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 Pencil Driven Life 