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 Stenographer, written in 2018, is my fourth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.
Book Blurb
Walt Shepherd, a 35 year veteran of the White House’s stenographic team, is fired by President Andrew Kane for refusing to lie.
Walt returns to his hometown of Boaz, Alabama and renews his relationship with Regina Gillan, his high school sweetheart, who he had ditched right before graduation to marry the daughter of a prominent local businessman. Regina has recently moved back to Boaz after forty years in Chicago working at the Tribune. She is now editor of the Sand Mountain Reporter, a local newspaper.
Walt and Regina’s relationship transforms into a once in life love at the same time they are being immersed in a growing local and national divide between Democrats and traditional Republicans, and extremist Republicans (known as Kanites) who are becoming more dogmatic about the revolution that began during President Kanes campaign.
Walt accepts two part-time jobs. One as a stenography instructor at Snead State Community College in Boaz, and one as an itinerant stenographer with Rains & Associates out of Birmingham.
Walt later learns the owner of Rains & Associates is also one of five men who created the Constitution Foundation and is involved in a sinister plot to destroy President Kane, but is using an unorthodox method to achieve its objective. The Foundation is doing everything it can to prevent President Kane from being reelected in 2020, and is scheming to initiate a civil war that will hopefully restore allegiance to the U.S. Constitution.
While Walt is writing a book, The Coming Civil War, he is, unwittingly, gathering key information for the Constitution Foundation.
Will Walt discover a connection between the Foundation and the deaths of three U.S. Congressmen in time to save his relationship with Regina, prevent President Kane from being reelected as the defacto head of a Christian theocracy, and the eruption of a civil war that could destroy the Nation ?
Chapter 14
It had been six years since my Father’s funeral. That was the last time I was in a church environment like I had grown up in at Second Baptist Church. I had attended this small and highly charismatic church for the first fourteen years of my life, before joining First Baptist Church of Christ. A few days ago, at Mom’s funeral, I could hardly believe the changes in me and in the preacher. It was as though it was four different people. The Walt Shepherd I was then and now. The Duane Wilkins he was then and now.
Mother’s death was surprising, totally unexpected. She always said she would live to a hundred, even with her Parkinson’s. It didn’t happen that way.
After Dad’s death in 2012, Mother continued to live in her own home. She missed my Dad, her husband of over sixty years, but adjusted relatively well to widowhood. She continued to live alone, work in her flowers, and drive her own car to the beauty shop, the grocery store, and to church. Until the end of 2014. Her Parkinson’s jumped to its next stage and by April 2015 she had a caretaker coming five days per week. She quit driving, and except for twenty hours per week, continued living alone. Her mobility steadily spiraled downward and by September 2015 she had moved into an assisted living facility. Almost three years later, July 8th, she was taken by ambulance to the ER at the local hospital. The diagnosis was double pneumonia. Nine days later, she died in Room 333, on the Hospital’s third floor, with me, alone, by her side.
Mother and I had always been close. Especially, when I was growing up and living at home. We remained relatively close after I graduated high school, spent a year at Snead State, and moved to Charlottesville, Virginia to attend the University. After graduating from the University of Virginia in 1976, I lived and worked in Maryland and Washington, D.C for forty-one years. The last thirty-five of that was spent as a White House stenographer. Obviously, that hadn’t ended well. After returning home to Boaz I had not visited my dear sweet mother like I should have. I will have to live with these regrets.
My stenographic career taught me to be a pretty good listener. A truly accomplished stenographer doesn’t have to look at his steno-machine to accurately record every word spoken. This ability kept me from getting bored. The accomplished stenographer can look at the witness or whoever is speaking the words the stenographer is recording verbatim. The skill of observation doesn’t produce words to record, but it does convey signs, ticks, twitches, and other tells that evidence whether the person is verbalizing the truth. I never claimed to be anything but a lay person when it came to reading body language, but I did know I was an expert at hearing every spoken word.
The problems started long before the Preacher stood at the podium, behind Mother’s casket, and while facing my family and the rest of the folks attending her funeral sitting quietly and respectively in the chapel’s pews.
It wasn’t a surprise that Mother’s funeral was difficult for me. I had been subconsciously aware of the strong likelihood for weeks, maybe months. My Mother was a devout Christian. In the South, this typically means a diehard Fundamentalist. Mother was typical. She believed the Bible was the inerrant, infallible Word of God, not actually written by God, but fully inspired by God. It seems, the Bible writers, the scribes, were the first stenographers.
To say everyone in the South, more particularly, everyone in and around Boaz, Alabama, is a Christian Fundamentalist would accurately be an overstatement, but not by much. In these parts, what I call Bible talk, is more natural than breathing. The only time I had ever heard someone speak otherwise was during my high school years. My Biology teacher, Dr. Ayers, was from Chicago and someway had not become infected during the four years I knew her.
On Monday at 10:00 a.m., my sister, DeeDee, her husband
Kevin, and I had met with Mitt McCoy at McCoy’s Funeral Home in Boaz to plan Mother’s funeral and pick-out her casket. I dreaded this meeting knowing what I would have to deal with. My predictions were accurate, except for my confusion whether the gates were golden or pearly.
After we arrived, and Mitt gathered us into a small conference room, it didn’t take long for me to learn DeeDee already had the whole thing choreographed. Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t primarily about our dear Mother. It was about showing off her kids and grandkids. Jana, her daughter, was an awesome gospel singer and would play three of her songs. For some reason it was important to note that Joshua, DeeDee’s thirteen-year-old grandson, was an aspiring musician and would be playing guitar in the background. Mitt and I learned several sentences more about how Joshua was self-taught. Something about him knowing all the chords. DeeDee’s grief someway inspired her to request Joshua be given prominent footage in the printed bulletin.
Jalen, DeeDee’s son, also had been assigned a front-and-center role in Mother’s funeral. Apparently, two years ago, Mother had shared with Jalen her desire that he read a poem at her funeral. As the story unfolded, I learned that during a Sunday afternoon visit Mother told Jalen about the poem. Seems she didn’t have a copy of it herself. I guess she had heard it somewhere, not sure where since she wasn’t a computer user, no internet, didn’t go anywhere, and only watched TV. Jalen took notes about a young mother with her children heading off on a journey, up and down the hills and valleys. All along the way she taught them about life, the need for perseverance and for God, mainly God. At the conference table I didn’t quite follow brother-in-law Kevin’s paraphrase, but somehow the young mother introduces her children to God. At the end of the journey the kids are perfect, the mother is old, and the road is ending. As the children fade into the background the old woman now sees the Golden Gates ahead and is home.
For some reason, unsurprising as it was, I sat silent contemplating those gates. I had always heard they were ‘pearly gates.’ Could Temple Bailey’s “Parable of Motherhood” have gotten it wrong? Were the pearly gates golden? Even more confusing? Pearl is white. But, what do I know? We hadn’t even seen the caskets yet and it was a little over twenty-five hours before Mother’s funeral would begin, but here I was under attack by logic and reason. My mind raced to the question: how do these folks know this stuff? First, I saw a huge conference center where the controversy had been decided. Half the crowd espoused the golden gate hypothesis (many of this group likely referred to it as either a theory or fact). The other half, the pearly gate hypothesis. I would have enjoyed the debate, how each side had laid out its arguments. The evidence would have been real, not just interpretations from the Bible. The scientific process would have been rigidly followed. Much data would have been gathered in support of the winner. No doubt, Ms. Bailey was there, and it was there she learned the gates were golden.
I kept my gate thoughts to myself, but I did have a few questions after DeeDee had provided Mitt with ten times more information on the three songs Jala would sing, via recording, and the long poem Jalen would read from the podium. Since college I had been cost conscious. It probably came about from the two courses in Accounting I took to nail down my major. After the four of us had gone to the ‘Show Room,’ that’s truly what Mitt called it, and picked out a ‘beautiful casket,’ that’s truly what DeeDee called it, Mitt left us alone back in the conference room. In less than ten minutes he was back with the verdict. He was
carrying a legal-size sheet of paper. It was our “STATEMENT OF FUNERAL GOODS AND SERVICES SELECTED.” I ignored the
word ‘SELECTED,’ hoping our little union topped the hill and was gaining momentum toward the finish line.
Mitt was the master salesman. In truth, he was the master bullshitter. He was quick to point out the great deal we were getting. In the ‘A’ section, “Charges for Service Selected,” (I ignored the missing ‘s’ on ‘Service’ and the entire word ‘Selected’) if we had to pay for them separately the total for all the services that Mitt had attached a price, we would pay $6,150. But, if we choose the “Traditional Funeral Service Grouping,” our cost (for these services) would only be $3,995. I understood what he was saying. I sat still and silent waiting for my heart, even my mind, to send waves of joy and peace and excitement flooding over my soul. After a minute of waiting and ignoring Mitt’s continued talking, I posed a question. “Mitt, I assume your little grouping includes something for each of the ten items you have listed and priced. As DeeDee has told you, we are not having any graveside service. I see $365.00 included for “Flower Van.” Did you include any amount for that in your discounted grouping price?” He simply answered no.
I had other questions about the other nine-line items. Here are Mitt’s numbers he had typed in:
Service of Funeral Dir/Staff $1,975.00
Embalming 835.00
Cosmetology, Dressing, Casketing 285.00
Floral Service 100.00
Visitation at Funeral Home 495.00
Funeral at Chapel 600.00
Transfer of Remains to F.H. 395.00
Hearse 450.00
Grave Set Up 650.00.
Even with a $2,155.00 ‘grouping’ discount, I was horrified. And, this was just a little more than a third of the total bill. After adding in the cost of the casket, an O.B.C (Mitt’s term. It stands for outer burial container. Note, it doesn’t say vault. They are much more expensive), $400.00 for Hillcrest Cemetery to ‘open the grave,’ and $27.00 for three death certificates, the total came to $10,302.00. After my DeeDee gave me her best, ‘this is all about Mother so shut up look,’ I kept quiet. But, it was very difficult for me not to ask why Mitt’s “Grave Set Up’ charge for $650.00 didn’t include the cost of digging Mother’s grave.
What got my dander up more than anything was the $235.00 for the little rose-colored register book. It was pretty, but not that pretty. To me, it clearly illustrated how salesman Mitt, the loving, kind, and respectful funeral home owner and director, had no problem at all, no shame at all, to gouge us in our most vulnerable moment.
I’m pretty good at knowing when I don’t know something. I know nothing about doing the tango, even though I once got interested in taking lessons after a meeting in the Rose Garden between President Obama and Mexico’s President discussing how to better manage illegal immigration. The latter President had brought his thirty-five-year-old daughter to stand in for his wife who had broken a leg playing tennis. As the two Presidents chit-chatted, Carlota, asked me if I could do the tango. Why she asked me that I will never know.
In the McCoy’s conference room, I also recognized I didn’t know anything about funerals, planning them, or analyzing them. Six years ago, when my Father died, DeeDee and Kevin, without me, sat in the same conference room and danced with Mr. Mitt. Now, it seems, I hadn’t posed a single good question. It appeared obvious, funerals are a lot like church, Southern Baptist church. You sit in the pew, listen to the preacher, and don’t ask questions. Have faith and shut-up. No questions allowed.
DeeDee signed a check from Mother’s account, Mitt squeezed in the big number, and we walked outside, me trying to get away from an overly effusive Mitt McCoy.
Mother’s funeral was Tuesday morning. At 10:00 a.m., the family was given, what the Funeral Home called, a private viewing. There were thirteen of us, including Mother’s first cousin.
I must admit, Mother looked good. It was a strange statement, especially someone saying, “Oh my, she looks so good.” How can anyone look good when she is dead? However, for me, my statement was relative. It was relative to how I had seen her Sunday night in the hospital shortly after she had passed away. There she was the perfect example of true death. Now, at the funeral home, laying in her $3,650 mahogany casket (or was it imitation mahogany?) she looked like she was simply sleeping. Her hair was perfectly styled. She wore her glasses, the grayish-blue jacket with silk blouse she supposedly requested, and the large gold locket my father had given her on their Fiftieth Wedding Anniversary. I could have sworn I detected a slight smile.
My statement was the only one I heard and agreed with. The one that gave me the most trouble was from mother’s first cousin Darla, “she went to sleep and woke up in Heaven.” After she just blurted this out after I hugged her neck, she continued, “the last thing your Mother told me when I saw her the last time, Sunday morning, was she wanted to just go to sleep and wake up in Heaven. And, that very night, she did.”
Darla no doubt meant this for my good. She wanted to comfort me during my time of grief. And, I truly was grieving. Mother was and always had been a dear, dear friend. In my earlier years, no doubt, she was the best friend I had and could ever hope to have. She, along with my Dad, took care of my basic needs, the need for food, clothing, and shelter. But, unlike Dad, Mother attended to my emotional and spiritual needs. She knew the inner me because she tried to get inside my head and my heart. It was Mother, and no one else, even though not agreeing with my decision, who gave me permission to pursue my own truth. It was Mother, and no one else, who suffered alongside me when others, especially fellow church members, criticized me for questioning their beliefs.
Once again, I had to ask myself. How does Darla know this stuff? Why does she believe it is true? My first thought, it was her faith. Then, I asked, where does her brand of faith come from? Surely, her faith is different from a devout Muslim’s faith. To me, logically, it had to root itself in the traditions she grew up in. Which meant, brainwashing, not to say that all traditions are alike. But, around Boaz, where ninety-nine percent of all humans, to some degree, live, breathe, and eat Christianity, Darla never had a chance. The saying is true, from the cradle to the grave, God is everywhere. Darla, like virtually every other person I’ve known from this area, probably never intensely read or heard a single article or speech that laid out the problems with the Bible or the preciseness of science, things that clearly contradicted the Christian religion.
‘Go to sleep and wake up in Heaven.’ It is absurd for any rational human being to believe this is true. Science says this is impossible. Science has long concluded that when a person dies, his brain dies. It simply stops functioning. If there is any movement, motion, activity in the brain at all, the person is still alive. He is not dead. Death is a natural event. Of course, Christians would disagree. They would also argue that Mother’s trip from earth to Heaven was not natural at all, that it was a supernatural journey. Many of these folks would be more than happy to describe every step of the journey, even going further to lay out how Mother’s body, for now, will return to the dust, but some day, be transformed into a new body.
I have long held to the science argument. There is no evidence there is a soul. There is even less evidence that the mind is anything other than a natural organ, like the lungs or the heart. Outside the Bible, there is no evidence there is even a Heaven. The word evidence is greatly misused here. All true Biblical scholars know the Bible is man-made. Even if there is some type of Being out there somewhere, there is little proof this Being could speak Hebrew and Aramaic. It is even less likely he, she, or it, had Mother a mansion waiting for her in Heaven.
Science invaded Room 333 at Marshall Medical Center South on Sunday night. It was science at work, while God was absent, during the thirty minutes I spent with Mother after she died and after the nurses got her cleaned up and redressed. I admit, she looked at peace. Much more so than the last ten minutes of her life, with me by her side, watching her struggle for breath and life. As she lay peacefully on her hospital bed I walked the room and talked with her. “Mother, don’t leave me.” No response. “Mother, where are you?” No response. “Mother, what is going on with you right now?” No response. The questions continued.
The same responses continued. I cried. I held her hand. I kissed her forehead. I repeated my sojourn. Why? Because, I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to give her body over the McCoy’s Funeral Home. I wanted to stay forever with my friend, my Mother, the most loving and generous person I had ever known.
But, she was dead. Her life was over. Science said it. I saw it. Standing the last time beside her casket I said my goodbye, kissed her forehead, and walked away to an empty corner to cry like a baby. There I found peace, and agreement with a statement DeeDee had made that earlier I had shunned. When she said it, “She is better off. She is no longer in pain,” my sister meant Mother was in Heaven, in a place where there is no pain. DeeDee’s words were accurate, she just gave them the wrong meaning. I agreed that again, science was correct. Mother was no longer in any pain, for her life had ended, her heart and mind had simply stopped working. For this, I was thankful.
After our thirty-minute private, family viewing, we greeted Mother’s friends and neighbors in what the Funeral Home dubbed a public viewing.
There were four members of Mother’s Sunday School Class at
First Baptist that came with warm condolences, all sharing with me their “she’s in a better place,” and “I’m praying for you” speeches. I smiled and thanked them for coming.
I couldn’t help but think about how the leadership of First Baptist Church of Christ had treated Mother. She had been a member since sometime in the 70’s and had always been a staunch tither. Around the end of 2014, Mother’s Parkinson’s took a turn for the worse, causing her to stop driving. Her cousin Darla came for her every Sunday until the middle of 2016. After that, she simply could not manage herself even with a walker. Sunday, July 10th, 2016 was the last time she could attend a service.
As far as I know, the pastor, the associate pastor, Mother’s assigned deacon, or for that matter, any other First Baptist deacon, had ever visited Mother at home or in the hospital. I know for a fact that none of these folks, what I refer to as the leadership of First Baptist Church of Christ, visited her during her final nine-day battle at Marshall
Medical Center North, nor did they attend the public viewing or
Mother’s funeral. This was not at all surprising to me. Quite the contrary, it is exactly what one would expect if he believes Christianity is a myth, that it is simply a ‘glorified’ social club.
Mother was never very visible. She was one who shunned attention. She came, sit silently, humbly slid her tithe envelope into the offering plate, and went home. Mother was not part of a prominent family. If she was important at all to the church, it was for the few dollars she contributed.
To many, it will be unfair of me to be so critical. My worry is that I will not be critical enough. I found a recent church newsletter among Mother’s things at Brookdale Assisted Living. In it, I noted the pastor refers to himself as “Dr.” To me, Dr. refers to either a medical doctor or someone who has earned their PhD. It is improper for one to use this label if he only has a Master of Divinity degree. Assuming, Pastor Tillman could legitimately use this identifier, I wondered where he had earned his doctorate? I guessed it was of the mail-order type. A real Ph.D. is an exceptionally difficult challenge, normally taking three to six years, minimum, to obtain. The ultimate pinnacle of this process is the dissertation. I wondered what new knowledge was produced by Pastor Tillman’s pinnacle work. I allowed my mind to stray, considering the very legitimacy of a degree of religion of any sort. To me, there should be no higher degrees offered in a field of study that is make-believe. I compared a doctorate in Christian Theology, say, in New Testament studies, to be about on the par with earning a PhD in the Scientology of Santa Claus.
Of course, where Pastor Warren Tillman has a legitimate doctorate or not wasn’t what bothered me. It was his and his deacon board’s lack of care and compassion for an elderly member of First Baptist Church of Christ. While I was part of the flock, what I today refer to as a cult, I knew how church’s operated. Then, I always thought the churches that I was a member of cared deeply for its members.
It is much easier and gets a church much more valuable exposure to be more in the limelight with mission’s work, including missions trips. In the two bulletins I found in Mother’s Brookdale room, Mission Montana was front and center. I couldn’t help but cringe when I read a feature in one of the bulletins: “The key to success for [Mission Montana] will be your prayers and the working of the Holy Spirit. Will you commit to pray for these students and chaperones (sic) every day from now until our trip is over?”
No doubt, many accepted this challenge and prayed and prayed and prayed. I found it analogous to the praying the four sweet ladies from Mother’s Sunday School class had promised for me. I knew all these prayers would equally accomplish just as much as the “working of the Holy Spirit.” Equally accomplishing nothing.
Throughout the remainder of this hour-long public viewing I spoke with several other well-meaning folks. I had no doubt each of them was deeply, deeply indoctrinated into the Christian cult. I truly couldn’t blame them. That’s the heart of indoctrination—they don’t know they are being duped. If I had to bet, most of these folks had never critically explored the merits of their beliefs. They were just like I had once been, listening carefully to what the preachers and Sunday School teachers said, and believing they knew what they were talking about. I continued listening and believing, even when contrary evidence was all around.
As Mitt McCoy directed everyone to take a seat, readying themselves for Mother’s 11:00 a.m. funeral service, I was thankful she couldn’t read my thoughts, or see the bewilderment reflected across my face. My silence was working in my favor. Otherwise, if I had responded critically and broadly to all of Mother’s well-wishers, I probably wouldn’t be allowed to remain in the Chapel for the formal service.
It was a long service. Too long. Jala sang Finally Home.
Jalen shared a story, “A Parable of Motherhood,” that Mother had told him she wanted him to read at her funeral. This was followed by a second song by Jala, If You Could See Me Now. Finally, Pastor Wilkins took the stand and spent ten minutes summarizing Mother’s life and twenty-five minutes presenting an evangelistic sermon. I think I did quite well to hold in my frustration and impatience. After Pastor Duane wound down, Jala sung the final song, Sweet Beulah Land. The entire service could be summarized well with one word, superstition.
As the song ended. I got up and walked out of the Chapel. I had no intention of hanging around and rehearing all the Heaven-speak I had endured during the public viewing. I was happy DeeDee hadn’t planned any type of graveside service.
As I was walking toward my car in the parking lot, Sarah James, my high school guidance counselor, probably now in her mid-eighties, hollered at me from a bench she was sitting on under a sprawling oak tree next to where the hearses were parked.
I walked over and said hello. She kept her seat, reached out her gloved and cigarette-stained hand, and said, “Walt, I know how close you were to your mother. She’s so much better off now.”
“I agree totally.” I said, taking her hand in both of mine. I thanked her for coming.
As I walked away, she said, “I’m praying for you.”
I waved one hand at her without turning around, and kept on walking, saying two things to myself, “Yes, mother is so much better off now than she was before she died, and Southern Baptist funerals perpetuate myth.”
The Pencil-Driven Life 