Author: Richard L. Fricks

Professor Stallings was sitting at his secretary’s desk facing the hallway when I exited the third-floor stairwell. He was on the phone, and I was ten minutes early. He motioned me inside and through a wooden arched doorway that led to his giant office in the corner.

I nodded and smiled and settled into a leather armchair facing the large metal desk that was at least fifty years old, likely present when he’d become an associate professor in the early seventies.

Bert Stallings, now approaching eighty-seven years old, was the heart and soul of Yale University’s Law School. He’d shared different aspects of his storied life with me ever since I’d arrived in 2000. He and his wife, Mary, now deceased, had frequently dined with Rachel and me at our home. Although he was an excellent teacher, his claim to fame (my phrase, not his) was his work on behalf of women’s rights. His most notable case was Roe v. Wade, the 1973 U.S. Supreme Court decision that gave women the exclusive right over their bodies. The Court held women had the unfettered right to have an abortion if it took place during the first trimester of the pregnancy. That forty-seven-year-old case was a world away from the current religious and political environment.

Recently, the Republican controlled Senate had confirmed a far-right winged woman to replace the heroic Ruth Bader Ginsburg. The new justice adamantly opposed a woman’s right to choose. Thankfully, there was Bert Stallings and his exceptionally talented team, who had the courage and humanism to fight the religious takeover of the highest court in the land. I was excited and honored Professor Stallings had asked me to take part. Although limited, it was an honor to play a small behind-the-scenes role in defending the right of every woman to choose what to do with her own body.

While waiting on Bert to end his phone call, I thought of Rachel and what I’d told her at the cemetery Saturday morning. It was only a tiny fib. “I’ve agreed to help Professor Stallings with the interviewing.” I had already made my decision, but it would be today before I officially agreed. Sometimes I split too many hairs. Rachel would understand what I had meant by “agreed.”

“Good morning, Lee, so nice to see you.” The man had the energy of a forty-year-old. His head full of gray hair declared he was much younger than three years shy of ninety. He patted me on the back and made his way into a chair equally old as his desk.

I smiled. My eyes glinted as the sun rose higher in the eastern sky. Bert always had the bank of windows along the outer wall open, even in the hottest weather. Today, it was in the upper forties with a stiff breeze. Papers fluttered at the right corner of his desk.

“I just talked to Connie Dalton. She’s open to your call. I told her it would be within a week.” Bert held a yellow sticky note across his desk. I leaned forward in my chair and took it. It contained Connie’s name and two phone numbers. The word “Montgomery” was at the bottom.

A week ago, Bert had called me to his office and provided a quick summary of what he was planning. He asked me to locate and interview as many women as I could, and not just any woman. Bert provided a written profile. The women had an abortion in the past ten years with a story that relayed the importance of late term procedures to end the life of their baby. Bert wanted me to assemble a bank of data that supported his position that not only was Roe v. Wade properly decided, in fact, it didn’t go far enough. Somehow, he knew there was a case to be made for certain abortions after the baby was beyond the first trimester in age.

“One question,” I said. Before I could ask, Bert’s secretary walked to his desk and laid a note in front of him.

“Sorry Lee, I need to take this call.” He scribbled something on the back of a card. “Send your reports to this email address.”

I stood, accepted his note, and gave an affirmative nod. Professor Stallings is a busy man.

***

I always feel guilty when I use over thirty minutes of my law school day on personal business. It’s not rational since, while at home, I often think of case or statutory law that applies to upcoming lessons.

Today, I didn’t have but two classes, so I added a heavy dose of guilt to my already gigantic pile. I spent at least four hours researching the current status of Alabama’s law dealing with the doctrine of eminent domain. At 4:30 p.m. Eastern Time, I phoned the Marshall County Circuit Clerk’s office and spoke with a soft-spoken woman named Edith. Of course, she didn’t know me from Eve’s hamster but was cordial, respectful, and eager to answer my questions.

Normally, a lawsuit isn’t necessary when a city or state invokes its intent to take property from private landowners. Even if they oppose the taking or believe the government agency isn’t offering fair market value, negotiations themselves resolve the issues. It’s only when the property owner refuses to sell that the government makes use of the court system’s power.

This was happening in the City of Boaz vs. Rob and Rosa Kern. My in-law’s adamant opposition (it was mostly Rob) had left the city no choice but to file a civil case: CV—2020—194837. I’d asked Edith to read the Case Action Summary. The city had filed its lawsuit on October 9th. A private investigator by the name of Buddy Hutton had served the Complaint and Summons on my in-laws the morning of the eleventh. Rob, without counsel, had responded less than a week later with a handwritten note adamantly, often rudely, opposing the City’s action. The Circuit Court Judge, Waymon Broadside, had ruled on October 18th that Rob’s filing would serve as the Defendant’s official Answer.

What surprised me was the Judge had set a hearing for a week from today, November the seventeenth. A further surprise came when Edith, acting as though she was my paralegal, relayed the judge had issued a tentative Order. I wasn’t familiar with the details of the Alabama Rules of Civil Procedure, but this act seemed odd.

Edith, at my request, read the tentative Order. Basically, it said unless the Defendants could show cause why the City’s taking was illegal or its offer understated the property’s fair market value, the Court would grant the Plaintiff’s requested relief. In short, it would grant the City of Boaz fee simple ownership in the Thomas Avenue property known as the Hunt House upon payment of $500,000 to the Defendants. It was clear the only way to stop the ownership transfer was for Rob and Rosa to provide a valid reason (“show cause”). If they did, the Court would be in error to grant the City’s request.

With this information in hand, I left the law school at 5:00, skipped takeout from Bella’s, and drove home. I had two things I needed to do. The first was to call my in-laws with an update. Then, focus on the subject I had done my best all day to keep suppressed at the back of my mind: Rachel’s diaries.

Lillian slept until 7:00. After peeing, she slipped on her housecoat and descended the stairs for coffee and a bowl of cereal. She’d forgotten Ray would be home. He had told her yesterday he was going to prepare the prime rib for tonight’s deacon dinner before going to his Main Street office. He was frying bacon when she entered the kitchen.

“Good morning. Want some eggs?” He knew she hated pork. He also knew she didn’t like chatter or any other noise so early.

“Cereal.” A one-word answer was sufficient. Then she changed her mind. “Can I borrow your car?”

“Which one?” The bacon was almost burnt.

“The SUV. You know I can’t drive a stick shift.” Ray’s 1972 Corvette was still in mint condition, stored in the detached garage next to the bay filled with a Honda four-wheeler, a John Deere Mule, and an assortment of other deer-hunting gear. He knew Lillian’s driving limitation but liked to make her talk.

“When will yours be ready?”

“Hopefully Friday.”

“You can. Be careful.” He was being extra generous, probably a little guilty about something. But he was right to caution Lillian. The Suburban was big and wide.

“Thanks. I will.”

Lillian filled a bowl with her favorite cereal, picking out a few raisins to eat while they were dry, and poured a half-glass of milk. She would wait for coffee until after her shower. Since Ray was in the breakfast nook, she retired to the dining room.

The separation didn’t last long. She was pouring her milk over the Raisin Bran when Ray entered carrying a Southwestern Omelet. “Mind if I join you?”

Since Ray pressed, Lillian figured this was as good a time as any. “Sit and let’s talk. I’m moving to the Corbett place.” This was a house and ten acres Ray had purchased after Betty and Tommy Corbett had moved to Nashville to finish out their days, closer to their two daughters and their families. For the past year, Ray’s renters had been prompt and dependable, but that had changed a week ago when he had taken the long route to the mayor’s house and saw a Ryder moving van backed up to the front porch. The law had been on Ray’s side given the eighteen months remaining on the lease, but Ray had chosen not to pursue the matter. He preferred staying out of court.

Now, with Lillian, he was defenseless, dependent solely on his charm. He chuckled to himself, realizing that card didn’t have a hand to play. Maybe the facts would work. “You know you lose everything if you file for divorce.”

“Ray, I know the prenup by heart.”

“It’s no different if you lure in a cohabitant.” That was an odd way to put it.

“We can negotiate some more. You owe me for what, three or is it now four affairs?” Ray’s weakness for the opposite sex was Lillian’s ACE. She’d played that hand perfectly in the middle of selling the pharmacy chain. She’d threatened to go public with Ray’s philandering. That wouldn’t have caused the sale to fail, but it would have caused a big hit to Ray’s reputation. He valued it nearly as much as his girlfriends. That’s when Lillian had insisted she receive $50,000 every time he had an affair. He’d quickly agreed, even suggesting an amendment to their prenup. In addition, Ray had promised to stop his philandering and swore to be truthful if, by chance, he ever strayed again.

“It’s three. I’ll pay you by the weekend.” Ray stood and as he returned with plate and cold food to the breakfast nook mumbled to himself, “there’s a point Lillian’s not worth the bother.”

Lillian knew it was four. She’d followed the old Reagan saw, ‘trust but verify.’ Thanks to local PI Connor Ford, she had the philanderer dead to rights, inclusive of audio, video, and stills, not to mention the receipts she’d found scattered about in Ray’s favorite hidey-holes.

***

By 10:00 AM, the weekly women’s Bible study had ended. Lillian attended every Tuesday morning, not for spiritual guidance but to get out of the house and to hear the local gossip.

She and Jane walked together to their cars. It was Jane’s way to check in, private and in person, on the reserved Lillian.

“Do you want to grab a cup of coffee?” Jane asked, reaching inside her purse for keys.

“Sorry, I have some errands to run, but thanks anyway.” Lillian fibbed. She loved the smart and sometime sassy old maid who knew the Bible better than the pastor. It was true Jane had never married, but she wasn’t old. In fact, she was the same age as Lillian, 66, and that was still young by today’s definition. Jane was tall and thin with piercing green eyes. She always wore a cross-cropped dark red wig that came a few years ago after two rounds of chemo. The two had been best friends from first grade through middle school, but it hadn’t always been smooth sailing. Lillian had never fully forgiven Jane for being disloyal when Rachel Kern moved to Boaz during the summer before ninth grade. Jane’s excuse for favoring Rachel during that eighteen-month period was God, or more accurately, God’s will. Nearly as important was Jane’s desire to please her Master.

“You know you can talk to me. When you’re not taking part, then you’re troubled.” Jane said, confusing Lillian. She rarely said anything during the Bible study. If she was going to talk fiction, she preferred the John Grisham type. “Oh, I forgot. I saw you and Ray last night in Guntersville.”

“Uh?” Lillian knew this wasn’t true and almost asked questions.

“I was driving south and had just crossed the bridge into downtown. You two were headed north. Huntsville? A late dinner?” Jane opened her Impala’s door and turned to Lillian, expecting an answer.

“Cotton Row.” Again, Lillian fibbed. “Have you ever been?” Jane would never eat at a place that served alcohol. “Later,” Lillian said with a smile, and walked to Ray’s Suburban.

***

Lillian dropped by Y-Mart for coffee. After showering and dressing, she’d chosen to ignore coffee and avoid another encounter with Ray, who was cleaning the kitchen when she exited the Lodge.

Two older teenage boys nearly ran her over as she entered the convenience store. They gawked at her from head to toe. Before the door closed behind her, she heard one of them say, “damn, now that’s a hot old lady.”

Lillian headed for the coffee station with mixed feelings. She knew she hadn’t aged as rapidly as many of her friends. Take Jane, for instance. Lillian’s dark brown hair was silky as ever. And the new bras she had found at Victoria’s Secret gave her boobs that younger look, lifted tight, firm in the imagination, from a distance. But pretty and sexy was vacuous, just thoughtless lust, not anything like genuine romance. Not that she knew anything about that, other than from the clues she picked up from her constant novel reading.

Three containers of Hazelnut creamer and four Splendas. Perfect. Lillian paid her bill and walked outside. The two boys were at the gas pumps. The hood raised on their old Chevrolet pickup. One was pouring in a quart of oil. That one, average height but lean and muscular, cocked his head at her and smiled. His dark hair, red and yellow flannel shirt, and work boots reminded Lillian of Lee Harding. Oh, to go back, to know what she knows now.

Lillian turned to suppress her imagination. She dug seventy-five cents from her pocketbook and bought today’s Sand Mountain Reporter. She walked to Ray’s Suburban, crawled in, almost spilling her coffee in the driver’s seat, and locked the door. An old habit.

She took a long draw on her sweet and nutty coffee before placing it in one of two cup holders behind the gear shifter. She unfolded the newspaper. On the front page, below the fold, was a color photo of Kyle Bennett with a related article titled “Reward Doubled.” Lillian knew it was Kyle’s tenth-grade class picture and not his ninth. She could tell by the red football jersey he was wearing. Red and not crimson. She remembered like it was yesterday. All the new football jerseys had arrived late, just days before the opening game with Guntersville. The delivery had caused quite a stir since the jerseys were red and not crimson and gray. With little choice, Coach Hicks had kept the red jerseys and created quite a stir, more so as the season went by with no change. A year later, Hicks redeemed himself at a preseason pep rally and bonfire by tossing the god-awful reds into the flames.

Lillian first scanned the article. She knew the story well. The city had never forgotten the missing teenager. Neither had his twin brother Kent, who now was offering half a million dollars for information that led to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible for Kyle’s disappearance and death. Even though the police didn’t have a shred of evidence that someone murdered Kyle, what other conclusion could a reasonable person draw?

The article summarized the story. Lee and Kyla Harding and their mother had seen Kyle just after the December 12th, 1969, Christmas parade. The police questioned all three, raising no suspicion. Lee and Kyla had said Kyle was going to the Young Supply Warehouse at the corner of Thomas Avenue and Brown Street to help dismantle the tenth graders’ float and to help Ray Archer return a borrowed PA system to First Baptist Church of Christ.

Ray had admitted Kyle and Lee Harding had promised to meet him at the warehouse and help with the PA system, but neither had shown up. Rachel Kern had alibied Ray’s whereabouts the entire evening until shortly before midnight. She helped him remove the PA System, including delivering it to the church in his pickup. Afterwards, the two drove to a secluded spot-on Cox Gap Road, a property owned by Ray’s father. There, they’d built a campfire and roasted some marshmallows, and spent two hours staring at the stars and the full moon.

Kent now lived in Houston and was a multi-millionaire. After receiving an aeronautical engineering degree from Auburn University in 1976, he spent ten years at NASA. Next was twenty years with Boeing in Seattle. In 2006, he had formed K2, Inc., a high-tech firm that manufactured satellites and drones for the U.S. military.

Lillian refolded the newspaper, took another draw of the still-steaming coffee, and headed east on Mill Avenue. She wanted to see Kyla. At the McVille and Beulah Road intersection, Lillian remembered that night. Lee, Kyle, and she had watched the parade through the windows upstairs at Fred Kings. Kyle was always quiet, but that night he was preoccupied. She and Lee had teased him, accused him of having a secret girlfriend, suggesting she was so ugly he didn’t have the courage to expose her. Now, Lillian pondered Kyle’s response to an off-color question Lee had asked while the Albertville High School cheerleaders and majorettes danced and twirled on the street below. “Courage can be deadly. Sometimes stupid and scared is the wiser path.”

Turning left into Kyla’s long driveway, Lillian pondered whether Kyle’s words had been his feeble attempt to ask for help.

I was in no mood for a salad. After one look, I closed the Styrofoam lid and stuck it in the fridge. Rachel and Gina my teaching assistant for ten years, had conspired against me. Mesclun greens, an assorted mix of lettuce, are high in vitamin A and C. Late this afternoon, I’d asked Gina to order me an Angus Burger from Bella’s. The salad was unrequested.

I returned to the kitchen table and ate my burger. Since Rachel’s death, this had been my Monday night routine: leave my office, walk twenty minutes to Bella’s, pick up my takeout order, and drive home. The twice a day walk was becoming as bad as the Mesclun greens, tomatoes, red onions, olives, and peppers. Gina had made it even worse with that damn balsamic vinaigrette. I made a mental note to set the rabbit food on her desk first thing in the morning.

The Bears were just receiving the Patriot’s opening kick when I sat in my Lazy boy in the den. Like my feelings toward the salad, I wasn’t much in the mood for football, but I knew it was the best sleeping pill I possessed. Like last week, I’d rest here most of the night, turning the TV off when I made my predawn trip to the bathroom.

Nick Foles threw an interception on second down. I liked the 6-foot 6-inch kid, but he was a slow-starter and prone to turn-overs. And he didn’t have Mitch Trubisky’s running and scrambling ability. I muted the sound when a Lumen dating commercial appeared. That seemed an odd choice for the NFL.

A dating APP for those over fifty. It would have been more natural to think of myself, but strangely, my mother-in-law came to mind. It might be because the older woman, jogging, reminded me of a much younger Rosa. My broken promise also came to mind.

Saturday, after exiting Bella’s, I’d promised Rosa I’d take another look for her second most treasured book, after the Bible, of course. I’d spent the balance of Saturday mowing the yard the last time for the year and reviewing several emails from my friend and associate Professor Stallings. Mostly, I’d moped around the house and napped. I spent yesterday at school, prepping for this week’s lectures.

***

I switched off the TV and headed to the basement. My guilt gave me no other choice, even though I’d prefer a very long nap.

The fifteen minutes I spent Saturday morning before meeting Rob and Rosa for breakfast, were the first time I’d made it more than halfway down the stairs since Rachel had killed herself. There were simply too many reminders of my beautiful and brilliant wife.

She had aptly named the twenty-by-twenty-foot space “The Cave,” after we’d moved here mid-summer 2000. By the following January, she’d secured a job at Amity Regional High School and hired the carpenter husband of the school’s secretary. The man, Carlton I believe, had done an excellent job building and installing hundreds of feet of shelving on the four walls inclusive of a built-in desk. A few months later, Rachel had Carlton return and build waist-high cabinets topped with a basic Formica countertop. She naturalized the room by hanging a dozen landscape paintings along the unobstructed paneled walls above the countertops.

Other than a single, chain-pull bulb dangling from the center of the room’s ceiling, the only other light was a three-foot double fluorescent hanging low above her narrow desk and secured by the shelf above. Just like Saturday, I’d brought my flashlight to scan the fully stocked shelves.

After pulling the chain and flipping the fluorescent toggle switch, I sat at Rachel’s desk. Her chair was cloth, maroon-colored, and cheap. It was mobile, with a set of three rollers attached to the base. The seat and back were soft and adjustable. I tried to recall the last time I’d seen her sitting here. I fought sadness and a low rumbling portent of sickness when I recalled it was less than two weeks until the first anniversary of her death. It was the day after Thanksgiving, truly Black Friday. I literally shook my head, refusing to go there.

I rolled her chair back from her desk and switched on my flashlight. I pointed it to three shelves above her desk. Nothing but literature, textbooks and teaching guides, one set for each year she’d taught English at Amity Regional.

I stood, realizing I needed to conduct my search methodically. Each shelf deserved special attention. Before departing Saturday, Rosa had shown me an Amazon photo of Bonhoeffer’s book, including a colorful cover. However, according to Rosa, the book itself was solid gray other than the author’s name and book title on the spine, which were in a light-colored gold. Rosa remembered packing the book and bringing it along while traveling. She thought the cover had gotten torn during a return voyage from China and that she’d kept it tucked inside the book when she’d shipped it to Rachel a few years ago.

My plan was to work from top to bottom, shelf by shelf. I’d start in the far corner at the front of the house. But first, I needed something to stand on. Rachel’s rolling chair would be an accident waiting to happen. My body was stiff enough as it was, even considering my most recent two-mile walk. I made a quick trip upstairs for the stepstool stored in the utility room closet.

The top two shelves contained nothing but works of literature, single and multi-volume. There were works of many famous authors: Jane Austen, William Blake, Geoffrey Chaucer, Charles Dickens, John Donne, and dozens more, all neatly arranged with their spines flushed to the edge of the wood shelves. The stepstool was unnecessary. Thank goodness. With the flashlight, I could easily see the titles, even though they were two feet above my head.

This changed three-quarters of the way down the second shelf. Rachel had stacked the books horizontally, from bottom to top. Some stacks were tightly wedged, leaving at most a hair’s distance from the last one to the underside of the next shelf. But there was a problem. Even though the spine of each book aligned perfectly, Rachel had pushed each row farther back, making it harder to read each stack’s first few books, given the depth of the wooden shelves. I climbed onto the top run of the stepstool and continued using my flashlight. If I heard trickling water, I’d think I was in a cave.

Again, no luck. I conducted my second scan of the seven stacks, seeing only one gray-sided spine, The Mill on the Floss, by George Eliot. It was next to the bottom on the last stack before the ninety-degree turn toward the backyard. I lowered myself to the first step and paused, quickly returning to the top rung. I held my flashlight out as far as I could. There was something beyond the last horizontal stack. It couldn’t be a book, but given my angle, my brain foisted a figurine. Probably one of the Heavenly hosts Rachel collected. The intersection of these two shelves, tucked virtually out of sight, seemed an odd place to feature the harp clad angel. Especially one captured behind a thick bookend that began Rachel’s self-help book collection.

I should have been more careful stepping off the stool. The sole of my right foot slid off the first step. I think I would have fallen if I hadn’t grabbed a bookshelf. Unfortunately, I dropped my flashlight. It broke and was dead the second it hit the floor. I walked upstairs and found an older one in the pantry, but its batteries were too weak to be helpful.

It took fifteen minutes to walk to the garage and extract the portable tripod light-stand from a tangled web of Christmas decorations, ancient sections of gutter, and a rotting, unfolded tarp. I consumed most of this time replacing two halogen bulbs.

The Patriots were up by ten when I passed through the den. I carefully descended the stairs, clumsily tilting the tripod to my left overhanging the basement floor. I don’t know why we never installed an outer handrail.

I plugged in the tripod and focused before climbing onto the stepstool. Removal of the last horizontally stacked literature hardbacks, half-a-dozen self-help paperbacks, and the heavy book end required three round trips down and up the stool. These efforts cleared my way to Michael the Archangel (per the tiny gold label at its base). I was careful to hold the ceramic being in one hand and hold on to the bookcase with my left as I again descended the stepstool. At Rachel’s desk, with the aid of her overhead light, a small key hanging like a backwards necklace around Michael’s neck caught me by surprise.

After removing the tiny key, I tugged on Rachel’s top left drawer. It opened freely. I had always known she kept copies of IEP (Individual Education Plans) for the dozen Special Education students scattered across her roster. She was always serious about each person and their individual learning. The drawer was empty, but I tried the key, anyway. It didn’t fit.

Now, I was curious. I made a quick trip to the utility room upstairs for an extension cord. I moved the tripod to the basement front and focused both lights towards the third shelf. For the first three feet, literature continued. Then there was what appeared to be geography. The upright spine of the first, rather thick book read, “LONDON.” These continued for another two dozen international locations, although two were American cities, Chicago and New York. I adjusted the tripod again and saw that Biographies were next. As far as I could see, each of them was by a famous author, virtually repeating the names of the writers from shelf one and two.

I felt something was odd. But that’s nothing new for me. And most every attorney I suspect. Law school, law practice, and especially law teaching, caused an almost biological gene mutation. The gene for “Distinction.” Or better understood, “Hairsplitting.” I retrieved the stepstool and sat gazing at Rachel’s bookshelves, focusing on the third row from the top, and more particularly the city volumes. After five minutes, I concluded Rachel misfiled them. No wonder lawyers aren’t the life of a party.

However, Rachel was an organizational nut. She was anal about everything: her kitchen, the laundry room, her flower beds, everything school related, not even considering our bedroom closet. For example: clothes categorized by days of the week, and color coordinated. It got worse, the first week of the month, Wednesday’s dominant color was green, second week, red. But everything somehow ignored the garage. She said that was my domain and insisted I keep the roll-ups closed.

There had to be a reason Rachel inserted the city volumes where she had. The only reason had to be a connection between the LIT writers and their domicile, or possibly where they had been born, if different. I moved the stool closer and balanced myself on the second step. I removed LONDON, surprised it wasn’t heavier. My shock came when I saw the small keyhole on the far-right edge of the front cover. LONDON wasn’t really about London, it was a locking book safe, a place where you store (or hide) stuff.

I retreated to Rachel’s desk. The florescent light highlighted the front cover. It was an expert painting of London Bridge, or Tower Bridge, I’m not sure. But after close inspection, one thing was certain, the safe was well crafted and durable.

Of course, I had to try the key. This time it worked. I opened the hinged cover, surprised again. Inside was a slightly smaller book embossed on the soft red cover with “Diary.” I looked inside at the front page. Rachel (I assume) had printed on the From and To lines: “07/01/69 through 12/31/69.” I almost closed the lid and returned LONDON to its third shelf home. Instantly, I recognized the time. It was the final six months she had lived in Boaz, the fall months being our tenth-grade year. I didn’t know for sure, but I believe the 31st was the day Rachel and her family flew from Atlanta to Miami, where they took an ocean liner to Hong Kong.

***

Instead of returning LONDON to its home, I removed the Diary and walked upstairs. After muting the TV, I sat in my Lazy Boy and closed my eyes. Was I really going to jump off this cliff? I couldn’t imagine any narrative that would relieve my pain. After a long minute of pondering, I opened my eyes and turned to page one. My plan was to read a few paragraphs, hoping Rachel’s words were light and happy, simple accountings extracted from her slow-paced days living in the Hunt House with little brother Randy, and a mom and dad who were busy sharing their China adventures with a host of local churches.

Rachel’s first entry was July 3rd. She had printed “World Events,” and underlined it, then listed “1. Prince Charles became Prince of Wales.” And “2. Car crash. John Lennon and Yoko Ono admitted to hospital.”

Then my dear wife started a new section, also underlined, “Local Events.” Other than watching the train and going to Phil’s Pharmacy on Main Street for a cherry-coke float, not much else happened.

Rachel was sporadic in her journal postings. I continued to peruse and saw the same categorization of events on each of her four July entries. The most interesting international event occurred on July 20th: “Neil Armstrong became the first man to walk on the moon. Ray and I watched it on TV at his house.”

I noted she spoke often of a girl named Jane. I didn’t recall such a person. Penciled boldly at the bottom of the July 30th entry was “Miss Ray.”

I kept reading but was growing bored fast. Glancing at the TV, the Bears were making a comeback. I didn’t need the volume to know that. On August 3rd, “Ray returned.” Rachel didn’t say where he’d gone, but took half a page, making a point she could have made in two words. “Missed Ray.” It was hard to say, looking back fifty years, whether it was love or lust that she had longed for.

This was disgusting on several levels, none of which I intended to explore. I hastened my scan. The once or twice week postings were all basically the same; they all concerned either Jane or Ray. I noted an odd word at the end of each entry, “close.” I didn’t have a clue. My first guess was that Rachel was expecting her return to China, that it was close, or was rapidly approaching. By now it was mid-August and school, tenth grade, was in full swing. Nothing interesting was happening on the world stage, but locally Rachel was enjoying Friday night football and times with Ray. “Close.”

Enough. I closed the Diary and set it on the end table. That’s when I noticed what looked like a wooden Popsicle stick two-thirds of the way inside. I couldn’t resist. The bookmark wasn’t a Popsicle stick, it was wider, like those flat wooden object’s doctors used to stick down your throat and ask you to say “ahh.” Written in dark pencil along one side was October 11, 1969. The identically labeled entry started on the left side of the journal. Rachel’s first words, before international news or local events, were, “I’m two months pregnant.”

These four words weren’t really news, but they were. After Rachel’s first suicide attempt 18 months ago, she’d finally confessed to this, and a later abortion. What was news was the details, the context of her entire ordeal. These specifics meant she had gotten pregnant around August 11th, 1969.

I kept reading, assuming I’d happen upon Rachel’s declaration that she had an abortion; it was a fact she and her family had left for China shortly before January 1, 1970. No abortion before their departure would mean the baby would be in its twentieth week. I now wish I’d taken a different tack when Rachel made her confession. Instead of refusing to ask questions—something diametrically opposed to every fiber of my being—I now could kick myself. My next thought was a shocker. Contrary to what I’d assumed, what if Rachel had not had her abortion until after she and her family arrived in Hong Kong? I knew I was correct in concluding that she had simply said, “when I was in the tenth grade, I got pregnant and had an abortion.” Her statement was certainly open to multiple interpretations, especially the time frame.

I fell asleep in my Lazy Boy after reading Rachel’s Thanksgiving weekend entries. There were two, and they were routine. Ray this, Ray that, Jane this and Jane that, half a page about America’s first settlers and their happy meal with the Indians, and finally, a summary of a Walter Cronkite segment: “Betsy Aardsma, 22, student, stabbed and murdered inside the Penn State University library while doing her schoolwork.” Another certainty, Rachel consistently watched the CBS Evening News.

It was 4:45 a.m. when I awoke and had to pee. I made a dash to the bathroom, flipped on the coffeemaker, and returned to the den. I wanted to finish Rachel’s reporting before showering and leaving for the law school.

The first entry since her Thanksgiving accounting brought back a mix of happy and sad memories. She dated it the fifteenth of December and covered two weeks of activities. It was one of Rachel’s longest postings. Friday the twelfth was the Boaz Christmas Parade. During that entire week, freshmen through seniors had built floats. Tenth graders conducted operations from a warehouse across from the Hunt House. I’m pretty sure the property was owned by the Young Supply Company, a hardware and construction materials outfit beside the railroad track. I couldn’t help but recall Kyle Bennett, my closest and best childhood friend. We were both shy and behind-the-scenes type of guys.

If it hadn’t been for the two of us, our Santa with reindeer float would have never materialized. The other students who showed up, other than a girl named Lillian (that’s a different story), were goof-offs and were more interested in flirting and sharing a nightly bottle of Jack Daniels someone had absconded from a parent, than doing any actual work. The float, complete with a high-quality PA system (a loan from First Baptist Church of Christ via Ray Archer’s father), propelled us into a second-place finish.

Kyle and I had attended the parade and watched from the second floor of Fred King’s Clothing Store (Lillian worked there part time and gained access via permission from the owners). As the last high school band and float disappeared, Kyle and I started our return walk to the warehouse. Halfway there, Kyla, my sister, approached and said Mother had ordered us home. “Now.” I think she had somehow caught wind of the drinking and smoking at the warehouse. I argued I had promised to help remove and return the PA system. About that time, Mother, out of the blue, appeared and enforced her order. Kyle told me not to worry, he’d take care of things. That was the last time I ever saw my best friend.

The first three sentences of Rachel’s fourth paragraph literally made me yell in horror and disbelief. “Ray shot and killed Kyle after the three of us dropped the PA system off at the church. Kyle knew too much and was sure to talk. Ray made me hide his father’s pistol at the Hunt House while he disposed of Kyle’s body.”

This had to be a joke. Rachel’s words read so normal, even trite. Her tone did not differ from a description of the turkey and dressing meal she and her family enjoyed Thanksgiving Day.

I was out of time. I laid the Diary on the end table and headed to the master to shower and dress. Professor Stallings and I planned our 7:00 AM meeting a week ago. I made a mental note to unlock and inspect the other book safes when I returned home tonight.