Beyond The Silence

Other Books by this author

Special Crimes Team Series:

Sketch of a Murder

Street Harvest

Old Woman Gone

Backlash!

Other Mysteries:

Run or Die

Dead Men and Cats, a novella

Literary Novels:

Hard Road Home

Good Intentions, Second Edition

Young Adult:

Black Wind

Paranormal

Artemis' Warriors

Beyond The Silence

By Aya Walksfar

Smashwords Edition

Published by Wild Haven Press

Copyright 2016 by Aya Walksfar

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2016 by Aya Walksfar

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use this author’s material work other than for reviews, prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at abruning@mountainspringpublishing.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

Cover Art: Deva Walksfar

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN: 9781311100139

Dedication

This book is dedicated to women, both lesbian and straight, who have lost their children because of gross injustice.

This book is dedicated to every woman, lesbian or straight, who has suffered in silence; afraid and alone; certain that no one would believe you and that no one would care. You are believed. Others do care. Don’t give up on yourself!

This book is dedicated to every lesbian who has loved in spite of the price they had to pay.

And, this book is dedicated to the strongest, the most courageous women I know: my wife, Deva; my sister, Lois Dodson; and my friend, Barbara Keogan.

Author's Note

Beyond the Silence does NOT depict any person, living or dead. The characters are fictional.

Though this book is placed in several specific regions, counties, cities, and states it could easily be placed anywhere in the United States. LGBTQ people have faced discrimination, loss of children, loss of jobs, loss of homes, and loss of educations all across the United States.

This book is not meant to single out any particular branch of the government be it local, state or national. All of these branches have in some way participated in the denial of civil rights to LGBTQ people, especially the right to love and to marry whom we choose. There are still those municipalities that would deny our right to marry in defiance of the Supreme Court decision.

With that said, this book DOES reflect the realities of lesbians. I have personally known lesbians who have lost everything in the effort to maintain custody of their children, only to lose that custody for nothing more than their sexual orientation. I have met many women, straight and lesbian, who have lost their children because they left abusive relationships with men.

For those who personally know me: no, this book is not about me. I, too, have faced discrimination due to my sexual orientation, but I never lost my children because of who I am. This book is not about one woman’s journey to self-discovery as much as it is about every lesbian and straight woman’s journey to freedom.

Aya Walksfar

"Here in the South we have elevated, to a fine art,

the practice of not talking about the pink elephants

that reside in most of our living rooms. And no matter

what monstrous form the pink elephant assumes,

when asked how we are doing, we nod and smile

and say, Fine.

The silence in which we live our lives is killing us."

MaryAnn Dobbs

Women’s Advocate

Birmingham, Alabama

July 23, 1988

Chapter 1

Wednesday, May first in Decatur, Alabama, and what was I doing? Studying is what I should have been doing, but instead I hoofed it up the dusty shoulder of the highway. Humidity saturated the air. The sweat that stuck my shirt to my back and my long, dark hair to my neck refused to dry. A good, hard rain shower would’ve been a welcome relief. Not likely it would happen, though.

The bumper sticker on my old rattletrap Ford read, My other car is a horse. Right then, I wished I had one of my horses. I could already hear Ray’s nasal whine in my head. Somehow he would find a way to blame my going to college for the truck’s driveline dropping out.

Deep into dreading that call home, I didn’t see the green, 1965 Chevy pickup until it jounced to a stop, boiling up dust a few yards ahead of me. Someone reached across the truck and the passenger door swung open. When I drew abreast of the open door, eyes nearly as black as the straight, short-cropped hair that framed her face met mine with an openness I instinctively trusted. Golden brown skin, that I figured heredity had as much to do with as the sun, covered muscled forearms. Her light blue tee shirt had horses thundering across the hills and the valley made by the snug fit over her breasts. I pulled myself into the cab.

That your truck back there? Her deep voice matched the strong, blunt-fingered hands and faded jeans.

Yeah, the driveline decided to fall down on the job.

Where you headed?

To a phone. Guess I’ll call Ray, my husband, at his job and ask him to bring me my tools when he gets off. As she slipped the truck in gear, I stared out the window and mumbled under my breath, If he can stand to delay going out with the boys for a beer.

Do you work on cars? My benefactor interrupted my bitter musing.

Nothing major like this.

Drivelines can’t be that difficult, she commented as she swung off the highway into the gravel lot of Jack’s Barbeque Shack a few miles from the college. Jack’s hadn’t been a shack in a long time. The original building, a dangerously leaning plywood shed, stuck out of the back part of the newer restaurant built of the same cheap plywood. Haven’t had lunch yet. Why don’t you come on in and let me buy you lunch. Sounds like you’ve had a rough day. Not waiting for a reply, she slammed her door and crunched on into the coolness of the restaurant.

A waitress headed for the table she had taken with a couple of glasses of ice water. My tongue ran over my dry lips as I slid into the booth opposite her.

With a hand on one ample hip, the waitress said, What y’all be havin’, girls?

The biggest barbequed pork sandwich you have with a large order of onion rings and lots of iced tea, please. Put whatever she wants on my bill. The woman gave a negligent wave in my direction as she smiled up at the waitress.

I shook my head and sipped the water. Water’s all I need. Thanks.

When the waitress turned to leave, my benefactor yelled, Wait, wait, wait. The waitress turned back to the table, standing hipshot and bored. I insist. She caught and held my eyes, a good-natured grin on her lips. If you don’t order, I will be forced to make the choices for you and what if you don’t like what I order? You, being a polite person, would still feel obligated to eat it, hating every mouthful. Right?

Come on, honey. If she wants to buy ya lunch, just go on ‘n let ‘er.

I spread my hands in surrender. Barbeque pork sandwich and ice tea, please. My eyes skipped around the noisy restaurant. When the waitress delivered two ice teas, I cocked a brow at my booth companion. You always this pushy?

The grin widened into a full blown smile. Sure. I’m a Yankee. She said it like that explained it all.

Maybe it did. Leastways, if you asked six southerners all six would probably not argue the statement.

She stretched her hand across the table. I didn’t get around to introducing myself earlier. I’m Yona Adohi. Before you ask--I am one-quarter, unregistered Cherokee Indian. Yona means bear. Personally, I don’t think I look that much like a bear, but what the hay. She shrugged. Adohi means woods.

I shook her hand. Barbara Sue Hensen, one hundred percent mongrel with no hope of ever knowing what my pedigree might be. Hensen’s not even my birth name.

Yona asked a couple of questions and the first thing I knew, I’d been rattling on and on about my classes and my horses, and hadn’t hardly stopped long enough to draw a breath before the waitress plopped a plate in front of me. Heat flushed my cheeks and I gave my head a shake. Darn, I haven’t let you get a word in edgewise.

Yona flashed a smile as she lifted her sandwich to her mouth. I enjoyed listening.

On my list of priorities, eating never came close to the number one spot. Once I bit into the sandwich, however, I felt like I was about to starve to death. Yona tossed a few onion rings on my plate and I snarfed them up, too. After we finished eating, I sipped tea instead of running to the bathroom to see how much I could get back up out of my stomach.

I don’t know how you’ll feel about this, but here’s a suggestion. Yona leaned against the booth back. If you know where to buy parts, we could drive back to your truck, remove the drive shaft the rest of the way and fix it. My toolbox is in the bed of my truck. I probably have everything we need. What do you say?

I don’t know. You ever worked on a driveline?

She gave a slight lift of her shoulders. No, but it can’t be as difficult as some of the things I have done. I don’t believe we could possibly make matters any worse. Besides, you planned on tackling it yourself, anyway. Four hands are better than two on that kind of job. Whaddaya say?

I ran a finger through the condensation on my glass, not looking at her. You have to have something you’d rather be doing than working on some stranger’s truck.

Not really. I quit work early today.

Probably took off so you could go shopping or something. I looked up at her from beneath my brows.

She laughed, a hearty laugh that no southern woman would dare to belt out. The only shopping I willingly do is in tack shops.

You have horses?

I have an Arab gelding. She leaned her forearms on the table and bent toward me. What do you say? A couple of horse women like us shouldn’t have much trouble getting this job done.

A grin tugged at the downturned corners of my mouth. I’ve never met a woman as cocky as you. But, sure, okay, we’ll give it a try.

She downed the rest of her tea and stood. Cocky has nothing to do with it. There’re consequences for whatever you do in life. Just this way, to some extent, I get to choose the consequences.

‘Course after we spent hours wrestling the drive line, I felt obliged to do more than simply say thanks and walk off. Money was out of the question, even if I’d had any to spare. She didn’t seem the type to accept that kind of thanks. I knew she didn’t expect anything, but still.... I surprised myself, though, when I invited her to come to my house on Saturday and I’d pack a picnic lunch that we could eat while on horseback. I had never been one to make friends easily, yet I held my breath as I waited for her answer.

With the black grease mostly wiped off her hands, she tossed the rag into her toolbox. You sure your husband won’t mind?

He doesn’t go riding with me, I evaded the question. Ray would have a fit, but this once I decided I would not back down.

****

Saturday dawned with faultless blue sky. Shortly after the first peek of the sun over the horizon, Yona pulled into my yard and off-loaded her fully tacked horse. I untied the reins of my quarter horse mare and stepped into the saddle. Birds chirped their greetings to the new day as we rode across the field.

There aren’t many people who ride as well as I do; usually it’s because they don’t listen to their horses. With Yona I think it must’ve been her short legs. Her chunky build put her point of balance in the wrong place, too. When a person rides that out of balance, they tend to yank on their horse’s mouth and flop around in the saddle, pounding the horse’s poor back while giving it two or three conflicting messages about what they want.

Her poor riding skills put her in danger of falling off a number of times, but she held the reins lightly, often letting them hang loose. And, she was clear in her directions to her Arab, Starfire. The dapple grey obviously adored her. He swiveled his ears back and forth, listening to every sound she made. At lunch he stood contentedly close to her side and softly nickered a couple of times. She rubbed his black muzzle then fed him the lettuce out of her ham sandwich.

Dark had fallen by the time we rode back into my yard, unsaddled and loaded Starfire in Yona’s trailer. Even though I needed to pick Jenny up from Momma’s, I stood beneath the shadows of the pines, watching until the red taillights of her rig disappeared around the bend at Stillwater Creek. I sighed as I turned and climbed into my truck. Yona and I hadn’t talked about our lives much; just enough to find out she was single and ran her own landscaping business.

How long you been in Alabama, I had asked as we let our horses drink from a fast running creek.

Four years. She laughed. Seems like a whole different world down here.

When I tried to ask a few more questions, she evaded and I took the hint. To be honest, I’ve never been one to be so nosy, but something about her made me want to know her better.

Five days later, my curiosity remained unsatisfied since I hadn’t heard a peep from her. It had been another hot and humid day, but just as the sun began setting a light rain cleared the air. Restless, I slapped my chemistry book shut and dropped it to the floor with a thud. From Jenny’s room I heard the distinctive beep-beep of a Road Runner cartoon. Soon I would need to get the tub ready and help her to take her bath.

With Ray off somewhere with his friends, I should’ve been concentrating on my studies since an important exam loomed on Friday. I had to do well; anything less than a 4.0 simply wouldn’t get it. Next month would signal the end of my second year with three more quarters to complete before I could enroll at the University of North Alabama. I slapped at a mosquito. My ‘vacations’ at the psyche unit in Birmingham had cut into my class time, making the two-year community college, Associate of Science degree stretch into three years.

Ice cubes melted in the empty bourbon glass. I picked it up and made my way into the kitchen. On my knees, I dug past the cleaning stuff and pulled out the hidden bottle. The last of it chugged into my glass. The empty bottle got buried in the bottom of the trashcan. The bourbon burned all the way down. With only one full bottle left hidden behind the cleanser and dish soap, I needed to pick up a couple more. Couldn’t afford to run out; my sanity depended on the amber liquor.

Glass in hand, I stepped outside. Full dark had arrived. Stars shone through the scattering clouds and the canopy of pines surrounding the house. An owl glided through the trees. A bat swooped after invisible bugs.

The phone in the living room jangled. Two rings later, I finally shuffled in that direction. No one ever phoned me at this time of night. Let’s be honest, it’d been a long time since anyone phoned me at any time of the day or night, except Momma or Ray. On the fifth ring I snatched up the receiver. Hello?

You are home. Her chuckle bubbled through the phone lines. This is Yona.

Yeah, I recognized your voice.

Hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.

No, not at all. Just star gazing.

I know this is short notice, but I wondered if you aren’t booked up for Saturday, if you and your daughter might ride down to Auburn with me to pick up a horse. A vet I did some work for this past winter wants to give me a mare. Course, the catch is--she’s been abused, hates trailers and is as likely to try to rip your face off as to look at you. Leastways, that’s what Doc told me.

Intrigued in spite of myself, I leaned a hip against the frayed couch arm. With all that, why do you want her?

It’s me or dog food. Besides, I’ve been reading and there are some ideas I’d like to try out. How about it? Game to see if we can get her loaded without getting our heads kicked off?

Flipping through my mental catalog of reasons why this idea had potential for a ton of trouble, I dodged her question. I didn’t know you were a horse trainer.

I’m not.

You’re crazy as a coot then. That horse doesn’t sound like something to be playing with.

I know. The question still remains--do you want to go with me and see if we can load this beast? We’d have to stay overnight. All expenses paid. It’s okay if you can’t do it.

I can do it. I could hardly credit what popped out of my mouth. Ray would hit the ceiling. What time do we leave on Saturday? I wouldn’t let on that I’d be gone overnight. I’d be in for it when I got home, but hell I was always in for it regardless.

After I hung up, I quickly put Jenny to bed and hit the books. Studying proceeded so smoothly I wondered if I’d somehow gotten a brain transplant. Those formulas slipped right into place. At eleven o’clock, I stuffed my book in my backpack before I pulled the bottle from beneath the sink.

Forty-five minutes and three-quarters of a bottle later, Ray drove in. If he ever noticed the bourbon on my breath, he never said anything about it. Maybe he had discovered it was easier to deal with my bourbon-soaked mind and body. He certainly hadn’t enjoyed it when I went beserk after an especially horrible bondage flick three years ago. Since then I’d coped with Ray’s peculiar tastes with lots of bourbon. Even hid bottles of the stuff, so he wouldn’t drink it and cause me to run out.

It rained hard Friday night. By nine a.m. Saturday, when Ray drove off to meet some of his friends for a day at the speedway, you couldn’t tell there’d ever been a cloud in the sky. Ten a.m. I laid a note on the table, threw an overnight case in the truck bed, and set out extra food and water under a tree for my old Bernese Mountain dog, Princess. I hopped in the truck, buckled Jenny’s seatbelt and backed out of the driveway. Eleven-thirty a.m., with Jenny happily sucking a popsicle between us and an empty horse trailer rattling behind, we pulled out of Yona’s drive headed for Auburn a couple of hundred miles south.

****

With supper time rapidly approaching, I swiped a forearm at the sweat dripping from my chin. We’ve been at this for hours. This horse is one of the most frightened horses I’ve ever seen. We may never get her loaded without looping a rope around her lower jaw and winching her in.

No rough stuff. She’s had enough of that in her life. Yona stood to one side of the trailer, arms folded, calmly studying the beast.

Okay. Should we tie her to the side of the trailer and make her trot all the way to your place? I propped my hands on my hips.

Yona grinned. Now that puts a real image in my mind. I read something in a book a few weeks ago. Maybe I need to try it.

What?

Let’s put her back in her paddock and take a break to grab a bite and plan strategy.

After we made quick work of the sandwiches, the thermos of coffee and the last of the six-pack of sodas Yona had packed, she waltzed into the paddock with a long lead line and a lunge whip. Fifteen minutes later, she could touch the mare with the end of the whip without the horse flaking out. Thirty minutes later, the mare would step forward with a light tap to her backside from the whip. Five hours later, with a full moon laughing down at us, the mare stepped into the trailer. Yona quietly closed the door. Turning to me she announced, I’m starved. What kind of food sounds good?

Hamburgers, Jenny piped up.

Shh. Miss Yona will decide where she wants to go.

She raised her brows. Must be southern etiquette that children don’t give an opinion unless they’re asked for it?

Momma used to tell us that children are to be seen, not heard. Lord help you if she had to tell you twice.

She stooped down eye level with Jenny. My grandma used to say that the most honest words come from a child’s mouth. I asked what kind of food sounded good and you told me you’d like hamburgers. Well, hamburgers you shall have. Jenny smiled as Yona pushed to her feet. Southern manners and reticence aside, what kind of food sounds good to you?

My heart sped up as she turned her smile on me. The corners of my lips twitched upward. I wouldn’t mind having a nice steak.

Great! I know just the place. Sizzler’s Steakhouse. Jenny can have a burger, you can have steak and I’ll eat up their supply of yeast bread. If a person can’t have fry bread, yeast bread’s a good second choice.

I checked Jenny’s seatbelt then buckled mine. What’s fry bread?

You’ve never had fry bread? Eyes comically wide, she stared at me in mock horror. You haven’t lived yet, woman! The very next time I stir up a batch, you and Jenny have to come over. She wiggled her eyebrows at Jenny. I make it from my grandmother’s secret, Indian recipe.

Jenny giggled. I caught myself smiling like a fool. As we pulled onto the asphalt roadway, I wished a little of this happiness could go home with me.

A farm demands long hours, and growing up on one left precious little time for such frivolous pastimes as having pajama parties. That’s if I had even been interested, which I wasn’t. The idea of sitting around in pajamas, yapping about some boy or moaning about breaking a fingernail had never appealed to me.

Yet, here I was dressed in pajamas, seated on crappy carpet in a dark motel room around a lit candle, eating popcorn and telling stories--a pajama party with a twist. One I liked. Yona insisted that Jenny tell the first story. She gave a very original version of Clifford, the Big Red Dog, one of her favorite books. When Yona pointed a finger at me, I shook my head. She gave me a look, but didn’t push.

Well, then, I guess it’s my turn. After she cleared her throat, her voice took on a soft, distant quality. Long, long ago when the cedars grew thick and tall, in this beautiful valley was a Cherokee village.....

In the dark room, I got lost in the rhythm of Yona’s voice, traveling back to a time and a place I had never imagined. I could almost feel the breeze; hear the whispering of the cedar limbs; taste the cold, clear streams. As her story drew to a close, I felt the pain of leaving what was familiar warring with the need to get away from an evil person. But, I could also feel the young Indian girl’s sense of excitement; her courage as she stepped away from her village to discover how big the world might be.

Jenny had sat perfectly quiet during the entire telling. Is that a for-real story? She dispelled the silence. I stretched out my leg, aware for the first time that it was starting to cramp. A glance at my watch surprised me--we’d been listening for twenty minutes.

Yona thought a moment before answering. Kind of. My grandma taught me that our people told stories not only as a way to preserve and to pass on our history, but to teach us how to live like real human beings. I think this story is about the courage of a lot of Indian girls who had to leave their tribes to get away from a great evil.

My mother’s minister spouts off about evil all the time. I think he’s using it to scare people into coming every Sunday for service and every Wednesday for Bible study. I gave a quick shrug. His version of job security. What kind of evil was your story talking about?

She took a long drink of her Pepsi. Legs stretched out, she leaned back on her hands. "Grandma never told me what the stories meant. Whenever I’d ask, she’d say, You have a good mind. Think about it. Later on, I’d come back and tell her what I thought the story said. She’d smile and tell me I was right. It might be months or years later when she’d tell the story again and, all of a sudden, it meant something entirely different to me. Stories are like onions--there are layers and layers to them."

I’m not an Indian, so how about telling me what this story was about?

She pushed upright and crossed her legs in the lotus position. The first time I heard it, I was in sixth grade. I was so angry I was crying. I’d been in a fight with a couple of white kids who had called me a red nigger. Grandma told me this story. Back then I took it to mean that someday I’d grow up and move away from our neighborhood. The evil was the name calling and the hate. Since then, I’ve learned a little bit about life on some reservations; I’ve met a few Indian people–men and women. Now, I think the evil in the story might also have been alcoholism and abuse. I’ve heard that there are some reservations with an eighty percent alcoholism rate. For you, it would be whatever evil you see in the world around you; in your village of relatives and acquaintances.

This talk of evil made me antsy, especially the way Yona defined evil. The preacher’s sermons never brought it so close to home. You said the stories were the history of your people, too. Whose history was this?

I can’t say for sure. I never got around to pinning it down before Grandma passed to The Other Side. I suspect it was her history.

The evening had to end. Jenny curled up in the hollow of my chest and belly. I lay for a long time watching Yona sleep.

****

By mid-week Ray finally got over his snit about my night out. An extra bottle of bourbon and a few more tranquilizers had helped me get