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 Safecracker, written in 2019, is my seventh novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.
Book Blurb
Fred Martin, a 1972 graduate of Boaz High School, returns to his hometown after practicing law and living in Huntsville for over thirty-five years with two goals in mind. First, to distance himself from the loss of Susan, his wife of thirty-seven years who died in 2013 of cancer. And second, to partner with his lifelong friend, Noah Waters, to crack the safes of Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber, two men who got under their skin as high school football players.
Little did Fred and Noah realize the secrets the two old Mosler safes protected. Who murdered three Boaz High School seniors in the fall of 1973? Is a near-half-century-old plan to destroy Fred’s sister and steal the inheritance from a set of 44-year-old illegitimate twins still alive and well? How far would Fred’s mother go to protect her family?
What starts out as an almost innocent prank turns life-threateningly serious the more Fred learns and the more safes he cracks. All the while, he falls in love with Connie Stewart, his one-date high school classmate who may conceal a secret or two herself.
Chapter 19
I spent the night with Dad. It was nearly 9:30 p.m. when Deidre called. I was asleep in my recliner and was silently pissed she asked me to come. She didn’t say it directly, but I took it to mean she had family responsibilities at home and I didn’t. By the time I arrived, Dad was already asleep, thanks to Dr. Luther who had prescribed something guaranteed to knock out a horse.
Sunday morning Dad slept until nearly ten. When he walked into the den his face revealed the perfect illustration of a man who had lost the love of his life after nearly sixty-nine years of marriage. I made him a bowl of oatmeal. Surprisingly, he wanted to talk. It was like something was compelling him to speak aloud the chronology of their lives. Long after he had pushed back the half-empty bowl, I heard the story of how he and Mom had met, married, and endured five years floundering in Cincinnati as he worked as a flunky (his word) at a NAPA auto parts store. Their move to Martin Mansion outside Boaz was the best decision of their lives.
After pouring us both a cup of coffee, we moved outside to the front porch. I don’t think I said a thing for the next hour. Nearly every other word out of his mouth was Harriet, baby, your mom, or queen bee. This was true even as he described the death of Papa Stonewall shortly after Dad and Mom moved to Alabama, and as he talked about his struggle to both farm and work at Goodyear Tire and Rubber in Gadsden.
While he was sharing experiences during mine and Deidre’s high school years, he wanted to walk the garden. After he had me return to the old wash-house for a five-gallon bucket to use in gathering some tomatoes, Dad said, “there were only two fights me and your mother ever had. The first one was more a heated discussion. She didn’t want you to play football, thought you would get hurt for life.” I asked Dad if that was why she wouldn’t come to watch the games. “Partially, she also wanted to spend that time in prayer, praying for your safety.”
I made another trip to the wash-house for another bucket. We gathered tomatoes, squash, and green beans. My mind wanted to share with Dad what Rebecca Rawlins had said to me last Thursday in Connie’s dining room. My face must have looked as sad as Dad’s had earlier since he said, “you’re taking it pretty hard too, aren’t you?”
“I am. Mom’s death has been such a shock. I was totally unprepared. Now, I’m torn apart with regret. Just last Sunday, only one week ago, she asked me to stay with her on the front porch and talk. She said something like, ‘Fred, I wished we could talk like we used to.’” I followed Dad onto the screened-in back porch and obeyed his motioning to place the tomato-filled bucket on a table beside a big sink.
“Fred, I have to be honest with you. It broke your mother’s heart when you abandoned your faith. She never got over that. She always believed it was her fault.”
I always did what was natural. Talk like a lawyer, give a sound and logical rebuttal argument. But, I didn’t. Instead, I became vulnerable. “I think if I could, I would go back and try my best to be exactly what Mother wanted me to be, even if it wasn’t what I truly believed. Anything to relieve her suffering.”
Dad motioned for us to go back outside. We walked to the little gazebo he and mother had finished building when I was in high school. I had started the darn thing as a project for shop class. Formally, it was called Vocational Agriculture. For some reason I had changed my mind and rebuilt an old lawn mower engine instead. Mom and Dad hated unfinished projects, so they completed the now old and decaying gazebo themselves.
We sat in two metal chairs in great need of sanding and painting opposite a well-worn swing. “That’s where she sat when we had that second big argument I mentioned.”
“What was that about?” For whatever reason, I figured Dad was about to tell me another incident where Mother was disappointed with me. Maybe, when Noah and I took a job driving some of George Everette Cox’s used cars to Huntsville during the summer before our senior year. Mother’s problem with that was the hitchhiking. Noah and I had to find our own way back. Again, to Mother, I took too many risks. Couple that with my near-heretical beliefs, and she had every reason to fear and worry her head off.
“It’s a real touchy subject. If your mom was still here, sitting over there in that swing, she would be demanding I keep my mouth shut. But, it’s time you know. I’m tired of keeping secrets.” Dad was glancing at me but mostly looking towards the empty swing.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Whatever it is.” I said. I wanted to let Dad know I wasn’t trying to pull anything out of him.
“I would appreciate you keeping this between us.” Dad laughed out loud. “I guess I’m not fully free from a secret life.” Dad pulled his pocket knife out of his right pocket and a piece of wood from his left. He had always used whittling as a stress reliever.
“I promise, if that’s what you want.” What else could I say?
“This subject almost broke through the darkness at lunch last Sunday. You recall us talking about the Safe House, Johnny Stewart, and how your mother forbade Deidre from seeing him.”
“I remember some of the conversation.”
“Well, it seems your sister didn’t fully heed Harriet’s order. The two of them, your sister and Johnny, kept seeing each other. I’m sure it involved a lot of sneaking around, probably a conspiracy of sorts. The bottom line is Deidre got pregnant and your mom made her move away for the remainder of her senior year.”
“I can’t believe I’ve never heard this.”
“That was the plan. That was the big argument. Might as well call it a fight, except there were no punches thrown. Your mom wanted to do everything she could to protect your sister’s reputation and future.” Dad said, looking intently at a piece of wood that had the faint look of a horse’s head.
“Deidre moved to Italy, as an exchange student. I remember not seeing her at Christmas when Susan and I came home from Auburn.”
“That was a lie. Deidre was in Cincinnati with your aunt Hazel.”
“So, Deidre went into hiding, and me and I suppose the rest of the local world was told she was across the big pond?” I asked.
“Pretty much right.”
“I’m assuming Deidre carried the baby to full term and then put it up for adoption. Is that close to correct?”
“Dead on. Except there is a little twist.” Dad said.
“Why do I feel this is where the plot thickens?” I asked.
“Your mother could be a little cunning. It’s kind of like she tried to do the impossible, like having her cake and eating it too.”
“What exactly did Mother do?”
“She choreographed a private adoption. Here’s where you need to be very careful with what you say. I’m glad you’re sitting down because otherwise you might fall over.”
“Dad, you’re a master storyteller. I’m literally sitting on the edge of my chair.”
“The baby was adopted by a dear friend of your mom’s right here in Boaz.”
“Who was the friend?”
Dad was carefully eyeing the miniature horse, no doubt avoiding looking at me. “Helen Patterson. Her husband was Joshua Patterson, long dead.”
“And the baby’s name is?” My gut was already telling me the answer.
“Caleb Patterson, the current pastor of First Baptist Church of Christ.”
“What a story. I think I feel a little of what an outsider feels.”
“As you might expect, this was all terribly hard on Deidre. Having to move away and live with an old maid in a big city.”
“Question, did Deidre go to school while she was up north?”
“She did, she went to Seven Hills High School just like me and your mom did. She was able to go the full year. From January through May. We had moved her up there shortly before Christmas.”
“When was the baby born?” I asked.
“July 12th, 1974. Here’s what also was so hard on your sister. She shared this a long time ago with your mom and she shared it, eventually with me. Deidre is certain she became pregnant the night before Johnny was killed. You know, we talked about the horrible incident after the Boaz-Albertville football game.” Dad said, now standing up and moving over to sit in the swing.
“The football game more likely was on a Friday night. So, Deidre and Johnny someway secretly met on Thursday night.” I did some quick math in my head. “A full-term baby born in July would have been conceived in October. Do you know when Johnny and his two buddies were killed?” I asked.
“It’s not known exactly but for sure it was after the football game. That’s a no-brainer. They played in the game that night. The three were the heart of the Boaz team.” Dad said.
“Again, this is amazing in a terrible sort of way. It would be hard for a novelist to create such a sad story. A baby is conceived just a day or so before the father is murdered, and shortly later the pregnant mother is whisked away to a foreign world to carry and care for a baby she was powerless to keep.”
“Like I said, please keep this to yourself.” Dad said.
I couldn’t respond. Deidre and Ed drove up just as I started to speak. The two of them saw us as they got out of their car. Deidre joined us, taking a seat beside Dad in the now-to-me, infamous swing. Within a couple of minutes, I had politely excused myself and walked back to my cabin.
The Pencil-Driven Life 