The Eternal Engagement (7 page)

CHAPTER 15

Mona

 

 

F
ive years in Bakersfield. Mona wasn't homesick, but she did miss Lincoln. The only guy who had ever made her feel pretty was William Lincoln. But she didn't marry Lincoln; she'd married Steven. Each day she was married to Steven, she regretted he was never the man she was in love with. But no one had taught her what marriage meant, so she'd have to continue this journey on her own.

Working two jobs in Bakersfield kept her preoccupied. She had no incentive to go back to Selma. In some ways she'd become better at bounty hunting than Steven. Utilizing her forensic skills and intuition, she was more efficient at locating bail jumpers. Her day job had just gotten started with the ritual of listening to other people's problems.

No matter what time of the day, the news was depressing. On television and in her adult life, she'd grown to expect more bad than good. Things weren't always that way for her. All her life she'd been a free spirit secretly in search of the fairy-tale love and happiness most girls dreamt of. She wasn't there yet.

Mona put on her protective eyewear and a latex glove. The lab was quiet. Like most days, she'd come in early. She had fifteen specimens to sample for drugs before noon. If a positive change were to come, the decision had to start with her.

Thanksgiving was six months gone and six months away, and this was her fifth year living in Bakersfield. Last year she'd promised herself this year would be different. She'd file for divorce, move out, and get her own place. Again she'd lied.

She exhaled. “Every time I blink or breathe is an opportunity to leave him. God, please give me the courage to just do it. What am I afraid of? I'm tired of making mistakes. Next time I go home, just push me back out of his door and out of his arms forever.”

A welcomed interruption of her mental monologue came when she heard a familiar voice say, “Good morning to you, America. I'm Warren Golf with breaking news. An Alabama woman was arrested at her home minutes ago on charges of first-degree murder of her husband. We take you live to Katherine Clinton, who has the story. Katherine.”

The digital clock in front of Mona displayed 8:17—Pacific time. The dialogue from the reporter was background noise to keep Mona company while she worked in the toxicology lab. She put on her other glove, picked up the tweezers, then carefully placed one strand of hair on the rectangular glass slide.

The position paid a decent seventy-two thousand a year, but drug testing was illogical to her. Functioning alcoholics, like the man she lived with, could be gainfully employed. The Food and Drug Administration approved pharmaceutical companies to dispense drugs that caused heart attacks or meds that disclosed suicidal thoughts as a side effect, but companies wouldn't hire individuals with traces of cannabinoid in their system.

Mona chuckled. She'd rather take her chances working with someone who was high than to be around a depressed coworker who was mentally unstable. She wondered what employers would drug test for next.

Katherine's voice faded out the rhetoric in Mona's head. “Thanks, Warren, I'm in front of the police station here in Selma with Detective Daniel Davenport where the time is approximately eleven-twenty a.m. Detective, tell us, how was this forgotten case miraculously solved?”

The detective cleared his throat, then boasted, “I'd never forgotten this case. I simply didn't have sufficient evidence for a conviction.”

Mona refused to look at the television. She refused to give Katherine the acknowledgment of a job well done in landing the lead anchor position for reporting national news, for stealing her first love while they were in high school, and for having Lincoln's baby. Passively listening, Mona imagined the detective was her height, five four, barely a hundred and fifty pounds with an ego ten times his size.

He continued, “That was until I received a lead. The lead provided me the missing link that cracked this case wide open. Now the McKenny family can be at peace knowing who killed their loved one.”

“What the hell?” Mona swiftly turned to face the flat screen attached to the wall. Knocking over several flasks, she watched urine spill onto the table, then cascade to the floor. She'd clean up the mess beneath her feet later. The conversation, once boring, instantly commanded her attention.

“That murder occurred five years ago.”
That case made national headlines?
How? Why? More important, what lead did he receive? Mona hadn't seen Sarah in five years nor had she contacted Daniel, and Steven had better not have . . .

“Thanks, Detective Davenport,” Katherine said as the camera faded him out and zoomed in on her.

That cutthroat-boyfriend-thief-trick Katherine was still as gorgeous as the day she was crowned homecoming queen.
Her long, dark hair highlighted her standout cheekbones, slender nose, and plump lips. Her buttery brown skin, amazingly flawless. But that was okay. That finders-keepers-losers-weepers bitch got what she deserved. Right after graduation, Lincoln dumped Katherine's ass and left her with baggage.

“It's called karma, bitch,” Mona said to the television. “You ain't all that, and your seemingly glamorous lifestyle probably sucks.”

Katherine continued her story. “Sarah McKenny was taken into custody moments ago and is now being escorted inside the jail you see behind me.”

Mona stared at the flat screen. Her body stiffened with numbness. Her eyes and heart overflowed with sadness when she saw sweet little Sarah in handcuffs.

Tossing her straight hair over her shoulder, Katherine thrust her 36DDs forward—those titties must've been a bonus for having a baby or implants. She straightened her five feet eight inches, then articulated, “The twenty-seven-year-old woman is a lifelong resident of Selma. Her bail is set at one million dollars. If Sarah McKenny is found guilty of killing Calvin McKenny, she could get life without the possibility of parole or worse, Sarah could face the death penalty. I'm Katherine Clinton with
Morning to You, America.
Back to you, Warren.”

Mona mouthed, “Sarah McKenny is innocent.” But to prove her so would bring unwanted attention to Mona and probably joy to Katherine.

That case was not worthy of national attention. Katherine probably elevated the case hoping Lincoln would be watching her. But how could Katherine have that much power? Mona never liked Katherine, and the feeling was mutual. They never had a catfight or called one another names, but if looks could kill, they'd both be dead.

Calvin's homicide, Mona's mother, and Katherine Clinton were the three reasons Mona agreed to move over two thousand miles from Selma. She'd abandoned her family, that didn't matter. Her mother still wasn't speaking to her. Left the few friends she had. And she hadn't heard from her first love. But she still had the silver ring Lincoln gave her in her purse, along with her troll genie.

She wasn't going to get hard-core answers about the McKennys standing in a puddle of piss. She tossed a handful of paper towels to the floor, then tramped outside the lab to her desk.

One call after another registered on Mona's cell. First, her mother.
So, now she's calling
. Then her dad. Students that attended Selma High with her called back to back.
Damn!
Why were they calling her? Had they heard something she hadn't? Forget all of them. Mona prayed the tragedy would somehow reunite her with her first and only true love. Maybe Katherine had done her a favor.

There was hope in her heart. Perhaps he'd call. She prayed Lincoln wasn't gawking over Katherine if he'd seen her on the news. Mona hadn't seen or heard from Lincoln since graduation, ten years ago.

Removing her white lab coat, Mona flung it on the chair, hurried to her boss's office, stuck her head through the door, then said, “I have an emergency. I'm leaving. I'll be back in tomorrow.” Maybe.

Oh, my God,
she thought. Mona prayed the video of Calvin's murder was still in her safety deposit box at the bank.

If not, maybe she wouldn't be back at all.

CHAPTER 16

Lincoln

 

 

H
e had no place to get help.

When he was fortunate to get a job, he couldn't keep it. Not sleeping at night. Falling asleep at home when he should be in transit to work. Sounds and smells triggered bad memories, made him do things that weren't considered normal by those who hadn't spent a day of their lives fighting for their country. He was on a few lists for housing assistance, but no one had contacted him. Refusing to give up on what he deserved, again today he'd seek help from his government.

He slipped on a T-shirt, jeans, then laced up his combat boots. Not a day went by since his best friend was killed that he didn't walk in Randy's shoes.

Lincoln opened his apartment door. Another piece of paper was taped to the front. He read the embarrassing headline—
NOTICE TO COMPLY OR VACATE.
This time instead of having three days to pay, he had ten days to move out.

After snatching the paper, he ripped it in half, balled it up, threw the notice on his living room floor, then slammed his door.

“This is bullshit!” he said, making his way to the VA Prime Care clinic to see his Prime Care doctor.

Damn government trying to operate like HMOs and PPOs. Constantly blindsided by what they didn't know, the government needed to stay in their lane and focus on viably helping war vets.

Lincoln sat in the waiting area hoping today he'd get a positive response. He placed his elbows on his knees, spread his feet six inches apart, stared at his combat boots. He concealed his sniffles as tears streamed down his face. Wiping his nose with his palm, he whimpered like a baby. That wasn't the manly thing to do, but his best friend was dead and that shit hurt more than all the enemies he'd killed.

“William Lincoln.”

Somberly, he responded, “Yeah,” rising to his feet.

The routine visit hadn't changed much over the last two years. But he fought to remain optimistic. He followed the assistant through the door.

“How are you feeling today, William?” she asked.

Biting his bottom lip, anger looming in his eyes, he stared at her without blinking. “How the fuck you think I'm feeling? You tell me.”

She wrapped the pouch around his biceps. “I'm going to take your blood pressure.”

“Why?” he asked. “So my doctor can prescribe more medications that keep making me feel worse than when I come up in here? Y'all trying to kill me so you don't have to help me get better? What? What! Am I a burden to my country now? Being a fucking war vet don't mean shit!”

She jumped when he yelled.

He snatched the pouch from his arm, threw it on the floor.

Calmly she said, “Why don't I take you to the doctor's office,” leading the way.

Her soothing voice subsided his anger. He didn't mean to yell at her. “Look, I apologize.” His mental instability, nightmares, and paranoia weren't her fault.

“It's okay, William.”

He hoped she didn't say, “I understand.” If she did, he was going to lose it for real. He followed her down the hall.

She entered the doctor's office before him, then turned. “My husband was in Iraq too. Have a good day, William,” she said as she left.

His doctor greeted him. “Hey, William. How's it going today? How are you managing your PTSD?”

“Look, man, they put a notice on my front door this morning. I've depleted all the money I saved while in the military. I've got my last eight hundred in my pocket. It ain't enough to pay my cell phone, electric, rent, and still eat this month. I have no place to go. I don't have any friends here in Seattle. Man, I'm telling you, I'm a few days away from being homeless. I need a housing voucher or something from the VA 'cause none of those places I've applied to have called me back.”

The doctor stared at his laptop computer. “So for today your contact information, cell phone, and address are the same. Right?”

For today?
“Yeah, man, but what about tomorrow?” Still staring at his damn computer, the doctor said, “Well, we have to house the homeless vets first.” He scribbled on a blank sheet of paper. “Here, call this number. They might be able to partially pay your rent for this month. I can refer you to the housing authority too, but let me warn you now,” he said, stretching his arms wide, “their waiting list is extremely long.”

Lincoln felt as though every place he called or went to had some sort of pecking order that placed him at the bottom. The media made it seem like all you had to do to get a spot in the apartment complexes built to house veterans was be a veteran. Then when he showed up to apply, veterans who were homeless with families or just homeless had priority over him.

“Why can't
you
just get me a housing voucher, man?”

The doctor looked at him for three seconds, then back at his screen. “It doesn't work that way, William. There's a process. You see, one federal government agency can't give money to another federal agency. HUD gets all the federal funding for housing. Then HUD allocates a set number of vouchers—say, twenty thousand—that go to participating PHAs, that's public housing agencies. Those vouchers are specifically for
homeless
veterans. And once the county or the city gets the money, they can issue through HUD-VASH a housing choice voucher. That's Housing and Urban Development and Veterans Affairs Supportive Housing. But you're not homeless yet, so you wouldn't qualify.”

This is the bullshit I'm talking about!
Lincoln was not impressed with how much the dude knew. If there wasn't a voucher with his name on it, none of what he'd said would keep Lincoln from being homeless before the end of the month.

His government took care of women choosing to have baby after baby by different dudes, giving them housing vouchers, food cards, WIC, and all kinds of shit. Their babies' daddies didn't have to give them a dime. But his government couldn't keep a roof over his head, let alone food in his stomach.

That doctor had better be thankful. The one thing the military taught Lincoln was self-discipline. Through all of his anger, he killed to protect, never to prove his point.

Glancing at his watch, the doctor said, “William, it's time that I refer you to the Trauma Recovery Program.” He scribbled on a piece of paper, then continued, “Are you able to sleep at night? Do I need to prescribe you more sleeping medication? Do you have a preference? If the Ambien I prescribed isn't working for you, I can put you on Desyrel. What about pain meds? You need more of those?”

Lincoln sarcastically said, “How about a prescription for cocaine?”

Some vets were self-medicating with street drugs like cocaine and marijuana just to cope with the madness. Others had become alcoholics. He didn't want to take that route, but for the vets that did, he understood.

Lincoln also understood the new recruits' reasons for taking cocaine and smoking marijuana. Failing their drug test during boot camp meant they could get discharged. What was worse? Getting kicked out of the military with a dishonorable discharge and having a hard time finding a job or risking going to war, being killed, or coming back mentally fucked up for the rest of your life? The new recruits weren't dumb. They were actually smarter than him. Look at what eight years of service had done for him. And the second four years his government held him hostage.

The doctor shook his head. “William, I am not the enemy. I'm on your side,” he said, handing him three prescriptions.

Lincoln stood, took the prescriptions, said, “You, sure? I can't tell. ‘America! America! God shed His grace on thee. And crown thy good with . . .' yeah, right. What the fuck ever, man,” Lincoln said, walking out of the doctor's office.

He'd drop back in tomorrow praying for better results. He had faith in the Obama administration. One day his government would give him the help he deserved.

That day just wasn't today.