Month: July 2024

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 43

Surprisingly, the remaining four school days were pleasant and enjoyable, if I ignored two things:  that I was a cold-blooded killer and that I was about to be a caged, cold-blooded killer.  Someway I found the grit and determination to focus on my schoolwork.  I spent three hours each day after school on the Real Justice project.  It helped that Cindy let Cullie go home with her and Alysa every afternoon.  I reviewed and edited the first draft of Act I.  I also brainstormed a half-dozen scenes injecting Stella Gibson’s reactions to the first plot point which was a believable result of both the inciting incident and key event.

The weekend fog clouded my focus.  The gray soup was both literal and figurative.  The visible fog reminded me of Our Mutual Friend, a novel by Charles Dickens.  I hadn’t read it since high school, but I recalled how I had loved the author’s ability to transport me inside his writing and make me feel I was walking beside his main characters.  Dickens had used a historical event to shape his story.  The truth is, for five days in 1952, fog had blanketed the British capital.  It seemed two things converged to produce the perfect storm that became known as The Great Smog of London.  A cold snap on December 5th, and sulfur particles mixed with fumes from burning coal (almost everyone heated their homes with the filthy rock) combined to produce a yellow fog that smelled like rotten eggs.  The Boaz fog didn’t include the color or the smell of London’s fog, but it was as thick and smothering.

The metaphysical fog was not unlike Dickens’ novel. Just as he described how blacker the fog became the closer one came to the center of London, clearly his metaphor illustrated how corruption caused by wealth was destroying the heartbeat of the city.  In my anticipation of Monday’s scheduled meeting with Pastor Tillman, I could not help but speculate how my life would never be the same after he deposited over a million dollars to mine and Cindy’s newly created account.

The Great Fog of Boaz kept most everyone locked in their homes all weekend.  To me, the gray soup was mysterious, a cover to further obscure the cloak and dagger plotting by the Faking Five.  The fog was like a curtain separating truth from lies.  One thing the thick cloud of tiny water droplets didn’t conceal was the real reason Cindy was having so much trouble telling Steve the truth.  The fog had kept us from visiting each other all weekend.  It was simply too dangerous to get out and about.  But, it hadn’t prevented us from talking.

Saturday afternoon, while Steve and their Triple A’s were having a Monopoly marathon, Cindy had escaped to the pool-house where she occasionally attempted to transcribe a story of her own.  I soon discovered that Cindy was more in need of talking than writing.

“Katie, can you talk?”  Cindy’s voice was hoarse, like she was in a well. 

“I can.  Cullie’s taking a nap.  We just finished watching “Stepmom” on Netflix.”  I was still nearly crying.

 “Hilarious, but heartbreaking.  I cried for a week after Alysa and I watched that movie.”  Cindy said.

“It’s the perfect movie, or so I hear, when life for mother and daughter is jerking you around like a roller coaster.”

“And, when our daughters need to know that everything will work out okay.”  Cindy added.  I’m glad you and Cullie watched it.  It’s a little uncanny.”

“What do you mean?”  I asked.

“Because it is the perfect segue to why I called, what I need to get off my chest.”  Cindy sounded relieved and troubled.

“I’m listening.  You know you can tell me anything.”  I meant it knowing that I had found such relief after I had told Cindy my deepest darkest secret.

“It’s about why I can’t tell Steve the truth.  You need to understand why I keep resisting.  Katie, I need you to stop pushing me to confess the truth to the man I would die for.

“Cindy, you may not believe it, but unloading the sack of rocks you’re carrying around can be mentally and physically rewarding.  I am your friend and I will support you no matter what.  You do know that don’t you?”

I could hear some chatter in the background.  “That’s the radio.  I don’t want anybody eavesdropping.  Katie, Steve and I have a big secret.  It’s one that I must share to protect him, me, and our lives.  When Steve was young, maybe nineteen or twenty, he killed a man.  Steve and I had been dating a few months.  He was accused of murder, but the State could never prove its case.  Steve killed the drunk driver who had killed his father and sister in a horrible car wreck.  The man was a football coach at Albertville High School.  He was a good man.  When he wasn’t drinking.  He also was well-connected.  Even though the accident was the coach’s fourth DUI he was given a sweetheart deal by the District Attorney.  A felony guilty plea with a ten-year prison sentence.”

“That doesn’t sound too sweet.”  I interjected.

“Here’s what happened.  The man never went to prison.  A few days before he was to be transported to Kilby Prison, the Judge amended his sentencing order and granted probation.  Steve went ballistic.  Less than a week later the coach was found.  Beaten and shot.  Long story short, Steve was arrested and stayed in jail for nearly a year awaiting trial.  Fortunately, Steve’s mother hired him a great lawyer, Matt Bearden, who persuaded a jury to vote not-guilty.  I’m the only one Steve confessed to.    Katie, if I tell Steve what Patrick did to me and what Paula is trying to do, he will again go ballistic.  The year he spent in jail nearly destroyed us.  Now we have three children.”

“And, another one on the way.”  I added, still hoping against hope Cindy might yet see a way to trust Steve, realizing he was older and wiser.

“That baby is Steve’s.  I told you that’s what he now fully believes.”

“Cindy, I want to be clear.  I love you, but I still believe you are wrong to not tell Steve the truth.  But, I will honor your request and back off.  I’ll stop trying to persuade you to come clean.  Also, it goes without saying that I will never disclose what you have just told me.”  I don’t know if Cindy received much benefit from confessing her secret to me, but I know I did.  Not that I needed it, but her willingness to tell me something so potentially damning to her, Steve, and their children, showed the depth of her love for me and that she trusted me nearly as much as she trusted God.

“I never doubted I could count on you.  Other than Steve, you are the best friend I have ever had.  God continues to bless me far beyond what I deserve.  He always has.”

“Hey baby, short nap?”  Cullie had walked in and I didn’t want to tell Cindy I couldn’t talk anymore, secretly at least.

“I take it Cullie is with you?  I’ll let you go.  Take care and stay home.  Don’t you dare get out in this fog.”  Cindy said as the radio chatter surrounding her ceased.

“I won’t.  You either.  We’ll talk later.”

After Cullie warmed the spaghetti leftover from last night, we sat at the kitchen bar and talked for nearly two hours.  It seemed “Stepmom,” and possibly her nap, spurred her to talk openly about her father.  I was happy that both of us had recovered from the screaming match we had earlier this morning after I had shared with her my talk with Ryan.  Then, she had been crystal clear, she would never submit to any attempts he made to get to know her.  It was the ‘visitation’ word that had sent her into orbit.  Now, she had compromised a little, agreeing to meet with him one time at a neutral location with one caveat.  Riley Radford had to be present and had to apologize for how she had been treating Cullie.  After our talk ended, I realized that Cullie was more mature than I was.  The lawyer I had consulted said child support and visitation go together in the law unless it is not in the best interest of the child to be around the non-custodial parent.  My arguments, rooted in events from December 2002, had fallen on deaf ears.  It seemed Ryan’s criminal conduct almost fifteen years earlier would be forgotten if he was a fit parent today. 

By Monday morning, the fog had lifted.  At least the visible fog.  Warren was waiting for me at Wells Fargo Bank at 11:00 a.m.  He and Jeff Sims, the bank manager, were standing outside his office when I walked inside.  Jeff motioned me over and suggested we sit at his round table in the corner of his executive-size office.  After Warren and I sat down, Jeff handed me a deposit slip and said, “I’ve verified the wire transfer.  The funds are good.  The amount on the deposit slip is yours to do whatever you choose.  Warren shook Jeff’s hand before he walked away.

I then looked at the piece of paper Jeff had handed me.  It truly was a deposit slip.  One showing one million two-hundred fifty thousand dollars had been transferred into the account Cindy and I had set up at Wells Fargo Bank just last Thursday.

“Katie, we’ve kept our part of the deal, now where’s the videotape?”  Warren got right to the point.  He knew that I obviously understood the ‘we’ he was referring to.

“It’s in my safety deposit box here at the bank.  I’ll go get it.”  He nodded, and I walked out and found Jeff.  We talked a few minutes trying to figure out if we were related.  We failed to reach any conclusion.  He led me down a long hall and into a vault where the lock boxes were kept.  After Jeff and I had used our two keys to unlock my box, and after he had stepped ten feet away, I was relieved to see two videotapes.  The original one I had found in Darla’s suitcase and the copy Cindy and I had made four days ago.  Last Thursday when Cindy and I were here we had removed it and gone to her house.  She had kept both tapes until Friday when I returned them.  I was too afraid to take them home with me, speculating I might not be so lucky to escape a fire from Wayne’s house in Smith’s Institute.  I grabbed the original tape that the Faking Five had recorded during their gang-rape in December 2002.

After I was again seated across from Warren he said, sliding a single sheet of paper towards me, “Review this.  It’s our confidentiality agreement.”

I read it twice.  I figured it had been written by an attorney.  The document was clear and didn’t include anything I hadn’t promised.  In exchange for the money I would hand over the original tape and forever promise to never divulge anything about what the tape clearly revealed.  The only thing not mentioned in the document was Paula Wilkins.  I asked Warren why this wasn’t included.

“Our lawyer said we had no way to guarantee what Paula did.  Katie, I promise you I have talked with her.  She assured me that she learned her lesson last week.  Yes, I’m talking about the car accident.  I truly believe Cindy doesn’t have anything else to worry about from Paula.  She seemed shaken and relieved that Cindy wasn’t hurt any worse than she was.”

“I understand what you are saying.  Paula is her own person and you can’t make promises on her behalf.  But, let me be clear, there will be serious consequences if Paula even sneezes on Cindy.  Do you understand?”  I said, trying to muster up the confidence I had on the phone last week when I called Warren to make demands.

“I hear you.  Now, are you ready to sign?”

“I am.”  Warren stepped out of Jeff’s office and motioned for him.  Jeff came with one of his tellers and she notarized my signature.  She left to make copies and Jeff started describing the Bank’s services and how I might want to develop an investment plan for the money.  I endured the sales pitch until the teller returned.  I thanked Jeff for his assistance and walked out of the bank with two copies of an agreement that I sensed were someway incomplete or foreboding.  I didn’t glance at Warren.