employees and concerned citizens spilled out onto the sidewalk and into the parking lot. Many of the children suffered broken bones, but not one of them sustained life-threatening injuries. Everyone came out alive; that alone was a miracle. Miss Baxter’s students would heal in due time.

Feeling out of place and realizing the crowd was about to besiege him, Curtis climbed on his Harley and disappeared into the night. The doctors insisted that Stephanie have a CAT scan. She had taken quite a hit on the head, but not quite big enough to knock Curtis out of her mind.

#

The bikers who caused the school bus to crash did not stop to look back. As they topped the third hill nearly two miles away, a fireball erupted into the night sky.

Two of the men were actual brothers: Chino Chamberlain, the elder by thirteen minutes, and his little brother, Baby-D. The third man, known only as Kickstand, was unrelated to the brothers; he was, however, related to them by the blood of others who had crossed their paths.

Chino and Baby-D stood six feet six and six-four respectively. Kickstand was the mutant runt at five feet eleven. The men, sometimes referred to as the boys, stood united, they were indestructible.

The men, also known as the Mean 3 among many less desirable names, were a force to be reckoned with. The boys’ world revolved around methamphetamine. They manufactured a drug so powerful that it was worth its weight in gold. They consumed their product in mass quantities and when they ran low on supply, they kept it for themselves, ignoring their customers and the widespread panic that rode on the coattails of their addiction.

The Mean 3 drove straight through the night, only stopping to do more drugs and slop their Hogs, a term they used for refueling their Harleys. Upon arrival in Bullhead City, Arizona, the following day, they met with their chemical connection and filled their saddlebags with methylamine, red phosphorus, hydrochloric acid and other crucial elements needed to cook off their next batch of crank. Then, without as much as a wink or a nod, they did an about-face and crossed back through Barstow into the plains of the Mojave Desert on their way home.

Chino, leader of the pack on and off the road, gave signal to his bros and they exited the highway into the desert, as vultures overhead kept an eye on what might be their next meal.

A diamondback rattler camouflaged within the hollow of a long-horned cow skull bared his fangs and lunged out as the Devils rode by.

The boys came to a stop. They dismounted their bikes and fell to the sand. No words were spoken, yet mouths moved and teeth grinded, straining against fatigue and the need for a fix. Chino jerked off his boots and dug a knife into the itch between his toes. Satisfied with drawing blood, he retrieved vials of liquefied meth from his saddlebag and tossed them into the mitts of Baby-D and Kickstand…AKA Mutt and Jeff.

The men’s arms were stitched together with needlepoint and blanketed with enough tattoos to piece together a friendship quilt, but alas, they did not knit. They filled their syringes and stabbed the hypodermics in their arms, administering a rush of chemical compounds into their veins.

Chino leaped to his feet, struck a pose and rode the flow of an ocean wave, his arms and legs balancing his act as he looked for a fly on the tip of his nose, which usually was not there. Baby-D held onto his lucky horseshoe belt buckle and spun in circles. Kickstand stood akimbo with an inexplicable case of lockjaw and ground his teeth. His head wobbled on his shoulders like a bobble head doll.

Chino unzipped his fly and wrote his name in the sand with urine. Kickstand laughed though his teeth. Hey homes, you’d better put that thing away before it turns on you and strikes you dead!

Try as it might, the sun failed to turn the men to ash. The vultures circled above, shook their heads in disgust and banked away to look for carrion in a new location.

#

Two days later, most of the second graders were back at school. Those who were not would be returning soon. Miss Baxter marveled at how fortunate they had been. She thanked God repeatedly as she looked around the classroom to check out her tiny troops and their disabilities. Bandages, casts and slings, and a few pairs of the smallest crutches on earth accessorized his and her back-to-school fashions.

Due to the color of his motorcycle, the Santa Cruz Sentinel and the local news station dubbed the unsung hero The White Knight. The reporter said that he, with Miss Baxter at his side, saved Mr. Parks and all of the children from certain death. When interviewed, Stephanie said she had done very little and credited Curtis with saving her too.

Curtis did not read the paper or watch television. He had no idea just how many people wanted to shake his hand, including Miss Baxter.

Stephanie had hardly spoken to Curtis that night, but her feelings for him could not be denied. She was devastated that he disappeared into thin air and she had no idea where to find him. All she knew was he rode a white motorcycle.

The children talked about him constantly. To them, he was a superhero, with super power and super strength. Miss Baxter felt the same way. Her pupils did not need a magnifying glass to see she was smitten with their handsome hero.

At that exact moment, Curtis drove by the school. He thought about going in; perhaps some other time.

The experience with the children opened the door to many cherished memories. He opened a chapter in his book when he was a child, wearing his favorite Yosemite Sam long-sleeve T-shirt, kneeling in his chair at the kitchen table, spoon in hand, watching his mother make lunch.

Lilly Lewis was the center of his world. She used to warm and fluff his baby blanket in the dryer before bundling him up. He loved it when she held him close and snuggled him up. She said he smelled like fresh baked bread. He remembered watching her skirt around the kitchen in her favorite blue dress. She was a lovely, intelligent woman and his dad used to say, If a book can be judged by its cover, she’s a real page-turner.

Curtis recalled his mother lifting his soup spoon to her lips, checking to make sure it would not burn him. Alphabet soup was a lunchtime favorite. She would point out letters floating in his bowl and tell him that eating alphabet soup would improve his vocabulary. Mrs. Lewis taught Curtis how to spell words in his bowl, arranging the letters to say things like I love you, and Mommy knows best.

The memories faded away and Curtis rode past the school several times, hoping to catch a glimpse of Miss Baxter.

#

The Mean 3 rolled through the industrial warehouse district where they lived. Streetlamps were dim or dead and shed little light on Cunningham Drive. A dilapidated button factory shadowed the old liquor warehouse where the Devils dwelled. Late at night, thieves stripped the plant of its iron and copper wire. Flashlight beams, visible through broken windows, plundered about. A train chugged by every so often. The cops did not patrol the warehouse district. They never came unless someone called, and because no one called, they never came.

The old warehouse was where the Mean 3 lived and hibernated. It was where they manufactured methamphetamine. It was where they got cranked out of their minds and drugged crank hoes with speed and angel dust. It was used to part out stolen motorcycles and from time to time a person who had crossed their path.

The Mean 3 had heard a story about a secret society of men who rule the world which hides behind a veil of secrecy so ornate that its own members cannot find their way out. The secret society, known as the Tri-Lateral Commission, inspired the Mean 3 to appropriately dub themselves the Devil’s Triangle.

The Devils stamped out their drug trade with the finesse of a Colombian drug cartel, selling irredeemable stock and hedging the market with supply and demand. Insider trading was not tolerated, and brokers who violated the terms and conditions of the Devils’ exchange lost their investments and were often liquidated.

The Devils’ methodology ruined more families than divorce court. Those who valued their lives kept their noses out of the Devils’ business. Nearly everyone who sailed into the uncharted waters of the Devil’s Triangle drowned or was lost at sea.

The clandestine meth lab, stashed up in the loft, was where they cooked off batches of crank. Powerful exhaust fans blew the toxins sky high where the vapors mixed in with legal life-threatening pollutants released into the sky by the textiles mill nearby.

The boys, wiped out from the trip, pulled up to the front of their sanctuary. Chino hopped off his bike and keyed the lock on the roll-up door. The Hogs’ headlights cast his shadow on the building, his silhouette like the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

The Devils pulled inside and locked the door behind them. Burnt to a crisp, they fell out on the couches, positioned around the stolen big-screen TV. They drained a twelve-pack of beer, replenishing their bodily fluids to acceptable levels. Kickstand turned on the television. They watched sports highlights and officiated with excess flatus fouling the air.

It’s good to be back. Baby-D sighed. I haven’t slept for a week.

Kickstand yawned. Baby-D glanced his way, Kickstand crumpled a beer can and bounced it off Baby-D’s head.

Chino focused on a fly on the end of his nose. His head tilted forward, eyes darting behind their lids.

Baby-D and Kickstand watched the CBS Nightly News. Dan Rather reported that the upcoming presidential election would be a much closer race than previously expected. Despite allegations that Governor Clinton had relations with a stripper and further allegations that he had smoked marijuana, he was pulling ahead in the polls. Kickstand crumpled another can and bounced it off Baby-D’s head.

The trip to Bullhead City was the last leg of a long run. The Devils fell into a deep sleep, though it is widely believed there is no rest for the wicked.

In The Beginning

Chapter 2

It is said that babies do not retain memories. Soft little baby brains have not developed enough to remember anything that happens before the age of three, but not everyone agrees. Experts argue on one hand that if you lock a baby away in a closet, the child will develop into a closet case. On the other hand, experts also argue that the baby Moses did not become a basket case.

Regardless, both sides agree that a baby will have no memory of anything before it speaks its first words, though Baby-D claimed to remember the first words he ever uttered to be more milk please.

Theoretically speaking, it is entirely feasible that a baby’s experiences ingrain into the psyche in the same fashion that the universe is aware of the constellations therein. No matter how young a person is, he or she may not remember, but then again, they may never forget.

Deana Chamberlain was all of fourteen when she gave birth to her sons and became a mother. Chino and Baby-D, though twins, were rarely referred to as such due to the fact they looked nothing alike. The boys were cute babies who slept at opposite ends of their crib and kicked each other in the face and gnawed on each other’s toes.

Deana was bored. She had her eye on a boy who worked up the coast at Uncle John’s Store. She popped into the store wearing her Goodwill dress. Dan came to life. Wow—you really make that dress look good, he said, making her feel very special.

Deana brought Pampers to the counter to alert Dan of the fact that she was not single.

Are the Pampers for you? he inquired.

They’re for my baby boys, she said, watching to see his reaction.

Dan was quick to respond. I like boys, but if anyone deserves to be pampered, it’s you. Deana could not agree more. Dan sniffed around. How’s about we get together Saturday evening?

I take my boys with me wherever I go.

Me too. Dan smiled, palming his family jewels.

#

As a toddler, Curtis followed his parents through their garden and filled the baskets with ripened vegetables. He loved the contrast of colors, tomatoes—blood red; squash—lemon yellow; and pumpkins—orange. Curtis, not yet old enough to attend school, climbed into the garden cart and rode back to the house between pumpkins. He cackled with laughter at his dad who pushed the cart faster, ensuring a fun and bumpy ride.

Jack Lewis loved to clown around. Smart as he was, he did not mind one bit stooping to all new levels. He often hurt himself in the process to get a laugh, which of course only made his loved ones double over with laughter and clap their hands for more. Jack had attended Stanford University, where he met his future wife and Curtis’ mother-to-be, Lilly Clark.

Curtis remembered sitting ringside with his mother while his father stood on his head and twirled plates on his feet. Curtis also remembered his mother saying, No more plates! when they were down to three.

Mr. Lewis did great impressions of the cartoon characters Donald Duck, Porky Pig, Tweety Bird and Curtis’ favorite—Snagglepuss—who chased him around the house.

Curtis loved his parents dearly and they loved him. Dinnertime was good family fun. Curtis did everything he could to help. As a little boy, he sat on the counter, mixed batter and licked the bowl clean. When he was old enough to wield a knife, he chopped vegetables with precision.

The Lewises talked while they ate. After meals, Curtis cleared the table while his mother put the leftovers away. Then, he helped his mom tidy up while his dad loaded the dishwasher.

They watched the evening news together and when it was over they returned to the kitchen for dessert and to unload the dishwasher, which was a task that his dad always performed. Sometimes he let the steam fog his glasses so he could walk around posing as a blind man, always happy to bump into his wife for a hug and a kiss.

Lilly Lewis was a wonderful woman. She played hide-and-seek when Curtis was little; played catch when he was older; and when her husband joined in on the fun, she played hard-to-catch. Curtis loved to watch her try to evade capture, but eventually his dad always caught up to her.

Lilly Lewis had a shoe fetish. She kept every pair she owned in their respective boxes, labeled for color and style, in stacks and rows around the walls of her walk-in closet.

Once a year, Curtis took all of his mother’s shoes out to the garage for a good clean, wax and shine. He held her shoes between his knees and buffed them up as if he were trying to start a fire. It always put a special smile on her face to see him work so diligently to please her.

That September, Curtis set out to clean the gutters and sweep the driveway while his parents drove to town to pick up a present for his birthday. Before they left, his mother gave him a big hug and kissed him on the cheek. We are so proud of you, she said. The day will come when you will make some lucky girl a wonderful husband.

Curtis waved goodbye to his dad. He extended the ladder to the roof and climbed up. He swept the leaves off first, and then scooped the gutters clean.

Curtis was just days away from his seventeenth birthday. Girls were taking up much of the room in his head. He liked the way they looked and he liked the way they smelled. Someday he planned to pick one out and bring her home to meet his parents.

A covey of quail pecking the lawn took flight as a horrendous screech of brakes followed by the sound of metal-to-metal filled the air.

Curtis flew off the roof and hit the ground running. He called 911 and then jammed through the woods that separated their house from the road. He made it to the street in record time and ran toward the scene of the accident.

Cars were stopped in both directions. Curtis sprinted on toward a group of people who stood around the wreckage, unsure what to do.

Curtis pushed through the crowd and bumped into a man who climbed out of one of the wrecks. The man reeked of alcohol and stumbled to the ground. He had crossed the line into the oncoming lane and hit the first car in his path head on, smashing it beyond recognition.

Curtis made his way to the man crumpled behind the steering wheel of the other car. He yanked on the driver’s door. The door gave way and Curtis fell back and down on the road. The man tumbled out of the car at Curtis’ feet. His neck was broken, his face battered beyond recognition. The woman in the passenger seat was pinned, crushed against the dashboard and covered with blood.

Suddenly, Curtis realized that the man who lay dead at his feet was his father—the woman, his mother. Curtis scrambled frantically through the wreckage, cradling his mother in his arms, crying out to God as her life drained out into his hands.

Five days later on a bleak and dreary Saturday afternoon, a stunned and bewildered Curtis stood next to his grandparents as his beloved mother and father were lowered into the ground, the very people who brought him into the world—seventeen years earlier to the day.

After the funeral, a few distant relatives and friends, some from afar, convened at the Lewis home for the very last time to bid Jack and Lilly Lewis farewell.

Curtis’ grief was deep and sorrowful. He broke away from the others and sat on the dock by the river, wondering how far he might go if he climbed in the canoe and never looked back. He might have gone, but his grandparents needed him as much as he needed them. Curtis walked up to the house and beyond, though the woods, to the street and spot in the road where his parents had lost their lives. He sat down on the curb, buried his face in his hands, and struggled against all odds to comprehend their death and the depth of his loss.

Curtis sobbed. Tears fell from his cheeks to the ground in the gutter where bits and pieces of the windshield’s safety glass mixed in with the dirt and leaves. There in the mix Curtis found the smashed silver rims of his father’s glasses broken to bits, not a speck of glass left in the crinkled metal frames. Curtis put them in his shirt pocket and stood up to back away from the haunting. Stumbling upon something hidden in the grass, Curtis, pitiful as could be, looked down and discovered one of his mother’s newly shined shoes, tarnished and stained with blood.

#

Deana’s primping and preening became suspect. Her mother, grandmother and great-grandmother, commonly known as the Momsters, sat on the couch in chronological pecking order, sharing a bottle of port and chain-smoking cigarettes. A grey cloud of smoke wafted around their heads and shoulders. When the Momsters saw the hemline of the new skirt Deana purchased at Goodwill, their ashen faces poked through the fog, their nicotine-stained lips cursing in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. They went nuts, rattling on and on lecturing Deana about birthing more babies.

Deana hugged a son to each hip and, without saying goodbye, made her way to the car, bumping the boys’ heads into the doorjambs along the way. She placed her babies in their car seats in the backseat of the Chevy Impala their father had left behind when he left for prison unannounced.

Deana adjusted the rearview mirror so that she could keep a close eye on her sons. Up to that very moment, their lives had been normal considering they were too young to know the difference. Unfortunately, the good life was about to take a turn for the worse.

Dan sat outside Uncle John’s Store, a grocery bag full of goodies at his side. He turned his collar up against the ocean breeze and lit a cigarette. Deana pulled into the parking lot and Dan flicked his cigarette butt skyward and hopped into the car. He directed Deana up the dirt road between the store and the bar to the house also owned by his uncle, which was hidden from view behind huge blackberry bushes and a stand of eucalyptus.

Deana willed her skirt to travel up as she used the clutch to gear down. She kept one eye on the road and one on Dan. He placed a hand on her leg, and the way she responded gave him cause to move to her inner thigh. Deana spread her legs slightly; their intentions were obvious.

The house was old, but big; Deana was impressed. Dan lived in the living room. His furnishings consisted of a couch, two overstuffed chairs, a coffee table, two end tables, lamps, a monstrous stereo system, a color TV and a queen-size bed.

Every place to sit was piled sky high with boxes, clothes and records—anything that would take up space and force Deana to sit on the bed.

Dan set Deana’s babies, who were sound asleep in their car seats, on the coffee table. He popped two beers open and handed one to Deana. The accomplished drinkers quickly swilled them down. Deana sat on the bed and Dan put a bottle of whiskey to her lips. She tilted her head back and took a swig.

Dan sat next to her and Deana lay down. They made out for a while and drank more booze. He unbuttoned her blouse and gave her breasts his undivided attention. Deana responded by pulling her hemline up and pushing his head down. Dan liked her style.

#

Curtis picked up his mother’s