Month: May 2024

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 Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 12

It was Saturday morning before I watched Darla’s videotape.  I had been so eager Wednesday afternoon coming home with the School’s VCR I hadn’t considered the how and where.  How was I going to watch it?  I think I had that part figured out.  I had researched how to connect the VCR unit to the TV.  I was thankful Patrick had handed me the cable even though our hands had touched.  The bigger question was the where.  Where was I going to watch it?  There were only two TV’s in the house.  One was in the den, the big screen TV.  The other was in Nanny’s room.  That was easy enough.  I rarely thought as good as I wrote.  Writing is the tool of thinking someone had said long ago.  I wished I had taken the time to explore the simple activity of me watching Darla’s tape.  I would have discovered earlier there was a third relevant question.  When was I going to watch her video?

After church Wednesday night (my promise to Cullie), a parent-teacher open house at school Thursday night, and pizza and a movie at Cindy and Steve’s last night there hadn’t been any good time for me to sneak inside the den after everyone had gone to bed.  I was glad Cullie had stayed overnight with Alysa.  I was also thankful that Saturday morning had two other routines: Sammie’s pancakes, and her and Nanny’s weekly trip to Walmart.  The when had been answered without a hitch.

The VCR/TV hookup was easy.  The tape was clear.  And, shocking.  For some reason I had contemplated the tape would be a copy of an old movie, maybe something one of Darla’s friends had recorded for her.  Darla had packed it in her suitcase to share with Cullie and maybe even me.  I had been wrong.  Thoughts often are.  Darla’s tape was almost as horrible as the time it happened.  It made me relive the worst two to three hours of my life.  Ryan did all the taping.  He was the only one not visible at any time on the video.  That certainly didn’t mean he wasn’t there.  It would have taken much more than a black hood over my head to prevent me from knowing it was his body, his big, hairy body, that hurt me the most.  His voice, not his words, but his groans and moans, breathing into my ear was nearly as bad as enduring the two times of unprotected sex.  The first of the taping was done outside the tent, like Ryan was recording a scene in a horror movie.  He followed behind Warren and Fulton and Danny and Justin.  All of them, either leading me by the hand or groping my butt.

I watched the tape two times, often fast-forwarding.  That itself showed I was an idiot and once again intent on leaping off life’s track into the abyss below.  Why did I choose to watch certain portions of the tape and avoid others?  Wasn’t it all equally horrible?  A glass-breaking sound from the kitchen was the disturbance I needed to refocus.  It turned out it was only Sergeant Tibbs, Nanny’s cat, named after the cat in 101 Dalmatians.  He had knocked over Cindy’s bouquet that I had brought home from school and placed on the kitchen table.  After rearranging the flowers and mopping a half-gallon of water off the floor, I returned to the den and disconnected the VCR.  After returning it to the trunk of my car, I hid the videotape in my room behind my collection of Literature textbooks I had collected over my twenty-year teaching career.  Sammie and Nanny would return within an hour from their weekly trip to Walmart’s Smart-Style Hair Salon, and grocery shopping.

I grabbed a Blue Book, my standard 12 sheet, 24-page stapled notepad I had used both in and out of the classroom since I first started teaching.  Many of my college professors had used these for student exams but Emily Fink had, as usual, expanded my thinking, learning, and teaching horizons.  Emily had said to keep a healthy supply of these, at home and in your classroom.  When a question arises that isn’t as simple as whether to buy vanilla or chocolate ice-cream, pull out a Blue Book and find yourself a quiet and private corner.  Write your way to solid rationality.  I descended the basement stairs and headed to the most stable corner of my world.

Only writers would know the feeling.  Writers write.  Many things can prompt them to write but when something startling happens, the need to make sense of it is something, I suspect, akin to the chemicals at work in an athlete just before the start of a championship game.  Testosterone?  I’m not sure.  Discovering this video was life-changing.  That became the first sentence I wrote in my Blue-Book.  Words came.  I let them flow out of my mind, through my hand, and onto both sides of every one of the 12 sheets of paper.  Some writers called it free-thought writing, others called it brainstorming, and even others called it stream of consciousness writing.  I called it framing.

After nearly an hour of near none-stop writing I sat back and closed my eyes.  For five minutes.  Then, I reread what I had written.  Yes, not only for me, but also for the five men, those I now readily referred to as the Faking Five.  Obviously, they had known about the video, at least of its original creation.  But, they had never known that I had known of its existence.  They still didn’t know.  The second time re-reading my Blue Book scribblings I stopped on a question that I had underlined, ‘do the Faking Five now know I have the video?”  I had tried to answer this question over the next page and a half.  I had not reached a definitive answer, but I realized the likelihood that Darla had somehow discovered the video and had intended to share it with me.  Why else would she have packed it in her suitcase?  My second rereading spawned a new question.  ‘Had Darla actually watched the videotape?’  My answer leaned towards a no.  How would she?  Had she had access to a VCR?  Now, I was seeing the possibilities she had.

Was this tape what Ryan and Justin had been looking for?  Was it why Darla had called, almost begging me to come get her?  I recalled the urgency in her voice.  She had truly wanted me to come immediately to get her.  If I hadn’t been so selfish, Darla might still be alive.  As I walked slowly up the basement stairs all I could think about was how the lives of five local leaders, highly respected Boaz citizens, would never be the same.  I didn’t have a clue what I would do with or about the videotape but now I had proof, tangible proof, that I had been raped during the 2002 Christmas holidays.

Sunday morning came too quickly.  Even before the discovery of Darla’s videotape I had a nagging feeling of regret, of regretting promising Cullie I would give church a try.  Her interest started the last year in New York City.  She was in the eighth grade and several of her friends had inspired her to start attending St. Bart’s on Park Avenue, an Episcopalian church that was not only architecturally beautiful, but in all appearances, was fully committed to providing comfort, challenge and inspiration to a growing crowd of people in search of meaning and hope for their lives.  I had attended a few times but had always let Emily shoulder the responsibilities of carting her daughter Ellen and my Cullie to and from the historic church.

As I drove Cullie to First Baptist Church of Christ I recommitted to fulfilling my promise.  Promises were vital to a healthy mother-daughter relationship.  Following through was even more important.  As I dropped Cullie off for Sunday School youth group I told her I loved her and that I would be back for preaching after an hour in my classroom.  “When are you going to come to Bible Study?”  She had asked while grabbing her Bible and getting out of my car.  “Soon, maybe.  I promise I will ask Cindy about her Sunday School class.”  Driving to Boaz High School I realized I had made yet another promise.  I had to be careful what I said, the commitments I made.

The worship hour took on a whole new meaning.  Sitting in the balcony with Cindy and Steve gave me the perfect vantage, one any assassin would envy.  Although I wasn’t a killer physically, I was beginning to cozy up to the friendly characters who had slithered into my head since watching Darla’s video.  Everywhere I looked, I could see one of the Faking Five.  Ryan and Justin sat on the back row in the choir loft, probably singing bass.  Fulton sat on the second row in the section to the right of Warren behind the pulpit.  Danny was one of ten men who took up the offering, and the only one a few minutes later who stood by Warren and prayed that “Christ be honored through our pastor today and that many would surrender to His loving promises.”  I let it go but was confused whether Danny had referred to the pastor’s or Christ’s loving promises.

The sermon was from the book of Acts and Saul’s Damascus Road experience.  I only half-listened.  I kept trying to determine whether I needed to make any type promises.  To myself.  Should I promise myself that I would carefully consider whether to take Darla’s videotape to the District Attorney, or whether to simply let it be?  These were the first two options that sprung quickly to my mind.  I knew there were others.

As Warren concluded the altar call, unsuccessful from my vantage, I reached the temporary conclusion I wouldn’t do anything.  That changed when I palmed Warren another message as I followed Cindy and Steve out the front door.  This time, eight words.  “Videotape quality is amazing.  Perched like an assassin.”  The reason that convinced me I needed to update Warren and thereby his other four comrades was to lessen the danger to Cullie and me, and possibly Nanny and Sammie.  After my “I know” message (which was rather stupid of me) they would have every reason without caution to eliminate me.  Now, they might be reluctant.  If they knew I had the tape and that it was strategically located they might keep their distance, worrying that if they harmed me they would automatically be exposed.

This time, I investigated Warren’s eyes after I handed him my note.  No deer in the headlights had ever looked so frightened.  It was priceless.

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 Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 11

Wednesday morning, I got up at 4:30 a.m. as though yesterday hadn’t happened, and I had slept soundly for my usual four or five hours per night.  I had hardly slept at all, but I knew the more I allowed my routine to change the more likely I would slide off track, into the abyss that had almost destroyed me more than once.  I grabbed my coffee and descended the basement stairs.  It was one of those glorious mornings.  They didn’t happen every day but when they did I already knew the gods had favored me.  I already had a scene bouncing around in my head.  It had come forth during the night, gently settling into my subconsciousness.  The scene virtually wrote itself.  My only regret was it was only 700 words, 300 short of my daily goal.  I would accept it with unconditioned thankfulness.  My justification was I needed to ponder what had prompted Darla to choose Out of the Darkness as one of the novels she had packed inside her suitcase.

It was the copy I had given her when she and Nanny had flown to Washington, D.C. to see me awarded the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction in the Great Hall of the Folger Shakespeare Library.  That was April 2002.  I couldn’t recall a single time Darla had ever mentioned my first and only bestseller, much less ever had engaged in a discussion of its contents.  I had always assumed she hadn’t read it.  I almost hadn’t brought it down to the basement with me.  For some reason I had willingly violated my most important rule: never get distracted before you’ve written your daily goal.  The rule was negative.  Don’t do this, don’t do that.  Don’t check my email.  Don’t check Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.  And, even more negative than that, don’t carry anything into my writing space that could tempt me to distraction.  This morning, Out of the Darkness had figuratively blocked my bedroom doorway before I could head to the kitchen for coffee (not a distraction).  It’s like the book had jumped from the old rocking chair beside my bedroom door, spread its wings, and leaped into my arms.  It had said, ‘I’m here for a reason,’ and then it had asked, ‘is it a positive or a negative reason?’  I never ceased to be amazed at how my mind worked.  How it seemed I had little control over my thoughts.

The dust jacket had been removed.  I could have easily spent the remaining thirty minutes in my writing closet pondering why.  What was it about the long, winding driveway leading to the faint image of a cabin in the woods that Darla hadn’t liked?  She had thrown away the full colored, thick covering.  Or, maybe it had just gotten lost.  Either way, there was a message or two here, one I would likely never discover.  Inside the hardback book, on the first blank page, Darla had written, “But for the darkness I would not recognize the light.”  I quickly concluded this was a quote, but Darla hadn’t used quotation marks.  Unsurprising.  She likely was unconcerned about the niceties and nuances related to the rules of grammar.  She had read the phrase somewhere, maybe heard it on Oprah or some other talk show she loved.  Or, it was Darla’s attempt at being religious.  I did seem to recall from my long-ago days in youth group at Tillman Temple (another phrase that hadn’t entered my mind in over twenty-five years) Jesus had said something similar. ‘The light penetrates the darkness; it can’t resist it’ or something like that.  I think it was in the Gospel of John.  I’d check later.

On the next blank page Darla had written.  “Unlike Trevor, I will never escape the darkness.”  She had read the book, at least enough to know my protagonist and how my story had ended.  After I was so viciously attacked in December 2002 I often had thought that Out of the Darkness had been an omen of sorts.  I had written it and received national awards and acclaim for it months before the worst experience of my life, yet the entire book seemed to foreshadow what I would endure.  It was like I had a premonition all during the years it had taken me to create the novel that had spent ten weeks on the New York Times Best Seller’s list.  Ultimately, I had concluded it was a mere coincidence.  Doesn’t everybody have a dark time in their life?  One emotional trauma, often one born out of physical trauma, that defines that life?  An event that changes everything about them?  Even though Trevor’s experience, being falsely accused of killing his girlfriend and spending ten years enduring sexual abuse in prison, was radically different from Darla’s, it seemed from her statement that her nightmare continued.

“I can’t believe you are here.”  Cindy said at 7:00 a.m. coming into my classroom.  She was carrying a beautiful bouquet with white lilies, white roses and white mini carnations, all interspersed with some lush greens.  The blue glass vase was stunning.

“The last thing I need is sitting around feeling sorry for myself as I wait on the autopsy.  That may take a week.”

“I hope you are okay with flowers.  I also hope you know how truly sorry I am.  The bouquet was Steve and Alysa’s idea.”

“They’re beautiful.  Thanks for caring.”  I hugged Cindy and gave the flowers to Cullie coming out of my office.  “Honey, please put these on my desk.”

“Did you know that Darla was sick?”  Cindy asked.

“She had told me yesterday morning that she couldn’t drive right now, that her doctor had told her it was state law after a person passes out.  No driving for six months, then only if no further incidents.  She had called me to come get her at Raymond’s house.  I’m hating myself this morning for not caring enough for my own mother to fulfill one simple request.”

“Don’t beat yourself up.  God is mysterious.  He already knew it was Darla’s time.  You couldn’t have stopped Him.”  Cindy said as though she had just gotten off the phone with the God of the universe.

“I wish I had your faith.  It looks as innocent and beautiful as those gorgeous flowers.”  When I said this, my ‘I wish’ statement, I truly meant it.  It shocked me.  For nearly twenty-five years I had been like Jonah in the Old Testament, running from God.

“It’s coming dear.  You just wait.  I’m praying for you every day.  I got to run.  See you at lunch?”  Cindy said walking towards a growing crowd of noisy students beginning to interact around opening and closing lockers.

“Lunch it is.”

My first three classes were good in two respects.  Many of the students had heard about Darla’s death.  They had shared their condolences, Clara and Ben had even come to the front, hugged me, and asked if there was anything they could do.

The second good thing was from a literary standpoint.  Student participation in our class discussion of O’Connor’s A Good Man is Hard to Find was widespread, something I had not seen or even imagined so far in nearly two weeks at Boaz High.  I think it might have had something to do with the teams I had established, student assistants as secondary teachers.  More likely it was the Facebook groups I had set up, requiring one-hundred percent student participation.  I owed the idea solely to Emily Fink, an award-winning English teacher at Eleanor Roosevelt High School in New York City.  She had shown me the art of student engagement by revealing how she interacted with every one of her students.  She said it was like having a one-on-one private session.  The gist of it was a private group was formed for each class.  Every student was required to join.  I would pose a question to the group.  Initially, responses were voluntary.  The hope was for viral like participation.  If that didn’t occur I would call on my student teachers to weigh in.  At least half of them had to or I would start calling names.  At the end of a student-teacher response (the Facebook term is ‘Comment’) she would simply tag one of her assignees.

Yesterday’s question was, ‘what makes a person good?’  I had added, ‘if you choose, comment on whether the grandmother in A Good Man is Hard to Find, was good?’ Emily Fink was not your typical Literature instructor.  Nor was I.  Neither of us believed a student had to deliver an answer, one that reconciled with most literary scholars.  Each student’s thought ignited a conversation that made Emily Fink the envy of the most creative high school English teacher.

Tenth-grader Clara Ellington had been the first to respond, “it depends on who you ask.  I suspect everyone thinks herself good.  It’s easier to say the Misfit was bad, pure evil.  Good and evil are opposites.  Treating everyone with respect makes one good.  The grandmother was not evil, but she annoyed me to death.  Therefore, she wasn’t good, or, at least, was missing some necessary ingredient.”  Ben Gilbert had responded.  He was one of Clara’s students.  “Asking a person whether he is good is like asking the fox if he is guarding the chickens.  You won’t receive a reliable answer.  There must be a standard.  For me, the Bible sets out what makes a person good.  Without it, all is relative.  It is subjective.  The grandmother was not good.  But, she did think she was good.”

From there, forty other students had chimed in.  Before coming to class this morning, I was speechless over the response from my first Facebook question.  I made a mental note to email Emily and thank her.  This new teaching method wasn’t going to be easy.  If I did my job right, I needed to read every comment and reply often when it seemed some thread was going derailing.

By the end of the day, I decided to expand my newly discovered teaching nugget to my other two classes.  Cullie was already in my room after the last bell rang when I remembered I wanted to borrow a VCR to watch Darla’s videocassette tape I had found in her suitcase.  For once, I was glad to see Patrick Wilkins.  He was more than eager to accompany me to the dark little room behind the drama department’s stage. After ten minutes of the two of us alternately climbing a step-stool, reaching up and over a dusty inventory of mostly antiquated stereos, reel-to-reels, and RCA camcorders, he eyed me from the tips of my shoes to the top of my head as he peered down at me holding an old Panasonic.  Walking to my car with the heavy VCR with Cullie complaining it could not be as heavy as the book-bag she was toting, I no longer doubted Patrick Wilkins entertained erotic desires for every inch of my body.

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 Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 10

“You two dumb asses.  In broad daylight.  Are ya’ll just itching to go to jail for the rest of your lives?”  Fulton said as he walked inside the cabin.  Ryan and Justin were sitting at a round, hundred-plus year oak table.  Warren was still outside on the porch finishing a phone call on his cell.

“We didn’t have time to plot this out.  When Justin and I discovered the tape was missing we knew that Darla knew.”  Ryan said standing and leaning against the kitchen sink.

“I think we got lucky.”  Warren said appearing in the open doorway from the porch.  “My contact in Germany says the combination of Clonidine, Xanax, and alcohol in the right proportions can be a deadly cocktail for anyone, but more so for someone suffering from Syncope.”

“Well duh.  We already knew that.  She’s dead as old Abe.”  Ryan said looking over at Justin.

“Where’s Danny?”  Justin asked sipping the last drops of his third Bud Light.

“He had a late closing and was running by to see Ralph Williams.  Don’t worry, the visit won’t raise any suspicions.  Danny said Ralph had asked him last week about the ten-acre pasture for sale across the road from him.”  Warren said accepting a beer from Justin.

“Okay, let’s sit down and review every detail of what’s happened.”  Fulton said looking around the room and imagining his ancestors gathering around this same table to discuss business deals and unfortunately, things more sinister.

Club Eden, as it was called, was not only the name for the private 289-acre tract of land on the southwest side of Aurora Lake, but also the unofficial name of the organization formed in the 1890’s by five families who had immigrated from Georgia and settled in Boaz ten years earlier.  Five generations separated Fulton, Warren, Ryan, Justin, and Danny from their original forebears.  Each of them hoped the crazy evil stunt they pulled in 2002 wasn’t about to be revealed.

“Let’s start with the tape.  I thought it was destroyed fifteen years ago.  That was the agreement.”  Fulton said, looking over at Ryan.

“Maybe he forgot.  Granddad, Raymond, was a pack rat.  No one would have ever known about our private little session with Katie if Raymond hadn’t been coming out of Aurora Market when we left here.  You all remember.  We had to confess.  Damn, he followed Justin’s van and saw us toss Katie out at the deserted end of town.  This was just one of a dozen mistakes we all made that night.  I’m talking about how and where we left Katie.  More stupid than that was videotaping our little romp.”

“Why in the hell did Raymond keep the tape?  I doubt it’s because he’s a hoarder.”  Warren asked.

“Maybe he was into porn.”  Danny said, like Warren earlier, silently appearing in the cabin’s open doorway.  “You guys might want to be a little more careful.  I parked on the other side of our bridge just to see if I could sneak up on you lamebrains.  Guess what?  I did, and I just heard you talking about the tape.”

“Point taken.  Right?”  Fulton said looking first at Danny and then at the other three sitting around the table.

“I’ve heard Dad talk enough about Raymond to know he was as cunning as they come.  Granddad probably believed the tape was some type of insurance, that he could use it to protect me if need be.  You do recall that I’m not shown in the video.”  Ryan said.

“You were doing the taping and turned it off when you were having your turns with Katie.  You are as cunning and disloyal to the rest of us as Raymond was.”  Warren said.

“Whatever reason Raymond had for retaining the tape, it was a bad decision.  The bottom line is the tape still exists.  Back to Darla.  Are you sure you didn’t leave any evidence that can come back to haunt us?”  Fulton asked, looking at both Ryan and Justin.

“No. None.” Ryan declared.  “By the way, there is a limit to loyalty.  You all know that.”

“I’m confused as usual.”  Warren said writing something on his notepad.  “Why were the two of you at Raymond’s to begin with?”

“I had visited granddad two days earlier.  He asked me to visit Darla but also to bring back his will.  When I opened the safe I saw the videotape and started to take it but for some reason didn’t.  When I went back to see Raymond yesterday, to take his will, he gave me another one, a new one I guess, and asked me to store it in his safe.  I guess he had his lawyers make a change or two.  I didn’t read it.  This time I took Justin along to occupy Darla.  When I was in his study and opened the safe I noticed the videotape was missing.  I knew it had to be Darla.  I confronted her about it and she blew up.  Apparently, she either knew the safe combination or figured it out after seeing me there two days ago.”  Ryan looked at Justin as though to prod him to take over describing what happened next.

“We had hoped Darla would still be in bed and wouldn’t know we were there.  That’s why we had gone so early.  After her and Ryan got into their screaming match, Ryan and I walked back to Raymond’s study.  Then, we heard her on the phone.  We figured she was calling Katie.  We couldn’t let her get the tape to Katie.

“I doubt if I would have done anything different.” Danny said.  Darla was clearly a threat.  If it weren’t for the stupid tape, we were in the clear.  Even if Katie came forward and accused us all of rape, we could simply deny it.  It would be her word against ours.”

“Unless, she knows which one of us is the father of Cullie.”  Justin added.

“That still wouldn’t be our downfall.  If I were the father I could say that Katie and I had an affair.  Not good for my reputation but a hell better than going to prison.”  Danny said.

“So, you fed Darla her prescription meds?”  Fulton asked.

“By the handful.  Also, made her drink nearly half a bottle of Jack Daniels.”  Ryan said popping open another Bud Light from the twelve pack on the table.

“That’s all you gave her?  The Clonidine, Xanax, and alcohol?”  Warren asked.  Nothing else?

“We’re apparently all dumb asses.  Maybe it’s the beer but here’s the million-dollar question.  Where in the hell is the videotape?”  Fulton asked throwing a half full bottle of beer into a garbage can.

“We didn’t have much time to look, but it has to still be at Raymond’s.  We know from a review of the security system that Darla never left the house after Ryan first removed Raymond’s old will, two days ago.”  Justin said.

“Other than leaving the house dead when we took her out yesterday morning.”  Ryan added.

“That was assumed dumb ass.”  Justin added, confident that his best friend knew he was only joking about his mental acuity.

“We darn well better find that tape.  I suspect that if anything suspicious turns up in Darla’s autopsy that law enforcement will be searching her house.  We cannot allow that tape to be discovered.  It could ruin us all.”  Warren said scribbling rapidly in his notebook.

“Ryan and I will go back to Raymond’s tonight soon as we leave here.  We’ll find the tape.”  Justin said attempting to assure the others there was nothing to worry about.

“One other thing, Danny, what did Ralph Williams say?  Any problems there?”  Fulton asked Danny who had walked over and plopped down on a leather couch while typing a text.

“We lucked out.  Ralph said he was in the house on the phone with his son in Houston for over an hour.  Said he came out to his barn around 8:15 and had just gotten on his tractor to move a bale of hay to the pasture when he saw what he first thought was a bunch of ducks lined up along the edge of the pond.  He said he drove on down and before he got through the gate he could tell it was a body.  He also said he hadn’t seen any traffic going past his place.”  Danny said just as his cell phone rang. 

It was Tuesday night, near midnight, two hours after everyone had gone to bed and the house was finally still, that Katie walked outside, opened the trunk of her car, and rolled Darla’s stuffed suitcase inside.  After removing clothes, shoes, a large toiletry bag, three novels, a couple of journals, and a videotape, Katie went to bed hoping the Audio-Visual Department at school would have an old eight-track video player she could borrow.

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 Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 9

Yesterday afternoon after Cullie and I arrived home from school, we sat with Nanny and Sammie in the den.  I was contemplating exactly how to break the horrible news to my 89-year-old grandmother when Sammie said, “she already knows.  That damn police scanner that I thought I had hidden from her.  She must have dug it out while Verna was here.  Early afternoon Nanny had said, ‘no need to go get Darla, she’s dead.’  The scanner was tucked under a blanket beside her chair.  She must’ve had the volume turned down when I wasn’t doing chores.”

In a way this had not surprised or alarmed me.  Two weeks ago, when I had tagged along with Sammie and Nanny to see her doctor, he had said that at times she would seem normal, but this would become less and less frequent.  Usually, she would be a mix of bizarre and mundane.  If Nanny’s conduct last night was normal she sure didn’t seem to possess much love and sympathy for Darla, her only daughter.  If her conduct was bizarre her statement to Sammie about no need to go get Darla fit the bill.  The only thing that seemed like the mix the doctor mentioned was Nanny’s statement, “turn on The Walton’s, I want to see if Ike Godsey kills Mary Ellen, my darling Darla.”  Mundanely bizarre indeed.

After the four of us ate Sammie’s delicious chicken salad on TV trays in the den I excused myself and went to my room.  Cullie disappeared to the front porch to listen to her iPod and text Alysa.  Ryan Radford’s wife Karla answered on the second ring.  I was a little surprised their home phone number was listed in the phone book.  He didn’t seem to be the type who would give his customers at Radford Hardware and Building Supply easy access to him, especially after business hours.  I had told Karla who I was and asked to speak to Ryan.  I could hear him in the background.  The two of them talking.  I thought I heard him say, “tell her I’m busy.”  After a minute or more, he said, “hello, this is Ryan.”

“Ryan, this is Katie Sims, Darla’s daughter.”

“Katie, I know who you are.  I’m sorry about your mother.  I just got back from telling granddad the horrible news.  I’m hoping the District Attorney will finally grant him a bond, at least to come to the funeral.”

Raymond Radford was one of five local men who were facing criminal charges.  Everything from sex trafficking to murder.  The news had shocked the community since these were the deep-rooted leaders that seemed to control every aspect of religious and business life around Boaz.  I couldn’t help but recall the other time Raymond Radford had shocked local folks.  In 1973, he had ditched Cynthia, his wife of twenty years, and token-up with Darla, my mother.  She was still a teenager, the same age as Randall, Raymond’s son.  I suspected that in many places these type events would have ruined a man like Raymond, but not in Boaz.  It was like he, along with the other four fathers of the Flaming Five, and their sons, was immune to citizen criticism.  We’d have to see how the criminal justice system dealt with Raymond and his four peers.

“I need inside the house, to see if Darla left anything that would indicate how sick she was.  Can you let me in?”  I didn’t figure Ryan would agree but I had to ask.  At first, before I had called, I thought about going straight over and trying to break in.  A criminal charge was the last thing I needed.  As I sat and waited for Ryan to respond I was torn whether to go to the sprawling mansion at the end of Lindo Drive in the Country Club subdivision.  I hadn’t been except for one time, and then only inside the front foyer.  For some reason, Darla hadn’t wanted me to see how comfortable a life she had.  I guess she had known how it would make me feel, especially given how she had rejected me and chosen Raymond and his riches over her duty as a mother.

“I will meet you there in twenty minutes.  I have to be somewhere at 8:30.”

I had arrived at 7:20 and was relieved that Ryan let me in the front door and left.  He said he would be back in thirty minutes.  I spent ten minutes touring the entire house, in awe over the expensive antiques and art work.  I wasn’t an expert but several of the paintings on the wall appeared to be original.  The master bedroom was on the first floor beyond a short hallway and a large study.  I first searched the bathroom for pill bottles hoping to discover the medications Darla was taking.

The only prescription bottle I found was a drug called Clonidine.  This didn’t tell me anything, but I found a document, Your Personal Prescription Information, on an oak washstand beside the double vanity in the giant bathroom.  Scanning the document, I learned Clonidine ‘allows your blood vessels to relax and your heart to beat more slowly and easily’ and ‘clonidine is used to treat hypertension (high blood pressure).’  Here, I stopped reading knowing I didn’t have unlimited time to linger.  The only other drugs in the medicine cabinet were bottles of Aleve, Tylenol, and Aspirin.

I walked out of the bathroom and towards a sliding glass door that opened to a private balcony even though this was the first floor.  On a little wicker table in the corner I found a brochure that was titled Syncope.  A quick peek inside told me this was a condition that caused a temporary loss of consciousness.  I concluded that was why Darla had been prescribed the Clonidine.

When I walked back inside I noticed a pull-type suitcase in the corner behind a lounging chair.  On the end table beside the chair were two TV Guides, a novel by Andrea Preston, and a stack of newspapers, the top one being the New York Times.  I had not known Darla was much of a reader.

It was now almost 7:45 and Ryan would likely return within a few minutes.  I’m not sure what prompted me to do it, but I rolled the large suitcase outside and hid it in the trunk of my car.  I didn’t want Ryan to know I had taken anything.  He arrived less than a minute later.  I was standing on the front porch reading more about Clonidine.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”  He said as he was locking the deadbolt on the front door.

“I did.  Looks like Darla suffered from a condition that caused her to pass out.  I found this bottle.  I’m guessing she got disoriented and wandered over to Ralph Williams’ pond.  Probably then she passed out and never regained consciousness.”  I held up the pill bottle for Ryan to see what I had taken.

“I have to go.  Let me know if you need anything else.  Oh, I hate that I have not said this before.  I’m sorry for your loss.  Darla was a sweet lady and was always good to me.  By the way, don’t worry, I’ll make sure all her funeral costs will be taken care of.”

With that, Ryan had driven away leaving me standing at the bottom of the front porch stairs.  His final statement made me ponder Darla’s will and what type of financial relationship she and Raymond had.  Surely, he would have loved her enough to make sure she was taken care of if he had predeceased Darla.  But, that hadn’t happened.

As I had driven home my stomach had grown more and more nauseous.  What would happen to Nanny?  Would Sammie’s caregiver costs continue to be paid?  My mind had changed when I turned in Nanny’s long driveway and saw Cullie still sitting on the front porch.  No matter what, my primary goal in life wouldn’t change.  I would do whatever it took to take care of my precious daughter.  Although I would do everything I could for Nanny, she would never displace the time and attention I would give the child whose presence continually showed me that good can come from evil.

At 10:30, Cullie and I had gone inside after having spent the prior two-plus hours talking, really talking.  It was the best mother-daughter conversation we had had since moving back to Boaz.  I went to bed early, wanting my dreams to center around Cullie’s openness to share her concerns and the roller-coaster that most every ninth-grade girl finds herself buckled to.  I forgot all about the suitcase stuffed inside the trunk of my car.

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 Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 8

Tuesday morning, I had just come from the basement when I overheard Sammie talking on the kitchen phone, “she’s downstairs writing but I’ll get her.”

“I’m right here.”  Sammie turned from the stove and a large pan of sizzling bacon.

“It’s Darla.  Wants to talk to you.”

I set my notebook on the kitchen table and took the old green wall receiver from Sammie.  “Hello Darla.”

“Katie, come get me.  I can’t stay here another day.”

“Now?  I have to be at school in forty-five minutes.”  I said, sitting down to a plate of eggs, bacon, and waffles.

“Ryan is here again, going through his father’s things.  He’s in Raymond’s study.  Justin Adams is with him.”  Darla said, barely above a whisper.

“Dumb question.  Why don’t you drive yourself?  You have a car.”  I said, feeling a headache coming on, the type I hadn’t felt since touching Warren’s hand when I palmed him my little two-word note last Sunday.

“I don’t have a car.  Ryan took it somewhere a week ago.”

“Why did he do that?”

“Doctor’s orders.  I was going to tell you, but you haven’t been by here.   Saturday, a week ago Saturday, I passed out at Walmart.  I was there with Nella.  An ambulance came and carried me to the Emergency Room.  The doctor still doesn’t know why I fainted.”

“I’ll send Sammie and we’ll talk about it tonight.  I can’t afford to start being late.  I have to work, you know.”  I said, knowing what Darla was probably thinking. ‘You’ve never forgiven me for having it so easy.’

“Tell her to hurry.  I’ve never seen Ryan so upset.”

Cullie and I arrived at school at our regular 6:30 time.  At 7:35, as the last of the tenth graders were slogging in for my first period class, Mr. Wilkins shouted at me as he walked in the double doors at the back of the auditorium, “Katie, Miss Sims, you have a phone call.  It sounds urgent.”

I walked as fast as I could to the back of the auditorium and across the hall to the School’s main office.  Mrs. Overstreet, the office manager, motioned me behind the counter and pointed to her office.  “You can take it in there.  Press the flashing button.”

“Hello.”  I expected it to be an impatient Darla saying that Sammie still hadn’t shown up.  I knew Sammie would have to find a temporary sitter for Nanny.  There was no way the caretaker would leave her ward unattended, even for the short time it would take to drive across town to Country Club.

“Katie, I can’t find her anywhere.  I’m worried.”

“What do you mean?  She’s at her house at the end of Lindo Drive.”

“When I got there, I rang the front door bell.  Ryan came to the door.  When I told him, I was there for Darla he said, ‘she went walking.’  I didn’t want to wait.  That big beast gives me the creeps, so I got back in my car and started driving around.”

“What time did you get there and talk to Ryan?”  I said trying to determine why Darla would go for a walk when she knew Sammie was coming to pick her up.  She wasn’t that impatient.

“It was nearly 7:00.  It took Verna almost an hour to show up to sit with Nanny.”

“You drove around the entire subdivision?”  I asked a frantic Sammie.

“I did, twice.  Then, I went back to Darla and Raymond’s, but Ryan was already gone.  I guess, because no one would come to the door even though I rang the bell several times and kept pounding the front door.”

“Just go back home to Nanny.  Darla probably saw a neighbor and is there now visiting and drinking coffee.”  After I said this I realized how illogical it was.  Why would Darla, before 6:00 a.m. this morning, be anxious to leave her and Raymond’s house and then up and go out walking after I told her I would send Sammie to pick her up?  Even if she did that she wouldn’t become invisible by going inside a neighbor’s house.  She’d just walk the neighborhood to be easily seen.  Unless, Darla was like Nanny.  Maybe Darla had dementia.

“I do need to get back.  Verna has to sit with Basil Epps’ wife starting at 9:00.”  Sammie said, the tone of her voice returning to its natural low calmness.

“Call my cell phone and leave a message when you hear from Darla.”  I said, remembering I had seventy-five rowdy teenagers unattended in the auditorium.

By lunch I was feeling much better than yesterday.  I had delivered my little speech to my first three classes.  I had decided around midnight last night that I was going to be brave and bold and lay it all on the line.  I was not going to allow the rampant apathy to dominate ninety-plus percent of my students.  “Right now, every one of you have an F in my class, and that’s where your grade level will stay unless you give me your best efforts.  Don’t think I won’t fail you.”  That was the stick I used.  Something in me said it wouldn’t do much good.  But I had not ended my speech there.  My carrot-talk followed.  After I had every student stand.  I separated them by gender.  I had the boys stand along the front of the stage but down on the auditorium floor level.  The girls stood single file down the right-side aisle.  “Listen and listen good.  Every one of you is damned right now.”  I had stopped there and let silence and snickering bounce around the room.  “That’s what you are, that’s what I am.  All of Flannery O’Connor’s readers are damned, just like the characters in her stories.  If we, as readers, will acknowledge this we can go on to relish her grotesque and unforgettable art of telling.  The gist of that last sentence is taken from my favorite literary critic, Harold Bloom.  I encourage you to seek him out.”

“In our story, A Good Man is Hard to Find, the grandmother’s mouth had gotten her killed.  I want us to go on a journey, one filled with adventure.  Literature can change your life for the good.  The stories we will read offer gold nuggets.”  For Ben Gilbert’s tenth grade class I had said, “If you prefer, these gold nuggets are mouth size pieces of filet mignon.”  I had ended each of my three speeches with the trite but true statement, “food never tastes good unless you are hungry.”

There were two other things I had done after each of my three speeches.  I told them they were going to have homework every night and that unless they invested quality time and attention into the completion of their assignments their final semester grade would never even be a D.  “You will never learn to think without thinking, this takes time and attention.  You have to invest to earn a decent return.”  Also, I had described my teaching assistant positions, and assured everyone they would all help teach the class.  I gave them a handout stating who were the initial thirty-seven teaching assistants and who were the students.  These initial pairings would also serve as co-authors for the semester’s major writing assignment.

I gave the same talk and made the same assignments during the two afternoon classes, AP American Literature and Creative Writing.  At 2:45, after the last student left my classroom, Cullie arrived and was hungry as a bear, as usual.  She had just grabbed a Sprite from my refrigerator and pulled a bag of chips from my desk drawer when Mr. Wilkins came rushing into my room.  “Katie, the police are here to see you.  They are waiting in the main office.”

I instructed Cullie to stay put as I followed Patrick down the long hallway.  He opened the outer door for me and said the two officers were in his office.  He directed me around the counter and closed the door behind me as I walked into his large office with two tall and beefy young officers standing with their backs to the outside window.

“Miss Sims, I’m Officer Dixon and this is Officer Brown.  I’m sorry to tell you that your mother, Darla Radford, has been found.  She’s dead.”  He just stood there looking at me for a few seconds and then lowered his eyes.  Officer Brown never said a word.

“What happened?  Where did you find her?”  I said, not surprised that I wasn’t collapsing into a ball of tears.  But I was troubled, even feeling guilty for not going to pick up Darla as she had asked me to this morning a little before 6:00.

“She was found at the edge of a pond off Pleasant Hill Cut-off Road.  That’s about a half-mile from where her and Raymond lived.  Right now, we are not exactly sure how she died.”  Officer Dixon said turning a chair around for me to sit down.

“She had walked there?”

“We can’t say for sure.  All we know is Ralph Williams found her.  That’s his land.  There was no car found and Mr. Williams said he didn’t see anything.”

“Where is she?  Now?”  I said not sure if she might be at the hospital just to make sure she was dead.  My mind was retreating to a safe zone.

“Her body has been taken to Birmingham to the State Forensics Lab.  It’s state law when this type thing happens.  Autopsy required.”

“How did she look?  Was she bleeding?  Had she been hit?  By a car or something?”  I said, frantic to know anything.

For the first time, Officer Brown spoke.  “There was no visible sign she had been traumatized.  To be frank, she looked like she had simply gone to sleep.  I was the first on the scene.  Officer Dixon didn’t see her.”

I could have asked a dozen other questions but decided against it.  “Thank you for coming and telling me.  I need to see Cullie, my daughter, she’s in my classroom.”

“I understand.  Here is my card if you have any other questions.  I am very sorry for your loss.”  Officer Dixon said as he walked by.  Officer Brown tipped his hat at me and mouthed, ‘I’m sorry.’

When I came out of Wilkin’s office, he could tell something was wrong.  I didn’t stop to explain but kept going.  Halfway down the hall he caught up with me and took my arm as though I was going to faint.  He led me all the way back to the door of my classroom and said, “Katie, if there is anything I can do please call me.  Anytime is okay.”  He handed me the School’s standard business card with his name and cell phone number written on the back.  As he was giving me his card and offering his sympathy and support he had moved his left hand up on my shoulder.  It had lingered too long, just long enough to give me that same eerie feeling I had yesterday when he was standing behind me at my desk and peering down my blouse.

When I walked into my classroom I could hear Cullie crying.  Cindy came out when she heard me come in.  Someway, someone had already shared the news.  I shouldn’t have been, but was once again, surprised at how rapidly news traveled in a small town.  Cullie was unsurprisingly strong.  She wasn’t close to Darla even though to me it had always seemed she had cared more for her only granddaughter than she ever had me.

We left school and drove home, discussing nothing but how to share the bad news with Nanny.