Where's Skeeter, Mommy?: The Child Advocate

By James Fairchild

"This manuscript is nothing short of incredible . . . an amazing story of abuse and survival. While heart-wrenching, we were left inspired. Elizabeth Collins, CEO Gardenia Press, Milwaukee Wisconsin, whose editors read a total of "5" times.
The novel is about a couple that cant come to terms with their own childhood problems when she becomes a volunteer child advocate. The manuscript explores life in the Los Angeles area during the 1980s and 1990s with its population growth, religious dynamics, brutal homicides, and publicized pre-school child perversion as a struggling, upward mobile, middle income couple try to cope with a world they never realized existed. She dives headfirst into volunteer child advocacy. He remains distant bent upon developing his executive career. And then the criminals come into focus and change everything for both dramatic, up-scale literary fiction based upon real events. James Fairchilds -"Wheres Skeeter, Mommy?(The Child Advocate)" is a fast-paced, nitty gritty must-read for anyone interested in the welfare of children.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 31, 2003
• ISBN: 9781469120218

James Fairchild

James Fairchild is a writer and researcher of espionage and military history. He is from Connecticut and is partial fo fine cigars, single malt Scotch whiskey, and beautiful blondes. His newest novel "My Girlfriend's UFO" is now available at Smashwords.com! Check back at this website for new releases!

Book preview

WHERE’S SKEETER, MOMMY?

The Child Advocate

James Fairchild

Cover art, poems and letters by kg.

Copyright © 2003 by James Fairchild.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2002095354

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Based upon a true story, the following book is fiction. Any similarity to persons, places, and events of anyone now living or deceased is purely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

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Contents

A NEW BEGINNING

CHAPTER 2 THE ADVOCATE

CHAPTER 3 THE CHILD ADVOCATE

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6 NEW BEGINNING PART II

CHAPTER 7

Dear Frank: My Beloved Captor

A man of war: strife, destruction, suffering, anguish and torment. The enemy within is a cruel and merciless captor.

A man of struggle, with himself, the past, and finally with God. I allowed all that you are to enslave me and hold me captive with you. My love kept me there for so very long.

As I lie dying night after lonely night, I began to do what you always did so well: I would torture my soul. There was no relief;

days and nights of haunting nothingness.

I would hold you and comfort you, sing for you, and wait for you to allow me to live.

We fought a common foe together for many years: Rejection, hurt, broken hearts, slights and slanders. We were prodded, provoked, humiliated, and cursed, but we fought on.

On the day of my escape, I realized the battle was lost; the enemy had already won and taken you captive. At this point of defeat, I now claim victory.

As I flee to my refuge of safety and peace, I call to you, to encourage you, to strengthen you; to tell you I love you—Beloved Captor.

Sharon

A NEW BEGINNING

Awaking consciousness came slowly that morning and although it seldom frosts in Southern California, a sharp chill filled the room. I felt a warmth against my body. Thinking the warmth was Sharon, I reached and pulled the clump of blankets next to me closer and kissed her gently on the neck and shoulders as I had in the past. But the blankets were empty. She was long gone from my life; the warmth-her little dog Cisco.

A year and six months, newly divorced, I would awake each day with her name sounding loud in my heart, in my thoughts, and on my lips repeating over and over, again and again like a mantra—Sharon . . . Sharon . . . Sharon.

Until two days ago, I was near healed, but after seeing her for the first time since separating, the mantra returned. Now, gripped with the emptiness that long months of loneliness had brought, groggy from a bad night’s sleep, I pushed the dog to one side. Wishing, as I turned over facing the wall, that I had not seen her again, and wishing that if there were no hope of reconciliation, I could flush her memory from my mind and just let go. She had captivated me to near dysfunction; her essence still echoed loudly in my self-tortured soul. After seeing her, the sad dull ache of remembering returned. My life seemed meaningless again, my direction scattered. When does it end? I thought aloud, feeling sorry for myself, talking to that imaginary caring for someone I had fathered long ago. Why must I continue to punish myself for losing her? What’s over is over, and even though I pray for a new beginning, one never comes—Sharon . . . Sharon . . . Sharon, the chant returned, repeating itself incessantly.

I sat up, still mumbling. You live in the spiritual realm, I live in the physical. Where is my peace, my purpose without you? When does this imprisonment end? Perhaps not until I join you in your world, or you in mine. Perhaps never. Knowing you as I do, there will be no compromise. I moaned, slowly conscious of the phone buzzing in the next room.

After all this time, I should be through grieving. I lifted myself out to the floor. My waterbed gurgled in response. But the pain seems greater now than it was a year ago. What we two had together must have been real, at least it was for me.

The answer machine off, the phone continued to ring. Kicking the empty wine bottle and beer cans aside, I pulled away from my past ritual of self-torture and answered it.

Frank Woods! The voice on the other end said. It’s been a long time since we’ve talked. It’s me, June. I’ve wanted to talk to you many times this past year.

Hi, June, I replied, apprehensive about what may be coming next, knowing that if June had wanted to talk to me in the past year, she would have. Right about then, I hated her. I regarded her as one of the key players in my divorce, and I certainly didn’t want to talk to her. Yes! And I have wanted to talk to you too, I lied, about Sharon, assuming that Sharon was the reason she had called. What is it?

I didn’t want to get into a discussion about Sharon. She’s far too complex a person for June to understand. And I didn’t want to give her any more information than necessary, knowing it would be just like her to go back to Sharon and repeat, Frank said this about you.

Do you know where your wife is?

She isn’t my wife anymore, but I know that she’s supposed to be in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania attending some sort of religious school. Why? Is there a problem? Where is she?

June paused a long while, keeping me in suspense. My irritation began to grow.

Do you even know if you are really divorced? I mean, did you ever get any paperwork or anything saying the divorce was final?

No. But it’s final in Sharon’s mind, and that’s good enough for me. I’ll go to the courthouse in Riverdale and check on it someday, if paperwork ever becomes important.

No, I mean she always seemed to be having a problem. First her lawyer said it was filed, then he said it wasn’t. The last time I talked to her, she didn’t know if it was final or not.

What a busybody, June. Her kinds enjoy infiltrating others’ lives and destroying them. When I first met her, her negative demeanor made it obvious her marriage was humdrum and empty. She must have needed a diversion of sorts. Something to while away the lonely hours. She crept into our life by the back door, acting as a friend, and proceeded to criticize and tear down our relationship at a time when Sharon was vulnerable. I had just lost my high-paying job and wanted to open our own business to survive. Sharon had just finished an advocacy. June convinced her we were going to lose everything, even the house. The next thing I knew, Sharon had filed and then, poof, June vanished. I could feel the heat rise on my forehead, but I controlled my anger.

Where is Sharon?

In Israel, she said, almost indignant.

Israel? I didn’t need to ask why. She told me she was going to Pennsylvania for a three-week school on the Bible. Thinking that it wasn’t a good time to travel anywhere near Arab countries, the Khomeini had his hit squads out for Americans, the PLO were kidnapping and holding for ransom, and Gadhafi was high jacking and killing. Just a few months ago, Algerian militants had high jacked a luxury liner and killed several Americans on board. They threw a crippled old Jewish man over the side. I shuddered to think what they would do to a pretty woman like Sharon.

She gave Diane and me the key to her apartment. Last night she called us both and told us to dump everything if she didn’t return by the end of March when her rent runs out.

Just the sound of June’s whine disturbed me. What do you mean, dump everything? There must be forty thousand dollars worth of art work, furniture, and clothing, all of which I paid for.

That’s what she said, sell it, take it, or give it away.

I’ll tell you right now, June. No one is going to dump her things if she doesn’t return. I’ll have them put in storage for her. Someday she’ll return and need them.

Her mother wants to make sure that everything Sharon had that belongs to her is returned.

Her mother? The cold-hearted bitch! When did you talk to her mother?

She’s been calling me every week for the last three months to inquire about Sharon. She and Sharon aren’t speaking.

I wouldn’t talk to her. The parents would both like to get their hands on Sharon’s art work and furniture. Half of everything I had that I thought of as having value ended up in her father’s trunk when we went our separate ways. Also my guns and who knows what else. Clearly, they thought they had a right to whatever they wanted. They thought they had a right to invade our personal space and play games with us. But now they find they can’t control Sharon. And they’re afraid that if she spends all the money she made on the sale of our house and doesn’t get a job to support herself they will have to take care of her. What few things they had given her, they begrudged her. Nothing in the past fourteen years as long as I’ve known her. I stopped. I was venting anger. I was giving more detail than I wanted to with June. Knowing she would relay, verbatim, everything I said back to Sharon’s mother, I stopped. No sense in wedging a permanent chasm between parents and daughter.

I thought we were finished talking, but June wanted to go on. They think she’s crazy.

I know, they told me that one time in so many words, but there is nothing wrong with her. They just don’t understand the kind of life she wants to live. They don’t understand, because they think they’ve discovered the secret formula for successful living. In reality, they live a very staid, unemotional, non-giving existence. If there is anything wrong with Sharon, it’s because they’ve neverapproved of anything she ever wanted to do and criticized everything she did. Sharon just wants to be accepted for herself and left alone. She doesn’t need constant supervision as if she were brainless. She listens until she can’t take any more then blows up. If I knew so much about Sharon—my mind tormented me as if someone listening, prodding me—why now? Why, after all this time, do I suddenly wake up?

And that is where she is right now, I said. They want control of her money. In fact, her father tried to play a little shell game scam on her to wrestle the money into his own bank account, but she caught on. They don’t want to take care of her when she’s broke.

I hadn’t talked to anyone about the divorce. The words just spilled out. This didn’t please me. Mentally, I was kicking myself in the butt. Talking to June always irritated me. She was so devious; I never knew what she was up to. This time, it could be serious thievery.

But do you trust Diane? Don’t you think she’ll rip Sharon off while she’s away?

I didn’t know how or why Diane’s name came up, but I replied, thinking that maybe this was the reason June had called in the first place. No, she won’t rip her off. And then it occurred to me, June didn’t know Diane. She met her once, maybe twice, but never knew her close enough to accuse her of being a thief. The words sounded like Sharon’s mother’s sentiments. As she spoke next, I could visualize the three of them driving up with their little trailer and ransacking Sharon’s apartment.

I turned my key in to her landlady. And don’t want to be responsible if something’s missing.

Chances are it’s too late now, they’ve already come and gone; but if not, I needed to get that place locked up fast. Let me talk with Diane and see if Sharon is returning on the fifteenth, the last date that I was aware of, and I’ll call you back.

I quickly dialed the number that was etched in my memory. The voice of a little girl answered. Hi Diane, Frank Woods. How are you?

Hey! Frankie, baby, where have you been? she replied, drawing the ie, making the name sound feminine.

For some reason, I hated when people did that.

I haven’t heard from you all year!

A year and a half is more like it, Diane. Then, in my usual obtuse manner, I skipped the formalities. I understand you have a key to Sharon’s apartment while she’s in Israel.

Who told you she’s in Israel?

Her friend June. After Sharon told you both what her plans were, the locks need changing. June said that she turned her key in to the landlady.

I already had them changed, Frank. I went over there the other day to get Sharon’s car. There was June going through Sharon’s things. So I kicked her out, changed the locks, and took all her papers to the lawyer’s house for safekeeping. I was afraid her parents were going to try to use her writings to have her committed. Wasn’t it Sharon’s grandmother who was put in an asylum for depression when she was about Sharon’s age?

Yes! And she probably only had PMS or was going through menopause.

Diane laughed.

Actually Diane, they would love to get their hands on the money and furnishings.

Have you seen June lately? She really looks bizarre.

No, I haven’t. Talking to her was enough, but I imagine she’s still blond and dumpy.

She lost a lot of weight, colored her hair red, and now combs it just like Sharon. In fact, she even dresses the same. She had her back to me when I walked into the apartment. I thought she was Sharon. Scared the hell out of me because I knew I’d put Sharon on the plane to Israel the day before. Diane became quiet. You know, she talked Sharon into leaving you.

"Yes, I know. She and that twit Sandra. Sandra told Sharon that if I wasn’t in the same place as she with the Lord, that I would hold her back. Then she divorced me.

It really bothers me that her parents are acting this way. They’re the only ones that can hurt her, I said again, after further silence. And now that I’m out of the picture, I have no say in her life. If the truth be known, I never did.

Diane and Sharon had once been inseparable; Sharon choosing to spend most of her free time at Diane’s or with Diane in some way. But along with me and Sharon’s parents, Diane, too, became excess baggage, discarded when Sharon exited our world eighteen months ago.

If anyone tries to hurt Sharon, she exclaimed, I’ll kill ‘em.

If Diane had told me that she would kill anyone five years ago, I would have passed it off as bravado. Because then, first knowing her, I had thought she had a flair for the dramatic. But that morning my emotions were mixed. Certain things, a string of incidents that had happened over the last three years left me wondering and at times shaking my head—shaking it not in disgust as I should because the events that had happened were repulsive (murder for any reason should always be repulsive), but shaking it in astonishment. Not that I thought Diane had anything to do with murdering anyone. She had said things like Ill kill them before in casual conversation. But when Sharon and I first met her, our lives weren’t so immediate, or so fragile. Also, in those first days, I was engrossed in my own work problems and never paid too much attention to female talk.

Those incidents that somehow in my mind bridged Diane to them were, in reality, light years removed. The people involved were common malignants. Anyone could have been their predator. Those that were killed must have had many enemies. They were so jaded; it was a wonder they had lived as long as they had. I was an enemy.

But Diane radiates justice—a spirit of justice—to everyone involved with her at any level that must have reached some person she had touched. A spirit that generates a desire for action; a desire to swiftly return all things to normal even if normal means violence. I was touched.

Not often is it in this day and age that anyone would kill to regress grievances against a friend. There doesn’t seem to be a need for it. Retribution used to be a matter of honor. Today, honor among friends, among family, among business associates, as among allied nations seems nonexistent, at best.

Because Sharon and Diane had become good friends—partners, working as volunteer child advocates on the same molestation cases—their relationship was more than casual. They were more than two housewives spending a couple of hours a day gossiping, cooking, or whatever, and certainly more than two women working side by side in an industry or some remote business office. In fact their relationship, while Sharon and I were married, was more supercharged with emotion and purpose in a common cause than ours was in marriage. In those days, that fact caused me much irritation and heartache.

But something happened that separated them eighteen months ago, about the time we were divorcing, that I have never found out about. Sharon, for whatever reason, wouldn’t talk to me about it, and I didn’t press an answer. So it was a surprise to me that they were together again. Maybe their getting back together was a matter of loneliness for both. After all, Sharon had been in isolation, and I knew that any reconciliation had to be initiated by her. Maybe it was that human weakness that drives people to return to happier times. Whatever negative feeling that had transpired seemed permanently put aside.

In eighteen months, Sharon had grown or changed so dynamically; I wondered, apart from their past heartbreaks in chasing child molesters, had they still anything more in common other than mutual respect? And I was certain Sharon didn’t want to re-enter child advocacy. Her last experience had left her nearly catatonic.

I don’t understand why she needed to keep her trip to Israel a secret, especially from me. I have always supported anything she wanted to do, even, I searched my memory for some common ground, even when the two of you discovered that the case involving those four deaf children was a part of a larger kiddie porn ring with roots worldwide. That is, trying to calm my voice which had risen from its normal bass monotone to quivering alto, I supported it until we were threatened with extinction.

I know you did, Diane said. She just didn’t want you to worry.

Worry? I worry more about her living in San Bernardino or Riverdale County with all those Satanists and perverts than I do her visiting Israel. Unless she is trying to convert all the Muslims and Jews to Christianity.

I don’t know why she went, except that Sharon said the Lord told her that He wanted her to go to Jerusalem again. I think she is trying to find out what He wants her to do with her life. She doesn’t even get up in the morning unless He tells her to.

Nothing’s changed, I said. Sharon believes that there is something or someone special somewhere out there, I made an encompassing gesture extending my arm and hand, that God had set aside for her to do, or for her to be with. And who am I to say there isn’t? The Bible says, ‘Seek and you shall find.’

Quietly, I thought for a moment then spoke as if I were some sort of expert on Christianity. I’m not. People can’t go to the extreme of waiting for God to tell them their every move. Even the world’s religious leaders who claim to be on a first name basis with the Lord say you can’t live your life that way. Somehow, sometimes you have to discern between God speaking and your own desires telling you what to do, and . . .

Sharon doesn’t believe that the world’s religious leaders are in the same place that she is.

They probably aren’t, at least most. Did she go by herself?

Yes, she did. But somehow I can’t picture a cute woman like her roaming the streets of Israel unescorted, and unmolested.

She knows how to take care of herself in a foreign land. She’ll be all right. Then remembering how well she used to handle herself when she was a child advocate, Don’t forget about the last six years, Diane. She’ll be all right.

She looks pretty cute now after she lost all that weight and changed her hair to blond, Diane said. Mike thinks she looks better heavier and as a redhead.

So do I. She seems to have aged five years in the last one.

Don’t you think much of that is due to the pressure she hasput on herself to be perfect?

Yes, Diane, it’s pretty hard to go from normal to perfection in a few years. The sad part is that we can’t be perfect. She’d better ease up on herself before she breaks.

I’ll try to talk to her when she returns. Oh! By the way, how did you make out when you testified in federal court against those two men you worked for?

The whole incident was scary. The week before the court date, four or five weird phone calls came in from some of their friends asking me not to testify. The last one demanded I don’t say anything. My lawyer, who used to be a U.S. attorney, found out from one of his fellow attorneys that those two were trying to put the guilt on me. As it turned out, my story was the same as the others who testified. They got sentenced last week. One got fined, and the other got jail time.

Do you think they’ll try to get back at you in some way?

I hope not, but I did get a phone call left on my answering machine last week which said, ‘Hey, you fat little fuck, I m going to get you.’ I didn’t recognize the voice and I’m not fat, but I am short and stocky. So it couldn’t have been a crank call.

If it wasn’t a prank, what are you going to do?

I’ve thought about that quite a lot. If I knew for sure they were after me, I’d try to get them first. The Feds said, in so many words, they didn’t think there would be any problem. After all, and I quote, ‘whatever they did was only for money.’ But it seems to me, if I remember my history correctly, whatever Al Capone and his types did was only for money. Both these two have the same greedy ‘don’t get in my way of making a buck’ philosophy.

What would you use?

If anyone else but Diane had asked that question, it would have seemed out of place, but there were times in the past when we all carried some type of weapon. Diane and Sharon, from time to time, even had a bodyguard—Smokey, a former Marine with the biggest .357 magnum I’d ever seen. So, I answered her softly without trying to seem too flip, A bow and arrow.

Back to basics, huh, she replied, too interested in every detail.

It’s always disarming to talk with someone like Diane. She puts importance on every word said, every detail. Disarming, especially in the today world where most people nod or mouth acknowledgment of conversations, but somehow nothing ever registers. Most people just don’t give a damn.

Let me know if there’s a problem, and I’ll tell Richie to look into it, she continued.

Richie was an L.A. County sheriff investigator assigned to the Child Abuse Unit investigating Diane’s case.

By the way, Sharon calls me every Friday; so if she calls tonight, I’ll let you know when she’s coming home.

Thanks. We said our good-byes and hung up. I called June back and verified Sharon’s plans to return, hoping that would put an end to any scavenger activities in progress. But it was nice to talk to Diane again. She had always been someone special to me, a rare person. A woman known by all law and order advocate groups as a militant mom.

When Sharon told me about her a few years ago, I was going through one of my ‘I m tired of this shit’ moods and wasn’t tuned in as loud as I should have been. Over several conversations, Sharon said that a few years earlier Diane had learned from her oldest son, then eight years old, that three of her boys, aged three, five, and eight, were being molested during school hours, as well as after school, by a group of people in her neighborhood who then had control over Diane’s children’s activities. The neighborhood, the babysitter, most families on the block, who were in or had ties to the local government as well as the legal community, were part of a ritualistic child abuse cult that turned out to be third-generation cultists.

Diane didn’t call me back that night. Sharon called after midnight, sounding bubbly and happy—usual for her because she’s normally a happy, vivacious person. Hi! Frank, she said softly, her voice sounding far away.

Hi! Where are you calling from—Bethlehem, Pennsylvania or Israel? I wanted to hear it from her directly.

I’m in Israel. I called to apologize for lying to you. I feel sorry about that because I’ve never done that to you before. If nothing else, we’ve had an open and honest relationship, and that lie makes me feel bad.

That’s one I owe you, but I understand. And I really did understand. She had been criticized so much for so many things, by her parents, as well as—when we first married—by me, that I could understand her not wanting to put up with it again. But I had quit criticizing her long ago, once I had figured out the dynamics between her mother, father, and her and how she really felt deep down about the gyrations they put each other through. Then too, of all the things that had transpired in our short life together, and all the things that I felt she had done to me, one small lie hardly had any significance. When are you returning?

I’m not sure yet. I would like to lay over another week for Easter services, but I’m not sure the Israeli Government will allow a reschedule.

We chatted about her trip for a few minutes. She asked me to look into shipping her car to Israel, because renting was so expensive. She was thinking she wanted to return and make her home in Jerusalem. June and Diane had softened that blow for me, though neither had mentioned the car, but even being forewarned, I had to stop talking to let the lump pass that had risen in my throat and blocked all air passage.

It’s a lease car, and leasing companies almost never authorize movement of a vehicle out of state, let alone out of country, but I’ll look into the costs.

I’m sorry June called. Please don’t get in the middle of June and my parental triangle.

I have no desire to speak to either of those three ever again.

We said our good-byes and hung up. I sat for a moment, composing myself before returning to bed, the chant beating steadily louder in my chest—Sharon . . . Sharon . . . Sharon. What am I going to do with you, Sharon?

I waited until the next morning to call Diane to tell her the news about Sharon’s plans, but she already knew everything including shipping the car. We agreed that shipping a car from the U.S. was the costliest way of getting a car to Israel. But if she bought one from closer it would leave me with an extra car and an extra car payment. Diane then said she would be glad to take the car and finish the lease. I, knowing Sharon had nothing but problem after problem with it, felt apprehensive. Diane didn’t need a lemon. And I was too heartsick to really want to think about it.

Sharon returned on the 15th as previously scheduled. The Israeli Government didn’t allow substitutions or reschedules once they had checked their tourists’ authenticity—too many terrorists, too many highjackings. She called me late that afternoon to say she was home safe and inquire about her dog Cisco. I returned him the next day.

I always enjoy seeing Sharon. I saw her the day before she flew out, supposedly for Pennsylvania. Looking back, she acted sheepish when she told me of her planned trip. She got teary, which I misinterpreted at the time as sadness. That was our first physical meeting since our break-up. I felt bad. I thought she was feeling remorseful at us no longer being a couple.

She called me from out of nowhere and asked me to take care of her dog, and, by the way, I haven t received any alimony from you in eighteen months or so, when are you going to start paying? She had said she was leaving for a few weeks and invited me to meet her for breakfast the next day.

Later on, much later in my life, long after I thought I could read her thinking, her emotions, her true intentions, I realized that this beautiful person was far above my capacity to understand. As a man, I was too grounded in the today world. She lived in a world I did not, nor ever would be capable of comprehending. Not because she was a woman—women as a group have always bewildered and scared the hell out of me—but because in her world, nothing is known about survival the direct way. And I am sure that if life were just survival, there would be very few women around—women, that is to say, real femininity, not the soft, boyish types. The kinds of women who give men pain, deep down, right above the pelvis. The kinds that no matter what the priorities, always seem to have their own agendas out of phase with men’s reality. The kinds that bring the water to the well.

Sharon, then as now, has that kind of beauty that makes most men uncomfortable, like looking at a work of fine art, bringing both pleasure and pain—passionate pain. Then, she combed her cropped short hair back, seemingly disarrayed until closer inspection revealed each hair waved or curled into its proper place, giving her a casual, approachable yet demure appearance. When her hair was light reddish color, it seemed to blend perfectly with the light reddish brown hue of her skin and emerald green eyes.

Like most warm-weather people, she dressed casually in loose-fitting clothes, appearing almost as if she were just ready to board a large yacht for an informal gathering of millionaire friends. Then, as now, she had a way of approaching men she knows and likes, her fragrant, curvaceous body pulsating upward and receptive, which makes a man’s heart beat faster, the temperature rise. Being short, she then rises and kisses full on the lips; she smiles, pulls back, grabbing the hand and squeezing gently, releasing slowly.

There have been times, when I first met her, and later even now, when being greeted like that would leave me speechless, talking to myself, and ready for a cold shower or rather more intimate things. And after all these years, that greeting still has the same effect.

That morning when she opened the door, her back to the light, still dressed in her nightie and I could see the gentle, artistic feminine curves that run from her neckline to her ankles, my in-sides fluttered from remembering. She still looked more than good, a little tired from her trip, with hair now streaked blond over brown, but as gorgeous as ever. She didn’t greet me as usual. She was aggravated about something. I asked her for a hug, and even though her heart wasn’t in it, the results were the same—my inner chaos.

June was just here and made a scene. She forced her way in after I opened the door. I had to physically push her out. I put my hands on her chest and pushed like this. Sharon extended her arms straight, one hand bracing the other, and made a pushing, lunging motion. "What a witch. Some of my clothes are missing. Iaccused her of taking them. Then June said, ‘But what about Diane?’ And I said, ‘Don’t worry about Diane, I’ll take care of Diane. Anyway, Diane doesn’t wear my size. But even if you didn’t steal my clothes, you stole something from me—my parents. What gave you the right to talk to them about me? What gave you the right to try and replace me in their lives?’ Then I called her a bitch and slammed the door in her face.

I’m sorry I called her a bitch.

I could hear her yell from outside the door. ‘And you call yourself a Christian? What kind of a Christian are you?’ I called back, ‘You know nothing about Christianity, you stole something from me!

Well, you’ll never see her again. I was happy that she had ended it with June. I’ll never know why they became friends in the first place. Their paths just crossed like some of the others Sharon became fast friends with, only to learn the hard way that they were the wrong types to tie-in with.

June showed up one Sunday with her two boys, wearing swim clothes. She was giddily happy at the time when Sharon and I were near divorce. She took Sharon by the hand and tried introducing her to Corona’s nightlife. I worked all the time and, with Diane out of the picture for some reason, June was Sharon’s only female friend. Then June sells her house and moves to Redlands, some forty miles away. And where did Sharon move after she sold our house? Redlands. So you can see why I’m glad she’s gone. I think June was a latent lesbian. She seemed to hate men for tying her down to her children and her house. And she hung on Sharon as if they were sisters or twins—Siamese twins.

Frank! You should see her. She is trying to look just like me. She dresses like me. She changed her hair to light-red and combs it like I used to, and . . . she paused to calm herself, she even lost weight to be my size.

I shook my head and said, Sick.

Sharon raved on, I thought for a minute I was looking at myself in the mirror. The pupils of her eyes narrowed, making the emeralds larger and more noticeable as she went on. But thepeople that I am really angry with are my parents. I called them and my dad answered. He wouldn’t let me speak to mom. He told me she went to the store. Now Frank, did you ever know my mom to go to the store at seven thirty in the morning?

Of course, I had to answer, No! Her father always used some excuse like that to shield his wife when she didn’t want to be bothered with Sharon.

I told him that I felt they had betrayed me. That how could they confide in someone like June, a mere stranger? They could have June as their daughter—they deserve each other—and that they are about as shallow as she. I added this last part because my dad was nasty and cold throughout our whole conversation, which had started out casual—me telling him about my trip. I just knew he was adding up what it had cost me the whole time I was telling him about it. All I am to him is a balance sheet.

She began to cry. I put my arms out and pulled her close. She put her head on my shoulder and sobbed, broken hearted.

After a few minutes I said to cheer her, How could you leave me and think that you could find someone else? Heck! What if he were someone taller? You wouldn’t have any place to put your head when you need to cry. She forced a smile as she snuggled in my arms, her head still on my shoulder; her breasts pressed gently against mine. I could feel her heartbeat slowing beneath her nightie and I wanted to stay there—permanent, content, and in some way ready to die. As she spoke next, I grew nervous at that last thought and released her, reluctantly, thinking that it takes both to be ready to die in each other’s arms or it’s no good.

Sharon spoke, pulling me back into the moment. I wrote a letter to my parents in hopes of clearing the air, informing them once and for all where I stand in my relationship to God and where that puts them in relation to me. She handed me an envelope. Take this home with you, I’ll talk to you about it later.

I spent the remaining day with her, talking not of old things, which we would never do again, but of the new. We talked of the future, the horizon beyond worldly comprehension, beyond the newspapers, the funnies, beyond those things that most people wish and want and never know for certain. We talked about God, the Bible, the man Jesus—not the faith, but the fact.

Talking with Sharon again was cathartic, like having a mental enema. I felt drained of all the poison that had built up in my brain and was ready for a new beginning. When I arrived back at my own apartment, I opened and read Sharon’s letter to her parents:

Dear Mom and Dad: March 16, 1989

I really can’t understand why you felt it necessary to discuss the breach in our relationship with a stranger when all that was needed was to pick up the phone and call me—not June. I feel betrayed. Betrayed, since you discussed at great length my apparent insanity and other very personal matters. Dad, how can you compare me with your mother? If she were as crazy as I, then I pity the poor woman for having had to live in an institution for twenty-plus years and having been married to such a fool like your father. That sure explains why you’re so cold, so rigid, and so unyielding. I have rarely even spoken to June in the past year.

I love you both and respect you for raising me. However, I don’t feel like I can or need to live up to be as good, as smart, as established, or as business-minded as you have wanted. I am just what and who I am. If you love me, then you will accept this and just love me.

I’m not happy about the breach in our relationship right now. In some way, I feel that my faith stands between us. I have yielded my life to the Lord Jesus Christ. And this has given me an inner peace and happiness that I feel has released me from trying to live a lie, or having to explain myself, or caring if this labels me emotionally unstable and insecure. I am not a fanatic. I have chosen to live my life as God intended, as spelled out in the Bible, and I don’t feel I need to be persecuted or criticized for it by those who choose differently, especially by my family.

Faith in Christ is not a philosophy, nor an abandonment of reality, nor an emotional crutch. Faith in Christ is an ultimate in truth, in hope, and in the justification of life.

I love you and pray for God’s will in your lives. You need to accept Jesus Christ. He loves you and He calls.

Love Sharon.

After reading this letter, I called her and suggested she sit on it for a few days before she sends it. A week later she informed me she rewrote it with less of the anger.

CHAPTER 2 THE ADVOCATE

The phone ringing shattered the peacefulness that Sunday morning in June 1983. I was complacent and happy, because after a stormy six years of marriage our relationship seemed to be settling down. Sharon and I planned to spend the day lying around the pool soaking up the sun’s warm rays. Making coffee in the kitchen, she would not answer it; still the ringing persisted. I felt intruded upon.

In the past, there had been more than one weekend spoiled for us by an early morning caller. Spoiled by people that could push Sharon’s or my anger button. We would end up arguing about right and wrong, or what place she held in my life as my second wife, or depending upon whose friend had called, how we were going to spend that day. Looking back, this was probably the last peaceful moment we shared together. Sharon finally answered. I could tell by her response, the caller was her mother.

They talked for a minute. Without warning, in what seemed to be a normal innocuous conversation, Sharon became hysterical and hung-up. She was overwrought in what appeared to be grief, hands over her eyes crying, running, weaving from wall to wall down the hallway until she reached the bathroom.

Perplexed, I followed close behind as she locked herself in. She continued crying.

I tried talking to her through the door without success.

Twenty minutes passed before I could get her to calm down. She opened the door and came into my arms sobbing, still unable to speak. Each time she tried, she bubbled a few times then the crying flared up again. I held her gently, letting the tears flow. Whatever her mother had told her seemed catastrophic. I asked her if something had happened to her father, one of her brothers, an aunt, or an uncle, and each time, she shook her head, no. I let it go and didn’t press her for an answer the rest of the morning. She went back to bed and lay front-side up, eyes open, tears flowing from time to time until she dozed off.

Later, on the afternoon news, I got the answer. Her childhood friends the Ryens were murdered in their home, a ranch in Chino Hills. The news was still unsure about the details but a neighbor, whose son had spent the night, found them that morning when he went to pick up all the kids for church. The Ryens had a boy and a girl. There were two boys and one girl found. One boy was still alive with a slashed throat and in critical condition; everyone else was dead—mutilated.

Over the next few days as the details were released, Sharon seemed bewildered at the unfathomable uselessness of it all and then she became angry. She said that the Ryens, a couple who planned their life from the beginning, did all the right things—worked their way through chiropractic school, worked hard at building a clientele, waited until they were established before they had children, saved their money and bought a ranch when living in Chino Hills wasn’t fashionable, and enjoyed life to its fullest. Then along comes some asshole programmed from birth to lose, in and out of jails and mental hospitals, escapes from Chino, a medium-security prison where he shouldn’t have been in the first place, holes up in a vacant ranch next to the Ryens, feels the need for a woman, having done time for rape at knife point, helps himself at the Ryen house and afterwards massacres the whole family.

She expressed anger at a world that would create such a monster—anger at a system that is blase about violent criminals, that treats its criminals like victims and victims like criminals. We live in a world turned upside down by the bleeding heart liberals who think that liberalism brings greater freedom when just the opposite is true.

We both knew that violence existed, but it had never been that close before. Her anger grew and joined mine as we both were about to learn that in a permissive society it’s not the intelligent, the educated, the dedicated, or the righteous that control and rule; it’s the violent, the conniving, the cheat, the liar, the unruly, the demented, and the I want something for nothing, who do. And, although this country was founded upon rules of freedom that protected individuals from encroachment, somewhere, somehow, that had been reversed in Chino Hills that Saturday night.

A week later the Chino Hills homeowners association invited the superintendent of the Department of Corrections to speak to the concerned citizens about security and the breach that brought about the tragedy. As we arrived that balmy Tuesday evening, we could see by the lack of parking that we were not the only ones upset. The Wednesday newspapers said, "Two thousand angry people from this white-collar community voiced their disapproval