Spring Tide (4 page)

Fighting against her assailant in slow motion, she realized she was holding her breath. All of a sudden their struggle was taking place underwater. She kicked at the man and clawed at the water, trying to get to the surface so she could breathe. For some reason she could still hear a phone ringing. Finally, slapping at the water and kicking as hard as she could, her lungs desperate to suck in air, she broke the surface of the water and opened her mouth.

Gulping in oxygen, she looked around, taking in her surroundings. She was sitting up in bed in her tiny bedroom. She looked around at the familiar space, grasping its details. Her queen-sized bed nearly filled it with just a two-foot wide area on one side between the wall and mattress. Her bedroom television was mounted on the wall across from the headboard. Next to the bed was a small table wedged into the corner. On it was a clock radio. A swing-arm lamp was mounted over that. She focused on the wood grain of the paneled walls and gradually her breathing slowed to normal.

Deuce, her golden retriever, jumped on the bed and pushed his cold nose against her bare arm. She absentmindedly petted him while gazing out the window at the dry grass that stretched toward a line of green vegetation a quarter mile away. Between the houseboat and the creek, there was nothing but a bare brown field of weeds and hard dirt. Still, that was better than her old city view—the wall of the neighboring building just a few feet away.

It was almost nine o’clock. She’d had trouble getting to sleep the night before, as she often did. The miracle of sleep had occurred somewhere around three o’clock. Though she wasn’t on a schedule, this was late to be just waking. She rolled out of bed and pulled on an oversized T-shirt, slipped her feet into the rubber flip-flops beside her bed. Remembering the ringing phone from her dream, she went to the living room to check her messages. Normally, there was no ringing phone in this nightmare. That had to be what woke her up. The message was from her mother, not surprisingly. Stef had avoided calling
her  for
the last two weeks, not ready to tell her about the new plan. She knew her mother would disapprove of the houseboat. She’d think it was rash and shortsighted. She’d view it in entirely pragmatic terms, as in, was it a good investment? Stef laughed shortly at the thought. Her mother was a sensible woman whose advice was often sound, but this was one situation where her experience was of little value. The houseboat was not an investment, at least not a financial one. But just so it didn’t seem entirely nuts, Stef wanted to wait until it was seaworthy to tell her mother. Then it would be a boat that actually
cruised
the rivers and not just a strange little house in the country.

 She tossed her phone back on the shelf where it bounced off the edge of a picture frame, a five-by-seven of herself and Molina standing side by side in uniform, leaning into one another so their shoulders touched. They were the same height, five eight. His hair was thick, almost black, cut short. He had a thin mustache, a feature Stef had never seen him without. Even in photos from his younger days, before he was a cop, he’d still had that same little mustache.

He’d signed the photo near the bottom:
Next time, Hot Stuff!

This had been taken five months ago, just after the famous pepper-eating contest.
One of their many impromptu competitions and one of the loonier ones.
She smiled to herself, remembering, then pulled a stool out from under the shelf and sat down. She touched the picture frame tentatively. She loved this photo. It captured the two of them so perfectly, how they were then, their swagger and vitality, their affection and playful antagonism. He had been a brother to her in every way but blood. She especially loved the expression on her own face, so carefree and confident, like she had the world in the palm of her hand.
Maybe because in hindsight she had.

Was that only five months ago?
she
marveled, counting the months back to a mild winter day on a patch of lawn behind the police department building.

One of those much-loved Friday cookouts was underway. A big barrel barbecue was loaded with hunks of tri-tip. They were carving it up for sandwiches and tacos. One of the guys, Womack, had brought a tub of pepper spread, his special mix of roasted jalapeños, serranos and habaneros. The usual taunting and posturing was going on, but there weren’t too many who would venture more than a dab of that fiery condiment.

“No problem,” boasted Molina, spreading a brave portion of it in his taco. “Peppers are like mama’s milk to me.”

“Hey, Byers,” called Womack as Stef put two tacos on her plate. “You wanna try some of this pepper mania?”

“Sure,” she said.
“Why not?
Peppers don’t scare me. But put it on the side. I want to taste the meat.”

“Put it on the side!” Molina croaked. “So she can pretend she ate it.” He raised his eyebrows at her in that way he
had,
a challenging look in his eye.

“I’ll eat it,” she assured her colleagues, then faced Molina, who was still grinning. “You think I can’t?”

He shrugged. “Maybe you can eat that much.
If you’re trying to prove something.”

“You think you have an advantage because you’re Mexican?” Stef glanced around at the mostly male complement of police officers. “Or because you’re a man?”

As she expected, that comment elicited a round of groans and whistles. Then, predictably, someone yelled, “Throw down!”

A few others chimed in. Molina held up a calming hand. “Now, come on, fellas. Don’t egg her on. She has no chance against me eating peppers. Nothing she can do about it. It’s just genetic. You set us both down with a pile of spaghetti and she’d have a fair chance. She’d still lose, but at least it’d be a contest.”

Everybody went quiet then as Stef stood facing Molina’s self-satisfied grin. There was probably no one present who thought she would back down, but the moment was tense anyway as they waited for her response. It was a perpetual struggle for dominance between them, two alpha dog personalities who were constantly trying to get the upper hand in any situation.

It was never easy being a woman on the force. Guys expected you to be weaker, to cry or succumb to emotional stress. To lose
your
cool under pressure.
All those jokes about female officers on the rag.
So you overcompensated a little. Most of the women did.
Tried to be like one of the guys.
Man up! Don’t let anything get to you. Be even tougher than they are. If you break, you break only on the inside. If you cry, you cry only when you’re alone. You don’t let them know you’re hurt. You don’t ask for help. You can take it as well as they can and sometimes better. That’s the person Stef had learned to be around these guys. She didn’t make any distinction between an ugly situation on the street and an off-duty pepper-eating contest. In some ways, she was always on duty.

“Bring it on!” she shouted.

Everybody cheered. Molina laughed, casting
her an
admiring glance. Two places were set on either side of a picnic table with plates, glasses of water, bottles of beer, a pan full of tacos, and two equal containers of pepper spread, two full cups apiece. Anybody who had tasted the stuff knew there was no chance of anyone finishing anywhere near that much of it. Molina and Stef sat down facing one another. Everyone else crowded around to watch.

“You’re going down, Byers!” Molina snarled, playing his role well.

“In your dreams, Molina.”

They each spooned a heap of peppers into a taco. With her first bite, Stef tasted a nice, spicy flavor, perfectly edible with a hint of burn on the tip of her tongue, and wondered what the fuss was about. A few seconds after she swallowed, the heat began to spread through her mouth like a wildfire, gaining in intensity.
Oh, shit!
she
thought.
This is crazy!

“Whooeee!” breathed Molina.
“Fire in the hole!”

Stef glanced around at her co-workers, catching sight of Womack’s long, horse-like face, full of concern. As the mother of this stuff, he knew how dangerous it was. She took another bite and swallowed fast. Then she drank a mouthful of beer as a burn spread through her stomach. Molina was chomping through his taco like he was enjoying it. By the fourth bite, Stef couldn’t taste the taco shell or the beef.
Just pain.

“Come on, Byers,” someone shouted.

Molina finished his first taco and drank some beer. Stef noticed the sweat on his upper lip, making his mustache sparkle.

“Don’t kill
yourself
,” he advised quietly. “I’ll be a gracious victor. Just walk away and nobody will think any less of you.”

She shoved the rest of the taco in her mouth and finished it, chewing defiantly at him. They each piled peppers onto another taco. As Molina ate this one, he made crazy faces,
bulging
his eyes out, wagging his head, baring his teeth. Finally, Stef had to stop eating to laugh.

“What the hell?” she complained. “Are you trying to make me choke?”

He stopped with the faces and they both grew quiet. Stef’s eyes teared up and her nose ran. Somebody gave them both a towel. She stopped eating to catch her breath and blow her nose. Three-quarters of the second taco lay in her plate, taunting her. Molina’s face was flushed and covered in sweat. His mouth hung open as if he were trying to leave an escape route for the heat.

“Can somebody get me one of those sandwich rolls?” he asked, his voice elevated slightly.

Stef took this as encouragement and quickly finished the second taco. She couldn’t taste anything and her entire lower face was numb. Molina tore hunks off the piece of bread and stuffed them in his mouth, trying to soak up the pain.

“You got him, Byers!” said somebody behind her.

She secretly cursed whoever
it was, knowing
that would give renewed determination to Molina. He picked up the rest of his taco and shoved it in his mouth, swallowing it practically without chewing.

They had both eaten two tacos. They had finished the same amount of the hellish pepper spread. They sat looking at one another, both of them waiting for the other to make a move. Clearly, neither of them wanted to concede and neither wanted to go on.

Finally, Molina asked, “How are you doing?”

“Okay,” she said as the sweat from her forehead mingled with the tears running down the side of her nose.
“How about you?”

“Okay.” He wiped his face again with the towel. “You had enough?”

“Have you?”

“We’re dead even. It’d be a tie if we stop now.”

Stef stared across the table at him. He appeared to be suffering. No sign of arrogance on his face now.

“I’ve had enough of these tacos,” she said, pushing the pan aside.

Molina’s poker face melted into a tableau of relief.

Stef reached for her pepper jar, picked it up, dipped in a spoon and took out a big spoonful. She shoved it in her mouth. Several people watching burst into hoots of appreciation. She watched Molina defiantly as she swallowed.

With renewed resolve, he grabbed his own jar, stuck his spoon in and pulled out a heaping tablespoon, which he held in front of his face for a few seconds before eating it, his eyes full of fear. The crowd was going wild now as they both ate directly out of their jars. Unexpectedly, Molina abruptly put his down, grabbed his stomach and cried out in agony, then rolled off the bench onto the grass, belching loudly.

Stef put her jar down as someone lifted her arm in victory. Then she took a beer in each hand and crawled to a shady spot under a tree, feeling like she wanted to die. Molina joined her there a few minutes later and they lay under the tree together, nursing their distress for the next hour while the rest of the crew continued their party.

The undesirable effects of that contest had stayed with them both for two days afterward. But it had been worth it, she decided. Everybody had loved it, and every time hot peppers showed up in their midst after that, they’d both laughed themselves silly.

Stef looked again at the photo in front of her. Molina sported his characteristic grin on a mischievous, handsome face. On his left cheek, a prominent scar testified to his violent youth. He’d been cut, shot and beaten by the time he was an adult. Even before his troubled teenage years, his childhood had been the sort that would have turned most kids hard. That he had survived to adulthood was an accomplishment in itself. He had no father. His mother was a prostitute and drug addict. His home was a squalid apartment he, his brother and his mother shared with others who came and went, sleeping on mattresses on the floors, eating whenever someone bothered to bring food into the place.
In that apartment, night and day blurred.
There were no set hours for meals or sleeping, but the landlady, a strange ogre of a woman who scared Joe nearly to death, came up to the apartment each weekday morning and dragged him and his brother, Roberto, downstairs and put them on a school bus. At the time, he said, he thought of her as a hideous old monster he didn’t dare disobey, but as he got older, he realized she was the only person in that building who had cared what happened to him. Her name was Mrs. Avila. The tenants, including Molina’s mother, never referred to her in any other way than “Bitch!” That he had hated and feared her through several years of his childhood had preyed on his conscience in recent years. According to his memory, she was neither kind nor honest, but she had played a critical role in saving him.