Month: August 2019

Chapter 1

“Buddy?  Buddy Hawkins?  Is that you?”  I had just removed my printed receipt from the gas pump at 431 Shell and turned to go inside for a bottle of water.  I was tired after a four-hour non-stop drive from Knoxville.  He was just standing there, being polite, I guess.  I knew him instantly, even after 46 years.

“The one and only.  Best damn running back in Boaz history.  And, you were the best quarterback.”  His speech belied his clothes and his mangy-looking gray hair.

“I can’t believe I move back to Boaz and the first person I see is my old teammate.  You really surprised me.”  I said, knowing I wouldn’t dare talk to someone who looked as desperate and forsaken if he hadn’t been one of my best friends in high school.

“Carl Stallings.  Looks like you’ve done better than me.  That’s a nice car to be sleeping in.”  At first, his statement confused me.  But then I realized he was confessing to being homeless.  He was telling the truth.  His words matched his looks.

Buddy walked over to me and gave me a big hug before I could resist.  The smell literally made me gag.  It was nearly as bad as when I discovered Goose behind the wood shed two days after she went missing.  Best Golden Retriever I ever had even if she was named after a girlfriend who ditched me in the eleventh grade.  “Wow, Buddy, you smell like the inside of a pig’s gut.”  I hoped we still shared a common bond, one built on the absence of bullshit and politeness.

“Carl, you’re the same old shit.  Thanks for not evolving into a damn hypocrite.  Yes, I’m fallen on some hard times, homeless, sleeping around.”  It was the same old Buddy Hawkins laugh I could identify at midnight on a moonless night.  It was like thunder-laced lightning, whatever the hell that was.  We both stepped back towards my Tahoe to avoid an over-sized Ford pickup.

“Buddy, I’d love to talk more but I’m running late for an appointment.  Where can I find you?  It might be tomorrow, but I’d love to catch up.”  I was halfway lying and that’s something I hated to do.  The half-truth of my words revealed good memories of playing football with, as Buddy had claimed, the best running back in Boaz football history.  All our four years sharing adjoining lockers in the field house had convinced me Buddy Hawkins excelled at two things: running back of course and having the uncanny ability to recognize bullshit. 

“I’m sensing a medium size serving of what comes out the rear end of your dad’s old Angus bull.”  Buddy said with a grin revealing the yellowish teeth I’d ever seen.

“No, well heck, kind of, but only because you smell worse than the shit.  What don’t we make a deal?  You take a shower and we’ll share a meal at the Waffle house in the morning at 6:00 a.m.?  Deal?”

“Give me ten bucks and I’ll smell like Gina Rollins always did in Mrs. Stamps Literature class.  Remember?”  Buddy’s memory had not been soiled.  Gina was as ugly as any girl I’d ever seen but her generous coating of Revlon’s Charlie perfume made her smell good enough to eat like ice cream.  I pulled out my wallet and gave Buddy a ten-dollar bill.

“Thanks, canny Carl, I’ll see you in the morning, hungry as a bear.”  It was a nickname I had as quarterback.  Again, Buddy’s memory was like a steel trap.  “You better get going, fat boy Jones will fire your ass before you unpack your pencils.”  How the heck did homeless Buddy know I had taken the job as superintendent of the newly formed Boaz Christian School?  Maybe he didn’t.  Maybe it was a lucky guess.

“Who are you talking about?”  I already knew the answer to my question.  Buddy had referred to William Jones, the youth pastor’s sidekick who had led me and Buddy, and most every kid in high school to surrender to the Lord Jesus Christ.  And, he was right that Bill had put on a few pounds since his younger days.

“Word on the street is you be the head cheese of that new school on Sparks Avenue.  They should have bulldozed our old elementary school, instead, spent a fortune turning it into a house of worship.”  I was having trouble ending our conversation.  Truthfully, I was late already to the meeting Jones had called for me to meet the entire school board.

“It a Christian school, not a church.”  I said opening the door to my SUV.

“Same damn difference.  Here’s a little advice for my old quarterback.  You need to rethink that decision.”

“Which one is that?”  I could see an opening, maybe one to open my way to leave.

“Becoming a full-time brainwasher.  It ain’t right.”  Buddy’s words reminded me of how, even before we graduated in 1972, he had rejected the church, faith and Christianity.

“Buddy, I’ve got to go.  I’ll see you in the morning and don’t forget to clean up.”  I slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door, looking back at Buddy giving me the middle finger. 

I drove twice the speed limit and arrived five minutes past 1:00, lucky the five board members were all standing outside the school’s front door laughing at what I later learned was an off-color joke by William Jones.

Chapter 2

“Come in Brandon, and uh,” Attorney Dalton Martin paused when he saw a slender and shapely oriental woman emerge from behind the huge frame of Brandon ‘Homerun’ Hawkins.

“Sorry, you’ve never met.  This is my wife, Anna Lee.”  Brandon said as Dalton wished he hadn’t reached out to shake Brandon’s monster hand.

“Hi Anna.  Nice to meet you.  Come on in.  Brandon you sit over there and Anna you sit here.”  Dalton said as he always did before a real estate closing.

Dalton took a seat at the end of the giant conference room table.  “It’s selfish of me but Brandon would you mind signing this baseball for my nephew.  He’s a big fan of yours.  As am I.”

“I’d be honored.”  Brandon took the ball and pulled out an ink pen.  This act was as common as breathing for the former Boaz High School pitcher.  The six-foot six-inch gentle giant who broke every record, both locally and across the state, breaking his own high school record every year from 2008 to 2011 when he graduated and was drafted by the New York Yankees.

“Thanks.  Okay, let’s get to it.  I suspect you’ve got places to go and people to see.  Before you start signing let me apologize for the delay.  You’re New York lawyers added a little wrinkle that came as I was in the middle of a capital murder defense over in Jackson County.  It wasn’t just the timing, it was also the oddity of the issue.”  Dalton said wondering why he had even brought it up.  He felt his words almost admitted he had been negligently late in preparing for what should have been a run-of-the-mill real estate closing.

“No problem.  It’s all my fault.  I wanted to make sure there wasn’t going to be a local revolt with me constructing and operating a secular school for underprivileged kids right across the street from the new Christian school.”  Brandon said reaching out his giant paw across the table to a willing Anna.

“You got lucky.  There’s now a majority of progressives on the Planning and Zoning Board and you are a local hero.  Your sports stardom probably made the difference.  Nearly a hundred percent of the residents in that rundown neighborhood showed up at City Hall to voice their support.”

Thirty minutes later, Brandon ‘Homerun’ Hawkins and Anna Lee exited the law offices of Bearden, Tanner & Martin with a deed for nearly three acres on the corner of Sparks Avenue and White Street made out to the newly organized Center for Secular Humanism.

“I think you all know Carl Stallings.”  Bill Jones said as my mind carried me back to third grade, right about where I had been instructed to sit.  The room, then, was Mrs. Chitwood’s.  It backed up to Principal Steed’s office.  The room, now, it appeared, doubled as a giant conference room and a small classroom complete with a wall full of the latest technological gadgets.

A tall and thin man with receding hairline stood and removed his sports jacket.  He said, “Before we get started, Carl, do you know you still hold the Boaz record for pass completion percentage?  And that’s after, what, nearly fifty years?”

“I graduated in 1972, so close to fifty, forty-six this past May.”  I guessed this was a ploy to make me relax.  I couldn’t figure why I would be nervous.

“Okay Pete, I’ve got another appointment at 2:00 so let’s focus on any questions you guys may have.  To clarify, you guys and gals have already given me full authority to hire Carl, but to be fair and open, I wanted to give you a chance to vet him.  Go ahead, see if you can stir up a skeleton or two.”  Bill said shouting out a big laugh and grabbing the edge of the old oak conference table while leaning back in his chair.

“Why would you want this job, don’t you have a great job in Knoxville?”  Pete asked.

“As principal and president of Knoxville Christian School I have been blessed beyond compare.  But time has a way of uprooting us no matter our satisfaction.  To be frank, I wouldn’t be here talking with you if it weren’t for mother.  Her health is failing, and this is taking a huge toll on my sister Beverly.”  I said wanting to be as honest and forthright as possible.

“Thanks for your openness.  But, and sorry for your mom’s deteriorating health, it seems this could interfere with your responsibilities at Boaz Christian School?”  An older woman who had to be Nancy Frasier, given the over-sized badge she was wearing.  Even without it, I would have known her.  She hadn’t changed one gray hair since high school when she was the school’s librarian.

“Mother’s health and all the natural implications from that could certainly create some real challenges, but, as I’ve discussed with Bill, I’ve been here before.  I lost my wife Jennifer to cancer.  That was a two-year battle.  Not to brag, but I’m pretty good at multi-tasking.”

“Thanks Mr. Stallings and nice to meet you.”  An athletic-looking man said from the far end of the table.  “I’d like to hear your testimony.  That’s kind of important since we are starting a Christian School.”  He said with half a laugh.  “Oh, by the way, I’m Bart Taylor, tenth grade Biology teacher.

“Nice to meet you Bart.  You’ve thrown me a softball.  No offense intended.  It’s a short, short story.  I was saved right here in Boaz at First Baptist Church of Christ.  It was summer camp.  I was in the sixth grade.  Brother Randy Miller led me to the Lord.  It was none other than our own Bill Jones who, a few years later, helped me fully commit.  You should all know that Bill was just a volunteer with the youth group, but he made Randy Miller look awfully good.  Ever since the tenth grade, I’ve dedicated my life to serving God.  Of course, I’ve not always pleased Him, but I’ve never lost the desire to get back up and pursue my Master.”

“Thanks Carl, can I call you Carl?”  Said a nice-looking young lady wearing a pink blouse a little lower cut than I would recommend for this type meeting.  She had the curliest blond hair I think I’ve ever seen.  Her blue eyes were stunning.

“Certainly, I hope we can all be on a first name basis.  Can I ask your name?”  I hoped I wasn’t being too forward.

“Brie, Brie Sutherland.  I’ll be teaching Bible and Algebra, middle school grades.

“Nice to meet you Brie.  Sorry, what was your question?”  I knew she hadn’t asked me anything but wanted to take the high road.

“I’m so sorry about your wife.  When did she die?”  Brie asked.

“2016, June the tenth.”

“Please know my question doesn’t imply anything but I’ve heard it’s difficult for an older man, oh, that didn’t come out right, a more mature man.  Sorry, I’m botching my question.  Let me put it simply.  Have you ever had desires for a teenage girl?”  What a damn question.  That was almost like asking me if I’d ever lied.

“Absolutely.”  I said, thinking it permissible to respond boldly, even surprisingly stark-rate crazy.

“Oh my, can you explain?”  Brie was now sitting on the edge of her seat.

“What teenage boy hasn’t lusted after a gorgeous teenage girl?”  Her question hadn’t limited me to my ‘mature’ years.

“Oh, I wasn’t clear.  I meant since your wife died.  I assume Knoxville Christian has a lot of beautiful teenage girls.”  I was thankful Bill Jones came to my rescue.  I was also thankful I didn’t have to lie.  Although God had always helped me control my natural desires, I didn’t want to have to admit that sometimes I could have a thought that was displeasing to my Savior.

“Ms. Sutherland, I really don’t think you’re line of questioning is appropriate.  We all know God says a man who has looked upon a woman with lust in his heart is guilty of adultery, but we are not God.  We certainly are interested in Carl’s conduct and I can assure you that he comes to us with an impeccable record.  Brie, your question would be appropriate if Carl had been convicted of a sexual crime, or even had been accused of some inappropriate behavior.  But, that’s simply not the case.”  Bill said it better than I could have.

“I’m sorry Carl.  I didn’t mean to get so personal.  Please don’t hold it against me.”  Brie’s entire countenance transformed into a shy little girl, with one exception.  Her blue eyes penetrated mine as though she was sending out a flirt vibe.  I bet she wasn’t thirty years old.

Thirty minutes later, after a quick tour of the new campus and a quicker vote, I was officially hired to fill the joint position of principal and teacher at Boaz Christian School. 

Driving to mother’s, I couldn’t think of anything but Jennifer and how she had wanted to move back to Boaz after she had gotten sick.  Not agreeing to her request was the biggest regret of my life.

Chapter 3

Beverly’s car was no longer in Mother’s driveway.  It was when I had passed through a few hours ago.  It wasn’t at her house next door either.

Mother and Dad had built their house on Highway 168 before I was born in 1954.  The one-acre parcel was part of the original eighty-acre tract my maternal great-grandfather had acquired before the turn of the twentieth century.  There were a ton of memories floating around this place.  Even though most of them were good, now I had mixed feelings about accepting mother’s offer to live in my old room, “until you get back on your feet.”

Sammie, mother’s part-time caregiver, was coming out the sliding glass door from the den mother and dad had added on when I was in high school.  It had been the carport.  I got out of my car and said, “hey Sammie, how’s mother?”

“She’s happy as a lark.  Can’t wait to see you.  That’s the good news, the bad is she keeps getting weaker by the day.”  Mother was in the advanced stages of Parkinson’s.  For nearly two years now she had been confined to a wheel chair.

“Thanks for all you do.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”  Sammie smiled and walked around the side of the house towards her car.

“Sorry, I’m in a hurry.  My son is due in town any minute.  I guess today is happy Mother’s Day.”  She got in her car and drove off without another word or wave.

After kneeling beside Mother’s wheelchair, both wordless and shedding tears for nearly half an hour, she took my face with her severely gnarled hands.  “Son, I love you, but you better put the cornbread in the stove.”  It was just the laugh we needed.  Cornbread had always been one of my favorite foods, especially mother’s.  Hopefully, the mix already in Mother’s big cast-iron skillet, thanks to Sammie, was the recipe I had grown up eating smothered under three portions of real butter and maple syrup.

By 7:00 p.m., we had finished a great meal of meatloaf, green beans, mashed potatoes, and cornbread.  I nearly cried again as I ate my favorite dessert, sweet-potato pie, and listened as mother described how Sammie had let her make out the strips of dough.  I was reminded of what I had said in the Board meeting: “time has a way of uprooting us no matter our satisfaction.”  I had been surprised how contented Mother had become after Dad died in 2012.  She seemed to adjust to life without her sixty-plus year mate with barely a hiccup.  It may have had something to do with the long and arduous road she had traveled the four years he had been bedridden.  But, since 2016, Mother’s satisfaction had been fully uprooted.

It didn’t surprise me that Mother wanted to watch The Walton’s after supper.  It was something her and Dad did every night.  During a commercial break mother said, “the Pankey’s have moved out of Mama’s house.  You could store your things there.”  The Pankey’s had lived in my maternal grandmother and grandfather’s house next door for almost five years after their house burned, without insurance coverage.  I almost wanted to respond, “why don’t I just move in Mama’s house?”

“You need to find another renter.  I’ve already checked with Paradise Cove about storing mine and Jennifer’s things.”

“Still holding on to the past, are you?”  Mother and I had always been close but for the past few years she had picked up a habit her father, my grandfather, had.  His questions always had some form of hidden meaning.  I didn’t know if it had something to do with her disease or it was something to do with the uprooting that takes place in our heads as we grow older or experience some traumatic event.

After three episodes of The Walton’s, I was ready for bed.  But Mother insisted we watch the 10:00 o’clock news.  WHNT19 no doubt.  Right after a too-long segment on how scammers were targeting potential renters with fake online rental ads, I woke up out of my semi-consciousness.  “Brandon ‘Home-run’ Hawkins may be retired but he’s still swinging his bat.”  There was a cut-away shot that flashed across the screen.  At first, I couldn’t place the two old houses behind the tall and thick Brandon and a young female reporter who looked about four feet tall.  When the newscaster said Gina Walters was reporting from Boaz, Mother reached over and shook my arm.

“Today, the national league’s home-run record-holder walked out onto a whole new ball field.”  The tiny reporter engaged the giant Hawkins in several minutes of dialog with him describing his plan to build the Center for Secular Humanism right across the street from the new Boaz Christian School.  His final comment, “I want young people to learn to think on their own and not be snookered by adults with an agenda.”

“Isn’t that the old Higgins house?”  Mother asked.

“I think it is.  Looks like there’s going to be a whole lot of uprooting going on.”  With that, I got up out of Dad’s Lazy Boy, kissed Mother, and walked to my old room at the back of the house.

The clanking sound woke me before I ever reached deep sleep.  At first, I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry.  Cry was an overstatement, but I knew exactly what it was and couldn’t believe the problem hadn’t been resolved. 

In 1968, the summer before I began my ninth-grade year, Mother and Dad had contracted to have me a 20-foot x 20-foot room added on to the back of the house.  I’m not sure why.  I don’t remember demanding any such thing.  They had even opted for a central heating and air unit instead of a window unit like the other two we had in the main house.  My unit, early on, developed a weird way of reminding us it had a stomach ache.  After a number of service calls, the A/C guys concluded it was me that was imagining the clanking sound, or it was some weird vibration being emitted by the old oak tree that shared the same side of the house.  Lucky for me, the unit didn’t sound off every time it came on.

I lay in bed another thirty minutes trying my best to doze off.  It didn’t work.  Finally, three minutes before midnight, according to my iPhone, I got up and sat at my little desk still nestled in the left-hand corner opposite my bed.  I could almost see my open Bible laid across the top with a note from Mother written on an index card with a carefully drawn line pointing to a verse.  Mother’s ritual had begun after I turned 16 and started driving her push-button automatic Plymouth.  No doubt, she believed, God’s Word and her prodding would protect her son and provide him the motivation to walk the high rode alongside her Savior.  In a sense, she had been right.  Over my entire adult life, after college and seminary, I had served God by using the same old book to mold and shape young people the past twenty years at Knoxville Christian School, and before that, at an assortment of schools, both private and public, all across the southeast.

I opened the middle drawer and found my old King James Bible.  I lifted the heavy tome and laid it across the desk, opening it to John 15.  Verse 7 was highlighted, and Mother’s 3 x 5-inch index card was still nestled between the pages.  On the card mother had written, printed, the following: “Son, Jesus will give you anything you ask as long as you abide in Him.”  She had also printed the entire verse: “If ye abide in me, and my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you.”  No doubt Mother believed this one hundred percent.  Then, and now.  And, I did the same, until God took Jennifer.  It was the most significant event that had so solidly shaken my faith.  It wouldn’t have been quite so bad if God hadn’t, early on during her battle with cancer, assured me that He had a plan for our lives and that plan included Jennifer living and fully recovering.

I pulled the middle desk drawer back open to return my Bible and saw one of my high school drawings.  I had taken art in Mrs. Steed’s eighth grade class and had continued to draw elementary level sketches throughout my four years at Boaz High.  This drawing was one of many that had no doubt lain right here for close to fifty years.  I closed my Bible and laid it along the left side of the desktop and placed the sketch in front of me.

In the lower right-hand corner, I had written the date.  Tuesday, September 10, 1969.  I was in the tenth grade.  I remember that night as though it was yesterday.  I had created the drawing after coming home from a B Team football game at Boaz High School stadium.  It was the first time I ever saw Jennifer, or that I could remember.  She was a B Team cheerleader and was in the ninth grade.  That night, I couldn’t have known the significance of the desperation I saw in her face as she, after the game, got in the car with Wiley Jones, William ‘Bill’ Jones’ brother.  Wiley was in the eleventh grade and, along with me, was a member of the varsity football team.  I later learned he was thirty-six months older than Jennifer and had someway convinced her to have sexual intercourse beginning when she was fourteen and just starting the ninth grade.  What was a little ere about my drawing, again, at the time not knowing anything about how Jennifer was being abused, was that I had drawn a picture of an old barn with me in the loft looking down on Jennifer and Wiley doing their thing in the back of his car while it was pulled inside the center hallway.  I had even drawn a talk bubble beside my head that said: “Wiley boy, you will reap what you sow.”

Although there was a solid argument to be made that my intentions at the time were honorable, a carefully crafted full rebuttal would contend that this drawing revealed my embryonic bent towards stalking.  One thing I knew for sure was that long, long ago, God had assured me I would get my chance to met out justice to old Wiley boy.

I returned my drawing and my Bible to the middle desk drawer, laid back down across my bed, and was asleep by the time my head touched the pillow.  If the old A/C unit clanked again during the night, I couldn’t say.

Chapter 4

Buddy was waiting in a corner booth on the left-hand side when I walked in.  For some reason, no offense to Waffle House, the smell nearly knocked me over.  My mind played one of its tricks.  It reminded me how I had almost gotten sick yesterday when I saw Buddy at the Shell station and during his bear hug. 

I was surprised Buddy looked so good.  I even caught a slight whiff of Old Spice aftershave.  Although he was seated, I could tell he had on a clean shirt.  Blue Denim.  His beard was trimmed, and his gray curly hair had a nice shine to it.

“Buddy, Buddy Hawkins, is that you?”  I tried to be funny right out of the gate.

“Sit your fat ass down.”  I wasn’t the only comedian.  He had always thought I was pudgy even though I only weighed 170 pounds.  Of course, I was fat compared to my lean but muscular, six foot-two, one hundred ninety-five-pound teammate.  At least that’s what he used to be. 

“Looks like my ten dollars was a good investment.  Question.  Where does a homeless man take a shower?”  Even though it had been nearly half-a-century since Buddy and I had talked, I felt nothing had changed between us.  We always had shared a brutally open and honest friendship.

A short and stocky waitress who could pass for both a woman or a man came and poured me a cup of coffee and refilled Buddy’s.  “I don’t know about any other homeless man, but I have lots of options.  My favorite two places are First Baptist Church of Christ and Boaz High School.  Churches and schools, at least around here, are easy targets.”

“I’d think these days, security would be pretty tight at both places.  With all the shootings, both at schools and at churches.”  I said while looking at Stan’s name tag as he returned and took our orders.

“It’s all in the timing.  The School’s lunch room receives a big order on Monday mornings, usually from at least two vendors.  All the delivery guys think I’m just an employee, walk right in with them.  The security team at the church on Sunday mornings operate strictly on routine, and with the alarm system shut down.  I prefer the lady’s showers in the new Family Life Center.”

Stan arrived with our food.  Southwestern Omelets for both of us.  “Another question.”  It seemed the natural thing for me to ask.

“Canny Carl, always wanting to get nosy.”  Buddy said already with a mouthful of eggs and peppers.

“How in the heck are you homeless?”  The last time I had heard anything about Buddy was in 1992.  After our twenty-year high school reunion, another one that I missed, I had received something akin to a newsletter from Gerald, our class president.  It listed the name of every class member and a short biography.  I recalled Buddy was an assistant football coach and teacher at Albertville High School.

“Easiest thing I ever did.  Didn’t take any schooling or long practices.  All I had to do was start a restaurant.  Then, just hang on for the ride.”  Buddy finished the last bite of his omelet and motioned for Stan to bring more coffee.

“It’s hard for me to see you flipping burgers.”

“Barbecue.  That was my thing.  Looking back, it was a dumb ass move but you remember, mother had the Dippy-Dip on Highway 205 when we was in high school.  I guess it got in my blood.  Anyway, lost everything and then couldn’t get back into teaching and coaching.”  Buddy looked again at the menu and ordered a brownie with ice-cream and strawberries.  “Don’t worry, I’m paying.”

“No, it’s my treat.  I invited you.  Remember?”  I said trying to think of how I could help the best friend I ever had, other than Jennifer.

“Old friend.  You’re still a little slow.  Can’t you tell my luck has changed since yesterday?”  Buddy said as he raised both eyebrows and tilted his head to my right.

“Well, that does look like a new shirt.  And you seem to have money to buy breakfast.”  I said.

“Timing.  It’s everything.  I mentioned that a while ago.  Yesterday, I was wandering around town and had just walked by our good friend and classmate’s law office.  Tanner, Micaden, you know.”

“On North Main Street.  I took mother there last year to have her will updated.”

“Anyway, my long lost but famous nephew, and a darling little vixen, that means female fox, walked out the front door.”

“You have to be talking about Brandon, Benson’s boy?”  Benson was Buddy’s younger brother.

“Oh yea, Brandon ‘Homerun’ Hawkins in the flesh.  The kid’s back in town to stay.  And, I have to say, he’s still got a heart of gold.  Been five years since I’ve seen him.”

I finally finished my omelet and was spreading strawberry jam on a piece of toast when I heard a thunderous shout from behind.  “Uncle Buddy, two days in a row.”  I turned and it was none other than the homerun king.  And the darling female fox.

Buddy slid out of our booth and walked to the register where Brandon was paying for a takeout order.  My eyes followed Buddy noticing his new khaki pants and leather loafers.  I turned back around to finish my breakfast.

“He’s got some great ideas for Boaz.”  Buddy said when he returned.  “Oh, I forgot to tell you how good my timing was yesterday.”  Buddy said as he opened a colorful brochure.  I couldn’t make any of the writing.  “Brandon wants me to go to work for him.  Sounds like a miracle doesn’t it?”  Buddy let out another laugh.

“Let me guess, teaching and coaching at his new school or whatever it is.”  I said.

“How’d you know about the Center?”

“TV, last night.  Huntsville station.  He bought the Higgins place on Sparks, straight across from Boaz Christian School.”  I said with the gnawing feeling I wished I hadn’t returned to Boaz.

“The Center for Secular Humanism.  Now, that’s a philosophy.  That’s a homerun philosophy.”  Buddy said motioning Stan to bring our check.

“Right up your alley.”  I said confident that Buddy had stayed faithful to his belief there was no god and therefore no supernatural being of any kind.

“Just think.  Me and you right across the street from each other.  I better warn you.  I’m going to recruit you to my team.  We could be teammates again.”  This time, Buddy didn’t laugh.  His clinched jaw reminded me of the times we were on the football field, down a touchdown and victory was dependent on his running ability.  His look also reminded me of the last time we stalked Mayor Ericson to a little cabin on Aurora Lake.

“Save your breath my dear friend.  Being that close together you’ll have no choice but to surrender to the mighty touch of the Holy Ghost.  I’m praying for you right now.”  I was thankful for this little chance to impress upon Buddy that there was still time for him to confess the Lord Jesus Christ.

At straight up 7:00 a.m., I left Buddy at the register paying our bill, and drove to Walmart to pick up a few groceries for Mother and me.

I never knew when the invasion would occur.  Today, it was at Walmart while looking for a clock in the Home, Furniture & Appliances Department.  On my way out this morning, Mother, always an early riser, had followed me in her electric wheelchair demanding I bring her back a Joseph Tyler clock.  According to Sammie, the giant department store was now carrying the English company’s clocks.  Vintage Barnwood Wall Clock, that was the model she insisted I remember. 

In a sense, the invasive thought could be analogized to the feeling I get when I have to go to the bathroom.  Neither can be denied.  I placed the right clock in my buggy and headed towards the grocery department.  Although the timing of my desire was unpredictable, the target was always someone I didn’t know.  Like the young female banker from First Bank of Knoxville who had come to speak to my economics classroom at the school last March. 

Later that afternoon, I had found First Bank’s new location on World’s Fair Park Drive.  After waiting in my car until 5:00 p.m., I had followed the 2017 UT grad home.  An hour later, she was dozing on her couch in front of the TV in a pair of short-shorts and a baggy tee-shirt when I eased along the side of her house to a nearly new Nissan Altima parked outside an open garage on the back side of the young lady’s house.  I left the neighborhood but not until I had placed a small stuffed lion on the front passenger seat.  My trademark.  It was a no-harm hobby that started when Buddy and I were in the tenth grade.

Today’s desire was different.  It may have been the look in Brie Sutherland’s eyes as she questioned me yesterday afternoon at the Board meeting.  I still had doubts she was flirting with me.  It didn’t matter.  I now had no choice but to get a little closer and begin to see what her world looks like from the inside.

Chapter 5

“He’s your father.  He loves you.”  Anna Lee said reaching her hand over and touching the thick shoulder of her husband.

“You’re right.  He is my father, but he loves his god a lot more than me.”  Brandon said as he pulled his Cadillac Escalade into the driveway of the house he grew up in on Richmond Avenue.

Belton Hawkins was a Southern Baptist preacher and pastor of Liberty Baptist Church in Rodentown.  Brandon and his father had always been close, especially since the death of his wife in 2009, the year before his only son was drafted by the New York Yankees.  Their relationship had radically changed eighteen months ago when Brandon married Anna Lee.

“Remember baby, he suffers from a delusion.  That means he doesn’t know he’s been deluded.  Recall your worldview when we met.  Now look at you, at us.  About to build a school that reveals the truth and hopefully will keep generations of local young people from ever being deluded.”  Anna Lee said, opening her passenger-side door.

Brandon had met Anna Lee in Houston after a game with the Astros.  Rafi Halim, Anna’s father, was one of the richest men in Indonesia and had fallen in love with baseball as a kid.  Rafi had purchased the Astros in late 2014 and was aggressively courting ‘Homerun’ Hawkins.  Anna, an evolutionary psychologist at Columbia University, was in town in the summer of 2015 for two reasons: to celebrate her father’s birthday, and to attempt, once again, to mend their relationship that was torn by Anna’s disavowal of the Muslim faith in 2012.  Brandon and Anna met at a private party on the seventy-fifth floor of the JPMorgan Chase Tower.

“Reliving all the good times with Dad almost makes me wish I had continued to remain a closet atheist.  It’s a damn shame that religion has the power to destroy relationships.”  Brandon said, turning off the Escalade and sitting shaking his head.

“Living a lie is no way to live.  Come on baby, let’s go.  It will work out for the best.  My father chose Allah over me.  It’s time you know for sure where your father stands.”

“That’s easy.  You’ll see.”  Brandon said opening the door and removing a small wrapped present from the Cadillac’s dash.

Benson opened the front door as Brandon walked onto the home’s tiny front porch.  Anna paused at the foot of the steps, disappointed with the absence of a smile on her father-in-law’s face.

“She can wait out here.”  Benson said.

“Then I guess we don’t have anything to talk about.”  Brandon said, backing down the two steps and reaching out for Anna’s hand.

“Mr. Hawkins, it’s nice to see you again.  I’ll go sit in the car and let you two talk.”  Brandon never ceased to be amazed at how sweet, kind, and respectful his Anna could be.  She had only met his father once, in Nashville, a year ago when the Yankees were playing an exhibition game against the Red Sox.  Brandon remembered how rude his father had been, saying “marrying a Muslim was worse for Brandon than marrying a Negro.”

“No Anna, it’s not right.  Stay.”  Brandon said looking with disgust at his father before turning his head down and meeting Anna’s eyes.  With one look, she could melt the six-foot six-inch giant.  He stood silent as she returned to the Escalade.

“Come on in son.”

“No way.  We can talk right here.”  Brandon said not making any effort to follow his father inside.

Benson closed the door behind him and sat down in the lone chair that crowded the front porch.  “Son, you’re headed for destruction with that new school.”

“Somebody’s got to tell the truth around here.  It’s way past time you and all your preacher friends have some opposition.”

“Don’t you see what this woman has done to you?  You are so blinded to her intentions.”  Benson said, noticing for the first time the small package his son was holding.

“She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.  She led me out of the darkness.”  Brandon looked back over his shoulder and saw Anna with ear buds listening to her iPod.

“Into the darkness.  Let me ask you.  Where did I go wrong?  Were you not listening during the many sermons I preached with you sitting on the front row of Liberty Baptist Church?”  Benson asked.

“I really don’t blame you.  You were, like me, deluded as a child.  You listened to your father and everyone around you.  The entire community filled your head with a fairy tale.  You never had a chance.  That’s how brainwashing works.”

“Let me ask you a question.  I really need to know the answer.  What made you change your mind?  I mean, what made you stop believing in God, in Jesus?”  Benson asked uncrossing his legs and leaning forward in his chair towards his son.

“I know exactly what it was.  Well, what got me to thinking something was right.  It was when Uncle Buddy and Aunt Carol had their restaurant.  I had just met Anna a few months earlier.  We had been talking about prayer and for some reason I made the statement, “Aunt Carol is as dedicated a prayer warrior as there is.  I wonder why God doesn’t answer her pleas for the restaurant to make it?”  Anna responded, knowing that Uncle Buddy didn’t believe in any of that: “prayer works as good for the non-believer as it does the believer.”  I disagreed with her but a few days later she sent me a link to a prayer study conducted by the Templeton Foundation.  You ought to look at it Dad.  Prayer flat out doesn’t work.”

Benson interrupted Brandon, “I’ve read it.  Doesn’t prove anything.  God can’t be put in a box.  God is beyond science.”

“Gosh, it’s amazing how insane I must have sounded to most all my teammates.  That’s the type of thing I would have said before I saw the light.  Have you ever stopped to analyze your own words?  Even if there is a God and He exists outside the natural world, by communicating with His followers He is reaching inside our world.  That’s what science is all about.  Observing and testing reality.”  Brandon wanted to say more but it began to rain.

“Let’s go inside.”  Benson said.

“No, not until you accept Anna as your daughter-in-law.”

“I wouldn’t be a godly father if I supported your choice of becoming unequally yoked with an infidel.”

“I’ve told you before.  I will gladly accept Jesus Christ as my savior just as soon as I have good evidence He exists.”

“Oh son, it’s by faith that you become a child of the Lord Jesus Christ.”  The clap of thunder brought a smile to Benson’s face.  “See, God never fails to give me evidence He is real.”

“Not that you would believe it, but scientists have figured out quite a bit since your middle eastern brethren wrote your favorite book.”  Brandon knew he would never convince his preacher father that God wasn’t real.

“Son, I’ll be praying for you.  I’m praying God will give you a Damascus Road experience.  Then, you’ll have no doubt that my God is who the Bible says He is.”  Benson said, standing up and turning towards the front door as the misting rain became a downpour.

“Dad, catch.”  Brandon said as he tossed the small gift he was holding towards the man he had always loved and respected.

Chapter 6

I dropped the groceries off at Mother’s.  She loved her clock.  I told her I wanted to spend some time in my office and classroom at school.  Bill Jones had shown me my two rooms but said the painters wouldn’t be finished before next Tuesday.

I drove to McDonald’s, ordered a large coffee, and parked in the rear parking lot.  I never ceased to be amazed at what people posted on Facebook.  Brie Sutherland was no exception.  After reading her most recent ten- plus posts I concluded she was a two-timer, meaning she posted twice per day: once in the morning, early, and once at night, late.  It was like she had to report to the world what she expected her day to be like and what it in fact had been.

As I drank my coffee, I began to form a skeleton outline of who Brie Sutherland really was.  I was also able to conclude where she lived.  From her posts, it was obvious her son Finn loved to visit the playground at Corley Elementary School.  In a February post, roughly six months ago, Brie had said it was hard downsizing but her and Finn were settling into their new garden home. 

I drove to King Street west of Boaz and turned right.  Passing the Rec Center (Boaz Neighborhood Center) brought back a ton of memories.  Buddy and I, especially during the summers of our high school years, had spent most every afternoon either swimming or playing basketball, and, of course, flirting with the girls around the pool.  Beyond the Center, on the right were a row of new garden homes.  Four in all.  I passed them slowly but couldn’t make any determination as to which house might be Brie’s.

At the intersection of Mount Vernon Road, I did a U-Turn and was almost back to Usry Avenue and the Center when I noticed that a car in my rear-view mirror had turned into the driveway of the garden home furthest from me and closest to Corley Elementary.    I quickly turned right into the Rec Center’s parking lot and pulled between two cars that were parked facing the Pavilion and Corley.  I could barely see the maroon-colored Maxima or Camry, whatever it was, so I got out and walked to the right side of where it seemed two or three families were getting ready to cook-out.  There were several open ice-chests sitting on picnic tables under the pavilion and two charcoal fires smoking in two of the stationary grills.

When I got better positioned, halfway from my car to the last garden home, I could see Brie removing some bags from the car’s trunk.  I also saw a small boy waiting on the tiny front porch looking back towards his mother.  I didn’t hear the man come up behind me.  “You’re welcome to join us sir.”  I turned.  The man was grossly underweight and had a farmer’s tan as they called it.  His arms were dark from the sun, but his skinny legs were as white as a ghost.

“Thanks, but I’m just watching traffic.  I’m kind of interested in one of those garden homes and wanted to see how active this street is.  I hope I haven’t disturbed your gathering.”  Earlier, I had seen real estate for sale signs in the front yards of two of the homes.

The skinny man encouraged me to stay if I wanted.  Then, he had walked away.  He returned thirty seconds later with a lawn chair.  You might as well be comfortable.”

I took the chair and walked another fifty feet or so and sat down behind a large pine tree, facing Brie’s house and away from the growing family reunion.  I didn’t have to wait long, maybe fifteen minutes.  Brie and her son, Finn, exited the home’s front door and walked across to Corley’s playground.  After another ten or fifteen minutes, they returned, got in Brie’s car and drove towards Highway 168, passing me without looking my way.

Lucky for me, Brie was a slow-driver.  I made it to my car and to King Street in a minute or less.  I saw her turn left on Highway 168 just as I topped the hill and crawled through the stop-sign at Mann Avenue.  I was fifty yards behind her Camry when she crossed Highway 205, still heading east.  Six or seven minutes later I parked two rows away from her and watched the two as they entered Walmart.  I wanted to leave, return to North King Street, and slip inside the garden home closest to Corley Elementary School, the one with the Alabama Crimson Tide flag hanging from the side of the front porch.  Knowing I hadn’t done my homework, I chose, instead, to lay a small stuffed lion on the base of the Camry’s windshield and return to my Impala.

It began at church, First Baptist Church of Christ, in the fall of 1970.  Buddy and I were in the eleventh grade at Boaz High School.  Our hobby didn’t start out with stalking.  It was stealing.   Really nothing criminal.  We didn’t take anything.   Initially, we had intended to move Mrs. Morgan’s purse from the choir-room to the storage closet across from the Nursery.  It wasn’t anything either of us had planned.  After Sunday School, Beverly my sister, had asked me to deliver a hand-written message to Mother. 

Buddy had long been a closet atheist.  The only reason he attended church was to hang around me, but mostly to flirt with the girls in Sunday School.  This delayed me from delivering Beverly’s note to Mom.  Her and the other choir members had already walked into the sanctuary leaving the choir room abandoned.  Along, with their personal things. 

I don’t know why Buddy picked up the purse next to the one I knew was Mother’s.  In a flash he said, “come on, follow me.”  I had to almost run to keep up with him.  He was outside the choir room and inside the stairwell leading down to the basement and the Nursery before we heard the first words of “How Great Thou Art.”  Halfway down the stairs he stopped and said, “let’s take a peek.”   I remember telling him that what we were doing was wrong.  And, that it was none of our business what was inside the purse.”  Buddy didn’t listen.

What he found inside remains one of the biggest shocks of my life.  The purse contained four things.  A billfold containing two, one-dollar bills and a driver’s license with the pretty face of Helen Morgan, and a lacy handkerchief wrapped around a small box.  The fourth thing was a box of Trojan condoms.  I’ll never forget Buddy’s thunderous laugh as we looked at each other in amazement.

We likely would have stood there and pondered what in the heck the minister of music’s wife was doing with a pack of rubbers but the sound of someone entering the stairwell from below thrust us into emergency mode.  Buddy stuffed the contents back into the purse and crammed it in my chest.  “Hide it in your coat.”  Mother always made me wear a sports jacket to church.  I pushed the purse inside my jacket and up under my arm and complied with Buddy’s nod to follow him.  We met Ray Robinson coming up the stairs glaring at us.  Thankfully, he didn’t say a thing.

We waited at the bottom of the stairs until we heard him exit the ground floor.  Instead of hiding the purse inside the storage closet across from the Nursery as we initially intended, we returned it to Helen’s chair in the choir room.  We didn’t pay much attention to Pastor Walter during his forty-minute sermon.  Instead, we sat in the back row of the balcony and used written words and sketches on paper to plan our next move.  We were going to follow Helen Morgan.

It turned into a boring Sunday afternoon since Helen drove straight home after church and never came out of her and Mike’s Brown Street home until time to return to church Sunday night.  But things got more exciting on Wednesday night after choir practice.  Mike and Pastor Walter were out of town, Sardis I believe, conducting a revival.  Emmett Goggans, the chairmen of Deacons and the tenor for a group called the Four Sheep (really, this was their name), led choir practice.  Later, Buddy and I learned that he was good at leading Helen in a more intimate form of singing. 

It was a thrill like none other.  Buddy was the master at tailing another car.  The two lovebirds had separately exited the church through the Fellowship Hall and drove their own cars to the back side of Boaz Elementary School.  There, Helen left her vehicle and rode with Mr. Goggans to an old barn down Martin Road.  Buddy drove on by when they turned left.  Not to be outdone, Buddy parked just over the hill and said, “come on, let’s get a closer look.”  I was reluctant, scared to death we would get caught. 

We cut across a hay field towards Mr. Pankey’s barn.  Neither of us was brave enough to climb over the fence to get an eye full but the sounds coming from the back seat of Mr. Goggans Bonneville convinced us both that one of Helen’s Trojans was directing the music. 

This was how my little addiction had gotten started.  Neither Mr. Goggans, Helen, or anyone else over the near half-century since had ever gotten hurt.  As far as I know, no one had known that I had ever followed and watched them. 

At first, I had felt guilty but the good rationalizer I became convinced me I was doing the Lord’s work.  I usually learned something sordid about the person I was following.  This gave me the perfect motivation to pray the sinner would confess her sin and rededicate her life to God.  As far as I know, Helen and Mr. Goggans continued their duet until the week after Buddy and I graduated high school in May of 1972.  The two of them were T-Boned crossing Highway 431 and died before an ambulance ever arrived.  One thing I know for sure is that God works in mysterious ways.

Chapter 7

When Brie and Finn exited Walmart a half-hour later, I decided against following them.  My guilt over having already violated my ironclad commitment to being prepared before initiating a new stalk, prompted me to drive home.  After a supper prepared by Mother and Sammie, and two episodes of The Walton’s, I retired to my room.

At 9:30 I was still frustrated with myself and wanted to lay across my bed and shut down my mind.  Instead, I had homework to complete.  Bill Jones had asked me to create a draft Statement of Faith for Boaz Christian School.  I retrieved my laptop from my briefcase and set it up on my little desk in the corner.  Since Mother didn’t have internet service, I used my iPhone and Google to locate Knoxville Christian School.

After an introductory paragraph, the second one got down to business: “WE BELIEVE in one God, the Creator of the Universe and the Giver of Life. God is an all-powerful, all-knowing, and ever-present spiritual being.”  Less than five years ago I would have wholeheartedly agreed with this statement.  That was before Jennifer’s death and before she had finally disclosed why we had never been able to get pregnant: a surgical abortion at age 15 had damaged her cervix.  This news had led me to question everything in my life, especially my faith in God.  How could a good God have allowed this to happen?  More particularly, how could Jennifer, a woman who was as committed to God, His Word, and His church, as anyone I had ever known, have lied to me for nearly fifty years?  Jennifer’s confession had triggered an insatiable desire in me to seek out the truth.  What I had discovered over the past five plus years was that it was highly improbable there was any supernatural being at all, that the whole Christian story was nothing but a myth.

“WE BELIEVE in one God….”  Well, I didn’t, but only Jennifer knew that.  And, it was likely she wouldn’t be delivering another life-altering confession.  Her death had also forever concealed another one of my secrets: the anger I had revealed after she had told me the full truth of how Wiley Jones, 36 months older than Jennifer, and Bill’s brother, had convinced her as a 14 year old ninth grader, to begin having sexual intercourse with him.  My visible and vocal outrage had lasted an entire weekend and had culminated with a statement I had later regretted.  I had sworn to Jennifer I would kill Wiley Jones for his year-long raping of my wife, even if it was the last thing I ever did.

With Jennifer now permanently silenced, there was no other living person who knew what I was up to.  Only Buddy knew what we had done as teenagers, and even if that was someway disclosed, all reasonable people surely would tag that behavior as mere youthful indiscretion.  I was glad I hadn’t revealed to Buddy that my little addiction hadn’t ended when I moved to Auburn to attend college. 

“WE BELIEVE in one God, the Creator of the Universe and the Giver of Life.”  I created a new WORD document and rewrote the first sentence of Knoxville Christian School’s Statement of Faith to read: “WE KNOW God as ever-existent and the creator of the universe and all life.”  I pulled out my middle desk drawer, removed my giant King James Bible and turned to John 1:1: “That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon, and our hands have handled, of the Word of life.”  I chuckled when I thought how sincerely I used to believe the Bible was without error, the actual words given to man by God Himself. 

I closed my Bible and my laptop, and after removing my shoes, shirt, and trousers, lay across my bed fully committed to using Boaz Christian School as a subterfuge for my primary mission.

According to my iPhone, it was 11:44 p.m. when I was awakened by the deep groan of my A/C unit, limbs from the old oak tree rubbing against each other, or my imagination.  Ever since I began my journey to truth, I had often considered whether we as humans have free will.  Sam Harris and others posited good arguments that we didn’t.  Our thoughts come to us completely unannounced and uninvited.  Now, there was the thought of Mother at supper being upset with me because I had forgotten her lip balm.  It had to be Carmex Lip Balm in a jar, she said.  Her current supply was almost extinguished.  I had promised I would return to Walmart in the morning, early.  Instead, I got up, dressed, and tiptoed down the hall to the back door.

On the shampoo aisle I finally found a late-night stocker.  She was an older woman with arthritic hands, thick glasses, and a pleasing smile but for her seriously stained and decayed teeth.  After returning a bottle of Selsun-Blue Men’s Shampoo to her buggy she instructed me to follow her.  Two aisles over she pointed to the item I requested and announced she liked it better in a tube.  I knelt and pondered whether to buy both, to give Mother a choice.  My pondering ended when I heard a voice say, “Mr. Carl Stallings in the flesh, what a pleasant surprise.”

I stood and turned towards the voice and a familiar-looking face.  I couldn’t believe she recognized me.  Especially from the side with me kneeling.  “Julie Foster?  Julie Kaye Foster?”  I asked believing from the woman’s face I could see the faint portrait of Buddy’s first cousin.  But, allowing my eyes to explore the woman from head to toe gave me pause.  I never knew Julie’s body was so well arranged.

“Who else would have these damn blond curls?”  She did have a point.  Her hair was most unique.  It was something she hated as a teenager.  Apparently, blonds want straight hair.  The thought appeared that me and a couple other friends, outside the presence of Buddy, always shared a private insight that she was the sexiest girl in the ninth grade.  This happened after we were instructed by our 12th grade Sunday School teacher to flee temptation and to never be alone with a girl more than a year younger.

“I think they’re making some good straighteners these days.”  I had the ability to be somewhat of a smart ass.

“Funny.  What are you doing in Walmart so late?  I assume you are in town visiting your mom?”  Julie said walking over to me and pulling my right hand into hers.  It was like I wanted to respond but I was fixated on her blue eyes, her smell, a familiar perfume I couldn’t name, and her golden-brown skin oozing out from her pink, sleeveless blouse. 

“Truth is, I now live with Mother.  As of last week.  I’ve moved here from Knoxville to work for Boaz Christian School.”  That seemed the most cogent way to answer Julie’s question.

“Wow, that news about doubles the private school’s credibility in my mind.”  Julie said, finally releasing my hand, to my disappointment.  I started to explore her statement but instead reached down for a jar of Carmex, not wanting to disappoint Mother yet again.

“Hand me that one, the one with three tubes.”  I almost laughed when Julie made her request.

“I thought only old people used this stuff.”  I said.

“Well, I may not be as old as you, or your mother, but I’m no longer a spring chicken.  I’ll be sixty in less than two weeks.”  She said taking her Carmex from my hand.

“Uh, August 29th.  Right?”

“Damn, you’re good.  After all these years you remember my birthday.”  I was a little surprised Julie had now said ‘damn’ two times.  Half a century can change a person.

“I assume you are still the principal of Guntersville High School.”  I thought it was a safe assumption.  During the time Jennifer was sick and she was wanting us to move back to Boaz I had explored the possibility of me taking a teaching position in Marshall County.  My online investigation had revealed that Julie Foster King had just been hired to fill the top leadership role.  I had no doubt the Mrs. King in the photograph was Julie Kaye Foster.  No doubt, it was her curls.  For several reasons, I never applied to teach at any public school in Marshall County.

“You would be wrong Mr. Stallings.  As of early June, I am the principal of Boaz High School, our alma mater.”  I could tell Julie was excited about her new job.  Her blue eyes sparkled like the Caribbean ocean, and her smile spread halfway across her face.

“Congratulations are in order, although you’ve got some big shoes to fill.”

“I know, Mr. Harrison was a landmark and kept Boaz High anchored to its core of teaching excellence as the only standard.”  Julie responded the way I expected, but then changed the subject.  “Carl, I’m very sorry about Jennifer.  I started to call you but decided against it.  Please forgive me for not sharing my condolences.”

“Thanks.  It was the hardest time of my life.  I’m still not over it.”  My words were completely true but for the first time since my dear Jennifer died, I was feeling sexual attraction.  As a teenager I had dreamed of making out with Buddy’s cousin but of course never did.  Here, now, the uninvited rush of sexual lust was filling every cell of my being.

“Julie.”  My words wouldn’t come.  “I uh.”  I don’t know why I was stumbling and stammering.  “I assume you’re still married to Ted.”  The sexual electricity that was charging my mind and body caused me to ask a too-forward a question, one Julie would certainly sense as a come-on of sorts.

“I am.  Mr. Ted King wouldn’t be half a slug without me.  The good thing about Ted, as always, is his money.  You know he’s now mayor of Boaz?”  Julie’s question threw me.  Her last statement seemed out of rhythm from her first two statements which seemed to subliminally reveal an unhappy marriage.  I figuratively pinched myself acknowledging that I sometimes over-analyzed words, looks, and overall body language.

“I guess that makes you the first lady.”  The words just came.  Silly me.

Julie opened the small purse she had been cradling under her left arm.  “Here’s my card.”  She turned it over and reached back inside the dark red bag for a pen.  “And, my cell number.  Call or text me anytime.”  Our eyes met and held just a little past comfortable.  I smiled.  She reached out her right hand and placed it on my left forearm.  “Let’s have coffee sometime.  I’d love to catch up.”

“I’d like that too.”  With my words barely off my lips Julie turned and walked away.  I couldn’t help but stare at her perfect butt and deep-tanned long legs protruding from her knee-length khaki shorts. 

After a minute or so of standing and pondering Julie’s ‘half-slug’ statement, I almost walked out of Walmart without paying for Mother’s Carmex. 

Driving home I was flooded with a wave of temptation for a married woman.

Chapter 8

Sunday morning, I walked into the kitchen to find Sammie leaning back against the sink and mother sitting in her wheelchair pulled up beside the table.

“Terrible headache.”  Sammie said.  I walked over and knelt beside Mother.  Even with the hollowness in her eyes and sweat protruding from her brow, Mother managed a half-smile mixed with a whispered request: “toast and oatmeal okay for breakfast?”  All my growing up years she had prided herself on preparing a robust breakfast.  In her repertoire, toast was about as acceptable as mini-skirts for football players.

“I’ve just returned from Walgreen’s with a new prescription.”  Sammie said, turning and facing out the window into the front yard.  Beverly had shared with me that Dr. Sandler, Mother’s Parkinson’s specialist at UAB, had told her and Sammie last May that early morning splitting headaches were an unfortunate condition during Phase Four of Parkinson’s disease.  I assumed mother had already suffered through the first three phases.  I was ashamed at how little I knew about the most debilitating disease that constantly tempts its victim with death but delays delivery, most times for decades.

I sat in the chair beside Mother, held her right hand, and exchanged a page of words without either of us saying a thing.  Sammie delivered the simmering oats and fresh toast.  “How did you get the new prescription?”  I asked, looking up at Sammie.

“Vickie, Dr. Sandler’s nurse practitioner, had given Beverly and me her card, encouraging us to call if we had any questions.  I called as soon as I saw your mom.  The new drug contains morphine and will make her sleep.”

Mother had planned on going to First Baptist Church of Christ today.  Last night, during a break in The Walton’s, she had made me laugh.  “Just when I think the Tillman reign has ended, I get another surprise.”

Our laughs were spawned by Mother’s description of what had transpired over the past few years in Boaz, and particularly with the Tillman family and First Baptist.  The Tillman males, since the church’s inception in the late nineteenth century, had served as the only pastors of the largest church in town.  The only Tillman I had known as pastor was Walter.  He led First Baptist Church of Christ during my growing up years.  He had resigned many years ago and handed over the reins, with the church’s approval, to his son Wade.  Wade was a high school classmate of mine and, from all I’ve heard, an extremely gifted and competent pastor.  Until he was charged with the murder of his wife, Gina Culvert, another classmate, along with an assortment of other crimes.  Wade’s son Warren had taken over as pastor and, as Mother described in vivid details, had been murdered a year or so ago during a home invasion.  That case was still unsolved.  Warren’s tenure ended the Tillman rein as pastors of First Baptist Church of Christ.  A Caleb Patterson had served in that role for a little over a year, and as all good Netflix series do, end on anything but a passive note.  According to Mother, Patterson committed suicide to avoid the embarrassment of a soon-to-be revealed gambling habit.  Now, Robert Miller, my youth pastor Randy Miller’s grandson, was just beginning to settle in as the new pastor.

But all this wasn’t the end of Mother’s tale.  Even though she hadn’t been to church in months, she had demanded I take her this morning.  After the second episode of The Walton’s ended last night, she had given me the reason.  Olivia Tillman, Walter Tillman’s daughter and Wade Tillman’s sister, was going to speak during the worship hour.  Even though she lived with her husband, Matthew Benson, another high school classmate during our eleventh grade, in Chicago, the Deacon Board had invited her as part of the 125th anniversary celebration.   Mother had also reminded me that 1893 was the year her paternal grandfather, with wife and nine kids in tow, had moved to the old Highway 168 home-place from Wadley, Alabama.

After breakfast, I helped Mother into her Lazy Boy in the den.  She encouraged me to go on to church.  Her words last night describing, so succinctly a big drama in a little town, had motivated me to attend.  But I didn’t know anything about Olivia other than she was a classmate of Julie Kaye Foster.  I remember the two as stunningly beautiful.  I didn’t have a clue what Olivia’s life had been since she graduated from high school.  

Instead of going to church, I sat in Dad’s matching Lazy Boy and watched Mother sleep for the next four hours.  I was ashamed to think it, but several times I wished she would ease on over to the other side and never wake up.  I wished it because it was her wish, the one Sammie said Mother talked about nearly every day.

Sammie returned a few minutes after 12:30 and encouraged me to get up, get out and take a walk, or go for a drive.  I chose to grab my briefcase and go check out the office where I would conduct my Principal duties.

I still didn’t have a key but figured the front door would be open since the painters and other contractors were working nearly non-stop to meet their deadline.  The first day of school was less than two weeks away.  During Friday’s tour, I didn’t see any way the newly renovated Boaz Elementary School could be ready for the first day of classes.

The faculty parking lot was empty when I arrived.  Halfway to the front door I heard a car horn.  I turned and waved towards the car parked next to mine.  A short, heavyset woman exited a tan-colored Tahoe and shouted: “It’s locked.  I have a key.”  We walked towards each other.  “You must be Carl Stallings, our new Principal.”

“I am.  I’ve also been told I’m a teacher.”  I let out a little chuckle wondering what Bill and the Board would direct me to teach.

“Nice to meet you.  I’ve heard a lot about you.  I work at the Boaz Library part time.  Nancy Frasier knows nearly everything about everybody that’s ever lived in Boaz.”  The jolly lady wearing a Denver Broncos jersey and baggy knit shorts revealed her tree-trunk calves.

“I’m sorry but I didn’t catch your name.”  I said, realizing I should have already known who my chief assistant would be.

“I haven’t thrown it yet.”  She said shaking red hair out of her eyes and fumbling in her purse, probably for the front door key.  “Rhonda Perry, the school’s secretary.  I’ll be your immediate supervisor.”  She blurted out a laugh that sounded more like a burp.  “Just kidding.”

Thirty minutes later I sat at my desk.  It took that long for Rhonda to show me the class rolls and share a half-dozen stories of how several Boaz High School students had wound up enrolling at Boaz Christian School.  I also learned how comfortable Rhonda was in chasing rabbits.  She was a master at transitioning from relevant facts concerning BCS to her sorry husband who had just quit his sixth truck driving job in as many months.  I escaped halfway through Rhonda’s rendition of why she couldn’t be the secretary at Boaz High School after it hired Julie Foster King as principal.  I’d have to ask Julie her take on that story.

My office was half the size of Rhonda’s.  Her office was to the left of the front entrance.  The only way to my office was through Rhonda’s.  I was a little surprised that my office was finished.  Unlike my classroom office Bill had shown me on Friday.  The wall directly behind my undersized oak desk was blank except for a painting of what no doubt was intended to be God hovering in the clouds.  There was a talk bubble beside His head that read: “Remember, His eye is on the sparrow.  You are a sparrow.”  At first, I thought it was meant to be funny, but then I read the small text along the bottom of the painting: “My mother told me this during my growing up years.”  The painting was signed, “Rachel Radford.”  Radford.  She had to be kin to Randall Radford, a high school classmate whose family had owned and operated Radford Hardware & Building Supply in Boaz for probably a hundred years.  The other three walls of my office were built in bookshelves, absent the books. 

I placed my briefcase on the desk and sat down intending to retrieve my laptop and continue to work on the school’s statement of faith.  While my computer was booting up, I remembered Randall had a younger sister.  I think her name was Rachel.  She was several years younger than Randall and me.  She could have been in Julie’s grade.  And, Olivia Tillman’s.

I had just read the second sentence in the second paragraph in Knoxville Christian School’s Statement of Faith, when I heard a siren blasting from Sparks Avenue.  I walked over to the sole window in my office and saw a policeman exit his patrol car.  I looked to my left further east on Sparks Avenue and saw a semi-truck with “Wide Load” plastered across its front bumper.  It was pulling a huge trailer.  The police officer seemed upset and held up his hand indicating he wanted the driver to stop.  This looked interesting so I headed outside with Miss Rhonda in tow.

Chapter 9

“Why the hell did the City Clerk issue a building permit to Brandon Hawkins?”  Clay Radford said refusing Mayor King’s persistent hand motion for him to sit across from his giant mahogany desk.

“I’d like to know that too.”  Wiley Jones said coming into the mayor’s office as Clay repeated his question.

Mayor King rose, pushed his matching leather chair under his desk and leaned back against a credenza.  “Jill didn’t have any choice.  If we need somebody to blame, it’s the Zoning Board.  When Brother Bill …”  Ted’s words trailed off as he looked at Wiley who was now sitting in one of the two arm chairs positioned in front of Ted’s desk.  “When Bill Jones and the Boaz Christian School Board applied for rezoning, they persuaded the neighbors across the street to join in.  It seemed Bill aspired to purchase their property and add an athletic facility.  The Zoning Committee went along with it.  Unfortunately, Brandon Hawkins and his money talked louder and faster than your brother.”  Ted again looked at Wiley sitting with his hands perched on the edge of Ted’s desk.

“Where are the others?  We can’t do business without them?”  Clay asked, still fuming, and still refusing to sit.

“The three musketeers, as usual, sung the same music.  They refused to come, said they would see us tomorrow night at our regular council meeting.”  Ted said, pulling his iPhone out of his jacket pocket.  “I’d love to be a June bug on a tree right about now.”

“Why so?”  Wiley asked.

“Two patrol cars have just blocked the entrance to the Higgins property on Sparks.  The property may now be zoned for a school or a church but that doesn’t include mobile homes.  Brandon’s construction crew can’t bring in any type trailer.”

“That’ll work good until tomorrow morning when Brandon’s attorney pulls your ass into Circuit Court.”  Clay said, pulling back the other armchair to give him leg room to stretch out his six-foot eight-inch frame.  “But I like that you did something.”

“Mayor, now you sit.”  Wiley said, pulling a small notebook from his shirt pocket.  “Let me make this clear.  The City of Boaz has much deeper problems than Brandon Hawkins’s building his Center for Secular Humanism on Sparks Avenue.  It’s not the brick and mortar, it’s the people he’s hiring.  I bet you didn’t know Olivia Tillman and her husband Matt Benson have volunteered to teach for a year.  Also,” Wiley said eyeing his notepad, “according to WHNT TV last night, Mr. Brandon has already lined up guest speakers for the next several months.  You ostriches probably don’t know these guys but they’re pretty famous unbelievers: Richard Dawkins, Sam Harris, and Matt Dillahunty.”

“Oh my God,” Clay said, again standing and walking toward the office doorway.  “How in the hell can this be happening in the heart of the Bible-belt?  What will happen if our kids hear opposing viewpoints at such a tender age?”

“I suspect we have six months, maybe, if we’re lucky, a year, to destroy Brandon’s plans.  It’ll take that long to construct his facility.”  Wiley added.

“You dumb ass.”  Ted said pulling open the center drawer of his desk and removing a legal-size document.  “Seems like Brandon’s money has diverse abilities.  Lease.  Don’t ask me how I got a copy.  It’s for the First Baptist Church of Christ’s old sanctuary and education building on south Main Street.”

“That can’t be.”  Clay said.  “The store just delivered a special-order conference room table to Rex Brewer.  You all should know he’s still in process of converting the church’s administration building into offices for his architectural firm, and he’s going to restore the old sanctuary building into a museum.”

“I still can’t believe the church left their original site and built a whole new facility on Sparks Avenue.”  Wiley said.

“Focus you two.  Timing is everything.  Rex Brewer’s wife was the impetus for Rex moving his world-renowned architectural firm from Atlanta to Boaz.  You know she’s a hometown girl.  When she learned First Baptist’s old facility was for sale she jumped at the chance.  But, life throws curves at all of us.  Regina Brewer now has cancer and a whole new set of plans.  Just last week she gave Rex permission to lease the old sanctuary along with the attached Education Building, to none other than Brandon Hawkins.”  Ted said flipping through the pages of the legal document.

“Well, that’s just perfect piss.”  Clay said.  “So, when is the Homerun King, get it mayor, King, when is Hawkins planning on opening up his little Center?

“According to my lovely wife, the same day Boaz City Schools start.  I think it’s August the eighth.”  Ted said, again removing his iPhone from his jacket pocket.  “Okay guys, I’ve gotta run.  Officer Wilson is requesting I come to Sparks Avenue.”

“Young man, we have a building permit to construct a school on this property.”  Rhonda and I were nearly at the end of the sidewalk next to Sparks Avenue when Buddy approached the police officer.  Brandon and a petite, Asian-looking woman, were a hundred feet or so beyond, looking at the remains of the old Higgins home.  It seemed since I was here last Friday, a crew had been busy tearing down and hauling off three or four houses that had been here since before I started first grade at Boaz Elementary School in 1960.

The driver of the semi had stopped his rig as instructed and now was standing in the middle of Sparks Avenue looking towards an approaching Brandon.  “I haven’t got all day.  Two other trailers are waiting on me back at the yard.”  The skinny little man said without removing the stub of a cigar tucked in the corner of his mouth.  From the sign on his truck, and the two old S-10 Chevrolet pickups serving as escorts and now resting behind my car, cigar man owned or worked for a transport company.

For a minute or two no one said anything.  The Asian looking woman walked to an Escalade parked on White Street and returned with a manila file to where Buddy and the police officer were standing.  “Sir, Officer Wilson, here is our authority to be here.”  Just as the woman ended her statement two other cars screeched to a halt behind the patrol car.

“Mayor, I’m glad to see you.  Thanks for coming.”  Officer Wilson said reaching out the file after a quick glance inside.  The sharply dressed man in suit and tie had to be none other than Ted King, Julie’s husband.  I hadn’t seen him in years.  He still had a confident air about him.  Maybe it was how he walked and carried himself: quick, long strides, chin up, serious eyes scanning the horizon, hands twitching, almost shaking, like a prize-fighter readying himself for the ring.

“Mr. Hawkins has a building permit, but he can’t put any type mobile home or portable trailer on this property.”  It surprised me that the man from the second car made the first statement.  He had gotten out of his black Suburban and was leaning against the hood.  I could tell he was a giant of a man: broad shoulders, long legs and arms.  His shoes looked twice as long as mine.

By now the mayor was standing by Officer Wilson and looking inside the manila file.  “Clay’s right.  Oh, sorry, I’m Mayor Ted King, and that’s Clay Radford.”  The mayor said pointing back toward the Suburban.  Brandon and the skinny truck driver walked over and joined the gathering at the front of the police cruiser. 

“Sir, we apologize for being unaware of the City’s ordinance.  If I might be so bold as to ask, may we allow this fine gentleman to drop the trailer here tonight, overnight, until my attorney, Dalton Martin, can advise me in the morning?”  I was impressed with Brandon ‘Homerun’ Hawkins.  Just like Buddy had said, “he’s just a big teddy bear.  But don’t push him too far or he’ll pull out his claws.”

“Get your damn trailer out of here.  This ain’t New York City.”  Mr. Radford had expressed himself clearly as he walked into the center of the growing circle.  Officer Wilson held out his right arm to stop Clay from getting closer to Brandon.

“Clay, there’s no need to raise your voice.”  Mayor Ted interjected.

“That’s Randall Radford’s son.”  Rhonda had stood beside me speechless until it appeared things might get out of control.  “You might not know but his father was also a brute, a damn bully if you ask me.  He thought he ran this town.  That was until Randall went missing a year or so ago.  I guess we all have our limits.”

Buddy surprised me when he stepped in front of Brandon and got right in Clay’s space. “You might be tall you Radford asshole, but you’ve never scrapped with a Hawkins.  We’ll have you shoving your guts back inside your stomach before that smirk can leave your face.”  I shouldn’t have been surprised, Buddy was never one to run from a fight.

“Stand back, now.”  Officer Wilson took charge and pulled out his Billy club, pointing it towards Buddy.  He turned and said, “this goes for you too.  Now, go back to your vehicle.”  The two men complied with Wilson’s orders, but not until Buddy said, “pussy-face, we can dance anytime you want.”  I couldn’t help but laugh.  Buddy always thought he had to get the last word.

“You say another word and you’ll be in the back seat of my squad car.  Do you understand?”  Wilson took two steps towards Buddy and grabbed him by the arm.” 

“Okay, okay, but he started it.  You’re my best witness.”  Buddy needed to shut up.  I could tell by how Wilson was holding his club he was in no mood for Buddy’s smart mouth.

Mayor King told Clay to leave and accepted Brandon’s request to drop the trailer on his property until the lawyers could sort things out.  Within a minute, all city officials had driven off and the skinny cigar man was pulling the long construction trailer next to where the Higgins home had been.

“I might have got my ass whipped but I bet that Radford punk would have regretted tangling with this wildcat.”  Buddy said walking up the three stairs from Sparks Avenue to where Rhonda and I were standing.

“Old friend, your body needs to tell your smart mouth that you aren’t eighteen years old any more.”  I had always been the one trying to give Buddy advice.  It had never worked before.

“You need to be giving pearls of wisdom to the punk.  He should know his father and brother’s bullying backfired.  I assume you’ve heard how Randall, Clay’s father went missing, and how brother Ryan died a few months ago in a hail of bullets down at Aurora Lake.”  Buddy said smiling at Rhonda who I figured wasn’t usually this quiet.

“I’ve heard a little about it.”  Really, I hadn’t heard anything, but I had read about the shooting in the Sand Mountain Reporter, the local newspaper that I had subscribed to since I moved to Knoxville.  I hoped someday to meet Katie Sims, the Boaz High School teacher that apparently has balls of steel.

“You got time to chat?”  Buddy asked.  “I’ve got some news I think you will be interested in hearing.”

“How about tomorrow?  I really need to finish a project.”  Buddy’s request reminded me that I had promised Bill Jones I would have a draft of BCS’s Statement of Faith by 8:00 a.m. tomorrow morning.

“Call me if you get a chance.  Brandon gave me a cell number: 256-390-3053.”

“Too busy.  How about breakfast at Waffle House.  In the morning.  Six o’clock.”  I said, knowing I wouldn’t take the time to call Buddy.

“You’re buying.”  Buddy said turning and walking back down the stairs.  He was halfway across Sparks when he stopped, stood still and yelled: “Thank you Jesus for waking me up.”  His thunderous laughter followed and could be heard in the middle of Main Street, six blocks away.

“I bet he’s a character.”  Rhonda said as we walked back toward the front door of Boaz Christian School.

“You couldn’t imagine the half of it.”  I said.

Chapter 10

Tuesday morning, I still hadn’t heard from Buddy.  He had failed to show up at the Waffle House yesterday morning as we had planned.  I had waited for nearly two hours before I had to leave for school.  Multiple calls throughout the day to the cell number he had given me had gone unanswered.  I figured I must have dialed the wrong number since I hadn’t written it down when Buddy had given it to me.

Just as I was about to try once again, Bill Jones stuck his head inside my doorway and said, “you’re needed in the conference room.  Emergency Board meeting.”  My first thought was they didn’t like the Statement of Faith I had given Bill first thing after I arrived yesterday morning.  I grabbed a notepad and pen and told Rhonda as I passed through her office.

“Come in Carl.  Pete and Bart are in Chattanooga enrolling us with the American Association of Christian Schools.  They’ll be back late afternoon but have already approved my proposal.”  Bill said, sitting at the head of the conference room table flanked by Nancy Frasier on his right and Brie Sutherland to his left.

“What proposal is that?”  I asked, sitting on the opposite end of the table.

“That you resign from BCS and go to work for Brandon Hawkins.”  I literally shook my head knowing that I had misheard Bill.

“You can honestly say you’ve been a closet atheist since high school.”  Nancy said, reminding me her reputation for knowing everything about everyone who had ever lived in Boaz was a settled fact.

“Bill, can you repeat what you just said?”  I didn’t want to respond to Nancy’s off-the-wall statement until I clearly understood Bill’s proposal.

“We’ll double your salary if you take this position.  It’s the best way to get ahead of the tsunami coming our way.”  Brie added, distracting my attention by the way she turned towards me and smiled.

“Please, you two.  I’ll give you time to address Carl in a minute.  Let him get his bearings.”  I guess Bill could tell by looking at me that I was in a fog.  “Carl, we’re getting pressured from City Hall to do everything we can to dismantle Brandon’s secular school before it gains any headway.  We need someone on the inside to feed us information, so we can always be on the offensive.”  Bill still didn’t make any sense.  I wondered if it was intentional.

“What does City Hall have to do with these two schools?”  I asked.

“Before we become completely transparent, you do remember signing a confidentiality agreement.  Right?”  I did and still thought it was silly.  Knoxville Christian School had never made me make such a weird promise.  What secrets could a Christian school possibly have?

“I do.  You emailed it to me and had me print it out, sign it, and fax it back to you.”

“Bill, let me give some background.”  Nancy said as she sat up straighter in her chair.  Gosh, the woman was old as dirt but didn’t look a day over sixty.

“Okay Nancy.  If you must.” 

“In a way, Boaz is no different than every other small town in the south.  It prides itself on being a Christian community, believing in the infallibility and inerrancy of the Bible.  But, there’s one unique difference, at least as far as we know.  Boaz, well, at least a few folks in town, believe the Bible, belief in the Bible, is the best way to keep its citizens submissive and compliant.  To put it bluntly, there has been a deal, let me call it an arrangement, over the years between the City, First Baptist Church of Christ, and the Boaz schools, to indoctrinate everyone from the cradle to the grave.  Parents receive a kind of stipend for supporting the program.”

“This is a surprise.  And, all along, I’ve thought it was simply a natural outcome of a deluded community mindset.”

Bill stood and looked at Brie like he was prompting her to speak.

“Carl, there’s more to it than that.  The City, all of us really, are concerned about the real reason Brandon Hawkins has returned to Boaz with such an aggressive agenda.”  Brie said, fiddling with her cross necklace.

“And that would be what?”  I asked, doubting the wisdom of my moving back to Boaz from Knoxville.

“Tina Hawkins, Brandon’s mother.  Her death in 2009, her mysterious death.  Still unresolved.  There were rumors back then that she was about to blow the lid off some carefully guarded secrets.”  Nancy added.  “She is probably the reason Brandon was so easily persuaded by his little Asian doll.  Tina, even though married to a hardcore Fundamentalist preacher, was an outsider in many ways.  She gave Benson fits, never willing to keep her mouth shut.”

“About what?”  I figured I knew but wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth.

“She was always asking questions.  This is common knowledge because she taught school at Boaz High School for nearly fifteen years before she died.”  Brie said.

“So, she, in essence, was a counterweight to her husband and the community’s full-time program of indoctrinating its youth?”  I asked.

“She wanted Brandon to learn how to think critically.  Of course, his father never relented in pouring the Bible down his throat.  I hate to say it but there’s two sets of rumors, or there were back in 2009.  One was that Benson himself got rid of his heretical wife.  The other was that Clay Radford, and his friends, did the deed.”  Nancy said, accepting more coffee from Bill who was walking around with the pot.

“The deed?  How did Tina die?”  If I had ever heard, I couldn’t recall.

“She was found early one morning dead in her classroom.  The public statement by Benson was she had been diagnosed with cancer.  An autopsy revealed she had taken an overdose of cyanide.  But that fact was never released.”  Nancy said adding a ton of sugar to her coffee.

“Then, how did you know that?”  It seemed a logical question.

“Carl, you should know Nancy never reveals her sources.”  I didn’t understand why Brie responded.  This was getting surreal.

“Let’s get back to what we know for sure.  That’s the Center for Secular Humanism.”  Bill said, returning to his seat.  “It is the most threatening thing to happen to Boaz since the tornado last April.”  I remember an article in the Sand Mountain Reporter that said it had to be the hand of God that lifted the swirling mass as it tore through Aurora.  If not, the giant funnel would have destroyed every home and building in Boaz.

Bill was about to continue when Rhonda’s voice came across the intercom: “Bill, sorry to interrupt, but you have an emergency call from the Mayor.”

Without a single word, Bill rose and walked out into the hallway.

“That’s probably more news about what Julie King has offered to do.”  Brie said.

“Is that something I should know about?”  I asked, feeling confident I was just as much an outsider as when I lived in this little backwater town during my growing up years.

Nancy stood and downed the last of her coffee as though she was taking a shot of whiskey.  “I knew the council made a horrible mistake in hiring her as principal of Boaz High.  She’s a player.  Word has it she has agreed to let Brandon or one of his teachers come to the high school once per month and make a presentation to the entire student body.”  With that, Nancy left the room.  I was relieved I didn’t have to give an account of how much I had been influenced by Buddy concerning the Bible when I was a kid.

I was about to head back to my office when Brie pulled her cell phone from her purse.  “I said I would have him there at 5:30. Don’t call me during work hours.”  She then looked over at me and said.  “Damn ex-husband thinks he’s still my master.  Lives in Guntersville at his lake house on weekends and wants me to bring Finn, our son, to him.  Victor Sutherland, I was such a fool to get mixed up with that bastard.”

I didn’t respond but said, “I’m a pretty good listener if you ever need a shoulder to cry on.”  I must admit; I would love to have the gorgeous Brie Sutherland confiding in me.  Who knows, a vulnerable single woman is, well, sometimes vulnerable.