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 58
It rarely happened. One lesson plan for every class. Thursday was rare. Record-breaking cold, a bout of snow, my own recent and frequent sick day absences, two surprise fire drills, and an unscheduled visit from newly elected Senator Doug Jones that precipitated a school-wide, gymnasium-busting, presentation, had converged to create the rarity.
My students and I had spent all day discussing Anton Pavlovich Chekhov. He was a Russian playwright and short story writer, considered by many literary critics to be the greatest writer of short fiction in history. Even though I had, at different times, assigned to each of my five classes, the task of preparing an investigative report on Mr. Chekhov, at no time had we spent class time discussing any of his actual works. Today’s focus, in every class, had been The Kiss, my favorite of Chekhov’s early stories.
It’s the story of Ryabovich, an artillery brigade officer who attends a party with several of his fellow officers at the country home of a retired general. At some point during the night Ryabovich wanders down a lonely hallway and into a dark room and experiences the thrill of his boring life. He isn’t alone. A woman kisses Ryabovich, mistaking him for someone else. The woman recoils and Ryabovich rushes away. He becomes obsessed with the event. The story continues with him surging and sagging from joy to torment. Ryabovich is in love with an unknown woman who he will never see again. It is a wonderful story and the students loved it.
After the last bell, I sat in my office waiting for Cullie, and couldn’t get Mr. Chekhov off my mind. I kept thinking of the solid piece of writing craft he is universally known for. The advice comes two ways, with both packing the same intent: “One must never place a loaded rifle on the stage if it isn’t going to go off. It’s wrong to make promises you don’t mean to keep.” And, “If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired. Otherwise don’t put it there.”
Since the first creative writing course I took in college, my teachers had tried their best to instill this advice into me and each of my fellow, aspiring writers. I could hear Professor Killian now, “Chekhov’s gun is a dramatic principle that states that every element in a story must be necessary, and irrelevant elements should be removed; elements should not appear to make false promises by never coming into the story.”
Cullie was running later than normal. Cindy poked her head in and said goodbye. Alysa stood beside her but didn’t wave or smile. It’s funny how just seeing someone often causes them to unwittingly rush into the last scene that was actively playing in your mind immediately before they appeared. After the two beauties walked away, my mind somehow placed Chekhov’s gun into Cindy’s hand. Actually, it was Cindy’s gun in my hand.
We had spent the last two weekends, in part, with her guns and my pasture (Wayne’s actually) target practicing. It had been her idea. It seemed Steve, an avid hunter (as well as fisherman) had left her with a hefty stockpile of pistols, rifles, shotguns, bow and arrows, knives, and hatchets. He must have loved Ruger since Cindy seemed to have an endless supply of SR9’s. Cindy was one of the best teachers I had ever seen but her skills were limited to the English language classroom. She absolutely sucked at firearm instruction. But Wayne Waldrup was the master. Not only had he joined us both afternoons, he seemed to not mind the almost limitless times I needed personal attention in just exactly how to hold the weapon. I’m glad he liked hands on instruction. As Cullie walked into my classroom looking a little haggard, I was pondering Wayne’s last statement Saturday afternoon as he was about to leave on a work call, “Half of my deputies right now can’t shoot as good as you. You may be a beginner, but you’re definitely a natural.”
Cullie was silent on the way home. No doubt upset over something. Since she wouldn’t give me a hint what was bothering her I let it slide, assuming some boy had dissed her, or her hormones were soaring or sagging. Before I turned right on Highway 431, she asked if I would carry her to Alysa’s. I was in a hurry to get home but couldn’t help but realize how difficult it was to be a teenage girl, especially one in the ninth grade, in a new school, in a new town. I turned left instead and dropped her off ten minutes later at Cindy’s.
It’s not unusual for me to replay the day’s classes and the most marvelous moments mentoring minors as Ellen Fink like to say. I could hear her, the spry little New York City teacher who no doubt had prepared me for my roller-coaster ride with Cindy: “Katie, you need to expand your thinking. Five m’s or five of anything will drown your mental sluggishness.” I made a mental note to at least email the energetic, enigmatic, elegant, eager, and enlightening Ellen. Wow, six e’s.
Replay I did. Chekhov’s gun kept pointing at me all the way home. It didn’t relent as I changed clothes and drank a glass of milk and ate four Oreos. I lay on the couch until dark. After sitting up to talk with Cullie who pleaded with me to let her spend the night with Alysa, the weirdest and wildest idea clutched my mind and promised to not let go until I had fully submitted.
Maybe the idea would never have appeared if Cindy hadn’t left two SR9’s at my house last Saturday afternoon. I walked to Wayne’s study, rolled the bookcase from the wall, entered the security code and opened the safe. The green knapsack hadn’t moved since I had stored it there before Cindy had left. It was amazing how generous Wayne was. He not only shared his gorgeous body with me but his giant safe.
It was risky, but I went anyway. For some unknown reason, I was propelled to take the chance and sneak back to Club Eden. From the Spy App, I suppose my mind knew that something was going down Saturday night at the little cabin in the Aurora woods. Even though my clothes were wet from sweat and my heart was tired from its heavy beating, after climbing over the gate and walking a half-mile under a glowing moon, the worst feeling occurred during my return trip home. My mind auto-played one sentence: “If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired. Otherwise don’t put it there.” When I turned left off Sardis Road onto Wayne’s long driveway, I surrendered to the fact my life was caught in a story I had not written. It was like Cindy and I were actors on a stage. But, not just any type actors. We were first and foremost prisoners and the play director was making us dress-up, rehearse, and prepare for the first night’s performance.
As I rounded the curve before reaching the back side of my wonderful and rent-free ranch-style home, I saw Wayne’s tan and gold Sheriff’s car with the red taillights glowing.
I nearly panicked. This wasn’t a good time for Wayne to show up. He often called before coming, but not always. During these latter times I had never minded because I hadn’t been sneaking around planting guns at places I wasn’t supposed to be.
After I parked, and we shared a sweaty hug, my sweat, I invited him in. It was obvious he noticed how unkempt, disheveled, and anxious I was. Thankfully, he didn’t ask any questions.
“I needed to talk with you. I hope you don’t mind me dropping by.” Sometimes I wish he weren’t so damn polite.
“No problem. You seem tense. Is there anything wrong?” I asked, noticing I wasn’t the only one with darting and blinking eyes.
“I’ve just come from the hospital, Marshall-Medical South. Raymond Radford is there. Another heart attack but fortunately for him not deadly serious.”
“You now making hospital calls?” I asked.
“No, he called me, asked if I would come talk to him.”
“Reckon which will kill him first? I bet it’s his heart. His guilty heart probably.” I said recalling the deep hole he was in with two murder indictments hanging around his neck.
“He wanted to get something off his chest and try to use it for his benefit. Said he had tried to reach the DA but he’s in Denver at some conference.”
“What did he have to say?”
“Katie, I think, surely, we are close enough by now for you to be able to confide in me. I hope you know how much I care for you. You know that don’t you?”
“I do. And, the feelings are mutual. Certainly, you know that.”
“I do. After Karen died I didn’t think I would ever care for another woman, certainly not care for one like I care for you. That’s why I want us to have a little talk. It’s important to me that you know what caring for a woman means to me.”
“Okay, we can talk.” Wayne sat at the kitchen bar and I put on a pot of coffee.
“I’m going to be direct. Raymond told me an almost unbelievable story. He said if someone else had told him the same story about his family that he would think the guy was making it up. Raymond told me about how Darla got pregnant.” Wayne said and stopped. I guess he was wanting me to respond.
“He did?”
“He told me how you came to be.”
“That’s an odd way to put it.” I said.
“Katie, I know that Darla got pregnant during her graduation party May 25, 1972, and that nine months later, to the day, according to Raymond, you were born.”
“Seems like mother dear liked to party.” I poured us both a cup of coffee. Three creams and one sugar for Wayne. Three sugars and one cream for me.
“You’ve never mentioned your father.” I couldn’t tell if Wayne was asking me a question or simply making a statement.
“No. It’s a little difficult to talk about someone you’ve never met, and don’t even know their name.”
“Do you want to know his name?” Wayne now had my full attention.
“Until tonight my answer to that question had always been no. Now, I’m not sure. Should I want to know?” I asked, still standing across the bar from Wayne.
“Yes, I think you should.”
“Okay, I’ll trust your judgment. Who’s my daddy?” I halfway was trying to be funny.
“Randall Radford. At least that’s what Raymond said.”
“Oh, hell yes. That’s just perfect. Ryan Radford is Cullie’s father and Ryan’s father, Randall, is my father. The Radford’s must have some aggressive sperm.
“I know this is shocking to you and I wouldn’t dare have come here and pushed this on you if it weren’t for Raymond and what he offered.”
“He wanted you to stop pursuing his grandson. Right?” I asked, pouring half my coffee down the sink.
“Actually, he asked on his and Cynthia’s behalf.”
“No doubt. She, along with Ryan, are one excited utterance away from prison. Why wouldn’t she also want to make a deal.”
“I thought the same thing. To begin with. But, I think Raymond is seriously trying to do everything he can to straighten out his life, do what he can to make some amends.”
“I assume since he knows Randall was the winner of sorts among the Flaming Five, then Darla knew also?” I asked, pulling a step-stool out of the pantry and using it to remove a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels from the top shelf nestled behind the three #10 cans of mixed vegetables Wayne had left and that I hated.
“He said that he and Darla had agreed to investigate whether Randall was the father. It seems the paternity test results had something to do with him, Raymond, marrying your mother. He knew Randall wouldn’t take responsibility for you, so he decided he would, in his sort of way.”
“I’m still confused. What did he offer?” I asked, reading Wayne’s head motion that he wanted a round of Jack.
“To give you what he had promised Darla in their prenuptial agreement. Half of his estate. You know the details.”
“What did he want in return? It has to be something.”
“For you and Ryan to be real parents to Cullie.”
I’ve heard about people whose anger can ignite in a nano-second, but I had never experienced such instant rage. Until this moment. I had to assume Raymond knew the truth. How Ryan had raped me. Or, did he? Had Ryan simply made up a story about how the two of us had an affair. Either way, the end of the road and dying Raymond wants his grandson and me to be real parents. Does that include working on reconciling and remarrying, marrying. I was mad as hell. “I don’t suppose the repentant Raymond told you Ryan raped me, that’s how I became pregnant with Cullie?” My words had poured out of me almost as quickly as my anger had boiled up.
“Oh no. My dear Katie. No, he didn’t. I’m sorry, so sorry, I didn’t know that.” Wayne said standing up and walking around the bar to me. I stepped back just as he reached for me.
“And, no doubt you don’t know that Ryan’s four buddies, Fulton Billingsley, Danny Ericson, Justin Adams, and the late Warren Tillman joined in the fun and gang-raped me for two plus hours during the late afternoon of December 23, 2002?” The words kept pouring.
Wayne stood still, frozen, his eyes and face flashed anger and sadness as he slowly shook his head. He bit his lower lip and said, “Katie, let me in, let me support you. Katie, I love you and I’m here for you.” I could tell he was dying for my response, for me to reach for him.
“I’ve lived with it for almost fifteen years. I’ve never told anyone except Cindy. I hate you found out this way.” I moved my body inch by inch towards Wayne. He stepped forward half a foot and then stopped. Just another sign of his respect, his politeness and tenderness.
“All I want is to take care of you. Oh, that didn’t come out right. I know you’re strong. I didn’t mean to imply you needed me.” He wanted to keep apologizing, but I shut down his words.
“Oh Wayne, stop trying to be so damn nice. Hold me. I am strong, but that doesn’t mean I don’t need you and your strong arms around me.”
Over the next three hours, we made Jack disappear. He had followed Wayne and me to my bedroom and had vanished somewhere between two passionate scenes, both involving the most aggressive love-making the beautiful Wayne had ever revealed.
Thoughts, I’m convinced of it, come unsolicited. As I lay in Wayne’s arms, all I could think about was how strange it was for Marshall County Schools to postpone the beginning of the two-week Christmas holidays until Thursday, December 21st. I suspected the late November’s coldest four days in recorded history had something to do with it.
The Pencil-Driven Life 