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 31
I had never missed an entire week of school. I had also never missed a week of writing, at least since I began, in earnest, after taking my first teaching job in Los Angeles. This wet and foggy Monday morning my classroom looked like it had been frozen in time since I was last here Friday afternoon over a week ago. I placed the bologna sandwich that Cindy had made me in my refrigerator and walked to my little office and sat down. I reviewed my To-Do list, now quite stale, and noticed the third item from the bottom.
It read, “take Nanny to the Fall Festival.” The tears came unannounced. I wasn’t one to cry so easily. For over two weeks before her death, Nanny kept reminding me she wanted to go to this once per year celebration of sorts. It was Liberty Baptist Church’s long-standing event to praise God for an abundant harvest. It was rooted in long-ago times where farming was most everyone’s livelihood. The church, Papa and Nanny’s church since they married, felt obligated to continue this tradition. Nanny had missed last year’s event because of a bout with the shingles, and I was determined to take her this year. What was making me so sad was how I had contemplated asking Sammie to take her. What a selfish woman I was. Now, I would never have the chance to see the joy spread across Nanny’s face. She was dead, and she had died a most horrible death, and in a sense, it was all my fault. If I had only handled things differently. If I hadn’t been such a smart ass and practically told Pastor Warren I had the videotape, Nanny might still be alive. Furthermore, I’m now positive, the Faking Five found out about my visit with Ralph Williams.
“You in there?” I heard Cindy’s voice blaring.
“Back here.” I wiped my eyes and opened my literature teacher’s guide.
“Sorry, I missed you this morning. You must have left early. Cullie’s in my classroom with Alysa.” Since I hadn’t written this morning, nor for the previous eight days, I had gotten dressed early and driven out to the home place on Bruce Road. I hadn’t been but once since the fire over a week ago. I think my need to see the past before engaging the future was why I went. As a writer, transitions were important. It was like I was both writing a story and living as the main character.
“Thanks for bringing her to school. I didn’t want her with me as I strolled around a war zone.” Even though the house was destroyed, it had maintained a semblance of its former glory. All the outer walls on the first floor were still standing. I should thank the Boaz and Sardis City fire departments for all their valiant efforts. Even though the upper floor had fallen in, I sensed the surviving walls were a testimony to Nanny and her resilience over the years. It was like they were pointing upwards praising God in the bad times just as they had done during the many good and bad times for going on seventy years.
“I just wanted to see you for just a minute before our first classes and wish you godspeed.”
“Thanks Cindy, you are the best. I hope you know how much I love you and how much I’m grateful for all you, Steve, and your family have done for Cullie and me, especially since the fire.” I said trying to remember when I had told another teacher that I loved her. I hadn’t even told Ellen Fink that.
“I love you too. And, I hope you know you do not have to move out. Why don’t you stay a while longer? I’m still a little uneasy about you moving in with Sheriff Waldrup.”
“That’s not happening. I told you he is going to be staying in his little cabin on the back side of his property.” I said, recalling mine and Cullie’s visit yesterday afternoon and how we both fell in love with his home, a ranch nearly as large as Steve and Cindy’s.
“Why do I sense a little romance in your future. Wayne, you’ll need to call him Wayne, is a mighty handsome man. Even if he is ten years older than you. That’s what you said, right?”
“He is but at best all I’m interested in is a platonic relationship.”
“Oh, so you are thinking about a relationship. Good. You silly teacher, don’t you know that all romances start out being platonic?” I didn’t know why on earth Cindy was being so humorous. Maybe she thought I needed it. My eyes were probably red from crying.
“Get out of here. I have things to do.”
“So, hurry up. I’ll be back at 10:30, if that’s okay. I’ve got an idea.” Cindy said walking out and not even asking me permission to crash my planning period.
Over the next thirty minutes I realized that my week off had been productive. At least from the standpoint of the Real Justice novel writing project. All during the week I had received multiple emails from each of the five Creative Writing teams. Everyone had shared their condolences and asked how I was doing. They even told me how much they missed me. I was proud of how hard they were working, and I was impressed with their almost-completed character sketches and with their first chapter drafts. Who says high school students don’t have initiative?
After scanning the wave of emails from yesterday and Saturday, I noticed that the five teams were coalescing around the story’s inciting incident and key event. Every novel, the experts say, needs to follow a structure. All of them contend writers should follow a three-act structure, and in act one, two things need to occur. The first thing is the inciting incident. This is a plot point that begins a story’s problem. The key event is the time when the main character, the protagonist, becomes connected or engaged by the inciting incident. I like the example that expert K.M. Weiland (her name is Katie!) uses to illustrate these two terms: “In most detective stories, the inciting event (the crime) takes place apart from the main character, who doesn’t become involved with it until the key event, when he takes on the case.” I wish I was half as smart as this Katie. She is a master at word pictures: “the key event is the glue that sticks the character to the impetus of the inciting event.”
I shouldn’t have been so surprised that my five Real Justice teams had decided that our five antagonists (Mason Campbell, Noah Fletcher, Aiden Walker, Jackson Burke, and Daniel Taylor) were all part of a secret club that thrived off sinister games, including sexual exploitation and murder. The five teams were a little vague in their email description, I think intentionally, but I gathered that the five antagonists were involved with the disappearance of a high school girl whose father is an outspoken blogger. Stella received an anonymous tip that triggered her interest and investigation. Thus, the tip is the glue that stuck Stella to the inciting event, what appeared to be an abduction of a teenage girl by a club known as Jaybird. The only meaning I could ascribe to the club’s name was ‘naked as a jaybird.’ I think the phrase had originated nearly a century ago. At the time it was simply ‘J-bird,’ and meant jailbird. It referred to prisoners brought in from a bus and after taking a shower they had to walk naked from one end of the prison to the other. As I walked to the auditorium and my first period class, all I could think about was how the Faking Five still imagined me ‘naked as a jaybird.’ No doubt, I was still in prison.
My first three classes were easy. I didn’t resist letting each class talk. The first two had been as active as my official Real Justice students although these outliers were contemplating the five Ellijay antagonists individually preying on Stella Gibson. She became glued to the story’s problem because she herself was the independent focus, for sexual gratification I might add, of the Mayor, the Bank President, the Pastor, the business owner, and the Judge.
The third class, my senior English class, was content discussing Ernest Hemmingway’s Hills Like White Elephants, a story about the end of a relationship. The class discussion quickly moved from one of the story’s main themes, the difficulty of dealing with an unplanned pregnancy, and onto abortion. It was clear most of the guys were for it and the girls were not, at least if it didn’t concern them.
Cindy was sitting in my room when I returned at 10:30. Sometimes, I almost wished we hadn’t exchanged classroom keys. At least she had waited until I arrived to enter my private little office behind my classroom.
“You look tired. Difficult classes? Here, I brought you a Red Bull.” I took the can, thanked her, and walked into my office. Cindy was right on my heels and her voice, both high pitch and rapid, revealed she may have been literally full of Bull. “Let’s start with Pastor Warren. He seems to be closer friends with Wilkins than the other four members of your Faking Five.”
“Start with? Explain.” I almost regretted having shared with Cindy my anger and my comparing myself to a Mama Bear protecting her cubs.
“Burn their asses.” Cindy said sitting across from me.
“Wow, I’m beginning to think you were in the Navy. Lately, you’ve been cussing like a sailor.
“Who says revenge is Victorian?” Cindy said, no doubt referring to Victorian England when women were thought to be shy and virtually perfect in dress, manner, and especially speech.
“I’m listening.” I may not have said it so bluntly as Cindy did but I hadn’t changed my mind. I was ready to teach six men a lesson. I was ready for Six Red Apples. Although, I hadn’t thought about burning them at the stake.
“If Pastor Warren and criminal asshole Wilkins are as good friends as we think they are, then they do things together; they spend time talking. Maybe they play golf every Thursday afternoon. I don’t know but we must find out. Once we learn their routine we can begin planning how to burn their asses.”
“You’re liking that phrase. I can tell.”
The remainder of my planning period, until 11:25, Cindy described how she had already been conducting a little surveillance on Danny Ericson and Fulton Billingsley. She wanted to stay on during my lunch period, but I persuaded her I had a ton of work I needed to do since being away for over a week.
After school, Cullie and I ran by Walmart to buy a few groceries, mainly cold items. Yesterday afternoon Wayne had suggested this since the only thing in his refrigerator was a half-empty gallon of three-day expired milk, a large bag of wilted salad mix, and the remainder of a green bean casserole that his sister had left last Tuesday. What he lacked in the refrigerator he made up for in his pantry. It was stocked with every imaginable type of canned soup and vegetables, and at least four kinds of cereals. I was thankful Cullie and I had spent Saturday shopping for clothes. I was content with Walmart selections but, not wanting to drive to Gadsden, Cullie had been surprisingly pleased with what she had found at Goodies and Factory Connections. I was also thankful we had left all our furniture in storage after moving to Boaz from New York City. Although we didn’t need furniture now that we were at Wayne’s, we would in a few months after we built a house at Nanny’s.
A little before 7:30 p.m., right after I had cleaned off mine and Cullie’s soup bowls from the table in the breakfast nook, I heard a knock at the back door. I looked and saw Wayne. I hadn’t closed the blinds on the door. He had his hands around a large cardboard box. I walked over and opened the door.
“Hi Katie. I promise I’m not going to be a pest but I need to apologize.” I motioned him in and noticed the box contained several Walmart shopping bags.
“Why do you need to apologize?” I said, not having a clue what he was talking about.
“I invite you to stay here and don’t even give you a house-warming gift. Here’s a few things I hope you and Cullie enjoy.” He set the box on a kitchen counter and started pulling out packs of steak, pork chops, and chicken.
“You didn’t need to do this. Letting us stay here is gift enough. By the way, I’m going to pay you rent, no matter what you’ve said.”
“Oh no. Forget that. Again, I’m sorry I didn’t clean out the refrigerator.”
Cullie had walked in from the den where she was watching TV. After she smiled at Wayne and inventoried all the good meats he had brought, she thanked him and returned to the opposite side of the great room and kitchen combination. “I suspect you are tired and wanting to go home. Sorry, you are home. I meant your new home.” I said.
“But, you would like to know if I have learned anything new?” I guess Wayne was a mind-reader or I had a big question mark carved into my forehead.
“Yes, do you mind?”
“Not at all. That’s another reason I came by. Late this afternoon I received word from Montgomery that Nathan Johnson’s DNA was on the Lone Star Candy Bar wrapper you gave me from Ralph’s.”
“How did they match it? How did they have Johnson’s DNA?” I said.
“I thought I had told you. When Cliff Thomas, Johnson’s lawyer from Texas, arrived a week ago, he gave us permission to swab his client’s mouth. That was before he knew we had any tangible evidence other than the gun. I guess he already knew from talking with his client that Nathan’s fingerprints would have to be on the 22-pistol since we had him on camera at Joe’s Pawn Shop trying to hock it. Again, we kind of conned him by not disclosing the candy bar wrapper.”
“So, that shows Johnson was at the murder scene?” I asked.
For a minute, Wayne didn’t responsd. He rolled his head around like he was unsure what to say. “Probably, but not definitively. The DNA match proves Nathan had handled the candy bar wrapper. Mr. Thomas might argue that his client had left the wrapper in Danny Ericson’s truck but was not with him that morning at Ralph Williams’ place. But, with what Ralph told you about the passenger he saw in Ericson’s truck, it seems likely that Johnson was there.”
“What about Ralph being dead? Obviously, he cannot testify. Isn’t my word hearsay?”
“You’re correct. I’m sorry the law and criminal cases can be so complicated.”
“I already knew that. I’ve watched enough Law and Order and CSI and those type shows to realize Darla’s case wasn’t going to be easy to resolve.”
Wayne looked at his watch. I was still amazed by people who still wore watches. Now that smartphones hang on nearly every belt. “I’ve got a few calls to make so I must go. Do you need any help putting up these groceries?”
“No. I think I can handle that.” I said looking up at the tall and handsome Wayne Waldrup. His blue eyes met mine and lingered about two seconds longer than he probably meant to. He smiled and said, “Remember, you promised me you would tell me if I became a bother.”
“I promised that. Yes. I will honor that promise. You better believe.”
“Let me know if you need anything. Oh, one other thing. I nearly forgot. The gas cans seized at the fire. The perpetrators either wiped them clean or they used gloves. There were no fingerprints on them.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I was hoping we might get a break.”
“The closest to that right now is that all six of the cans were the same brand. Locally sold only by Walmart and Radford Hardware and Building Supply.”
“If they were new cans couldn’t we, you, investigate the sales at both locations?” I said feeling like I wanted to write a detective series.
“Already on it. It’s a long shot but at least it’s a lead of sorts. I’ll keep you posted. Sorry, I’m running late but I have to go.”
“When do you ever rest? I’m sure you have more than the fire and Darla’s cases to deal with.” I said, feeling sorry for him.
“I rest all the time. I’ve been here, what fifteen minutes? It has been like an afternoon at DeSoto Falls, just talking with you. Sorry, that didn’t come out just right. What I meant is I find it peaceful and satisfying talking with you. You are so kind and respectful.”
“I take that as an extreme compliment. Thanks. I enjoy you too. Talking with you. I appreciate all your help. I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances but I’m still enjoying getting to know you.”
“Take care Katie and get some rest yourself. You’ve been through a lot. Tell Cullie goodnight.”
“I will.” He left, and I watched him open the door of an older looking Ford Bronco. It didn’t have a Sheriff Department insignia on it. I figured it was a personal vehicle. I smiled as I thought Wayne Waldrup was a spitting image of Walt Longmire, the only man I had let into my heart since that horrible night in 2002.
The Pencil-Driven Life 