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 57
Cindy didn’t go to church Sunday morning. Neither did I, even though we had agreed she’d drop by and pick Cullie and me up. Her non-tan-colored van had plenty of seats. She called at ten minutes past six, just a few minutes after I walked out of The Thread. “I’ve decided to stay home. It’s going to be a circus on Sparks Avenue.” Cindy said, and my mind jumped like a frog to flies and afterbirth, things nature provided in spades (I was regretting mine and Cindy’s final visit to the pasture after the kids had run in and said the calf was born dead).
“Circus? Are you talking about church?” I asked.
“According to Facebook, the Deacons have planned a memorial for Warren, one on steroids. They’re bringing in pastors from all around: Albertville, Guntersville, Sardis, Douglas. I imagine this is just a warm-up to the funeral, which is Saturday, assuming the autopsy is finalized.”
“I’m glad I limit my Facebook time to my groups.” I said, pouring another thermos of coffee.
“Speaking of Real Justice, I don’t suppose you’ve yet visited your two outlier groups?”
“Meaning, the groups my tenth and eleventh graders set up in defiance of my refusal to include them in the novel writing project?”
“Yes. There’s already been several comments to Riley Radford’s post.” Cindy said.
“Riley? She’s a ninth grader.”
“I guess someone added her to the tenth-grade group. Doesn’t matter. She posted that the four jaybirds had kidnapped Stella’s daughter and were holding her at a cabin in the backwoods of Cherry Log. The comments are all over the place but basically address various components of Riley’s story, such as who lured Candy (that’s Stella’s daughter), how they abducted her, and what they planned on doing with her.” Cindy had apparently been up since 4:30 as I had.
“Did I hear you say four?” There are five jaybirds: Mason Campbell, Noah Fletcher, Aiden Walker, Jackson Burke, and Daniel Taylor.” I said with almost perfect knowledge of the story.
“Seems like your third character, Mr. Walker, the pastor of First United Baptist Church, is halfway to Heaven, kind of like my Ruger, depending on what you believe about purgatory.”
“That’s not part of either one of the story-lines. Certainly not from my five Creative Writing teams, the official Real Justice project.” I said.
“It’s more difficult to control outliers. I guess that’s why they’re called outliers. But, here’s my concern. Sorry, is now a good time to talk?” Cindy asked. She could be so funny, without realizing it.
“I’d tell you if Wayne was here.”
“You wouldn’t have to. I’m not deaf. I could hear your heavy breathing.”
“Don’t go there.” Cindy’s words reminded me that I wouldn’t see him today. “Back to your concern dear.” I sometimes had to redirect Cindy, or she would chase two rabbits in four different directions.
“The place Riley described sounded eerily like Club Eden. Obviously, I wouldn’t have been able to see in my mind’s eye the inside of the cabin close to Aurora Lake and almost feel the rough and rusty cast iron coffee pot where you planted your little bug, if you hadn’t given your jot and tittle description yesterday while I was chefing.”
“And to think, I believed Riley. She was so humble and apologetic, virtually swearing she had learned a good lesson. She’s such a busy body, always trying to stir shit up.” I said.
“I don’t want to alarm you, but she scares me. Not so much her, but what if she is creating this shit, as you call it, from a mix of truth and imagination?” Cindy asked.
“Oh shit, you’re saying Riley might be hearing, someway picking up on some words or vibes around her, maybe at home?”
“I’m getting another call. Let’s talk more later.” Cindy said ending our call before I could respond.
Cindy wasn’t the only one who received a call. Before my two slices of bread popped out of the toaster, Wayne called. “Morning beautiful.”
“Morning beautiful.” He was the most beautiful between us. If he could see me now he would say, “makeup is a gift from God.”
I could tell he wasn’t alone. I couldn’t make out what they were saying but it appeared two or three deputies were having a conversation in the background. “I’m missing you already and that doesn’t include missing you yesterday and last night.” I loved hearing a beautiful man tell me he was lonely for me. This had never happened, not with Colton Lee Brunner, or anyone.
“What’s up? I suspect you’re in a meeting or something.”
“I am and have some news, other than my longing for you. Sorry, I’m turning into a deranged romantic.”
“There’s no such thing, but I like whatever you’re becoming.”
“Back to the news. It seems Walmart keeps extensive records. They have some more sophisticated software. They can match a sale to a customer. The gas cans that were discovered at Beverly’s were not purchased or acquired from Radford Hardware as we earlier thought. I must admit I’ve learned something that most fifth graders would have easily known. Two of my deputies had learned early on in this investigation that Walmart, both local Walmart’s, sold the identical gas cans used in your fire. They had been able to tell us when the gas cans were purchased and that they were bought with cash. But, we failed to ask one more question—a broad, catch-all type inquiry: can you tell us anything else about this purchase? Sit down, here comes a shocker. On Friday, September 15th, at 3:40 p.m., Nathan Johnson bought the three gas cans that were used to torch yours and Beverly’s home. Bought them at the Boaz Walmart.”
“Wait a minute. That can’t be right. You’re sounding like a preschooler. Nathan Johnson was already dead.” I said, thinking Wayne was losing his ability to reason. Was his loneliness and our love-making leaving his mind in a puddle?
“Not so fast Sherlock. Remain seated. Nathan Johnson and Nathan Johnson are twins.”
“Their parents named them the same thing?” I asked, never hearing of such a weird thing.
“Seems so, but I doubt it was intentional, a screw-up in the birth certificates. According to my friend, Sheriff Blaylock in San Marcos, although he did say they had different nicknames.
“So, you believe the Radford’s are behind this? Pretty much what I had thought.” I figured I was saying the obvious.
“I don’t have time to go deeper into the details. It’s an interesting story. I’ll leave it at that. Brother rivalries sometimes turn deadly. Recall Cain and Abel, don’t you?” Wayne asked.
“I think so. Tell me every detail as soon as you can. I appreciate you calling.” I knew he was busy and I always hated myself when I became too clingy.
“Not so fast literature lady. I don’t know if Darla was writing fiction or the real thing, but it seems she had or imagined she had a daughter conceived by an unknown man. I’ve had my secretary reading through all of Darla’s journals. I just wanted to ask you if she was a writer wannabe, maybe inspired you to start writing. I didn’t think you had a long-lost sister, at least you’d never mentioned her.”
I surprised myself at how quickly I framed my response. “I inherited Darla’s imagination gene, no doubt.”
“I figured that and just wanted to share a little story, hoping it would bring back good memories. Revisiting them is important, you know.”
If I was one to have a panic attack now would have been a good time. “Get back to work and call me tonight if you have time.”
After our call ended, for the first time, I felt the initial rumblings of a desire, maybe a need, to reveal my past to Wayne. At least some of my past, maybe the part about Darla becoming pregnant with me during the night of her high school graduation party at Club Eden.
I was as giddy as a teenager. Wayne should arrive within an hour. Late Sunday afternoon he had called and said something came up. An emergency trip to Texas. He later had explained that the Lone Star state acts quickly on extradition warrants. Wayne had left Alabama in a hurry and flown to Dallas, taking a rental car to San Marcos. He hadn’t been in such a rush to return. He had spent nearly three days with Sheriff Blaylock, working the case, as he put it. He and Nathan Johnson, the living breathing one, had landed in Huntsville, along with their 747 I suppose. I was anxious to crawl under the sheets with the beautiful Wayne, but I was nearly as eager to hear his Texas story.
At 9:15 p.m., I had just walked back in from the patio and looked down the long driveway hoping to see Wayne rolling towards me when I heard my cell phone vibrating on the coffee table. It was a text notification that my Club Eden bug was active. I certainly didn’t understand the technology, but the spy gadget had come with an offer from the manufacturer to subscribe to a service they provided through a sophisticated App. Instead of carrying around the receiver, I could listen on my iPhone to what was being transmitted from the spy sight. After receiving a text notification that the transmitter was live, I could either open the App and listen as the conversations and sounds were occurring or I could listen to them via a recording the $19.99 App had waiting on me.
By the time I opened the App to hear the live version, all I heard was, “8:30 p.m., just like at Warren’s.” The voice sounded like Fulton’s but could have been Justin Adams. I wasn’t sure. I knew it wasn’t Ryan.
I selected the ‘Unopened Recordings’ file and heard the complete conversation that had just occurred in a little cabin next to Aurora Lake.
“Fire out?”
“Yea. You lock the cabinet?”
“Don’t worry.”
“But, I do. Be sure and relay every detail we discussed at the fire with Ryan. I’ll do the same with Danny. Clockwork, it has to be exact, but you know that.”
“Saturday, right after Warren’s funeral. Let’s make him proud.”
“8:30 p.m., just like at Warren’s.”
I replayed the recording three more times. All I could figure was that the Faking Five, now the Faking Four, had something up their sleeve, and it was to take place Saturday, December 23rd. No doubt, this year.
Wayne tapped on my back door as I was about to listen the fifth time.
The Pencil Driven Life 