The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.
The Boaz Secrets, written in 2018, is my third novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.
Book Blurb
Fifteen year-old Matt Benson moves with Robert, his widowed father, to Boaz, Alabama for one year as Robert conducts research on Southern Baptist Fundamentalism. Robert, a professor of Bible History and new Testament Theology at the University of Chicago’s Divinity School enlists Matt to assist him as an undercover agent at First Baptist Church of Christ. Matt’s job is to befriend the most active young person in the Church’s youth group and learn the heart and mind of teenagers growing up as fundamentalist Southern Baptists.
Olivia Tillman is the fourteen year old daughter of Betty and Walter Tillman. He is the pastor of First Baptist Church of Christ. Robert and Matt move to Boaz in June 1970, and before high school begins in mid-August, Matt and Olivia become fast friends. Olivia’s life is centered around her faith, her family, and her friends. She is struck with Matt and his doubts and vows to win him to Christ. Over the next year, Matt and Olivia’s relationship blossoms into more than a teenage romance, despite their different religious beliefs.
June 1971 and Matt’s return to Chicago comes too quickly, but the two teenagers vow to never lose what they have, even promising to reunite at college in three years after Olivia graduates from Boaz High School.
The Boaz Secrets is told from the perspective of past and present. The story alternates between 1970-1971, and 2017-2018. After Matt left Boaz in June 1971, life happened and Olivia and Matt’s plans fell apart. However, in December 2017, their lives crossed again, almost miraculously, and they have a month in Boaz to catch up on forty-six years of being apart. They attempt to discover whether their teenage love can be rekindled and transformed into an adult romance even though Matt is 63 and Olivia is 61.
In 2017, Olivia and Matt are quick to learn they are vastly different people than they were as fifteen and sixteen year old teenagers– especially, when it comes to religion and faith. Will these religious differences unite them? The real issue is the secret Olivia has kept. Will Matt’s discovery destroy any chance he and Olivia have of rekindling their teenage relationship?
Chapter 3
June 1970
“Well Matt, how did you sleep?” Dad asked seeming extra chipper this morning.
I was surprised that I had slept so well my first night in the Bible Belt. I woke up to the smell of bacon and coffee. Dad didn’t even have to rouse me out of bed. I concluded that he had gotten up early and found a grocery store. I doubted the breakfast set before me and the cans and boxes of groceries on the kitchen counters had miraculously appeared.
“Like a rock.” I said pouring me a large coffee, thankful that Dad had set up the coffee maker and pulled my favorite cup from the dozens of boxes last night before we went to bed.
“I love how you are practicing.”
“What does that mean?”
“You are talking like a true Southerner, not just a Southerner, but anyone who uses broad language. How do you know how a rock sleeps?” Dad said devouring his toast and eggs. I guess he was finally hungry since he had eaten so light yesterday.
“It’s not meant to be a literal statement. It’s a figure of speech.”
“Just making conversation. By the way, I must deliver my Fall syllabus to the Dean this morning. Then, I plan on exploring the area. Would you join me?” Dad said. I was hoping he wasn’t going to make it a requirement.
“Thanks, but I need some exercise after yesterday’s long ride and given all the heavy food I ate yesterday and now this morning. If it’s okay with you I’m going to ride my bike.”
“That’s good. But, as always, use your head and make wise decisions, don’t go anywhere dark, dingy, dilapidated, or deathly.”
“I know. Your quadruple ‘d’ test. Dad, keep in mind, we are now in a quiet, almost crime-free Southern town. This isn’t South Chicago.”
“I realize that but, just be safe, always.”
“I will.”
“Do you mind cleaning up here while I take a shower?”
“You don’t have to ask me that every day. Haven’t I been head of the mop-up crew ever since Mom died? I just assumed I’d continue this tradition even while we’re in this foreign land.” If we had moved to China or Brazil, I would have felt the same way. I was now living in a country so radically different from where I had been born and raised. At least that’s how I believed from all the reading I had done since Dad broke the news to me early last winter.
After I cleaned off the table and put the groceries away I sat on the front porch. I had enjoyed last night with Dad out front. Our place in Chicago didn’t have a porch of any kind. This one even had a swing. Something, another something, I had never experienced. Come to think of it, the back and forth motion could have been the reason I had slept so well. Lullaby. It was a motherless way of being rocked to sleep. Will I ever go a day without missing my mother?
“Good morning.” The voice bolted me out of my dream or subconscious wanderings. I looked over to an older woman standing in the front of the house on the sidewalk. “I’m hoping I have some new neighbors. I’m Clara Rollins from two doors down.”
“Hello, I’m Matt Benson. My Dad and I just arrived last night.”
“I’m happy to have you in the neighborhood. Where are you guys from?”
“Chicago.”
“That’s a way from here. What brings you to our wonderful town?” Clara said inching towards the front porch steps.
I was just about to respond when Dad walked out with his briefcase.
“Dad, this is Clara Rollins. She’s a neighbor.” I said, trying to use my best manners.
“Hello. I’m Robert Benson, Matt’s father.”
“Dad is here to teach at Snead State Junior College.”
“It’s a great school and right up there.” Clara said pointing in the direction behind where I was seated.
“Maybe we can talk more very soon. I’m sorry but I have a meeting in five minutes with Dean Naylor.”
“You two have a nice day. Robert, if you will, tell James I said hello.”
“James?”
“James Naylor. We’re friends. We also go to church together. First Baptist Church of Christ. On Sparks Avenue. You both are invited.” Clara seemed to hardly catch her breath as she appeared to have several more paragraphs to follow.
“Thanks again Clara. We’ll probably take you up on your invitation.” Dad said walking down the porch steps and towards the sidewalk alongside College Avenue leaving me with perky Miss Rollins.
I stood up and hollered at Dad, “I’ll work on those chores right now.” He didn’t respond.
“I’ll be going now. Please feel free to come visit me anytime. I’m the pale-yellow house on the left with all the flower pots on the front porch ledge. By the way, we have a great youth group at church. I think you will enjoy getting involved. You know now is the time to be making the right decisions for your life?” Clara seemed ready to launch into a sermon.
“I appreciate you telling me. I must unpack some boxes right now. You have a nice day.” I moved toward the front door trying to give Clara the hint. If I didn’t it seemed she would have no difficulty talking all day.
“Bye for now, Matt. It’s so good to meet you.”
“Thanks for dropping by.” I said going into the house.
I unloaded a box of books to kill some time, I guess afraid to leave the house thinking Clara Rollins might return. My room was furnished with a full-sized bed, a chest of drawers, and a small desk and chair. Above the desk was two shelves. The box I had chosen was filled with my favorite books: murder mysteries and a mix of fantasy. I even had two college-level Biology Textbooks Dad had bought for me at a used book store. Ever since the ninth grade I had gotten interested in some big questions, things like, ‘where did I come from?’ and ‘why am I here?’ Dad had always encouraged me to think critically and openly.
After placing a few dozen books on one of the long shelves, and reorganizing them a couple of times, I showered and dressed. It was already hot. Sitting out on the porch I could tell there was something different about the weather. Dad had told me yesterday to expect very humid conditions the next few days. Apparently, he had gotten interested in weather. I chose a pair of short pants and a tee shirt. I even left off wearing socks beneath my sneakers.
I rolled my bike down the back-door steps. Last night Dad and I decided since we didn’t know much about the neighborhood it was best to bring our bikes inside. Again, it was nice having a porch. This one, right off the kitchen at the back of the house, was large enough for a washing machine and clothes dryer, and two Schwinn bicycles.
I rode east towards the sun and without thought turned right at the end of College Avenue. This led to a quaint, older grouping of mostly two-story buildings. I saw a sign that said Main Street. I chose the sidewalk for the first block but then nearly ran into a man coming out of a drug store. He politely informed me that bikes were not allowed on the sidewalks in the downtown area. I thanked him and told him I was new in town. I walked my bike across the street and left it by a parking meter. I visited two of the stores, a department store, mainly clothing, named Dobson’s, and Southern Hardware. I liked the smell inside the hardware store. I’m not sure what it was but it was a weird combination of the smell of leather and dirt. At least from what I remembered about dirt from an Earth Sciences demonstration last Spring when Mr. Watson, our teacher, took us on a field trip to his grandfather’s farm in a little town east of Chicago. I don’t even remember the name.
After being greeted by four men sitting around what looked like an ancient wood-burning stove, thankfully inactive, like the ones I had seen in a History book, I left and headed back towards College Avenue. Instead of going home I decided to ride by First Baptist Church of Christ. One of the older men at Southern Hardware had told me, after I asked, where Sparks Avenue was. I crossed the railroad track and rode past a Chevrolet dealership and on to Brown Street, then left until it intersected with Sparks. I turned right and crossed Elm Street two blocks away. The church building was much larger than what I expected. It was at least as tall as the tallest building I had seen in downtown Boaz, but had beautiful stained-glass windows along the front and sides, and a steeple with a huge cross that seemed to reach to the clouds. I knew it was absurd, but the steeple seemed so tall it would cause airplanes to detour.
I laid my bike on the grass beside the sidewalk leading to a set of twenty or more steps along the entire front of the building. I could see a bulletin board of sorts beside the front door, but I couldn’t read it from where I stood at the bottom of the stairs. I walked up and saw the times and dates of service on a red felt bulletin board behind glass to block the rain from getting inside. I saw a listing for a Wednesday night meal, prayer meeting, and youth group, starting at 6:00. Just as I was turning to walk down the steps towards my bike, one of the huge double-doors opened and a man came out.
He was tall and thin, probably about my Dad’s age, late thirties I guessed. At first, he didn’t see me since I was standing twenty or thirty feet away in front of the bulletin board that was to the far right side of the large landing at the top of the stairs. He took three or four steps down and must have someway sensed I was there. He turned and looked at me, visibly startled.
“Hey, hello sir, young man. May I help you?”
“Not really. I was just looking at your bulletin board, wondering what time you hold services.” I said, thinking I might be in trouble. Was I trespassing, since it wasn’t Sunday? I was oblivious as to church rules, especially in the South.
“I’m glad to hear that. Are you wanting to visit? I don’t seem to know you.” The man said, now back up the stairs and onto the landing and walking towards me with an outstretched right hand.
I introduced myself and shook his hand. I gave him the same short-version story Dad and I had given Clara Rollins.
“Awesome. I’m Peter Grantham, Associate Pastor here at First Baptist Church of Christ. Welcome to Boaz, and I certainly hope you will join us. Today’s Wednesday. Of course, you know that. Why don’t you and your father join us for supper tonight. Afterwards, he can attend our prayer meeting and you can meet with our youth group.”
“I’ll talk to my Dad.”
“I assume you will be going to Boaz High School. You said you were about to turn 16, right?”
“June 28th. I will be in the eleventh grade.” I said, starting to dread meeting new people, realizing I would be answering the same type questions a million times.
My son, Ryan, will be a classmate. You can meet him tonight if you come. He can introduce you to Olivia Tillman, the pastor’s daughter. Oh, sorry, she’s out of town on a mission’s trip. Olivia assists our Youth Pastor, Randy Miller. He talks to the group for thirty minutes at most, including a short Bible lesson. Then, Olivia leads a prayer time. After that, it’s just you guys hanging out. The youth department has, in the basement, its own place, equipped with two ping-pong tables.”
“Sounds interesting. Thanks for telling me. I have to get back home now but I promise to tell my Dad I met you and pass along your invitation.”
“Take care Matt. I hope to see you again very soon.”
I quickly walked down the steps. As I rode my bike home, I was proud of myself for having, by fate or accident I’m not sure, established a connection to the enemy’s camp. I didn’t really mean that, but it seemed to fit with some of the novels I had read. The undercover agent befriending the enemy to gain access to the inner circle of those who would attempt to destroy the world. I had enjoyed meeting Mr. Grantham and looked forward to my mission that lay ahead, mainly because it would be nice to have a friend or two. I was still surprised at the sad and lonely feeling I had for my three dear friends in Chicago.
The Pencil-Driven Life 