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 32
By 4:30 a.m. Wednesday morning I had made my choice. Ten days without writing had left me as anxious and frustrated as I had ever been. Yesterday morning, the first morning to awaken in mine and Cullie’s new home, should have been a productive session. It wasn’t, although I had gotten up at my appointed time, grabbed my coffee and strolled into Wayne’s giant study off the master bedroom. I spent nearly an hour trying to get situated. The room was nice, completely paneled with twelve-inch tongue and groove pine boards with a light beige tile floor. The desk was perfect. It was solid oak, large and included an L-shaped side desk, at the perfect height for my computer keyboard. The problem was the room just didn’t feel right. I never was able to put my finger on the exact issue. It could have been how the light entered the room from a giant light fixture under the rear eve of the garage right beside the house. The double windows in the study didn’t have blinds or curtains so I couldn’t shut out the light. It could have been the clutter. The bookshelves on three walls made for an impressive library, mostly biographies, military fiction, and, surprisingly, every novel written by Nicolas Sparks, my favorite romance writer. The real clutter was Wayne’s collection of dogs and arrowheads. They were everywhere and in most every form. Figurines, mostly encased in curio cabinets, small and large, but with a sizable number placed high and low on corner tables, shelves, and along the front of his giant desk. The walls were covered in both drawings and photographs of dogs and arrowheads. By 5:45 a.m. yesterday morning, after writing one sentence, three times and finally deleting it, I ended my session more frustrated and anxious than ever.
This morning, I knew the moment I walked into the smaller of the three bedrooms on the opposite end of the house that I had found my spot. Wayne had said he had just finished painting it. The room had been his wife’s hobby room and it had taken his sons five years to convince their father it was time to move on with his life. The only thing Wayne had left was an antique black walnut roll-top desk that was, as he had said, “from her French ancestors.” Monday night I had found one very similar on eBay. It heralded from France. The eBay description on the only desk I could find like Wayne’s was, “a Unique French secretary (Scriban), Empire period (Napoleon I), Circa 1800, from La Rochelle, France, very famous for the quality of its ‘Meubles de port.’ Made from fruit wood, walnut, rosewood and marquetry.” My new writing desk had fabulous carvings on each side with lion’s heads on each of its six drawers. The chair no doubt had originated with the desk. It was uncomfortable enough to keep me alert and focused on my writing. The sparseness of the room, completely absent of clutter, was exactly what I needed.
Just because I had missed my early morning writing session ten days in a row didn’t mean I hadn’t thought about my current project. In fact, during my walks around Steve and Cindy’s swimming pool last Saturday evening I had decided to abandon my current project. I would put it in a drawer for now, until the end of the year. I had always focused on only one project at a time. This was the best way I had found for preventing me from being divided. I needed to be consumed with one story at a time, live it, breathe it, smoke it if I smoked, and eat it, every moment of every day. My Real Justice novel writing project was infecting my mind. Saturday night I had decided to devout all my efforts into living naked as a jaybird. It was best for my students if I gave them my fully-devoted attention. This morning I figuratively traveled to Ellijay, Georgia to begin my immersion into Stella Gibson’s world.
The scene I drafted contained two characters. Stella and Pastor Aiden Walker. I keyed off Team 3’s character sketch. It was my responsibility to write the transitions and the scenes whereby Stella interacted with each of the Real Justice’s antagonists.
Outwardly, Walker’s overarching life’s purpose was to spread the Gospel of Jesus Christ. He had minored in marketing at the University of Georgia and was always contemplating ways to perk the interest of every resident of Ellijay who were not yet affiliated with First United Baptist Church. This had prompted his first visit with Stella Gibson, the new editor of the Times-Courier. During his drive to the newspaper he knew she would likely refer him to her Advertising Manager, but he wanted an opportunity to at least begin a friendly relationship with the woman who was the talk of the town. Before he walked into her office his mind had been under attack by what his four jaybirds had told him last night at their weekly meeting. “She’s a single-parent and a former Miss Southern Belle while she was in college at the University of Virginia. She declined to be a part of Miss America because of a jealous boyfriend.”
Inwardly, Aiden Walker was a lady’s man, or that’s how he viewed himself. His wife and his congregation knew him as humble and dedicated to his Lord and Savior. His four jaybirds knew he enjoyed an occasional Hagar (the Old Testament Abraham’s concubine, his wife Sarah’s servant, who she had shared with her husband and that had led to a little trouble for Abraham, his clan, and the world in perpetuity). So far, Aiden had avoided a public scandal, although there was the finally-hushed rumor among the Church’s deacons that Pastor Walker and the Chairwoman of the WMU had, for over a year during the first decade of the 21st century, been on a very different mission of sorts. To Aiden’s surprise, the gorgeous Stella had devoted over an hour sharing several ideas that she believed could help him inspire many locals to visit his vibrant First United Baptist Church. As he returned to the Church’s office he was proud of himself, Stella had agreed to a weekly meeting to closely monitor the responsiveness of the two new ads.
During lunch with Cindy I had reluctantly agreed to attend Prayer Meeting with her tonight. She was correct in arguing that if we were going to learn the routines of our six red apples we had to hang around their orchard. I sometimes loved and sometimes hated how Cindy put things. Here, she was right. After nearly an hour of prayers that addressed every sickness, temptation, and addiction both known and suspected, Cindy and I hid out in a grove of trees on the edge of the parking lot closest to the east side of the Fellowship Hall. “I’m pretty sure this is where Pastor Warren exits and heads over to the Parsonage.” Cindy had said.
The slow drip didn’t begin for another twenty minutes. First, Fulton and Warren appeared and headed toward the rear of the Parsonage. Five minutes later, Ryan and Justin drove up and parked within fifty feet of where Cindy and I were standing. Finally, before the two of them disappeared between a thick hedgerow at the rear of Warren’s place, Danny Ericson exited the Fellowship Hall, walked to his late model Suburban, tossed something in its front seat, and vanished into the dark between the hedges. Cindy and I waited another fifteen minutes and crept towards the Pastor’s house. “See why I told you to wear black.” Cindy whispered as we approached what I could tell now were Blue Hollies.
I was impressed with Cindy’s courage. After reaching the edge of the Pastor’s yard, I hesitated to move closer. She had instructed me to “stay here, next to the hedge, keep a lookout.” I obeyed and worked up a worry that she would be seen or worse, captured by the enemy. It took her nearly five minutes to reappear. “Come, follow me. You have to see this.”
I reluctantly tip-toed behind the daring Cindy. There was just enough light to make out a set of stairs that headed down to what I assumed would be the basement. She moved a little to the right as I started down the stairs. “No.” She almost shouted, way above a whisper. “Come here.” Cindy was down on her belly crawling towards the top of a brick wall that extended above the ground maybe a foot. I mimicked her and when we both were laying on our sides next to the wall she said, “look over the top but don’t linger.” When I did I saw six men sitting around a round table a few feet inside a half-lighted room. The Faking Five and another man, whose back was to me and who seemed to be caught in a light-less zone. I lowered my head and asked, “who is the other man? I see the Faking Five. That’s not Wilkins is it?”
“No, I’m sure of that. Wilkins is thicker than that. And, his hair is not as gray.”
Cindy and I had almost lingered at the brick wall too long. We thought we were caught a few minutes later when Justin and Ryan exited the rear door out onto the patio below and stood next to a pile of firewood. They each smoked a cigarette and chatted. Even though we were within ten feet of them we couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. The central unit was running and drowning out their conversation. But, just before they walked back inside, the unit shut-down and we heard one of them say, “he’s a smart ass but if he can make Johnson disappear I’ll vote for it.”
After they had gone back inside we lost no time returning to our vehicles. I told Cindy what we had done was insane and could get us killed. She insisted we were being wise and cautious. She also insisted I follow her to MacDonald’s. She had something else she needed to tell me.
Right as we sat down in a corner booth, over two McCafé French Vanilla Latte’s, Cindy didn’t mince a word. “I think I’m pregnant.”
“Oh, my heavens. You’ve got to be kidding. It’s too soon to know. What makes you think that?” I could have continued spouting out a battery of questions. I had surprised myself that my first thought had connected Cindy’s declaration to Patrick Wilkins, and not her recent disclosure that husband often Steve joked about having ten kids but for the vasectomy Cindy had demanded he have.
“I’ve been spotting. And, it’s not my time. Also, I’ve been cramping like you wouldn’t believe. I did some research because I don’t remember doing this with my other three kids. It seems my symptoms are common, early signs of pregnancy. They call it implantation bleeding. It occurs anywhere from six to twelve days after the egg is fertilized. It seems many women mistakenly conclude the cramps and the bleeding are simply the start of their monthly period.”
“Oh hell, hell, hell, hell.” I said believing I was living a dream. The nightmare was getting worse by the day. If only Wilkins hadn’t raped Cindy. I could have dealt with my problems. Hell, I had dealt with them for nearly fifteen years, holding it together pretty good and raising a fatherless daughter.
“Katie, my worst nightmare is coming true. After Wilkins raped me I had a dream one night. I kept asking myself, ‘what if I get pregnant?’ Now, it’s not a dream and I’m asking myself, ‘what am I going to do?’”
“Cindy, you have no choice, no choice at all. If you are pregnant, and I’m hoping you are wrong, you must have an abortion.”
“Oh, you heathen woman. I could never do that.” Cindy said finishing off the first of two cinnamon rolls she had bought.
“So, okay, don’t do that. Go home tonight and tell Steve the truth. I’m sure, from what I’ve heard you say, he will simply forgive both you and criminal asshole Wilkins. And, you and the perfect Steve will live happily ever after raising the bastard child.” I said regretting the child’s description, realizing that Cullie was identical and I had always loved her with all my heart no matter if I had not been married to her father when she was conceived.
“Don’t say that. You know I would love the baby with every fiber of my being. I don’t know what to do. If Steve hadn’t had a vasectomy I probably would just lie to him, let him believe the baby was his.”
“Oh, so lying is okay, but having an abortion is totally unacceptable?” I asked.
“For now, I’m just praying for a miscarriage. Maybe my little problem will simply go away.”
“I hope the resolution is that simple, but if I had to bet, you have a hard road ahead of you. But please, don’t ever doubt I will be with you every step of the way. I will never abandon you. I love you Cindy.” The words had just flowed out of my mouth. I felt such compunction to say something truthful and reassuring. The truth was certainly not reassuring but my commitment to my best friend was both.
“Thanks, dear. Maybe this is all one big test. God is seeing how much I love him and how faithful I will be. He tested Job and he came through the storm.” Cindy’s faith-talk worried me. I hadn’t read the Book of Job in ages, but I did remember the central part of the story. It was all about his suffering and his questioning God. I had to do my best to help Cindy avoid such pain.
“You better be praying that God works a miracle in Steve’s life and does it in a couple of months at the latest. If you don’t miscarry, Steve will learn, probably before Christmas, that you are pregnant with another man’s baby. Maybe God will give Steve an extraordinary ability to forgive.” I said.
“Forgive, I haven’t done anything wrong. I didn’t have an affair and got pregnant. I was raped. It’s not my fault.” Cindy, probably unknown to herself, was making a ton of sense.
“Exactly, and that’s why you need to tell him. Furthermore, it’s why you need to complain to the police. Please let me talk to Sheriff Waldrup.”
“No and hell no. A lot can happen in two or three months. I have to have faith that God will work a miracle and I won’t have to tell anybody.” Cindy said bowing her head and whispering, “oh dear precious Jesus, help me, please help me.”
The Pencil Driven Life 