The Pencil Driven Life

What is a novel?

In this post, I will attempt to define and contextualize the word ‘novel.’

Novel, story, narrative: what’s the difference?

It’s probably unnecessary to consider this question because in contemporary terms, and for most practical purposes, the three are virtually synonymous. But, having a ‘legal mind’ forces me to start at ground zero.

First, I’ll summarize what I’ll be attempting to say throughout this post. A novel is a description of imaginary people and related events arranged in a logical sequence to reveal a particular point of view or set of values.

In other words, a novel is a story. And, you already know a lot about story. It’s simply the telling of an event to a listener and the latter experiences or learns something just because he heard/read the story. A story can be either true or false.

A novel is a particular type of story, one that is ALWAYS fictional (not true in the sense it actually happened). Whereas a story or narrative can be either fiction (false) or non-fiction (true). A novel is always made-up, mostly from the author’s imagination, or an actual event, one either experienced, observed, or learned via reading, hearing, or by some other means.

In my last post, as to what was intended as an actual event, I provided an example of a guy who got snookered by a friend. A novel can be built (via fictionalization) around this, or it can become a memoir (an account of the author’s personal experiences), or an autobiography (a biography of yourself).

Merriam-Webster provides a good definition for the novel: “an invented prose narrative that is usually long and complex and deals especially with human experience through a usually connected sequence of events.” Notice that the word ‘narrative’ is used to define the word ‘novel.’

Before we look at ‘narrative,’ let’s flesh out Webster’s words. Invented obviously means it’s fiction. It’s made-up, created if you will. It’s made-up prose. Prose writing is ordinary writing, as distinguished from verse. Here’s an example of prose writing (the last sentence I wrote yesterday in my current novel-in-progress): “By twilight, with the goats fed and my impatience firing, I packed a bag and headed to Lillian’s vacant oasis.”

When I hear ‘verse,’ I think of poetry. Here’s a stanza of mine from a long ago poem:

“You melted my heart and mended my mind.
You gave me love and time,
a once in life discovery.
A unique couple, moonstruck but fiery.”

Not that good, but you get the idea.

One other thing about Webster’s definition. A novel is ALWAYS long—between 60,000 and 100,000 words. Compare that to a short story (another work of fictional prose) which typically runs between 5,000 to 10,000 words.

“A short story is a love affair, a novel is a marriage. A short story is a photograph; a novel is a film.”
Lorrie Moore

A novel is normally “complex and deals especially with human experience ….” This means there is a lot going on: the characters (likely, many), most all with differing wishes, desires, and conflicts. Plus, there are usually one or more subplots that are happening, all necessarily related to the main plot. Of course, not all novels deal with ‘human experience,’ but I’d wager that most do. Likely, because most people read fiction for two primary reasons: to be entertained, and to learn from experience without the experiencing part (I’ll leave you to figure that out).

“A novel must show how the world truly is, how characters genuinely think, how events actually occur. A novel should somehow reveal the true source of our actions.”
Kevin Hood, Becoming Jane

And, yes, I know there’s a lot more in this component of Webster’s definition that needs attention but today, we just don’t have the time.

Now we come to the word narrative. Recall, a novel is a story, a made-up one. Narrative is simply how you tell this made-up story. It is, “a spoken or written account of connected events,” to quote Google. But, narrative is much more.

A quote from Guillaume Wiatr (Principal and Founder of MetaHelm) excellently encapsulates the difference between story and narrative: “People will pay for a story, but people will die for a narrative.” I think what Guillaume means is that a story can grab our attention, entertaining us for the moment, but a narrative (how the story is told) can change us for a lifetime, “[i]t shifts the way we think, for good or for the worst[,]” again quoting Guillaume. He also says this in different words: “Someone died, and that was very wrong[,] starts a narrative that can turn into a revolution.”

Reconsider my summary definition from the beginning of this section: “A novel is a description of imaginary people and related events arranged in a logical sequence to reveal a particular point of view or set of values.” The underlined portion is the heart of narrative. To me, narrative produces theme, it reveals the meaning the writer has explored throughout his entire novel. He’s done this “… [b]y using characters, setting, dialog, plot or a combination of all of these elements[,]” as K.M Weiland says in writing your story’s THEME, a book I highly recommend.

Now that we’ve laid a foundation for understanding the literary form known as the novel, we must look at story structure. Knowing the framework of the ‘building’ you are trying to construct is imperative for writing a novel worth reading. I wish I had learned this much sooner.

We will look at story structure in my next post, but first, you need to understand what you’re getting into (writing a novel) is a challenging but highly rewarding endeavor. With only minor inconveniences as described by one of the greatest writers of all time:

“Writing a novel is a terrible experience, during which the hair often falls out and the teeth decay. I’m always irritated by people who imply that writing fiction is an escape from reality. It is a plunge into reality and it’s very shocking to the system.” ― Flannery O’Connor, Mystery and Manners: Occasional Prose
Flannery O’Connor, Mystery and Manners: Occasional Prose

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Why should I write a novel?

In my last Post I lightly addressed a number of reasons why people want to write a novel. Since then, I’ve realized that all I clearly did was dance around the issue. Unwittingly, my own example of why I wrote God and Girl, revealed the hardcore truth, but I failed to articulate it in its broader application. I’ll try to do that here.

Earlier today I reread a wonderful article titled, “The Why is Most Important,” by author and book coach Jennie Nash. She deftly captures, in two words, what I was attempting to say in my God and Girl example: ambition and rage.

Ambition, as you know, is desire and drive. You likely are an ambitious person. You can look back over your life—no matter how long or short—and find evidence that you have set and achieved many goals. With each one, you had a desire to do something, along with the vibrant drive to get it done. We could both list many examples, some likely would be the same. For me, at age 39, I wanted to go to law school. I did and it took tremendous effort but somehow I worked my rear off, stuck with it, and graduated in the top 10% of my class. This example represents universal principles. You can apply them to most anything, including medical school, starting a business, building a house (or home; two very different things), or possibly, finding the perfect mate.

No doubt, ambition is a necessary component of your decision to write a novel. I can assure you, it’s not going to be easy. You are going to invest a tremendous amount of time and effort, so you must have the desire and drive, or you’ll likely quit after a few days of solitude (let me assure you, ‘the muse’ is mostly a myth). But, and this is where the rubber meets the road, ambition alone, although necessary, isn’t enough.

In a sense, ambition deals with the external (it likely includes the desire to make a name for yourself). But the most important ‘why’ is to look deep inside and find the internal reason you want to write a book. This is where you will find the rage. More specifically, your rage provides the perfect reason to write a novel. Let’s see why by starting with the definition of rage in its use as a noun.

It is a “feeling of intense anger,” illustrated by “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” It’s also defined as “something that is desired intensely.” Wow, wait, there’s that word again. Desire. The dictionary offers this example: “his rage for fame destroyed him.” Or, said another way, “his desire for fame destroyed him.”

“Why am I compelled to write? . . . Because the world I create in the writing compensates for what the real world does not give me. By writing I put order in the world, give it a handle so I can grasp it. I write because life does not appease my appetites and anger . . . To become more intimate with myself and you. To discover myself, to preserve myself, to make myself, to achieve self-autonomy. To dispel the myths that I am a mad prophet or a poor suffering soul. To convince myself that I am worthy and that what I have to say is not a pile of shit . . . Finally I write because I’m scared of writing, but I’m more scared of not writing.”
Gloria E. Anzaldua

In the context of, “Why should I write a novel?”, I encourage you to ask yourself another question: “what am I angry about?” Or, similarly, “what is the one thing that makes me the most angry?” Substitute passion if you like (something that is desired intensely). Whichever word you choose, your answer likely involves pain, both past, present, and ongoing, along with the desire to strike back, to get even with someone or something.

I’ll close with an example that comes to mind. Let’s say that several years ago you and your best friend started a business. For a while, things went great and future prospects were bright. In fact, the business did phenomenally well. At some point your partner/friend asked if he could buy you out. His offer was more money than you ever hoped to make. So, you accepted and the deal was closed.

A few months later, you learned your partner/friend stabbed you in the back. Unbeknown to you, there was a deal to be made with an international company that, if you’d been an owner, would have netted you a billion dollars. Instead, the partner (no longer your friend) wound up thousands of times richer than you, all because he desired money more than his friendship and duties to you. In essence, you got snookered. And, the years have ticked on by while the old partner’s net worth and community respect blasted skyward, while you have squandered away what now appears to have been a mere pittance of what you should have been paid.

Over these same years your anger has intensified but now, for many reasons, you have no legal recourse, and you don’t want to spend the rest of your life in an 8 foot by 8 foot jail cell. So, murder is out of the question. Or, is it?

“Oh,” some might say, “the balm of Gilead.” That’s the soothing physical and spiritual ointment your novel can provide. Yes, it’s fiction (the names are changed to protect the ‘innocent’), but yet, it’s true, or can be for you. This is why you should write a novel.

Find what makes you angry, and, along with ambition, you’ll find the powerful forces that will propel you to the finish line.

Get the ‘why’ right first. Then, you can eagerly pursue the ‘how.’

“When I sit down to write a book, I do not say to myself, ‘I am going to produce a work of art.’ I write it because there is some lie that I want to expose, some fact to which I want to draw attention, and my initial concern is to get a hearing.”
George Orwell

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Why should I read The Pencil Driven Life blog?

Because you want to write a book but don’t know how. This means you are a beginner.

That’s exactly where I was five and a half years ago. I’m still a beginner but I have learned a few things from writing ten novels, things you can learn by reading and digesting this blog.

Let’s pause a minute. I declared in my first sentence that you want to write a book. That was a little presumptuous of me. Maybe you would say, “no, I have no desire to write a book.” Although accurate statistics are hard to come by, writer Joseph Epstein says, “81 percent of Americans feel that they have a book in them — and should write it.” This of course doesn’t include you. Right?

I humbly request you humor me for a few minutes and seriously consider joining the huge percentage of Americans who want to write a book?

Thanks. Let me start with my reasons before moving on to more common, maybe universal, reasons. Succinctly put, I didn’t like the local (aka the heart of the Bible Belt) negative reaction to Obergefell v. Hodges, 576 U.S. 644 (2015), the landmark civil rights case in which the Supreme Court of the United States ruled the fundamental right to marry is guaranteed to same-sex couples by both the Due Process Clause and the Equal Protection Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not gay nor did I have a special interest in this subject. What I held sacrosanct was individual freedom, the right to choose one’s own actions absent government and religious interference, as long as the parties do no harm. As expected, the local negative reaction followed a predictable storyline anchored in Holy Writ: same-sex relationships are sin and thus abhorrent to the Christian God.

My idea was to dispel this notion, or more accurately, to explore whether two people of the same gender can truly love each other. It didn’t take long for my imagination to create Ruthie and Ellen, two teens who, well, fell in love, My book title, God and Girl, soon followed.

No doubt there were other factors that influenced my decision to write my first novel. I can think of two: a creative writing seminar over twenty years earlier I’d attended on a Saturday while in law school; and my frustration and tiredness from years of reading craft books on writing instead of actually writing.

That’s about me, and why I wrote my first novel. Now, let’s list (not in any order) a few common (universal?) reasons I believe are worthy of your consideration.

1) To create something from nothing. Actually, it’s not nothing. But, almost. Your imagination is not nothing, but that, along with determination, and a commitment of time, will get you there. No million dollar bulldozers required.

2) To prove to yourself (or others) you can eat the entire elephant. Said another way, that you can complete a complex and difficult task.

3) To leave a legacy. You can leave money and land to your descendants but how will your great grands know it was you, alone, who created that wealth? Nothing but a book is as personal as the story inside your head, or expresses your individual accomplishments.

4) To do something that only a tiny percentage of all people have ever done.

5) To fictionally murder your worst enemy without going to jail.

Personally, I think the following are poor reasons to write a novel:
1) to become famous;
2) to get rich;
3) to get on the New York Times Bestseller list.
These are too ephemeral. You’ll likely bale if one of these is your initiating force.

“Close the door. Write with no one looking over your shoulder. Don’t try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It’s the one and only thing you have to offer.”
Barbara Kingsolver

Now, I assume you have at least a smidgen of interest in writing your own novel. If not, you probably wouldn’t have read this far. Let me restate my initial question: “Why should I read The Pencil Driven Life blog?” The answer is simple: to go from wanting to write your first novel to holding in your hand your first novel.

I admit, it might be easier and quicker to accomplish this goal if you availed yourself of my coaching services, but that’s not required. Ashamedly, until recently, I have done it the hard way, without hiring a coach, attending a conference, or enrolling in a course. However, this doesn’t mean I haven’t learned a few things during these five and a half years. That’s what I intend to share in my blog.

Things like what writing software to use (no, I don’t write my novels in pencil!), how to choose and develop an idea, how to outline your novel even if you are a pantser (you write from the seat of your pants, without outlining), and how to structure your writing. By the way, my software choice is Scrivener.

Writing a novel takes time, a lot. And it’s difficult. However, from what I’ve learned, it is completely doable even for the beginner. The key is to break the tasks down into bite-size pieces. And take as much time as you want: a year, two years, five years. You decide; it’s your novel. Write it for yourself.

It would honor me to have you Follow my blog.

“It’s none of their business that you have to learn how to write. Let them think you were born that way.”
Ernest Hemingway

The Boaz Seeker–1st ten chapters

This was copied and pasted from a PDF document and includes headers and footers (my name, page numbers, book title), thus making it more difficult to read. Sorry, I couldn't find my WORD document.

Prologue
Two days before classes began, teacher Katie Waldrup sat and pondered at a student desk in the hallway outside her classroom on the second floor of Boaz High School. Even though her present life was better than it had ever been, she could not escape horrors from her recent past: killing five men in two incidents, one of which could send her to prison for the rest of her life. If, her involvement was ever discovered.
Katie reminisced good days since she started teaching English, Literature, and Creative Writing in her hometown three years ago. Almost from day one, fellow teacher Cindy Barker had become her best friend. And, had changed her life in countless ways.
As the maintenance crew finished waxing her classroom floor, Katie silently confirmed she would do it again. After sexual predator and assistant principal Patrick Wilkins had raped Cindy, she crafted their ‘Six Red Apples’ strategy for dealing with him, and the five men who had raped Katie Sims two days before Christmas in 2002, seventeen years ago. Again, Katie fought back the bad and recalled the good. But for her vicious rape, she would not have Cullie, the light of her life, the rising senior who was this year returning to Boaz High School after a two-year escape to Sardis High School. Maybe this was what triggered Katie’s reminiscing. Her worrying about her only child, the one who believed she was tarnished for life for being a ‘rape baby.’
“Miss Sims, I mean Mrs. Waldrup.” Katie finally looked up from a closed notebook that lay in front of her. Sixty-five-year-old Earl Chambers was standing beside two teenage boys, both of whom were pouring sweat as the older man in a crisp pair of new overalls
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looked as fresh and neat as a budding rose. “We done. You gonna sit out here till the prayer walkers come?”
Katie shook her head in disbelief as she slid out of the narrow seat. “Thanks for the warning, I’d almost forgotten.” She did not agree at all with the local practice of pastors and educators alike walking the halls and entering each classroom to say a prayer of blessing and protection on students and teachers alike throughout the upcoming school year. Katie knew it was a flagrant violation of the U.S. Constitution’s First Amendment but now for the fourth year, she had chosen to keep quiet. She had a role to fill. Cindy’s pregnancy from Wilkins’ rape had led to her death, and to the fetus she was carrying. Before passing, Katie had promised to raise Alysa, Anita, and Arlon, Cindy and her husband Steve’s three children, ‘in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.’
Katie handed Earl a copy of her latest book, The Light in the Darkness, and a $50.00 gift card to Walmart. The latter becoming an annual tradition. “Katie Sims, I’ll always call you by sweet Darla’s last name. You know you don’t have to give me a thing.” After Katie edged from her seat and stood, Earl motioned to the two teenagers to move the one remaining student desk inside Katie’s classroom. “Me and Miss Darla were best friends.”
“I know. She sure thought the world of you.” Katie said as she walked inside her sparkling clean classroom hoping to organize for two hours before the Bible thumpers arrived. She could not help but recall how Darla herself had gotten pregnant. It was May 25, 1972 at a place on Aurora Lake called Club Eden. It was Darla and eight of her classmate’s high school graduation party. It was a promiscuous night. It was not until three years ago that Katie had learned which of the five men Darla had sex with was her biological father. She waved at Earl as he and his two helpers left her room.
She stepped inside her tiny office at the back of the classroom and laid her notebook on Cindy’s oak desk, the one Katie had insisted she receive after her best friend died. “I love you Cindy and I hear you. You are telling me to forget the past and forge ahead with today. ‘Katie Ann Waldrup, you have four precious children to raise, now get with it.’ Someway, weeks before she died, Cindy had known Katie would eventually marry Marshall County Sheriff Wayne Waldrup.
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Katie was so thankful Wayne was her husband, lover, friend, and soulmate.
Katie sat in Cindy’s matching oak chair and opened her notebook. On the left side was a copy of the poem, “Ten Red Apples”:
“Ten red apples grow on a tree
Five for you and five for me
Let us shake the tree just so
And then red apples will fall below
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.”
Underneath was a color photo of six red apples, Cindy’s visual of her and Katie’s plan to exact vengeance on their rape perpetrators. Katie could not help but cry. It did not take long for the worry to set in. Cullie’s return to Boaz High School would be challenging to say the least, especially given the tension that was mounting between her and Riley, Cullie’s half-sister.
After five minutes, Katie closed her notebook and her eyes, and pondered how to conduct this year’s novel writing project for her creative writing class. Organizing bookshelves could wait until tomorrow.
Richard L. Fricks
4
Chapter 1
“Cullie, are you coming?” Alysa semi-yelled as she parked her Camry and looked at me, a less-than-interested, slouching and soon-to-be senior, at Boaz High School.
With ear buds in and Riley Clemmons’ “Fighting for Me” blasting from my iPhone, I shook my head in the negative, and mouthed, “I’ll wait here.”
“Heck no you won’t. Remember our talk last night? God is your sun and shield, He has you in the palm of His hand. Now, get your sexy self out of my car or I’ll drag you kicking and screaming. You, not me.” Alysa and I had become fast friends at the beginning of ninth grade, my first year at Boaz High School. Now, almost three years after Cindy, Alysa’s mother, had died from complications relating to her pregnancy, Alysa and I lived together as sisters. Even though we did not share blood or the same last name, our relationship was deep and anchored by our faith in God. I’m sure Alysa couldn’t help but feel proud and marvel how I’d allowed Jesus to transform my life from a quasi-atheist when I’d moved to Alabama at the beginning of ninth grade to what she was now, a rapidly maturing Christian young lady.
“Oh okay, but remember, you promised you wouldn’t leave me.” I said, removing both ear buds with one quick jerk.
“I do. You are going to love Boaz High. Most every teacher is a Christian, bold in their faith. They are like me, always got you covered. You’ll see.” Alysa said, leading me across the parking lot toward the flagpole where youth pastor Ben Edmon and the First Baptist Church of Christ youth group had agreed to meet.
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Fifty feet before arriving, my stomach threatened to wretch. Standing beside the youth pastor and giant flagpole bearing both the U.S. and Christian flags was none other than Riley Radford. As far as I knew, my half-sister, biologically, was my only enemy, and it was not by my choosing. In ninth grade, before the truth came out that we shared the same father, Riley had acted toward me with only innocent and harmless mischief. Then, I was a new girl in town, naturally beautiful according to Mom, and the unsolicited attention of every boy Riley was interested in. It was simple jealousy. Now, since Riley and I had discovered that Ryan’s will had gifted each of us twenty-five percent of his estate, she was actively and consistently expressing pure hatred for her half-sister.
“Hey Alysa, reintroduce me to your friend.” Ben said as Alysa and I walked onto the giant concrete circle engulfing the flagpole base. Attention was the last thing I wanted. But I suppose I might as well get used to it, both good and bad. I was determined to walk my own path regardless of the obstacles.
I forced a smile as I fought back wishes I had stayed at Sardis High School for my senior year. I blinked my eyes five times quickly to verify my consciousness. “What in heck was I thinking when I decided to return here and First Baptist Church of Christ with Alysa? I loved both my school and Bethsaida Baptist Church in Sardis City. There, I had no enemies, and no one knew my past.”
“Mr. Ben, you remember Cullie from three years ago? She was part of our youth group while we were in the ninth grade. Since then, she’s been on a wilderness adventure with our Etowah County friends.” Alysa said, elbowing my side.
“Hi Cullie, nice to see you. Thanks for coming to our prayer walk.” Ben said, taking my hand and giving an aggressive hug before I could react.”
“Welcome to my world little sister.” Without looking, I knew Riley’s voice. She had called a few days after the estate attorney had revealed Ryan’s distribution plan. In Riley’s call, she had been friendly and polite enough but had ended the conversation with a “you take good care little sister, you know I get your share if you don’t live to twenty-one.” Even though I had not seen the legal documents, Ryan’s attorney had supposedly told Riley we would each receive the first
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payment when I turned twenty-one. I was not certain I could believe what she said.
As Ben shouted prayer-walk instructions to a swelling group of ninth through twelfth graders, I realized that Riley’s final statement in our phone conversation was a carefully concealed, jovially delivered, threat. No doubt, Riley was hoping I would not live to see my first payment.
According to Ben, this year’s prayer-walk was the biggest ever: eighteen participating churches, fifty-four teachers and school administrators, and almost six hundred students. Just like last year, principal Julie King divided the crowd into eighteen groups, with mine and Alysa’s group winning the final slot for the day. It was 8:30 p.m. before Ben and sixty-five teenager from his Fusion youth group entered the high school’s front door. As he led a long prayer inside the giant foyer beneath a giant pirate ship hanging overhead, I thought of Colton. He was the quiet and intelligent man from Los Angeles I just knew Mom would have married; the two shared a beautiful and accepting view of the world, solely disconnected from any religion. The last of our intriguing conversations were just six years ago, but they seemed like a lifetime. This was all before Mom and I left the west coast and moved to New York City.
Ben ended his prayer and led our group down the first-floor hallway to a Mr. Kendrick’s classroom. World History. Tonight’s tour was just the most recent layer of similar forces (including Alysa, the now-deceased Cindy, and virtually everyone in Boaz) that had convinced me to take God at His Word and let faith guide my life.
It was 11:15 p.m. when Alysa pulled into our long driveway off Smith Chapel Road. “I love you and am so proud of you.” I did not respond as she continued humming “Amazing Grace” while dodging several potholes in our long and neglected road. Alysa slowed her Camry to a crawl, apparently timing our arrival with the completion of verse four. When she finally eased left onto the pavement outside our well-lit two-car garage, the silky-haired seventeen year patted my left knee and said, “you’re going to love Fusion, but first we best get some sleep.” With that, she grabbed her keys and headed for the patio and rear entrance to the house her parents, Steve and Cindy Barker, had built fifteen years ago.
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I stayed behind for a few minutes, leaned against the Camry, and looked through the darkness, across the pasture, and toward the pond. Although it was nice to live with my triple A siblings (Alysa, Anita, and Arlon), I often miss the days when it was just Mom and me. I particularly miss our long talks. I nodded my head with sleepiness and turned to walk to the patio. Oh, how quickly things could change, how rapidly life could throw you a curve ball. I rolled back the sliding glass door and walked into an unoccupied den, recognizing how blessed I was to have such a wonderful home. Not all change is bad.
When I reached mine and Alysa bedroom, she was in the bathroom we shared with Anita quietly singing “Victory in Jesus” while brushing her long, gorgeous hair. Sisters. I now had three, shared living quarters with two, and would soon commingle with the razzle-dazzle redhead at church and school. Surely, the blood coursing through mine and Riley’s veins would be the catalyst that precipitates change of the good variety despite a rather insignificant thing called money.
Before dozing off, the last thought I had was I made the right decision to return to school and church in Boaz.
Richard L. Fricks
8
Chapter 2
I awoke early, like it was a weekday and not Sunday. I grabbed my iPhone from under my pillow and set my alarm to 6:00 a.m. with full intentions of dozing another hour. Alysa, thank goodness, was laying on her right side facing the outer wall and not snoring. A nice treat since we had to share a room. After two plus years, I still hated this stupid twin bed, but as Mom keeps telling me, “Cindy’s wish didn’t come without sacrifices for us both.” Thank goodness, there was talk of adding a couple of extra rooms along the back of the house next to the pool.
It had been almost midnight when Alysa and I had arrived home and settled in. I was still perturbed at her for not telling me about the get-together at First Baptist Church of Christ after the prayer-walk. Fortunately, it had not been so bad. T.J. Miller, the pastor, had led a short lesson on the need for a daily quiet time with Bible study and prayer, then he had let us hang out, play ping-pong and pool if we wanted to, and eat pizza and drink Vision, a tart and tangy drink. Alysa said it was a concoction Ben had come up with to symbolize the Holy Spirit. I had not asked any questions, but it was tasty. The good part of the gathering was the absence of Ben Edmon. For some reason, maybe it was the creepy hug he gave me at the flagpole, my impression of him was negative, despite his good looks and athletic body. My opinion was quite different from how I felt during the five or six months I had attended youth group in the ninth grade with Alysa.
Before I could get my pillows and covers arranged exactly right, my luck changed. Alysa was now flat on her back snoring like a freight-train. That cliché, writers are bound to hate the oft-repeated phrases,
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was enough, along with my anticipation that a long, shrill whistling noise would soon appear, to get up, slide into my house-shoes and head to the kitchen.
As I walked the long hallway, I saw Mom standing beside the sink looking through the windows into the outside darkness. I could not help but think about her prize-winning novel, Out of the Darkness, with all its success and how the sequel, The Light in the Darkness, had floundered. Her words, “Cullie, if you’re a writer, you can’t not write, no matter what else happens,” was my daily mantra.
“Morning Mom.” I said halfway across the den hoping not to distract her from an important thought.
“Hey baby. I was wondering how your late night would affect your early morning routine. Did you sleep?” Mom was my rock star. Braver to me than William Wallace, the late-13th-century Scottish warrior. There was nothing she would not do for me. She had proved that nearly three years ago when she had risked her life to save me from my own biological father and his three equally-sicko friends at Club Eden.
“I did. Five hours. Interspersed of course with a few rounds of Alysa’s snoring. Hint, hint, my own room.” Even though talks of adding-on gave Arlon and Anita a new bedroom all their own, I liked the idea of homesteading in my younger sister’s old room. Until two years ago, her and Arlon had shared that room. That had changed on Christmas morning 2017 when we all awoke to Arlon and his mattress inside the kitchen’s giant pantry. I think it was Anita’s budding sexuality that drove him out. That was two years ago. Now, fourteen-year-old Anita could pass for a college freshman, already surpassing Alysa and me in bra size.
“Wayne wants us to do most of the work, other than the foundation. He thinks it will be a good opportunity for us to work together as a family.” Mom said, refilling her coffee cup while I added a mountain of cream and four Splenda’s to my favorite mug.
“Oh great, that will take ten times as long. I am fifteen, sixteen in less than six weeks. I love Alysa but a girl needs some relief from her every-night phone conversations with Jim-Bob. I can’t believe she won’t tell me his real name.”
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“I know baby. I will talk with Wayne. He got called out at 2:30 this morning. He said he would try to be back by lunch. I promise I will do my best to persuade him to hire a contractor. Lord knows we can afford it.” I did not quite understand the family’s finances but knew, in exchange for Mom’s agreement to raise Cindy’s three children, she had set up a trust fund with a lot of money. Mom was the trustee and could spend the money however she wanted, if it benefited Alysa, Anita, and Arlon. I guess it was okay that as a byproduct, the rest of us received some value.
“What was Dad’s emergency?” I had called Wayne my dad since he had so gently and politely asked me if he could adopt me. That was a few months after Ryan, my biological father, had died in the horrible shootout at Club Eden. I think I had caught Wayne off guard when I immediately responded in the affirmative. What child would not want the strong, humble, sheriff to be their father? Especially since he loved my mom like she was a goddess, and, not to mention, Colton was long gone.
“All Wayne said was that a body had been discovered. You know he is tight with his words until he knows all the details. I’m expecting a quick call or a text after my writing session.” Mom said, picking up her laptop and heading to the sliding doors at the back of the house. “Later baby, I hope you have a good session.”
I poured my coffee and grabbed a banana from the basket on the breakfast nook table. I sometimes get hungry before finishing my writing. I followed Mom and watched as she turned toward the garage. I walked straight to my spot. Wayne had converted a storage room above the garage into a large, but quaint room for Mom’s morning writing sessions. He was standing ready to improve my spot in a tiny supply room in the pool house. I had thanked him, but for now I liked the crudeness of my surroundings. Unpainted pine shelving and an old door set on cement blocks for a desk. I was a new writer. I needed to start plain, simple, cheap, before I became a rock star novelist like Mom.
I guess it was only natural that I would fall in love with writing. If I could remember, Mom had been faithful to get in at least an hour of, what she referred to as ‘thoughtful thinking,’ before her day of teaching high schoolers began. Her time had always been early morning. Again, her words, “if you are disciplined enough every day to write even a few
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paragraphs on your current project, you have had a successful day, no matter what happens the next twenty-two or twenty-three hours.”
I had kept a diary for most of my life, but it was not until the end of the ninth grade that I had become a real writer. According to Mom, you are a writer when you write and call yourself a writer. It is a personal decision, not one bestowed on you by a school or book publisher. Mostly, I have written tiny snippets and a few short stories. I was hoping a year in Mom’s creative writing class would give me the tools and the inspiration to write my first novel.
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Chapter 3
Alysa parked her Camry beside the children’s playground on the backside of the church’s rear parking lot. “I always park here. I’ll start leaving the doors unlocked for you.” She said causing me to wonder what she meant. I decided to let it go. I was not a baby. I did not need Alysa by my side every second.
“Okay. Thanks.” I followed her to the rear entrance to the Education Building and up four flights of stairs. I saw an elevator but figured since Alysa was now a high school cheerleader, she wanted to take every opportunity to keep her legs perfectly toned.
“Good morning ladies.” Ben Edmon said as Alysa and I walked the hallway toward him and a sign above the doorway that read, in large bold lettering, “Youth Sunday School Department.” In smaller text at the bottom, it read, “Fusion: We Are One Body.” I did not think the ‘A’ should be capitalized.
Alysa and I both returned the greeting and after a quick handshake Ben motioned us inside to a giant room with probably a hundred chairs. We were early but there were already twenty or more kids milling around two long tables in the far-left corner.
I was noticing eight doors equally spaced along the long wall behind the podium when I heard someone semi-yell, “cometh hither young maidens, drink and learn your future.”
Alysa grabbed my left arm and pulled me with her towards a tall and blond good-looking guy who was coming towards us. “That’s Josh Miller, the pastor’s son.” I investigated her face and saw her eyebrows rise with interest. I wondered if this was the boy she had been talking to at night for the past several weeks.
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As we walked to Josh, I noticed he kept looking towards Ben and the front entrance. When Alysa reached out her hand, Josh pulled her in for a hug. “Good to see my fair maiden.” He looked at me and said, “and who might this be?” returning his gaze to Alysa.
“My younger sister, Cullie.”
“By one month.” I added, feeling anxious about being here.”
Josh, with bright blue eyes, now looked at me. “But do not forget young Anita, her other younger sister. That gorgeous and soon-to-be ninth grader.” I wondered if Josh maintained a database of all the local girls, at least the pretty ones.
For several minutes Josh kept up his silly talk. He also poured Alysa and me a Styrofoam cup filled from a large Tupperware container labeled Vision. Obviously, the drink was a staple of the youth group. Alysa accepted the offer, I did not. I was still buzzed from all the coffee I had drank since early morning.
While Alysa and Josh exchanged goofy glances of infatuation, I felt like a third wheel reading the signs above the eight doors. I located “Twelfth Grade Girls” and started walking towards it since I was being crowded away by two waves of kids suddenly devouring Vision, donuts, and chocolate chip cookies from the two refreshment tables. I figured the room was where Alysa and I, and our other senior classmates, would spend the next hour.
“Okay Fusion take your seats. We need to get started a few minutes early.” Ben said from across the room, now standing behind the giant podium. It did not take Alysa long to appear and guide me to a chair along the center of the row furthest from Ben. I took one final look back towards Josh and saw him still standing beside the refreshment tables, now holding hands, and staring into the eyes of the scarlet-colored queen, as Alysa called her. It was none other than the tall and perfectly shaped Riley Radford.
Ben raised and outstretched his opened hands to quieten the group which now consumed every seat in the room. “Let me have your undivided attention.” He paused for a few seconds, scanning the room as though trying to connect eyes with every person. “It is with deep, deep sadness I announce the tragic news of Skylar Simmons’ death.” A wave of groans and moans rolled chaotically across the assembly.
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“What happened?” A girl I did not know from the front row shouted above the continuing shock of surprise still penetrating the heavy pall I sensed all around me.
Ben shook his head sideways and closed his eyes for what seemed like a minute. “Please know I do not have an official report but what I’ve heard, and I believe my source to be reliable, Skylar was murdered. Her body was discovered late last night or early this morning.” From the look on Ben’s face I could tell he was visibly shaken. Absent was his constant smile. Present was a mixed expression, a cross between a scowl and a sudden negative experience, something like what I expect one would feel if he were struggling to keep his balance standing on the top ledge of a New York skyscraper.
“Where was she found?” Josh said, now sitting beside Riley in the last chairs on mine and Alysa’s row, next to the refreshments.
“I don’t know. My source said he could not disclose that since it was an active crime scene. Okay, that is all the questions I want to take. What we need to do is pray. This is the most important thing we can do. Please close your eyes and ask God to comfort Skylar’s family and to give us hope midst such tragedy. Also, be sure to keep in mind what we have been studying the past few weeks: ‘God never allows pain without a purpose.’ Pray silently for a couple of minutes and then I’ll close.” Alysa and I exchanged glances, both shaking our head in horror before each closed our eyes and bowed our heads.
I found it difficult to focus and pray. Instead, I considered Ben’s statement. I could not help but wonder what purpose God had for the pain I had endured. I became perplexed over the actual meaning of the statement. Did it mean that God choose to allow some pain and no other? Where did the pain come from, its source? Did God create pain, all with a purpose in mind? After a few seconds of feeling sorry for myself for being created as the result of a vicious rape, I turned my attention to the act of prayer itself. Ever since my conversion to Christianity near the end of ninth grade I had retained my deep-seated doubts about the efficacy of prayer. Before moving to Alabama, Mom and I had always had an open relationship about God, the supernatural, prayer, everything Christianity involved. I knew she was not a believer and I highly suspected she still was not, even though she was now playing a role she felt she owed to her late friend Cindy. It was so hard for me not to question the frequent occasions I seemed to observe
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where prayer did not work. I realized that die-hard Christians believed that God always answered prayer, but the ‘God is mysterious’ refrain was so unsatisfying, especially when verses like John 15:7 seemed to promise God always gives his child what he asks for. And, I had been around Southern Baptists enough to know that if Skylar had been found safe and sound, they would be praising Jesus for answering their prayers. Baptists, well, the fundamentalist type, always attributed good things to God but blamed Satan for all the bad.
After several minutes, my thoughts were interrupted by Ben’s vocalized prayer: “Oh Jesus, our ever present, all knowing, all loving, all-powerful friend. We are so heart-broken over our dear Skylar’s death. Please bathe her family in your infinite grace. Comfort them with an unquestionable awareness of your presence. Dear Lord Jesus, give them and us, a peace the world doesn’t know or understand, a peace of knowing our sweet sister in Christ is now walking Heaven’s streets of gold, hand-in-hand with you, singing your praises for ever and ever. Guide us now as we focus on our new unit of study. May everything we do bring honor to your holy name. Amen.”
Just as Ben raised his head and opened his eyes, Riley Radford stood and started singing “Victory in Jesus,” and waving her hands back and forth. In seconds, the entire youth group, like an army platoon responding to the Sergeant’s order, rose and joined the lead of the musically-gift red head. Alysa overrode my reluctance and pulled me to a standing position. I kept silent but closed my eyes and listened carefully to each word as the group did a surprisingly good job of resounding all three verses of the oft-sung hymn:
“What a Friend we have in Jesus,
All our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry
Everything to God in prayer!
O what peace we often forfeit,
O what needless pain we bear,
All because we do not carry
Everything to God in prayer!
Have we trials and temptations?
Is there trouble anywhere?
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We should never be discouraged,
Take it to the Lord in prayer.
Can we find a friend so faithful
Who will all our sorrows share?
Jesus knows our every weakness,
Take it to the Lord in prayer.
Are we weak and heavy-laden,
Cumbered with a load of care?
Precious Savior, still our refuge—
Take it to the Lord in prayer;
Do thy friends despise, forsake thee?
Take it to the Lord in prayer;
In His arms He’ll take and shield thee,
Thou wilt find a solace there.”
“Thanks, Riley, for your leadership. You are dismissed to your classes. I am sorry, but I am out of time. I’ll let your teachers tell you about our new unit.” Ben said, folding a notebook that I guessed contained content he had intended to share with the group.
In Sunday School, Mrs. Vickers lectured most of the time. The subject was God as the moral lawgiver. The crux of her lecture boiled down to the absolute truth there were objective rights and wrongs and their existence forced only one conclusion: there had to be a moral lawgiver. And, that person was the Christian God.
During preaching, Pastor T.J. Miller, Josh’s father, continued this theme. His sermon seemed anti-climactic after the choir had sung several popular hymns, concluding with “Rock of Ages.” The pastor’s disjointed sermon argued that God’s laws are fixed and universal and written in the hearts of every person. He took almost fifteen minutes to interject his thoughts on relativism. In sum, he concluded that without God as a moral lawgiver the world would descend into atheism, and by necessity, chaos. The thing I could not help but question was his assertion that without God, people would start pillaging and raping their neighbors. This did not seem truthful. But the pastor kept arguing that objective moral values from God were the only way humans knew what was right and wrong.
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When the sermon ended, the minister of music, a man named Rob White, led the audience in three verses of “Amazing Grace,” while the pastor pleaded for lost souls and wayward believers to come forward to confess and pray. I stood beside Alysa and realized there was something different about First Baptist Church of Christ, something I did not remember from my time here in the ninth grade.
It was also something different from the theme and atmosphere at Bethlehem Baptist Church in Sardis City. There was this attitude of certainty the Bible was literally true, and that science and Christianity were completely compatible. All three speakers, Ben, Mrs. Vickers, and Pastor Miller had expressed this in some fashion. Ben’s statement about pain, Mrs. Vickers’ words arguing for the reality of Adam and Eve and the Genesis story of creation, and Pastor Miller’s shocking position that “unlike some folks think, God, and not evolution, is the source of our morals.”
As Alysa and I returned to her car, I felt like I had entered another world, one where my mind and my ability to think reasonably was going to be constantly attacked. It was an eerie feeling, but surprisingly, I was energized to seek the truth.
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Chapter 4
Everyone was already seated when Alysa and I passed through the rear sliding glass doors into the great room. We could see Wayne had made it home in time for lunch. The house rule demanded all six of us eat at least one meal per week around the giant oak table in the dining room. The rule was a carryover from Cindy, as described by the Triple A’s.
“Get your butts in here.” Arlon, the quickly evolving smart-ass and rising eighth grader, yelled the moment Alysa and I walked inside the dining room. I glanced at Wayne who had one arm draped over Mom’s shoulders. He smiled and shook his head sideways. He was a man of few words and one who carefully chose his battles. I considered him one of the wisest people I knew, next to Mom of course.
She motioned for everyone to sit. Alysa slid into her spot at the end of the table closest to Smith’s Chapel Road and reached for Arlon and Anita’s hands on her right and left. The rest of us sat and followed suit. Sometimes Cindy’s rules, routines, and traditions got old. I was still amazed at how faithful Mom was to Cindy’s wishes, now almost three years after her and Steve’s deaths. I often wondered exactly what role Steve, the Tripe A’s dad, had played. He must have worshiped Cindy to allow her to so choreograph the family’s every movement.
After Alysa’s prayer, I was dying to know what Wayne knew about Skylar Simmons’ death but held my tongue not wanting to bring up such a horrible subject over the roast beef, carrots, and potatoes Mom had slow-cooked in the crock-pot since 4:30 this morning.
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While Wayne stood and dipped everyone a generous portion of Mom’s favorite meal, Alysa was quick to question Anita about her overnight stay at Jenn Miller’s. Anita and Jenn, the pastor’s daughter, were both rising ninth graders and best friends since elementary school. I had a suspicion Alysa’s interest was primarily because Jenn was Josh’s younger sister. After learning that Anita had not seen Josh until nearly 2:00 a.m. (he and Riley had hung out at her house in the Country Club), Alysa politely started quizzing Arlon. He too had stayed overnight with an unnamed friend.
For some reason, I was not interested in Arlon and Wayne’s long discussion about the steps involved in constructing the two new bedrooms. It then dawned on me one way that Steve had influenced Arlon. He loved working with his hands. He always was tearing something apart and putting it back together again, whether it was a desktop computer or his dirt bike that, again a Cindy rule, was for riding around their 80 acre tract and never Smith’s Chapel Road.
After the twelve-inch footer talk, complete with how to use something called a cradle to hold half-inch re-bar at the bottom of the ditch, I crawled into my zone. Mom called it her writer zone, but I allowed a multitude of subjects to gather around my imaginary table. The first item was not exactly welcome. It was a little soft-spoken but respectful voice insisting I provide the reasoning I had used to venture out and return to my old life in Boaz.
By the end of ninth grade, I had had enough of the stares and hurtful comments. So, I ran. I ran to Sardis City, a whole new and different world, both the high school and my new church, Bethlehem Baptist. All those denigrating stares and comments were uncalled for since they were for something I could not have changed–being a human only because my mother had become pregnant as a direct result of a multi-person violent rape. Continuing the pregnancy was all Mom’s doing. She could have had me aborted. But, my trailblazing Mom, a non-believer no doubt, chose life.
When Wayne and Arlon paused after discussing the pros and cons of scissor trusses, Mom announced she had made a coconut cake. She was becoming quite the domesticate.
I quickly dismissed my earlier thoughts of engaging in active investigation into the unsettling mindset I had observed at First Baptist Church of Christ. No, I needed to focus on my senior year studies
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(especially Mom’s creative writing class) and getting a part-time job. Unlike Alysa, I had chosen to work to pay for my first vehicle. I was not surprised that Mom had eagerly agreed since she had waited tables during her senior high school year and all four years at the University of Alabama.
After a too-big slice of coconut cake, Wayne gathered everyone into the great room and said, “from what I hear, you all heard Ben Edmon’s announcement during Sunday School assembly this morning. Not that I have to say it, but always remember our house rule (this was his more than Cindy’s): what we say here, stays here. It is true; Skylar Simmons is dead. Her body was found near the railroad tracks behind Fox Run Apartments off Coosa Road.”
“How did she die?” Anita asked sitting on the couch between Mom and Alysa. I guess Arlon and I chose to stand, as did Wayne, hoping for a short family meeting.
“Sorry dear, I can’t get into that. And, you really do not need that mental picture. Trust me.” Wayne circled the couch and stood behind Mom, placing both hands on her shoulders. “Okay kids, meeting over. I have some business to discuss with the head cheese. Oh, don’t forget, at 3:30 we’re meeting at the pond for our next fishing contest.” I loved Wayne’s brevity, but I hated fishing, however, I knew this was a Sunday afternoon activity that Cindy and family enjoyed. Arlon let out a loud yelp before heading to the pantry. Alysa was dragged by Anita to her room; something about double-dating.
“I’ll be in the pool house until the fishing tournament.” I said, wanting to continue working on a story idea I had stumbled across earlier this morning.
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Chapter 5
“Hey baby.” I knew it was Mom’s voice, but it still startled me. It was like she had appeared from nowhere. I normally hung my little sign, “Writer at Work; Do not Disturb” on the doorknob and locked the door. The plaque (Wayne had fitted a slim wire on two sides for hanging) had been a gift from Mom after she read my first short story. That was two years ago. Today, in my rush to get to my desk, I had forgotten it.
“How about knocking and not pulling your ghost tricks. You scared me.” If it was sudden tension in the air, it evaporated faster than it had arisen. We exchanged smiles as she sat on a five-gallon bucket of granulated chlorine we probably would not use until next year. I had intentionally allowed only my chair into my hallowed quarters, not considering Mom’s creativity.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you but you seemed troubled, or at least preoccupied during lunch. Are you okay?” Mom, the observational guru. She vows that is what makes a great writer.
I usually did not hesitate to be open with my hero, but this was different. I was afraid I had put her into an uncomfortable position since she felt such a duty to Cindy, her best friend ever. “Nothing much, just wondering if my appetite was bigger than my stomach.” Mom would know what I meant.
“It’s only natural to second guess our decisions. I suspect the safety of your Sardis City life will be a magnet for quite a while.”
“I thought you were working this afternoon.” I had forgotten tomorrow was the first day of school and Mom had not gotten her classroom back from the custodians until late yesterday.
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“Don’t tell anybody but I worked through the prayer walk. I hung my Flannery O’Connor banner over the door window and kept on working. I lucked out when all the pastors skipped my room. I guess they saw my name beside the door and figured I was a lost cause.” We both laughed out loud.
“Can I ask you a question?” I thought I knew what Mom would say but I felt just hearing it would confirm the direction I had chosen.
“Baby, you know my head and heart are always open to you.”
“Do you believe in absolute moral truths? What Pastor Miller today called objective morals.”
“I assume your question is sincere and you truly want my answer.” Mom said, now standing as though the bucket was hurting her butt.
“Well duh, I wouldn’t have asked it otherwise.” It seemed we were skirting around the God question, both afraid we might disrespect the other’s position.
Mom leaned back against several rows of pine shelves across from my makeshift desk. “No.” Her short answer without explanation surprised me.
“Okay, I have to dig it out of you. Why the hesitation?” I asked, feeling the woman in front of me was not really my mom. What was going on?
“Baby, for almost three years now we’ve avoided the God talk. I hope you know it is because I, as always, have wanted you to make your own decisions concerning religion. I am as much against a non-believer brainwashing her child as I am a Southern Baptist doing the same with her children. But, my dear, do not think it’s been easy. Watching your growing devotion to the church ever since you joined Bethlehem Baptist has been hard to swallow. That’s why I’m reluctant to be totally open.”
“Mom, ditch that for now. Okay?” I loved how I could be fully myself with Katie Sims Waldrup.
“Okay, you asked for it. Into the octagon we go.” She smiled as I stood and gave my best MMA fighting stance, sadly remembering Ronda Rousey’s crushing defeat in her 2016 attempt at a comeback. It had taken opponent Amanda Nunes only 48 seconds to unleash her brutal assault.
“Let me restate my question. “If there were no God, would humans go around robbing and raping their fellow man?”
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Mom paused a few seconds. At 46 she was in the best shape I had seen her in years. She could thank Wayne for that. His penchant for running had rubbed off on his adventurous girlfriend. Mom was tall, slim, and wiry, nothing like the voluptuous Cindy, but still sensuous and sexy with the man of her dreams. I think it had something to do with Mom’s brown hair. It is naturally curly, but she recently found a new straightening process. I must say, it suited her, even though she usually kept it pulled behind her head. Mom finally spoke. “Probably some would. I suspect there are Christians that do that now, maybe not so much in the physical and clearly criminal sense but metaphorically.”
“Are you saying that without God, humans would know right and wrong?”
“I think we wouldn’t be here as Homo sapiens if that weren’t true. Morals are all about well-being. It is not a straight and constantly rising line, but over millions of years man’s idea of what benefits him has evolved. I like what Christopher Hitchens said, ‘do you really think the Israelites were surprised when Moses came down from Mount Sinai and told them they weren’t supposed to kill each other?’ Hitchens would answer, ‘damn, you’d think God would have given old Moses something we hadn’t known for years.’”
“Funny.” Mom made sense. I recall her telling me a story when we were living in New York City about a peer-reviewed paper describing how a tribe in the Amazon forest had similar morals as Americans, and those so-called savages had never heard of Yahweh and his son Jesus. It was like it was a universal gene. Of course, now I knew, that Southern Baptist fundamentalists would say, ‘see there, God wrote his law on every heart.’
“Baby, what’s really bothering you. You know you can tell me anything.”
“Today, for the first time since I joined the club, you know, the Christian club, I felt deceived, like I had allowed emotion and my friends, spelled A L Y S A, to taunt me to God and Christianity and not my intellect and reasoning. Does that make sense?”
“Absolutely. But, let me warn you. That road, if you choose it, can be very uncomfortable, possibly dangerous. I know you know this but nearly a hundred percent of our friends, neighbors, and local citizens, are die-hard believers. They are fully convinced Jesus died on the cross
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for their sins and He is the only way to Heaven. They likely do not have the capacity to change their minds. So, don’t start to think you’ll be the one to wash the scales from their eyes.”
I pondered what she said and agreed, but I was not interested in becoming any type evangelist, I simply was interested in the truth. “One other question since I really want to explore my short story idea. So, give me your most succinct answer. Why don’t you believe in the Christian God?” Again, I thought I knew Mom’s answer but for some reason needed to hear her say it.
“That’s easy. It is called evidence. Better put, the lack of evidence.” Mom started walking towards the pool house entrance. She then turned and said, “Honey, keep in mind that an atheist is not one who believes there is no god. No one can prove a negative: there is no god being the operative example here. The atheist is simply one who is not convinced. She is not persuaded by the evidence put forth by believers, speaking of the Christian religion. So, I will speak for myself. None of what believers argue as proof of God, is persuasive. Their claims fall apart upon an honest and critical examination. Therefore, I do not believe. But, know I will when the evidence is credible.”
Mom opened the door and was halfway outside. But I had to ask one final question. “Mom. Hold on. Would you give me a couple of actual examples, things that indicates there is no god, no Christian God?”
Mom came back inside the pool house and closed the door. She removed her iPhone from her back pocket as though she had received a text or was simply noting the time. “Okay. It’s my duty to answer you honestly.” She tucked her phone back inside her jeans. “Two things stand out. One, is the Bible. An honest and intensive examination leads to only one conclusion: it is manmade. There are too many errors and inconsistencies in it to have been written by an all-knowing God. Even more glaring, is the Council of Nicaea in 325 AD. That is where religious men met to construct Christian doctrine and decide which books would go into the Bible. There were several existing gospels that did not make it in. Research the Gospel of Judas if you’re interested.”
I stood and walked to Mom. “You said two things stood out for you.”
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“The other is science. The Bible is full of many things that conflict with the natural world. The theory of evolution clearly refutes the Bible’s creation story in Genesis. There never was an Adam and Eve, a first couple. Evolution and what Southern Baptist fundamentalists believe is in direct conflict. Listen baby, Wayne is waiting on me in the den. As promised, I am going to talk to him about hiring a contractor. You get back to your desk and I’ll see you at the pond at 3:30.” With that, she exited the pool house.
“Thanks Mom.” I said to a closed door.
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Chapter 6
I had wanted to stay home and go to bed early in preparation for tomorrow: mine and Alysa’s first day of our last year of high school. But, as usual, I had let her talk me into going to church. Her words, “a $5 snack supper, games, a live worship band, a message, and small groups. Fusion is a blast, totally different from Sunday mornings.”
Anita and Arlon were in Alysa’s back seat with her trying to answer his question why teenage girls like older boys. We passed Sardis High School and a ton of memories flooded my mind. Alysa must have noticed my visual despondency, so she turned up the volume on her new Hillsong Young & Free CD. “Alive” was her favorite song and now she had reset it to play again.
I had heard the song at least a hundred times but now, two phrases jumped out at me: “You are alive in us,” and “You are my freedom.” Jesus, to be alive in me must mean Jesus is alive, he is real, like in the Bible. How is he my freedom? If he is, why do I feel so shackled?
As Alysa turned right on Church Street, we soon passed Sardis Baptist Church on our left. There was a group of kids sitting on the steps of the old sanctuary listening to who I assumed was their youth pastor. “You are alive in us.” I am convinced every kid there would agree. And, that “Jesus is their freedom.”
My mind flashed back to Mom at the pond. While Alysa and Anita were sunbathing on the pier, and Wayne and Arlon were swapping fish stories and snagging bass at the shallow end of the pond, Mom and I hung out at the deep end hardly tossing our lines into the water. But we had talked.
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After I shared my observation from church this morning that there seemed to be a coordinated attempt by Christian leaders to discount or denigrate science, Mom had surprised me with her response. She said it appeared to her that from my observation and my questions inside the pool house, I was at a crossroads trying to answer the age-old question: ‘What am I to believe and why?’ She also said the hard truth was that most kids who grow up in Southern Baptist Churches believe what they are told to believe and never have a chance to question.
Sitting on the dam while two young calves became more interested in us than their mothers’ udders, I shared how trapped I felt. Mom, ever prescient, guessed correctly I was still haunted by the fact I was a rape baby. That meant I was created from evil.
One of the calves let Mom rub its head and back while I expressed my frustration over why God would allow such a thing. I told her I could not understand what God intended for me, what His purpose was for me. I admitted I was questioning my near three-year decision to follow Christ. I told her, “now, that seems I was so desperate to connect, so anxious to relieve my pain, I signed up without a whole lot of thinking.”
Katie Sims Waldrup is the best mom in the world. She gave me her interpretation of what was happening, what I was experiencing. Her analogy was perfect. “You are trying to put a square peg in a round hole. It is impossible, but do not take my word for it. You must create your own meaning. You can spend a lifetime trying to find God’s purpose for your life. You’ll never succeed because it’s a myth.”
After Arlon’s six-pound bass edged out Wayne’s four and a half-pounder, we all walked the half-mile dirt road back to the house. I was glad the other two couples kept their distance from Mom and me. At first, walking the dusty trail, I was positive and excited about accepting the challenge as she had put it. She framed it as, “only natural for a thinking person to ask questions and not allow emotion and someone else’s personal experiences to fully persuade. She said it was up to me to decide whether the circumstances surrounding my conception dictated my life and kept me in prison. Or, I could choose to let go of the past and live on my own terms. After we walked a long way without a word, almost as an afterthought, Mom repeated her earlier warning: going against the majority isn’t easy and often comes with a different type of pain, one of rejection and ridicule.
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Now, with Alysa pulling into her favorite spot at the back of the church’s rear parking lot, and me looking forward to being a part of a loving and supportive group, I shook my head and whispered to myself, “you fool, you are a kid richly blessed and comfortable, why rock the boat? Live, let live. Enjoy this best and final year of high school and swim downstream with all your peers. There is no need to rock the boat and become a thorn in everyone’s flesh. There will be plenty of time for that when I grow up.
The two brats in the back seat were long gone. Lazy Arlon and Anita had made big sis drop them off at the entrance to the Education Building before parking. I sat motionless while Alysa grabbed her purse to lock it in the car trunk. I was dreadful. No respectable writer would ever use clichés. Two in one sentence was a clear sign of my own laziness.
I was surprised Alysa took the elevator to the basement. I guess with the four flights to Sunday School this morning and this afternoon’s round-trip to the pond, her legs had enough conditioning for an off day. I was starting to see a pattern: Alysa was not a wimp; she met obstacles head on but was not dogmatic and unrealistic.
When we exited the elevator, I saw enough kids to fill a high school band. There were clusters scattered everywhere. But what caught my attention was the facility. The church basement was totally different than I remembered from ninth grade. Gone was the dull gray walls and floors. Half of the giant room was now a professional looking stage with dozens of narrow rows of permanently installed padded chairs. The other half of the room was further divided. The back half next to the stairs and elevator was filled with pool and ping-pong tables, a few scattered couches, and a dozen or more Alabama and Auburn bean bag chairs. Along the outside wall looked like a kitchen behind a set of stainless-steel roll-up doors. The final quadrant was filled with two rows of removable chairs in a circle around a knee-high rectangular platform. It was about twice the width of our pier but only about half the length. The tiny wheels at each corner indicated it was mobile. What distinguished this section from the black and white square-flooring in the games and hang-out quarter, and the blood red
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flooring in the amphitheater (my label), was the ocean blue floor. The old gray floor had been hidden by a color like that of the Caribbean.
“There’s Mountaintop.” Alysa said pulling me toward the stage where at least half of the other kids were making their way.
“Who’s that?” I had never heard of the group. I assumed from her earlier promotion, the three guys taking the stage were Mountaintop. I imagined they believed their music led their listeners to well, a mountaintop experience.
“Frank Mayer, Phil Barrett, and Lance Stevenson, three local boys who are headed for the big time.” Alysa said nodding at a group of middle school looking kids. Out of nowhere appeared the blond stallion (my label). Josh must have seen us, and so it happened, he just needed to walk to the stage. I could not help but notice how he quickly grabbed and released Alysa’s left hand as he squeezed through the bottleneck created by the eager middle-schoolers. I made another mental note to be bold enough tonight after lights out to ask my sweet sister how long she planned on living after Queen Radford found out she was trying to steal her boyfriend.
“Why?” It was always a great question.
“Huh?” Alysa said as we sat in chairs that reminded me of my one trip to the Aratani Theatre in Los Angles with its soft reclining chairs. Josh’s touch had obviously enamored my best but gullible friend. She was probably imaging sneaking backstage with the superstar and writing a song of their own. I chose to ignore her non-response.
While the three nerdy-looking guys situated themselves and their electronic gear, Ben walked from backstage, gave a thumbs up to the band, asked everyone to take a seat and calm down. He pointed to the first five or six rows which seemed to be dominated by middle-schoolers. “Welcome Fusion, what a night we have planned. There is a little change in order but do not despair, it’s all good. Mountaintop will sing a couple of songs and then we will break for our snack supper. Eat fast, because at 6:15 I want you seated and silent in The Sea (Alysa whispered this was the name of the Caribbean section). Be sure to print your name in the front of your new book. It will be there when you arrive. After about fifteen minutes at the most, I will release you and Mountaintop will continue its concert. Please note, Game-Time will be closed tonight to avoid ball-knocking.” Ben turned to the band and said, “okay guys, let’s rock the house for Jesus.”
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“Ball-knocking.” I could not help but laugh. The closing of the game area seemed a little unfair for those who disliked music, but I guess word-knocking took precedence. At least tonight.
I should not have been surprised that Mountaintop opened with “Alive” by Hillsong Young and Free. Alysa’s look, a wide smile and raised eyebrows, made me wonder if she was imagining her broken heart being mended and lifted higher by Josh’s strong and tender arms.
The group was good, despite the young and studious look of the three performers. I distracted Alysa long enough to learn they were all ninth graders and had already cut their first CD. I think she was referring to the group when she said, “focus.” But, with the eardrum bursting volume, she could have said, “hocus-pocus.” I muffled a laugh.
By the first “oh oh oh,” most of Fusion was on their feet waving their hands back and forth in unison. No doubt, praising the Savior. Alysa insisted I stand, but I was not much of a swinger, so I folded my hands together and held them in front of my mouth. Oh God, oh, oh, ‘you are my freedom.’ Right now, where I was, my words made total sense. With what I was hearing and seeing, Fusion was the only star in the sky. It was a lighthouse next to a raging ocean. I closed my eyes and wondered whether its light pointed to deliverance or to delusion.
After “Alive, with only a “let us go higher and higher” shout-out by Lance Stevenson (thanks Alysa), Mountaintop launched into a song I had never heard.
“This is “Run Wild” by King & Country.” I barely heard Alysa say above the screaming of two girls directly behind us. It did not take long for me to conclude Mountaintop’s second selection was also about freedom. That must be a Fusion thing. ‘Don’t you want to run wild, live free, love strong, you and me.’ When I heard these words repeated in the chorus, I concluded the song was for everyone whose ‘soul was locked in a cage,’ anyone locked in a ‘prison of their past mistakes.’ The song ended and I asked myself. “What mistake had I made? Was my very existence a mistake?”
After Mountaintop ended its second song, Ben immediately reappeared, this time standing on the ground floor beneath the stage. “Okay Fusion, head to the cafeteria for your snack supper. Eat fast and head to The Sea. I will see you there straight up 6:15.”
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I was glad Alysa stayed put as two waves of teenagers, one high schoolers and the other middle school kids, ran across the game section and through the set of double doors in the far right corner I had seen earlier. As Alysa and I followed the other hundred kids, I noticed it was a large room with several rows of tables. The cafeteria. Several volunteers of all ages were handing out paper sacks as we entered. Barrels of iced-down can drinks were positioned at all four corners of the giant room. After we grabbed a Diet Coke, Alysa found a table in the center of the room already filled with six girls pretty as her. “Hey gang, this is Cullie, one of my younger sisters.” Alysa, always the mature one. “Some of you know her, some don’t. Please love her like you love me.” Alysa covered her mouth after a hearty laugh triggered the release of a generous wad of saliva. “Oh, sorry. But seriously as to my request.” I smiled and sat down by a busty Hispanic girl with the prettiest white teeth I think I have ever seen.
The volunteers gave us only ten minutes to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a bag of Lay’s Classic potato chips, and a mini-moon pie. I was hungry and the food was good, but it seemed a little expensive for $5.00. Where’s the beef?
At the trash, Alysa kept talking to a woman I did not know so I trailed off with my new Hispanic friend, Andre Gomez. She was quiet, polite, and thoughtful. I wondered why and how she had become a varsity cheerleader.
“Let’s sit here. It’s less conspicuous.” Andrea said, pointing to the far-left corner of the circle. “This section gets less attention for some reason. Probably because the football team and the cheerleaders sit up-front all-around pastor Ben.” I almost felt like I was walking on water as we passed a center aisle dividing the circle.
When we reached Andrea’s chosen spot there was a book in the seat of each chair. It had a sheet of paper clipped to the front hiding the book’s cover. I picked mine up and sat down. The typed note read, “The Purpose Driven Life will become the second most important book in your life, next to the Bible of course. Consume TPDL, digest it, and let it reveal your life’s purpose. I urge you to find a friend to join us on this forty-day journey as we march forth learning ‘What on earth am I here for?’”
I removed the paperclip, folded the sheet of paper, and tucked it toward the back of the book. I had heard of Rick Warren. Pastor
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Miller had mentioned him and his phenomenal influence during this morning’s sermon. But I had never been exposed to Warren’s blockbuster book. I opened it and flipped a couple of pages and saw it was first printed in 2002, the year before I was born. I could not help but think it was the year my mom was viciously raped, and I was conceived. December 23, 2002 to be exact. A wave of nausea rolled across my stomach. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back trying to redirect my thoughts. I tried to predict the meaning of The Purpose Driven Life. I heard an “okay gang” from the center stage and opened my eyes, still looking upward. There, flat against the bright sunshine colored concrete ceiling was a banner that read, “The Sea is a wonderful place for students and leaders to Encounter Jesus and Respond with their Lives!” I noted that both Encounter and Respond were printed boldly and underlined. I lowered my head, looked toward the knee-high rectangular stage, and saw Ben standing next to the same woman Alysa had been talking to at the trash bin.
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Chapter 7
“I’m going to make this quick since I promised Mountaintop the last 90 minutes. Pastor Miller said you guys must be out of here by 8:00 p.m. since tomorrow is the first day of school.
Okay, take your new book and turn to the Dedication page. Flip past the two title pages and it is on the right side. The premise of Rick Warren’s book, just like the Bible, is that you are no accident, God chose to create you and to give you a purpose. You are not here by some cosmic random chance.
Over the next forty days we are going to take a journey, your own individual journey, and our journey as Fusion. Like Jesus’ forty days and forty nights in the wilderness, you likewise will invest this same amount of time into investigating your own mission. When you finish, you will know your individual purpose, what you should focus on the remaining days of your life.”
Without introduction, Ben handed his microphone to Alysa’s female friend from the trash bin. She was an average looking woman, probably a few years younger than Ben. She had short black hair with bangs she kept tossing out of her eyes. Standing beside Ben, she looked about my five-foot six-inch height, since the top of her head did not quite reach his shoulders. As to her shape, for some reason I sensed that she at one time had been much more attractive. Now, she continued to carry around twenty or thirty extra pounds from a set of eight-year-old twin girls (Faith and Hope, per Andrea’s whisper). Since I first saw her and Alysa, she had pulled on a crimson-colored tee-shirt with gray lettering that read, “Focus, Faith, and Finish.” I had seen several of the Fusion teenagers wearing the same shirt. I had also seen “Go Pirates” written across the shoulders. I could not help but
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wonder whether the “Faith” component of the school’s motto was an ominous sign of what I would encounter starting tomorrow.
“Hey guys. For those who do not know me, I am Cathy White, wife of music minister Rob White. I am also the new job coach at Boaz High School. So, you may be thinking, ‘why is she here as Ben introduces The Purpose Driven Life?’ There are two reasons. The first is Ben wants someone at school available to answer questions that might arise during the week as you go on this journey. Oh, for you middle-schoolers, I’ll be in the counselor’s office at your school and available for you during seventh period. And, as long afterwards as needed.
As to the second reason I am involved, Ben feels many of you high schoolers will want special guidance on matching your interests and talents to a part-time job. My role is to teach and train you how to make good decisions when it comes to employment. Please know my door is always open to you, no matter what your concern or question. My office is straight through the wall from the backside of Principal King’s, but there is an easier way to enter. Just come through the first door past the school office as you head down the first-floor hallway. It is the old supply closet that was recently renovated. Thank goodness. Blessings on each of you and I look forward to meeting you.”
I asked Andrea how she knew Mrs. White. “My friend Skylar babysit her girls a few times. I don’t know her myself.”
While Ben and Mrs. White conversed in a low tone, I asked Andrea another question. “Are you looking for a job?”
She giggled so loud Alysa and several others from the front row turned and looked our way. “That’s funny. When would I have time? I have a job. It is called cheerleading. Shame it doesn’t pay since I stay broke.”
Ben and Cathy finished their private exchange. The group laughed when Ben reached out to shake her hand as she tried to return the microphone. “We appreciate you Cathy. Okay gang, just one other thing. I want you to repeat these words to yourself when you go to bed tonight: “I am no accident. God had me in mind before He created the universe. He planned my birth and every one of my days, including the day I die. He created me with a special purpose all my own.”
I was scanning the book’s Table of Contents when I heard a familiar voice shout my name from somewhere behind Ben. “Cullie,
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Cullie. Does this include you? Were you an accident?” I felt my face turn as red as the floor in the amphitheater and saw dozens of kids turn to stare.
Immediately, Ben looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights. Damn cliché. “Okay Riley Radford, no one asked your opinion.” He removed his cell phone from the inside pocket of his sports coat and continued. “I see my time is up. It is 6:30 on the nose. I encourage each of you to start with Day 1 tomorrow, before school if possible. Let us give Rick Warren’s book our best effort. You’re dismissed.” As everyone jumped to their feet and started making their way to the Mountaintop concert, I saw Ben motion toward Riley. I hoped he gave her a verbal lashing.
I did not have a clue who knew my past. But for some strange reason, it did not matter. All I could think was the audacity of Riley Radford and her questions. The bitch had the nerve to single me out before the entire group. I recalled how she stood up this morning during Sunday School assembly and started singing “Victory in Jesus.” She believes she is queen of Fusion, and Boaz High School for that matter. She probably believes her God given purpose is to rule and reign over everyone in her infinitely expanding circle.
Andrea stood and started walking away. Then, she turned and mouthed an, “I’m so sorry,” and asked if I was going to the concert. I waved her on. “I’ll catch up with you.”
As The Sea emptied, I stared at the floor imagining I was all alone on the Gulf of Mexico headed towards the Caribbean. As a wave of confidence rolled upward from my gut, I analogized my small boat riding a giant wave, a single wave on an otherwise tranquil ocean. I said to myself, “if Riley Radford has the damn audacity to plant her flag and declare her beliefs, why can’t I chart my own course?”
It was then I determined to answer Riley Radford’s question, “Was I an accident?”
During my two-plus years at Bethlehem Baptist I had often heard the Bible verse, “All things work together for good to those who love God, to those called according to His purpose.” Tonight, was the first time I had been told that years and years before I was ever conceived God had planned my days, all the days of my life, even the day of my death. This conflicted with what I had led myself to believe, that although I was conceived during my mom’s vicious rape, God could
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use that for good if I surrendered my life to him. In other words, God did not cause my pain. Now, I was being told to believe something radically different. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what Mom would tell me right now if she were here.
“Baby, if I could have prevented your pain and suffering, I would have. God, if He is all-knowing and all-powerful, could have done so without any effort. But He chose not to. Either God does not care for His children or He is incapable of doing what any good parent would do. If it is the latter, then He is not all-powerful. Thus, He’s not the Christian God.”
I smiled, opened my eyes, and shouted as loud as Riley Radford had done when she singled me out: “I don’t know the answer, but I’m determined to find out.” To my surprise, no one looked my way. Everyone was already enthralled with Mountaintop. My shouting subsided and I whispered a question to myself wishing the queen were in front of me: “Riley, was it an accident that my mom killed your father?”
“Come on.” As I gritted my teeth and steeled my mind, I heard Alysa yell from across The Sea. The last thing I wanted was to rock back and forth to multiple choruses with raised hands praising Jesus. I motioned for her to meet me halfway.
“You stay and enjoy the concert. I think I will go sit in the car. I need to be alone.”
“I’m sorry about Riley Radford. She is such a bitch. I wish Ben would ban her from Fusion.” Alysa said as Mountaintop turned up the volume.
“Thanks, but that’ll never happen. I looked toward the elevator and saw Andrea. “Later.” I left Alysa and walked toward my newest friend, maybe my only friend beside family.
When I caught up with her, I noticed she was crying. “Hey, what’s wrong?” I did not want to pry but I already felt a real closeness to the sweet, kind, and gentle girl.
“My dearest friend, Skylar Simmons, was raped and choked to death. I just heard these horrible details. I have to go home.” As she looked at me and tears rolled down her face the elevator door opened.
I ignored my confusion over how quickly Andrea had been given this news. “Oh, that’s horrible.” I did not know what else to say as we walked inside.
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“She was my absolute best friend even though she was three years younger. We grew up as neighbors.”
We were out of the building and halfway across the parking lot before we exchanged another word. “Maybe I’ll see you at school tomorrow.” I said as she stopped and unlocked the door of an older model Ford Taurus.
“Sounds good. By the way, I am taking your mom’s creative writing class. You too?” She asked.
“It’s a necessity. Good to hear you’re interested in writing.” For a moment I forgot about a person I despised, Riley Radford, and someone I would have saved if I could, Skylar Simmons, and asked Andrea a somewhat selfish question. “You want to have lunch together tomorrow? You know creative writing is the last period of the morning.”
Andrea’s tears had subsided, and her smile exposed her beautiful teeth. “I’d like that. I really need a good friend.”
“Me too. See you at school tomorrow. I said, as she sat in her car and rolled down the window.
As I walked away, she got back out of her car and asked me if I needed a ride home. I agreed. After leaving Alysa a note in her Camry, I learned that Andrea also lived in Sardis City, in the Horton Circle subdivision. During our fifteen-minute drive, I learned a lot more, including that she did not feel like she fit in. She regretted trying out for varsity cheerleader at the end of last year. She said that Skylar had encouraged her saying that she was the prettiest and most athletic girl among all those others trying out. When Andrea dropped me off, she again said that she was sorry about what fellow cheerleader Riley Radford had done to me. “She’s a rudderless boat if you ask me.” I smiled, thanked her for the ride, and told her I looked forward to lunch tomorrow.
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Chapter 8
Alysa’s snoring was in overdrive when I slipped out of bed at 5:00 a.m. Even without a bedside clock or a peak at my iPhone, I knew what time it was. I wish I knew the scientific reason why I no longer needed an alarm clock to tell me when to wake up. I suspect it was more complicated than “How to Change Anything in 3 Short Weeks.” This was the tagline for The 21 Day Miracle book I had discovered on Google last night lying in bed trying not to follow Ben’s instructions on what to say and repeat to myself.
I shed my silky pajamas and put on my most comfortable jogging shorts and an old faded New York Knick’s tee shirt. After a short trip to our adjoining bathroom to pee, splash cold water on my face, and notice a brand-new pimple in the middle of my chin, I grabbed my sneakers and headed for the kitchen. Like the last two school years, my early morning routine would include a walk to the pond, assuming my writing session had been successful. Man, that was an ever-moving target.
As I reached for my favorite mug, I noticed a sheet of paper lying next to the coffeemaker with its half-filled pot. Apparently, Mom had already come and gone to her spot above the garage. I read as I added Hazelnut creamer and three Splendas to my quart-size cup. The one-page document was an outline of a talk Wayne had presented to his deputies and detectives. It was dated October 18, 2018, nearly a year ago. About a third of the way down the page was a line highlighted in yellow. It read, “question everything, including your question.” I guess Mom thought her age-old saying would mean more to me if it came
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from Wayne. She knew how much I loved and respected her husband and now my father.
I grabbed the document and my coffee and headed toward the back door. As I passed through the great room, I saw The Purpose Driven Life book lying on the coffee table where I had left it last night. It instantly reminded me of two things: Riley Radford and last night’s dastard act, and my pre-sleep research. In addition to The 21 Day Miracle book, I had asked Amazon if there were other books that used the 40 day troupe. To my surprise, there were dozens. I had stopped after looking through a two or three-page listing. I recalled a few: 40 Day Spiritual Journey to a more Generous Life; The Forty-Day Word Fast: A Spiritual Journey to Eliminate Toxic Words From Your Life; 40-day Journey With Maya Angelou; 40-Day Journey with Dietrich Bonhoeffer; 40 Days of Angels: My Spiritual Journey to Peace, Fulfillment, Happiness, Success and Security, and my favorite, one I half-intended to investigate, Claim Your Power: A 40-Day Journey to Dissolve the Hidden Trauma That’s Kept You Stuck and Finally Thrive in Your Life’s Unique Purpose. By the time I reached the pool house and my make-shift desk, I had figuratively tossed Warren’s 40-day spiritual journey into the trash can with all its other sister journeys.
I tucked Wayne’s document inside Warren’s book and booted-up my laptop. It was always my practice (thanks Mom) to reread what I had written the day before. I do this over-and-over until I feel I can continue. Sometimes, this takes thirty-minutes or more. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how I look at it, today’s first reading did not take but a few minutes. Yesterday was not very productive. Come to think of it, hardly a single day in the past month had been productive. My little story, what I had dubbed Revenge until I could come up with a better title, had floundered since the beginning.
It kept splintering into new and seemingly disconnected plot lines. My initial idea was about two boys, seventh graders and best friends, who had someway discovered their two ninth-grade sisters had been raped by the high school football star. Star as in he was being highly recruited by every SEC football team. I had now written nearly twenty-thousand words and even if I were brave enough to show it to Mom, she would find some way to stretch the truth and find something redeemable. I was glad I would spend the next year in her creative writing class.
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During my third reread, I became flustered and considered deleting my file or storing in a folder titled, “shit to keep buried.” I think my problem is my lack of creativity. My shit-story was no doubt rooted in Mom and Cindy’s ordeal that happened during my ninth-grade year. Repeating stuff to myself as I often do, in 2002 Mom had been raped by five locals, all prominent men including Warren Tillman, the then pastor of First Baptist Church of Christ. Mom had chosen to ignore the violent attack because of me, a direct product of that incident. It was not until fourteen years later when Mom and I moved from New York City to Boaz and her and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker had become fast friends that her buried memories resurfaced. If Cindy had not been raped by assistant principal Patrick Wilkins, I am certain Mom would have kept silent and allowed me to continue believing my father was Colton Lee Brunner, her long ago boyfriend from Los Angeles. But, that’s not what happened. In a sense, Mom and Cindy had gotten their revenge even though it was never determined who had killed Patrick Wilkins. All Mom would ever say about his death was that “sometimes you reap what you sow.”
After moving Revenge to the newly created shit folder, Skylar Simmons suddenly ran across my mind, almost literally. My mind had created the image of the sweet and innocent ninth grader running for her life. I guess it was Andrea’s words last night during our drive home that did it. Skylar’s nude body was found lying face up next to a railroad track. I imagined her feet were bloody from running through the woods. I closed my eyes and wondered who on earth would have killed Skylar? Even if a man raped a girl or woman, which was unimaginably horrible, but for him to kill her put the bastard into the worst category of evil.
My mind was fixated on a Hitler-looking older man when my iPhone vibrated. I still did not like the idea of bringing it with me to my writing desk, but it was a rule Mom had no desire to amend. After my kidnapping in the ninth grade, she had bought an earlier version of the iPhone 10 and threated me with lifelong grounding if I did not keep it with me. ALWAYS.
Alysa’s text read, “Good morning you 12th grade beauty. Take time to read Day 1. It’s awesome.”
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I typed a response to Alysa: “Good morning my dearest friend. I am headed to the pond. Join me.” Just as I was about to click the SEND button Wayne’s advice stopped me. A question quickly formed. If God is all-powerful, all-loving, all-knowing, and as Mr. Warren asserts, planned every second of my life years before I was ever conceived, how in blooming heck does evil exist? What sick person would plan for my mom to get violently raped when she was twenty-nine years old? Even if God did not directly cause evil, why would He allow it? The refrain, ‘God never allows pain without a purpose,” seemed so senseless. And, to top it off, if God is all-powerful and all-knowing, why couldn’t he shuffle things enough to allow me (and every one of His children) to avoid the evil? Then it dawned on me. If God has planned out everything from the beginning, some call this predestination, then He is not powerful enough to change what he KNOWS is going to happen. But I can change my mind right now. I deleted my text to Alysa, abandoned my plan to go to the pond, and reached for Warren’s book resting quietly on the pine shelves. I was sensing there was a fly in the ointment. Damn cliché.
Day 1, “It All Starts with God.” It did not take but a few seconds to halt. It was Warren’s statement, “You were born by his purpose and for his purpose.” Couldn’t God have found a better way to bring me into this world? Why not a sexless conception, like the Virgin Mary? Since Wayne’s advice kept raising its head, I reached for a yellow pad and started a list, “Things to Question/Research: 1) Was Mary really a virgin when she gave birth to Jesus?” I could have generated several more questions on this same subject, but I was getting sidetracked. I had a feeling this was going to be a long list. I returned to Day 1.
After reading all five pages and highlighting a few statements, I returned to the beginning. I had ignored two quotes Warren had included under the Chapter title. He wrote that the famous scientist, Bertrand Russell, had said, “Unless you assume a God, the question of life’s purpose is meaningless.” Warren had labeled Russell an atheist. I reread the chapter and again came back to Russell’s statement. Wasn’t Warren making the same assumption to reach his conclusion that life’s purpose is meaningful and necessarily comes from God?
All throughout the chapter, Warren had quoted a plethora of Bible verses. Here’s a few: “For everything, absolutely everything above and below, visible and invisible …. Everything got started in him and finds
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its purpose in him.”; “It is God who directs the lives of his creatures; everyone’s life is in his power.”; “It’s in Christ that we find out who we are and what we are living for. Long before we first heard of Christ and got our hopes up, he had his eye on us, had designs on us for glorious living, part of the overall purpose he is working out in everything and everyone.”
No doubt Warren was assuming the Bible was true, that it was the very words of God. He had even called it “our Owner’s Manual.” I paused to consider the logic of what the writer was contending: The Bible is true because God wrote it. God is real because the Bible says so. I could have said, the Bible is God’s word because the Bible says so. This is the perfect example of circular reasoning (where the debater starts with the same thing that she finally ends up with) something I had learned in an 8th grade logic class when I lived in New York City.
It was clear The Purpose Driven Life was written for those who had already concluded the Christian God was the one and only real God, unlike what Muslims and Hindus would contend, and that everything in the Bible was rock-solid true. Warren assumed each of his readers would make the same assumption. So far at least, Warren had not provided any evidence that his assumption was warranted. He had not provided any reason to the skeptic that God even exists or that the Bible is trustworthy.
I stood and walked to the door leading to the pool. Through the nine-lite opening, the brilliantly blue water reminded me of The Sea in the church’s basement. Listening to the steady hum of the pump three steps away created an analogy in my mind. Thanks to Wayne, I had learned the pump is the heart of the swimming pool’s circulation system. It pulls water from the pool through the skimmer and main drain, pushes it through the filter, and returns it to the pool through the main returns. I imagined that Alysa and probably every other Fusion member who had this morning begun their 40-day journey, unequivocally believed the Bible is the heart of the Christian life (owner’s manual per Warren), that it pulls wisdom from an infinitely wise God into a less than clean human mind, and pushes it through the Holy Spirit’s indwelling filter to provide peace, contentment, even fun to those who believe and pursue God’s purposes (analogous to those in the clean and pure bright blue water of the swimming pool).
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I almost digressed into a critic of my imperfect analogy but let it go when I sensed my time was up. I activated my iPhone and saw that it was 6:40 a.m. I had to hurry. Last night I had promised Alysa I would be ready to leave by 7:00. She wanted to be at her second-floor locker fifteen minutes before class began. I had been unsuccessful in my effort to persuade her to disclose her reason. Walking into the great room I decided I knew Alysa’s goal: to do her best to orchestrate herself and a certain pathway, a journey of another sort, that would cause an accidental touching of a certain hand belonging to a certain preacher’s son. Yep, I knew what my big sister was up to.
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Chapter 9
All I could think about as Alysa drove us to school in her spotless Camry was how it had transformed from late last night’s multi-layered dust bowl to the current slick and polished dream car. The reason became clear when Arlon and Anita from the backseat kept demanding Alysa pay the five dollars, she owed them. After several miles of trying to listen to “Alive” above the constant thunder from the backseat, Alysa pulled into the parking lot at Boaz Glass, dug two Lincoln’s out of her purse, and tossed them over her shoulder. I cannot remember seeing my usually calm and collected roommate so upset. I wondered if her and her secret boyfriend had a spout.
As we sat in line at the middle school to drop off Arlon, I wondered how Mrs. Owens was going to help me resolve my class schedule. While Alysa barked first day school reminders to, as she put it, “her three younger siblings, I reminded myself how I had gotten into this pickle. The problem rested firmly in the Alabama Department of Education’s graduation requirements. It made no exception. To graduate, the student had to have 24 approved credits. For some insane reason, Boaz High School would not accept “All Things Intricate and Beautiful” that I had taken last year at Sardis High. Nor, would the BHS curriculum czar allow my tenth grade Consumer Math course to occupy one of the twenty-four slots. Thanks to Mom, Mrs. Owens had gotten a little creative early last week when she agreed that if I took AP Biology, and Pre-Calculus I could leave school at 2:00 p.m. and earn the final credit if I could find an employer to meet the school’s cooperative education requirements. But that still left me one credit short.
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It was 7:22 a.m. when we finally wormed our way to the high school. Clearly, traffic was going to be an issue given the proximity of the middle school to the high school. Alysa kept saying, “tomorrow we’re leaving the house at 6:45.” I had insisted Alysa drop me off at the closest access point to the main office. Still ruffled, this delayed her even more from parking in the student parking lot and getting upstairs to her locker. But she did smile and mouth, “good luck,” as I exited the car.
When I walked inside the school office, Mrs. Owens was standing behind the long counter drinking coffee (I assumed) from a crimson-colored cup with the Triple F phrase emblazoned along its side. Scattered along both sides of her toward the ends of the counter were several sets of two, standing across from each other looking at documents and engaging in what appeared to be deep discussion. “Have you got a few minutes?” I asked Mrs. Owens as she looked left and right as though supervising the operation.
“I’ve been waiting on you. Follow me.” Mrs. Owens pointed towards her office. I passed through a set of chest-high swinging gates and headed to the far corner of the room. From the signs above the three doors I could tell her office was sandwiched between the principal and assistant principal’s offices. “Sit down.” She motioned me into one of two chairs across from her cluttered desk. “I think we have your scheduling issue resolved. I have to say your mom is creative.”
“Uh, I don’t understand.” I loved Mom but sometimes she is too protective, interjecting herself where I should be making my own way.
“Thank God, over the weekend Joe Marsh made his decision.” Mrs. Owens said, looking over my shoulder and saying, “the blue form, not the green,” to one of the student’s helping with scheduling problems.
I was even more confused. And, I wondered exactly what God had to do with it. “Who is Joe Marsh?” I asked.
“I’m surprised. I figured you knew him. Your mom didn’t tell you?” Apparently, the student assistants were not well trained since ever few seconds another one appeared for color guidance.
I looked at my iPhone and noticed it was 7:29. I needed to go or I’d be late for first period. I quickly surrendered and said, “okay, so what’s the solution. I am about to be tardy for Mrs. Vickers’ class.
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“Oh, don’t worry. Julie, Mrs. King, has not arrived. She got into a little fender bender on Highway 431. No one can do the announcements but her.” I had met the principal before. Mom liked her and had made me promise I would get to know her better as the year went by. Mom did not actually say, but I got the sense that Mrs. King was ‘a progressive thinker,’ one of Mom’s favorite but little used sayings.
I felt a little perky, so I said, “is there any way for me to know what’s going on with my schedule?”
“Oh sorry.” Mrs. Owens was clearly distracted with the behind-my-back maneuvering or she was solidly incompetent. “I’m so scattered today. Joe Marsh, again, I am surprised you do not know him, just retired from the Sheriff’s Department, and has decided to accept Mrs. King’s offer to teach Forensic & Criminal Investigation. It’s a new class we’ve wanted to offer for two years but just couldn’t find the right person.”
It then dawned on me. J.M. must be Joe Marsh. I had never heard his name but had often heard Wayne talk about the old, crusty detective that, “would put Sherlock Holmes to shame.” I paused thinking how lucky I was to have the Marshall County Sheriff as my father. “So, to be clear, that’s my new class, second period?”
“Yes, that’ll complete your academic schedule. That is six classes. Your mom told me you still do not have a job lined up. Cullie, I assume you know you need to earn seven credits this year to graduate. Your seventh period cooperative class requires you have a participating employer by no later than the end of this first week of school.”
“I know. I am working on it. I have had several interviews but no luck. It seems like when I tell the employers there is some paperwork involved in being an approved company they balk.”
Mrs. Owens stood and walked behind me. I heard the door close and the sound of a deadbolt shaft sliding forward. “Sink or swim, I’ve spent two sessions with those Beta Club girls last Thursday and Friday. They’re so afraid of making a mistake.”
“They probably don’t want to disappoint you.” I tried to defend the four girls who I did not know but had seen three of them last night at Fusion.
Mrs. Owens returned to her desk and punched three numbers into her desk phone after cradling it to her ear. “Hi Cathy, do you have
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time to meet with Cullie Sims, Mrs. Waldrup’s daughter, maybe, say, 10:30?” I ignored the innocent last name mistake and concluded the curriculum coordinator was calling the new job coach, Mrs. White, the woman who was Ben’s school-campus contact for what I assumed were all-things God related. Mrs. Owens cradled her phone and gave me an affirmative nod. “See Cathy, Mrs. White, before you go to your Creative Writing class. She’s our new job coach and should be able to help you make the needed work connections before the end of the week.”
There was a weak knocking at the door behind me as I stood to leave. Mrs. Owens nearly knocked her coffee mug over as she pushed back from her desk and walked past me. “Come in here.” Darlene, according to her name badge, seemed ready to cry as she walked in and stood before my chair as I weaved my way between them and quickly exited the main office.
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Chapter 10
After creative writing class, Andrea encouraged me to go to the lunchroom and wait for her at the table next to the steamed vegetables bar. “It smells yucky. Nobody ever sits there.” She had to see Carol Bonds, one of the physical education instructors and cheer coach, in the gymnasium to get fitted for the newly designed cheerleader sweater. And, to drop off a deposit check. It was hard to imagine the weather would ever be cold enough to wear a sweater given the record heat that began last May.
I was amazed at the size of the high school lunchroom. It was half as big as a football field and bore the Pirate colors. The left half was filled with crimson-colored tables, each stuffed with at least six or seven students. The concrete floor was painted gray. The right side was just the opposite as far as the colors. The floor was crimson and the walls, except the windows, were gray. Scattered throughout the right half was a dozen or more food bars, each clearly identified with a large rectangular-shaped sign (crimson background, gray lettering) that hung above each station. I spotted “Steamed Vegetables” along the back wall beside the floor to ceiling windows. As predicted, the nearest table was empty. I started to venture an S-shaped route to sneak a peek from the “Pizza” and “Salad/Fruit” bars but changed my mind when I saw the side view of a glistening red head dipping what I suspected was Ranch dressing into a Styrofoam cup. Her plate was already filled with several thick-crusted triangles. After placing her dipping sauce on a gray tray, Riley Radford turned toward the “Pirate Fountain.” Her knee-length shorts fit snuggly displaying an enviable rear end. I headed straight for the smelly broccoli.
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At Table 47, with my back to the windows, I fought the urge to look around. I lost the skirmish. Two tables diagonally in the direction of the middle school, I saw Josh Miller sitting with six varsity cheerleaders, including Alysa but excluding Riley and Andrea. There was an empty seat beside him. No doubt awaiting the queen bee. With only eight seats available, I wondered where my newest friend would sit if she was not eating with me. Sometimes my mind tried to answer questions that had not been asked.
I reigned in my eyes and opened Photos on my iPhone; I was glad the school superintendent last week had changed his policy on smart phones. His new directive was terse: “Electronic devices are permitted as long as they serve an educational purpose.” I suspected he was in for a rude surprise as to how teenagers defined education.
In Mr. Marsh’s class I had snapped a photo of a slide from a quick PowerPoint presentation he had made. The short and stocky gray-headed man with a ponytail had started his first class with a question, “How can I improve my detective skills?” Although we did not know each other I had detected (yea!) he was addressing me when our eyes connected two times and he seemed to smile. I almost felt guilty for my earlier aggravation over Mom’s interference in my life. Now, I was grateful she had. Both her and Wayne knew how interested I was in becoming an investigator. I assume Mom, maybe even Wayne, had mentioned me at Mr. Marsh’s retirement party Saturday night. Now, it was all starting to make sense.
“It’s no accident you find yourself alone next to the sewer.” I heard my arch enemy say as she traversed the long route to her table. Riley had made her announcement as she walked the narrow lane between the “Steamed Vegetables” bar and the windows as she approached my table.
I decided on a grownup response. “Hey sister, you’re looking good today. You better order a size larger sweater if you are going to keep eating all those calories. Darn, am I seeing your tummy bulge already?” I normally wouldn’t have said a thing but her last night’s challenge had lit a fire in my gut.” Riley rolled her eyes and walked away.
I returned my gaze to my iPhone and Mr. Marsh’s slide:
“1. Give Yourself Monthly or Daily Challenges That Force You to Slow Down.

Take Field Notes to Focus Your Attention.
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Briefly Meditate Daily.
Analyze What You See or Read, and Ask Questions; and,
Form Connections Between What You See and What You Know.”
It sounded like great advice, especially the latter. All this fit with what Wayne had told me multiple times, “becoming an expert observer is the key to becoming a great detective.”
It was not but a couple of minutes before Andrea entered the lunchroom. She quickly spotted me and headed my way. The closer she came the more she looked sickly, shaken. Her normally beautiful face with bright white teeth revealing a constant smile was hidden. Present was a ghostly white tone. She was coming to tell me she did not feel well and could not stay for lunch. Twenty feet before reaching Table 47 she turned left towards Josh and the cheerleaders. I watched as she handed Alysa something, maybe a note, and then stood next to Riley for a brief conversation. After a few seconds, I heard an indecipherable groan from all seven-seated cheerleaders as though it was a planned chorus to Andrea’s song. I saw Josh shaking his head sideways as my new friend turned and walked my way.
“Let’s eat.” Andrea said, sitting her book bag in the middle of the table. She did not stop to receive my response, not that I had one.
I followed her to the salad bar and alternated between glancing at her and filling the too-small Styrofoam container with mostly Romaine lettuce, carrots, celery, and more carrots. I love carrots. Andrea’s beautiful face gradually returned to a rich caramel, a slightly darker color than the chewy candy Mom made from caramelized sugar, butter, and milk. I would give up a year of writing for her skin tone. I think she noticed me staring, maybe read my mind when she tossed a friendly smile my way. After drowning what Wayne referred to as “rabbit food” with Thousand Island dressing, I grabbed ten packs of crackers and headed back to our table.
“You want some milk?” I had planned on drinking from my water bottle but did not want to say no.
“Yes, thanks. Make mine chocolate.”
I already had a mouthful of carrots and was trying to open a pack of crackers when Andrea arrived. She sat and bowed her head. I assumed she was praying. Finally, she looked up at me, again smiled,
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and said, “Praise Jesus, I’m free.” I just stared, rejecting proper etiquette, instead, taring open the darn crackers with my teeth.
“Why did you go to jail in the first place?” I decided to respond as a detective or lawyer might.
“Funny. I quit the squad.” Andrea said, opening her milk container while sliding the chocolate one over to me.
“Squad?” I figured I knew what she was referring to.
“I’m no longer a cheerleader. Thank God. After studying Day 1 this morning I finally got the courage. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for weeks.”
“Why?” Possibly the most powerful question ever.

The Boaz Stalker–1st ten chapters

Chapter 1

“Buddy? Buddy Hawkins? Is that you?” I had just removed my printed receipt from the gas pump at 431 Shell and turned to go inside for a bottle of water. I was tired after a four-hour non-stop drive from Knoxville. He was just standing there, being polite, I guess. I knew him instantly, even after 46 years.

“The one and only. Best damn running back in Boaz history. And, you were the best quarterback.” His speech belied his clothes and his mangy-looking gray hair.

“I can’t believe I move back to Boaz and the first person I see is my old teammate. You really surprised me.” I said, knowing I wouldn’t dare talk to someone who looked as desperate and forsaken if he hadn’t been one of my best friends in high school.

“Carl Stallings. Looks like you’ve done better than me. That’s a nice car to be sleeping in.” At first, his statement confused me. But then I realized he was confessing to being homeless. He was telling the truth. His words matched his looks.

Buddy walked over to me and gave me a big hug before I could resist. The smell literally made me gag. It was nearly as bad as when I discovered Goose behind the wood shed two days after she went missing. Best Golden Retriever I ever had even if she was named after a girlfriend who ditched me in the eleventh grade. “Wow, Buddy, you smell like the inside of a pig’s gut.” I hoped we still shared a common bond, one built on the absence of bullshit and politeness.

“Carl, you’re the same old shit. Thanks for not evolving into a damn hypocrite. Yes, I’m fallen on some hard times, homeless, sleeping around.” It was the same old Buddy Hawkins laugh I could identify at midnight on a moonless night. It was like thunder-laced lightning, whatever the hell that was. We both stepped back towards my Tahoe to avoid an over-sized Ford pickup.

“Buddy, I’d love to talk more but I’m running late for an appointment. Where can I find you? It might be tomorrow, but I’d love to catch up.” I was halfway lying and that’s something I hated to do. The half-truth of my words revealed good memories of playing football with, as Buddy had claimed, the best running back in Boaz football history. All our four years sharing adjoining lockers in the field house had convinced me Buddy Hawkins excelled at two things: running back of course and having the uncanny ability to recognize bullshit.

“I’m sensing a medium size serving of what comes out the rear end of your dad’s old Angus bull.” Buddy said with a grin revealing the yellowish teeth I’d ever seen.

“No, well heck, kind of, but only because you smell worse than the shit. What don’t we make a deal? You take a shower and we’ll share a meal at the Waffle house in the morning at 6:00 a.m.? Deal?”

“Give me ten bucks and I’ll smell like Gina Rollins always did in Mrs. Stamps Literature class. Remember?” Buddy’s memory had not been soiled. Gina was as ugly as any girl I’d ever seen but her generous coating of Revlon’s Charlie perfume made her smell good enough to eat like ice cream. I pulled out my wallet and gave Buddy a ten-dollar bill.

“Thanks, canny Carl, I’ll see you in the morning, hungry as a bear.” It was a nickname I had as quarterback. Again, Buddy’s memory was like a steel trap. “You better get going, fat boy Jones will fire your ass before you unpack your pencils.” How the heck did homeless Buddy know I had taken the job as superintendent of the newly formed Boaz Christian School? Maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was a lucky guess.

“Who are you talking about?” I already knew the answer to my question. Buddy had referred to William Jones, the youth pastor’s sidekick who had led me and Buddy, and most every kid in high school to surrender to the Lord Jesus Christ. And, he was right that Bill had put on a few pounds since his younger days.

“Word on the street is you be the head cheese of that new school on Sparks Avenue. They should have bulldozed our old elementary school, instead, spent a fortune turning it into a house of worship.” I was having trouble ending our conversation. Truthfully, I was late already to the meeting Jones had called for me to meet the entire school board.

“It a Christian school, not a church.” I said opening the door to my SUV.

“Same damn difference. Here’s a little advice for my old quarterback. You need to rethink that decision.”

“Which one is that?” I could see an opening, maybe one to open my way to leave.

“Becoming a full-time brainwasher. It ain’t right.” Buddy’s words reminded me of how, even before we graduated in 1972, he had rejected the church, faith and Christianity.

“Buddy, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you in the morning and don’t forget to clean up.” I slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door, looking back at Buddy giving me the middle finger.

I drove twice the speed limit and arrived five minutes past 1:00, lucky the five board members were all standing outside the school’s front door laughing at what I later learned was an off-color joke by William Jones.

Chapter 2

“Come in Brandon, and uh,” Attorney Dalton Martin paused when he saw a slender and shapely oriental woman emerge from behind the huge frame of Brandon ‘Homerun’ Hawkins.

“Sorry, you’ve never met. This is my wife, Anna Lee.” Brandon said as Dalton wished he hadn’t reached out to shake Brandon’s monster hand.

“Hi Anna. Nice to meet you. Come on in. Brandon you sit over there and Anna you sit here.” Dalton said as he always did before a real estate closing.

Dalton took a seat at the end of the giant conference room table. “It’s selfish of me but Brandon would you mind signing this baseball for my nephew. He’s a big fan of yours. As am I.”

“I’d be honored.” Brandon took the ball and pulled out an ink pen. This act was as common as breathing for the former Boaz High School pitcher. The six-foot six-inch gentle giant who broke every record, both locally and across the state, breaking his own high school record every year from 2008 to 2011 when he graduated and was drafted by the New York Yankees.

“Thanks. Okay, let’s get to it. I suspect you’ve got places to go and people to see. Before you start signing let me apologize for the delay. You’re New York lawyers added a little wrinkle that came as I was in the middle of a capital murder defense over in Jackson County. It wasn’t just the timing, it was also the oddity of the issue.” Dalton said wondering why he had even brought it up. He felt his words almost admitted he had been negligently late in preparing for what should have been a run-of-the-mill real estate closing.

“No problem. It’s all my fault. I wanted to make sure there wasn’t going to be a local revolt with me constructing and operating a secular school for underprivileged kids right across the street from the new Christian school.” Brandon said reaching out his giant paw across the table to a willing Anna.

“You got lucky. There’s now a majority of progressives on the Planning and Zoning Board and you are a local hero. Your sports stardom probably made the difference. Nearly a hundred percent of the residents in that rundown neighborhood showed up at City Hall to voice their support.”

Thirty minutes later, Brandon ‘Homerun’ Hawkins and Anna Lee exited the law offices of Bearden, Tanner & Martin with a deed for nearly three acres on the corner of Sparks Avenue and White Street made out to the newly organized Center for Secular Humanism.

“I think you all know Carl Stallings.” Bill Jones said as my mind carried me back to third grade, right about where I had been instructed to sit. The room, then, was Mrs. Chitwood’s. It backed up to Principal Steed’s office. The room, now, it appeared, doubled as a giant conference room and a small classroom complete with a wall full of the latest technological gadgets.

A tall and thin man with receding hairline stood and removed his sports jacket. He said, “Before we get started, Carl, do you know you still hold the Boaz record for pass completion percentage? And that’s after, what, nearly fifty years?”

“I graduated in 1972, so close to fifty, forty-six this past May.” I guessed this was a ploy to make me relax. I couldn’t figure why I would be nervous.

“Okay Pete, I’ve got another appointment at 2:00 so let’s focus on any questions you guys may have. To clarify, you guys and gals have already given me full authority to hire Carl, but to be fair and open, I wanted to give you a chance to vet him. Go ahead, see if you can stir up a skeleton or two.” Bill said shouting out a big laugh and grabbing the edge of the old oak conference table while leaning back in his chair.

“Why would you want this job, don’t you have a great job in Knoxville?” Pete asked.

“As principal and president of Knoxville Christian School I have been blessed beyond compare. But time has a way of uprooting us no matter our satisfaction. To be frank, I wouldn’t be here talking with you if it weren’t for mother. Her health is failing, and this is taking a huge toll on my sister Beverly.” I said wanting to be as honest and forthright as possible.

“Thanks for your openness. But, and sorry for your mom’s deteriorating health, it seems this could interfere with your responsibilities at Boaz Christian School?” An older woman who had to be Nancy Frasier, given the over-sized badge she was wearing. Even without it, I would have known her. She hadn’t changed one gray hair since high school when she was the school’s librarian.

“Mother’s health and all the natural implications from that could certainly create some real challenges, but, as I’ve discussed with Bill, I’ve been here before. I lost my wife Jennifer to cancer. That was a two-year battle. Not to brag, but I’m pretty good at multi-tasking.”

“Thanks Mr. Stallings and nice to meet you.” An athletic-looking man said from the far end of the table. “I’d like to hear your testimony. That’s kind of important since we are starting a Christian School.” He said with half a laugh. “Oh, by the way, I’m Bart Taylor, tenth grade Biology teacher.

“Nice to meet you Bart. You’ve thrown me a softball. No offense intended. It’s a short, short story. I was saved right here in Boaz at First Baptist Church of Christ. It was summer camp. I was in the sixth grade. Brother Randy Miller led me to the Lord. It was none other than our own Bill Jones who, a few years later, helped me fully commit. You should all know that Bill was just a volunteer with the youth group, but he made Randy Miller look awfully good. Ever since the tenth grade, I’ve dedicated my life to serving God. Of course, I’ve not always pleased Him, but I’ve never lost the desire to get back up and pursue my Master.”

“Thanks Carl, can I call you Carl?” Said a nice-looking young lady wearing a pink blouse a little lower cut than I would recommend for this type meeting. She had the curliest blond hair I think I’ve ever seen. Her blue eyes were stunning.

“Certainly, I hope we can all be on a first name basis. Can I ask your name?” I hoped I wasn’t being too forward.

“Brie, Brie Sutherland. I’ll be teaching Bible and Algebra, middle school grades.

“Nice to meet you Brie. Sorry, what was your question?” I knew she hadn’t asked me anything but wanted to take the high road.

“I’m so sorry about your wife. When did she die?” Brie asked.

“2016, June the tenth.”

“Please know my question doesn’t imply anything but I’ve heard it’s difficult for an older man, oh, that didn’t come out right, a more mature man. Sorry, I’m botching my question. Let me put it simply. Have you ever had desires for a teenage girl?” What a damn question. That was almost like asking me if I’d ever lied.

“Absolutely.” I said, thinking it permissible to respond boldly, even surprisingly stark-rate crazy.

“Oh my, can you explain?” Brie was now sitting on the edge of her seat.

“What teenage boy hasn’t lusted after a gorgeous teenage girl?” Her question hadn’t limited me to my ‘mature’ years.

“Oh, I wasn’t clear. I meant since your wife died. I assume Knoxville Christian has a lot of beautiful teenage girls.” I was thankful Bill Jones came to my rescue. I was also thankful I didn’t have to lie. Although God had always helped me control my natural desires, I didn’t want to have to admit that sometimes I could have a thought that was displeasing to my Savior.

“Ms. Sutherland, I really don’t think you’re line of questioning is appropriate. We all know God says a man who has looked upon a woman with lust in his heart is guilty of adultery, but we are not God. We certainly are interested in Carl’s conduct and I can assure you that he comes to us with an impeccable record. Brie, your question would be appropriate if Carl had been convicted of a sexual crime, or even had been accused of some inappropriate behavior. But, that’s simply not the case.” Bill said it better than I could have.

“I’m sorry Carl. I didn’t mean to get so personal. Please don’t hold it against me.” Brie’s entire countenance transformed into a shy little girl, with one exception. Her blue eyes penetrated mine as though she was sending out a flirt vibe. I bet she wasn’t thirty years old.

Thirty minutes later, after a quick tour of the new campus and a quicker vote, I was officially hired to fill the joint position of principal and teacher at Boaz Christian School.

Driving to mother’s, I couldn’t think of anything but Jennifer and how she had wanted to move back to Boaz after she had gotten sick. Not agreeing to her request was the biggest regret of my life.

Chapter 3

Beverly’s car was no longer in Mother’s driveway. It was when I had passed through a few hours ago. It wasn’t at her house next door either.

Mother and Dad had built their house on Highway 168 before I was born in 1954. The one-acre parcel was part of the original eighty-acre tract my maternal great-grandfather had acquired before the turn of the twentieth century. There were a ton of memories floating around this place. Even though most of them were good, now I had mixed feelings about accepting mother’s offer to live in my old room, “until you get back on your feet.”

Sammie, mother’s part-time caregiver, was coming out the sliding glass door from the den mother and dad had added on when I was in high school. It had been the carport. I got out of my car and said, “hey Sammie, how’s mother?”

“She’s happy as a lark. Can’t wait to see you. That’s the good news, the bad is she keeps getting weaker by the day.” Mother was in the advanced stages of Parkinson’s. For nearly two years now she had been confined to a wheel chair.

“Thanks for all you do. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Sammie smiled and walked around the side of the house towards her car.

“Sorry, I’m in a hurry. My son is due in town any minute. I guess today is happy Mother’s Day.” She got in her car and drove off without another word or wave.

After kneeling beside Mother’s wheelchair, both wordless and shedding tears for nearly half an hour, she took my face with her severely gnarled hands. “Son, I love you, but you better put the cornbread in the stove.” It was just the laugh we needed. Cornbread had always been one of my favorite foods, especially mother’s. Hopefully, the mix already in Mother’s big cast-iron skillet, thanks to Sammie, was the recipe I had grown up eating smothered under three portions of real butter and maple syrup.

By 7:00 p.m., we had finished a great meal of meatloaf, green beans, mashed potatoes, and cornbread. I nearly cried again as I ate my favorite dessert, sweet-potato pie, and listened as mother described how Sammie had let her make out the strips of dough. I was reminded of what I had said in the Board meeting: “time has a way of uprooting us no matter our satisfaction.” I had been surprised how contented Mother had become after Dad died in 2012. She seemed to adjust to life without her sixty-plus year mate with barely a hiccup. It may have had something to do with the long and arduous road she had traveled the four years he had been bedridden. But, since 2016, Mother’s satisfaction had been fully uprooted.

It didn’t surprise me that Mother wanted to watch The Walton’s after supper. It was something her and Dad did every night. During a commercial break mother said, “the Pankey’s have moved out of Mama’s house. You could store your things there.” The Pankey’s had lived in my maternal grandmother and grandfather’s house next door for almost five years after their house burned, without insurance coverage. I almost wanted to respond, “why don’t I just move in Mama’s house?”

“You need to find another renter. I’ve already checked with Paradise Cove about storing mine and Jennifer’s things.”

“Still holding on to the past, are you?” Mother and I had always been close but for the past few years she had picked up a habit her father, my grandfather, had. His questions always had some form of hidden meaning. I didn’t know if it had something to do with her disease or it was something to do with the uprooting that takes place in our heads as we grow older or experience some traumatic event.

After three episodes of The Walton’s, I was ready for bed. But Mother insisted we watch the 10:00 o’clock news. WHNT19 no doubt. Right after a too-long segment on how scammers were targeting potential renters with fake online rental ads, I woke up out of my semi-consciousness. “Brandon ‘Home-run’ Hawkins may be retired but he’s still swinging his bat.” There was a cut-away shot that flashed across the screen. At first, I couldn’t place the two old houses behind the tall and thick Brandon and a young female reporter who looked about four feet tall. When the newscaster said Gina Walters was reporting from Boaz, Mother reached over and shook my arm.

“Today, the national league’s home-run record-holder walked out onto a whole new ball field.” The tiny reporter engaged the giant Hawkins in several minutes of dialog with him describing his plan to build the Center for Secular Humanism right across the street from the new Boaz Christian School. His final comment, “I want young people to learn to think on their own and not be snookered by adults with an agenda.”

“Isn’t that the old Higgins house?” Mother asked.

“I think it is. Looks like there’s going to be a whole lot of uprooting going on.” With that, I got up out of Dad’s Lazy Boy, kissed Mother, and walked to my old room at the back of the house.

The clanking sound woke me before I ever reached deep sleep. At first, I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. Cry was an overstatement, but I knew exactly what it was and couldn’t believe the problem hadn’t been resolved.

In 1968, the summer before I began my ninth-grade year, Mother and Dad had contracted to have me a 20-foot x 20-foot room added on to the back of the house. I’m not sure why. I don’t remember demanding any such thing. They had even opted for a central heating and air unit instead of a window unit like the other two we had in the main house. My unit, early on, developed a weird way of reminding us it had a stomach ache. After a number of service calls, the A/C guys concluded it was me that was imagining the clanking sound, or it was some weird vibration being emitted by the old oak tree that shared the same side of the house. Lucky for me, the unit didn’t sound off every time it came on.

I lay in bed another thirty minutes trying my best to doze off. It didn’t work. Finally, three minutes before midnight, according to my iPhone, I got up and sat at my little desk still nestled in the left-hand corner opposite my bed. I could almost see my open Bible laid across the top with a note from Mother written on an index card with a carefully drawn line pointing to a verse. Mother’s ritual had begun after I turned 16 and started driving her push-button automatic Plymouth. No doubt, she believed, God’s Word and her prodding would protect her son and provide him the motivation to walk the high rode alongside her Savior. In a sense, she had been right. Over my entire adult life, after college and seminary, I had served God by using the same old book to mold and shape young people the past twenty years at Knoxville Christian School, and before that, at an assortment of schools, both private and public, all across the southeast.

I opened the middle drawer and found my old King James Bible. I lifted the heavy tome and laid it across the desk, opening it to John 15. Verse 7 was highlighted, and Mother’s 3 x 5-inch index card was still nestled between the pages. On the card mother had written, printed, the following: “Son, Jesus will give you anything you ask as long as you abide in Him.” She had also printed the entire verse: “If ye abide in me, and my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you.” No doubt Mother believed this one hundred percent. Then, and now. And, I did the same, until God took Jennifer. It was the most significant event that had so solidly shaken my faith. It wouldn’t have been quite so bad if God hadn’t, early on during her battle with cancer, assured me that He had a plan for our lives and that plan included Jennifer living and fully recovering.

I pulled the middle desk drawer back open to return my Bible and saw one of my high school drawings. I had taken art in Mrs. Steed’s eighth grade class and had continued to draw elementary level sketches throughout my four years at Boaz High. This drawing was one of many that had no doubt lain right here for close to fifty years. I closed my Bible and laid it along the left side of the desktop and placed the sketch in front of me.

In the lower right-hand corner, I had written the date. Tuesday, September 10, 1969. I was in the tenth grade. I remember that night as though it was yesterday. I had created the drawing after coming home from a B Team football game at Boaz High School stadium. It was the first time I ever saw Jennifer, or that I could remember. She was a B Team cheerleader and was in the ninth grade. That night, I couldn’t have known the significance of the desperation I saw in her face as she, after the game, got in the car with Wiley Jones, William ‘Bill’ Jones’ brother. Wiley was in the eleventh grade and, along with me, was a member of the varsity football team. I later learned he was thirty-six months older than Jennifer and had someway convinced her to have sexual intercourse beginning when she was fourteen and just starting the ninth grade. What was a little ere about my drawing, again, at the time not knowing anything about how Jennifer was being abused, was that I had drawn a picture of an old barn with me in the loft looking down on Jennifer and Wiley doing their thing in the back of his car while it was pulled inside the center hallway. I had even drawn a talk bubble beside my head that said: “Wiley boy, you will reap what you sow.”

Although there was a solid argument to be made that my intentions at the time were honorable, a carefully crafted full rebuttal would contend that this drawing revealed my embryonic bent towards stalking. One thing I knew for sure was that long, long ago, God had assured me I would get my chance to met out justice to old Wiley boy.

I returned my drawing and my Bible to the middle desk drawer, laid back down across my bed, and was asleep by the time my head touched the pillow. If the old A/C unit clanked again during the night, I couldn’t say.

Chapter 4

Buddy was waiting in a corner booth on the left-hand side when I walked in. For some reason, no offense to Waffle House, the smell nearly knocked me over. My mind played one of its tricks. It reminded me how I had almost gotten sick yesterday when I saw Buddy at the Shell station and during his bear hug.

I was surprised Buddy looked so good. I even caught a slight whiff of Old Spice aftershave. Although he was seated, I could tell he had on a clean shirt. Blue Denim. His beard was trimmed, and his gray curly hair had a nice shine to it.

“Buddy, Buddy Hawkins, is that you?” I tried to be funny right out of the gate.

“Sit your fat ass down.” I wasn’t the only comedian. He had always thought I was pudgy even though I only weighed 170 pounds. Of course, I was fat compared to my lean but muscular, six foot-two, one hundred ninety-five-pound teammate. At least that’s what he used to be.

“Looks like my ten dollars was a good investment. Question. Where does a homeless man take a shower?” Even though it had been nearly half-a-century since Buddy and I had talked, I felt nothing had changed between us. We always had shared a brutally open and honest friendship.

A short and stocky waitress who could pass for both a woman or a man came and poured me a cup of coffee and refilled Buddy’s. “I don’t know about any other homeless man, but I have lots of options. My favorite two places are First Baptist Church of Christ and Boaz High School. Churches and schools, at least around here, are easy targets.”

“I’d think these days, security would be pretty tight at both places. With all the shootings, both at schools and at churches.” I said while looking at Stan’s name tag as he returned and took our orders.

“It’s all in the timing. The School’s lunch room receives a big order on Monday mornings, usually from at least two vendors. All the delivery guys think I’m just an employee, walk right in with them. The security team at the church on Sunday mornings operate strictly on routine, and with the alarm system shut down. I prefer the lady’s showers in the new Family Life Center.”

Stan arrived with our food. Southwestern Omelets for both of us. “Another question.” It seemed the natural thing for me to ask.

“Canny Carl, always wanting to get nosy.” Buddy said already with a mouthful of eggs and peppers.

“How in the heck are you homeless?” The last time I had heard anything about Buddy was in 1992. After our twenty-year high school reunion, another one that I missed, I had received something akin to a newsletter from Gerald, our class president. It listed the name of every class member and a short biography. I recalled Buddy was an assistant football coach and teacher at Albertville High School.

“Easiest thing I ever did. Didn’t take any schooling or long practices. All I had to do was start a restaurant. Then, just hang on for the ride.” Buddy finished the last bite of his omelet and motioned for Stan to bring more coffee.

“It’s hard for me to see you flipping burgers.”

“Barbecue. That was my thing. Looking back, it was a dumb ass move but you remember, mother had the Dippy-Dip on Highway 205 when we was in high school. I guess it got in my blood. Anyway, lost everything and then couldn’t get back into teaching and coaching.” Buddy looked again at the menu and ordered a brownie with ice-cream and strawberries. “Don’t worry, I’m paying.”

“No, it’s my treat. I invited you. Remember?” I said trying to think of how I could help the best friend I ever had, other than Jennifer.

“Old friend. You’re still a little slow. Can’t you tell my luck has changed since yesterday?” Buddy said as he raised both eyebrows and tilted his head to my right.

“Well, that does look like a new shirt. And you seem to have money to buy breakfast.” I said.

“Timing. It’s everything. I mentioned that a while ago. Yesterday, I was wandering around town and had just walked by our good friend and classmate’s law office. Tanner, Micaden, you know.”

“On North Main Street. I took mother there last year to have her will updated.”

“Anyway, my long lost but famous nephew, and a darling little vixen, that means female fox, walked out the front door.”

“You have to be talking about Brandon, Benson’s boy?” Benson was Buddy’s younger brother.

“Oh yea, Brandon ‘Homerun’ Hawkins in the flesh. The kid’s back in town to stay. And, I have to say, he’s still got a heart of gold. Been five years since I’ve seen him.”

I finally finished my omelet and was spreading strawberry jam on a piece of toast when I heard a thunderous shout from behind. “Uncle Buddy, two days in a row.” I turned and it was none other than the homerun king. And the darling female fox.

Buddy slid out of our booth and walked to the register where Brandon was paying for a takeout order. My eyes followed Buddy noticing his new khaki pants and leather loafers. I turned back around to finish my breakfast.

“He’s got some great ideas for Boaz.” Buddy said when he returned. “Oh, I forgot to tell you how good my timing was yesterday.” Buddy said as he opened a colorful brochure. I couldn’t make any of the writing. “Brandon wants me to go to work for him. Sounds like a miracle doesn’t it?” Buddy let out another laugh.

“Let me guess, teaching and coaching at his new school or whatever it is.” I said.

“How’d you know about the Center?”

“TV, last night. Huntsville station. He bought the Higgins place on Sparks, straight across from Boaz Christian School.” I said with the gnawing feeling I wished I hadn’t returned to Boaz.

“The Center for Secular Humanism. Now, that’s a philosophy. That’s a homerun philosophy.” Buddy said motioning Stan to bring our check.

“Right up your alley.” I said confident that Buddy had stayed faithful to his belief there was no god and therefore no supernatural being of any kind.

“Just think. Me and you right across the street from each other. I better warn you. I’m going to recruit you to my team. We could be teammates again.” This time, Buddy didn’t laugh. His clinched jaw reminded me of the times we were on the football field, down a touchdown and victory was dependent on his running ability. His look also reminded me of the last time we stalked Mayor Ericson to a little cabin on Aurora Lake.

“Save your breath my dear friend. Being that close together you’ll have no choice but to surrender to the mighty touch of the Holy Ghost. I’m praying for you right now.” I was thankful for this little chance to impress upon Buddy that there was still time for him to confess the Lord Jesus Christ.

At straight up 7:00 a.m., I left Buddy at the register paying our bill, and drove to Walmart to pick up a few groceries for Mother and me.

I never knew when the invasion would occur. Today, it was at Walmart while looking for a clock in the Home, Furniture & Appliances Department. On my way out this morning, Mother, always an early riser, had followed me in her electric wheelchair demanding I bring her back a Joseph Tyler clock. According to Sammie, the giant department store was now carrying the English company’s clocks. Vintage Barnwood Wall Clock, that was the model she insisted I remember.

In a sense, the invasive thought could be analogized to the feeling I get when I have to go to the bathroom. Neither can be denied. I placed the right clock in my buggy and headed towards the grocery department. Although the timing of my desire was unpredictable, the target was always someone I didn’t know. Like the young female banker from First Bank of Knoxville who had come to speak to my economics classroom at the school last March.

Later that afternoon, I had found First Bank’s new location on World’s Fair Park Drive. After waiting in my car until 5:00 p.m., I had followed the 2017 UT grad home. An hour later, she was dozing on her couch in front of the TV in a pair of short-shorts and a baggy tee-shirt when I eased along the side of her house to a nearly new Nissan Altima parked outside an open garage on the back side of the young lady’s house. I left the neighborhood but not until I had placed a small stuffed lion on the front passenger seat. My trademark. It was a no-harm hobby that started when Buddy and I were in the tenth grade.

Today’s desire was different. It may have been the look in Brie Sutherland’s eyes as she questioned me yesterday afternoon at the Board meeting. I still had doubts she was flirting with me. It didn’t matter. I now had no choice but to get a little closer and begin to see what her world looks like from the inside.

Chapter 5

“He’s your father. He loves you.” Anna Lee said reaching her hand over and touching the thick shoulder of her husband.

“You’re right. He is my father, but he loves his god a lot more than me.” Brandon said as he pulled his Cadillac Escalade into the driveway of the house he grew up in on Richmond Avenue.

Belton Hawkins was a Southern Baptist preacher and pastor of Liberty Baptist Church in Rodentown. Brandon and his father had always been close, especially since the death of his wife in 2009, the year before his only son was drafted by the New York Yankees. Their relationship had radically changed eighteen months ago when Brandon married Anna Lee.

“Remember baby, he suffers from a delusion. That means he doesn’t know he’s been deluded. Recall your worldview when we met. Now look at you, at us. About to build a school that reveals the truth and hopefully will keep generations of local young people from ever being deluded.” Anna Lee said, opening her passenger-side door.

Brandon had met Anna Lee in Houston after a game with the Astros. Rafi Halim, Anna’s father, was one of the richest men in Indonesia and had fallen in love with baseball as a kid. Rafi had purchased the Astros in late 2014 and was aggressively courting ‘Homerun’ Hawkins. Anna, an evolutionary psychologist at Columbia University, was in town in the summer of 2015 for two reasons: to celebrate her father’s birthday, and to attempt, once again, to mend their relationship that was torn by Anna’s disavowal of the Muslim faith in 2012. Brandon and Anna met at a private party on the seventy-fifth floor of the JPMorgan Chase Tower.

“Reliving all the good times with Dad almost makes me wish I had continued to remain a closet atheist. It’s a damn shame that religion has the power to destroy relationships.” Brandon said, turning off the Escalade and sitting shaking his head.

“Living a lie is no way to live. Come on baby, let’s go. It will work out for the best. My father chose Allah over me. It’s time you know for sure where your father stands.”

“That’s easy. You’ll see.” Brandon said opening the door and removing a small wrapped present from the Cadillac’s dash.

Benson opened the front door as Brandon walked onto the home’s tiny front porch. Anna paused at the foot of the steps, disappointed with the absence of a smile on her father-in-law’s face.

“She can wait out here.” Benson said.

“Then I guess we don’t have anything to talk about.” Brandon said, backing down the two steps and reaching out for Anna’s hand.

“Mr. Hawkins, it’s nice to see you again. I’ll go sit in the car and let you two talk.” Brandon never ceased to be amazed at how sweet, kind, and respectful his Anna could be. She had only met his father once, in Nashville, a year ago when the Yankees were playing an exhibition game against the Red Sox. Brandon remembered how rude his father had been, saying “marrying a Muslim was worse for Brandon than marrying a Negro.”

“No Anna, it’s not right. Stay.” Brandon said looking with disgust at his father before turning his head down and meeting Anna’s eyes. With one look, she could melt the six-foot six-inch giant. He stood silent as she returned to the Escalade.

“Come on in son.”

“No way. We can talk right here.” Brandon said not making any effort to follow his father inside.

Benson closed the door behind him and sat down in the lone chair that crowded the front porch. “Son, you’re headed for destruction with that new school.”

“Somebody’s got to tell the truth around here. It’s way past time you and all your preacher friends have some opposition.”

“Don’t you see what this woman has done to you? You are so blinded to her intentions.” Benson said, noticing for the first time the small package his son was holding.

“She’s the best thing that ever happened to me. She led me out of the darkness.” Brandon looked back over his shoulder and saw Anna with ear buds listening to her iPod.

“Into the darkness. Let me ask you. Where did I go wrong? Were you not listening during the many sermons I preached with you sitting on the front row of Liberty Baptist Church?” Benson asked.

“I really don’t blame you. You were, like me, deluded as a child. You listened to your father and everyone around you. The entire community filled your head with a fairy tale. You never had a chance. That’s how brainwashing works.”

“Let me ask you a question. I really need to know the answer. What made you change your mind? I mean, what made you stop believing in God, in Jesus?” Benson asked uncrossing his legs and leaning forward in his chair towards his son.

“I know exactly what it was. Well, what got me to thinking something was right. It was when Uncle Buddy and Aunt Carol had their restaurant. I had just met Anna a few months earlier. We had been talking about prayer and for some reason I made the statement, “Aunt Carol is as dedicated a prayer warrior as there is. I wonder why God doesn’t answer her pleas for the restaurant to make it?” Anna responded, knowing that Uncle Buddy didn’t believe in any of that: “prayer works as good for the non-believer as it does the believer.” I disagreed with her but a few days later she sent me a link to a prayer study conducted by the Templeton Foundation. You ought to look at it Dad. Prayer flat out doesn’t work.”

Benson interrupted Brandon, “I’ve read it. Doesn’t prove anything. God can’t be put in a box. God is beyond science.”

“Gosh, it’s amazing how insane I must have sounded to most all my teammates. That’s the type of thing I would have said before I saw the light. Have you ever stopped to analyze your own words? Even if there is a God and He exists outside the natural world, by communicating with His followers He is reaching inside our world. That’s what science is all about. Observing and testing reality.” Brandon wanted to say more but it began to rain.

“Let’s go inside.” Benson said.

“No, not until you accept Anna as your daughter-in-law.”

“I wouldn’t be a godly father if I supported your choice of becoming unequally yoked with an infidel.”

“I’ve told you before. I will gladly accept Jesus Christ as my savior just as soon as I have good evidence He exists.”

“Oh son, it’s by faith that you become a child of the Lord Jesus Christ.” The clap of thunder brought a smile to Benson’s face. “See, God never fails to give me evidence He is real.”

“Not that you would believe it, but scientists have figured out quite a bit since your middle eastern brethren wrote your favorite book.” Brandon knew he would never convince his preacher father that God wasn’t real.

“Son, I’ll be praying for you. I’m praying God will give you a Damascus Road experience. Then, you’ll have no doubt that my God is who the Bible says He is.” Benson said, standing up and turning towards the front door as the misting rain became a downpour.

“Dad, catch.” Brandon said as he tossed the small gift he was holding towards the man he had always loved and respected.

Chapter 6

I dropped the groceries off at Mother’s. She loved her clock. I told her I wanted to spend some time in my office and classroom at school. Bill Jones had shown me my two rooms but said the painters wouldn’t be finished before next Tuesday.

I drove to McDonald’s, ordered a large coffee, and parked in the rear parking lot. I never ceased to be amazed at what people posted on Facebook. Brie Sutherland was no exception. After reading her most recent ten- plus posts I concluded she was a two-timer, meaning she posted twice per day: once in the morning, early, and once at night, late. It was like she had to report to the world what she expected her day to be like and what it in fact had been.

As I drank my coffee, I began to form a skeleton outline of who Brie Sutherland really was. I was also able to conclude where she lived. From her posts, it was obvious her son Finn loved to visit the playground at Corley Elementary School. In a February post, roughly six months ago, Brie had said it was hard downsizing but her and Finn were settling into their new garden home.

I drove to King Street west of Boaz and turned right. Passing the Rec Center (Boaz Neighborhood Center) brought back a ton of memories. Buddy and I, especially during the summers of our high school years, had spent most every afternoon either swimming or playing basketball, and, of course, flirting with the girls around the pool. Beyond the Center, on the right were a row of new garden homes. Four in all. I passed them slowly but couldn’t make any determination as to which house might be Brie’s.

At the intersection of Mount Vernon Road, I did a U-Turn and was almost back to Usry Avenue and the Center when I noticed that a car in my rear-view mirror had turned into the driveway of the garden home furthest from me and closest to Corley Elementary. I quickly turned right into the Rec Center’s parking lot and pulled between two cars that were parked facing the Pavilion and Corley. I could barely see the maroon-colored Maxima or Camry, whatever it was, so I got out and walked to the right side of where it seemed two or three families were getting ready to cook-out. There were several open ice-chests sitting on picnic tables under the pavilion and two charcoal fires smoking in two of the stationary grills.

When I got better positioned, halfway from my car to the last garden home, I could see Brie removing some bags from the car’s trunk. I also saw a small boy waiting on the tiny front porch looking back towards his mother. I didn’t hear the man come up behind me. “You’re welcome to join us sir.” I turned. The man was grossly underweight and had a farmer’s tan as they called it. His arms were dark from the sun, but his skinny legs were as white as a ghost.

“Thanks, but I’m just watching traffic. I’m kind of interested in one of those garden homes and wanted to see how active this street is. I hope I haven’t disturbed your gathering.” Earlier, I had seen real estate for sale signs in the front yards of two of the homes.

The skinny man encouraged me to stay if I wanted. Then, he had walked away. He returned thirty seconds later with a lawn chair. You might as well be comfortable.”

I took the chair and walked another fifty feet or so and sat down behind a large pine tree, facing Brie’s house and away from the growing family reunion. I didn’t have to wait long, maybe fifteen minutes. Brie and her son, Finn, exited the home’s front door and walked across to Corley’s playground. After another ten or fifteen minutes, they returned, got in Brie’s car and drove towards Highway 168, passing me without looking my way.

Lucky for me, Brie was a slow-driver. I made it to my car and to King Street in a minute or less. I saw her turn left on Highway 168 just as I topped the hill and crawled through the stop-sign at Mann Avenue. I was fifty yards behind her Camry when she crossed Highway 205, still heading east. Six or seven minutes later I parked two rows away from her and watched the two as they entered Walmart. I wanted to leave, return to North King Street, and slip inside the garden home closest to Corley Elementary School, the one with the Alabama Crimson Tide flag hanging from the side of the front porch. Knowing I hadn’t done my homework, I chose, instead, to lay a small stuffed lion on the base of the Camry’s windshield and return to my Impala.

It began at church, First Baptist Church of Christ, in the fall of 1970. Buddy and I were in the eleventh grade at Boaz High School. Our hobby didn’t start out with stalking. It was stealing. Really nothing criminal. We didn’t take anything. Initially, we had intended to move Mrs. Morgan’s purse from the choir-room to the storage closet across from the Nursery. It wasn’t anything either of us had planned. After Sunday School, Beverly my sister, had asked me to deliver a hand-written message to Mother.

Buddy had long been a closet atheist. The only reason he attended church was to hang around me, but mostly to flirt with the girls in Sunday School. This delayed me from delivering Beverly’s note to Mom. Her and the other choir members had already walked into the sanctuary leaving the choir room abandoned. Along, with their personal things.

I don’t know why Buddy picked up the purse next to the one I knew was Mother’s. In a flash he said, “come on, follow me.” I had to almost run to keep up with him. He was outside the choir room and inside the stairwell leading down to the basement and the Nursery before we heard the first words of “How Great Thou Art.” Halfway down the stairs he stopped and said, “let’s take a peek.” I remember telling him that what we were doing was wrong. And, that it was none of our business what was inside the purse.” Buddy didn’t listen.

What he found inside remains one of the biggest shocks of my life. The purse contained four things. A billfold containing two, one-dollar bills and a driver’s license with the pretty face of Helen Morgan, and a lacy handkerchief wrapped around a small box. The fourth thing was a box of Trojan condoms. I’ll never forget Buddy’s thunderous laugh as we looked at each other in amazement.

We likely would have stood there and pondered what in the heck the minister of music’s wife was doing with a pack of rubbers but the sound of someone entering the stairwell from below thrust us into emergency mode. Buddy stuffed the contents back into the purse and crammed it in my chest. “Hide it in your coat.” Mother always made me wear a sports jacket to church. I pushed the purse inside my jacket and up under my arm and complied with Buddy’s nod to follow him. We met Ray Robinson coming up the stairs glaring at us. Thankfully, he didn’t say a thing.

We waited at the bottom of the stairs until we heard him exit the ground floor. Instead of hiding the purse inside the storage closet across from the Nursery as we initially intended, we returned it to Helen’s chair in the choir room. We didn’t pay much attention to Pastor Walter during his forty-minute sermon. Instead, we sat in the back row of the balcony and used written words and sketches on paper to plan our next move. We were going to follow Helen Morgan.

It turned into a boring Sunday afternoon since Helen drove straight home after church and never came out of her and Mike’s Brown Street home until time to return to church Sunday night. But things got more exciting on Wednesday night after choir practice. Mike and Pastor Walter were out of town, Sardis I believe, conducting a revival. Emmett Goggans, the chairmen of Deacons and the tenor for a group called the Four Sheep (really, this was their name), led choir practice. Later, Buddy and I learned that he was good at leading Helen in a more intimate form of singing.

It was a thrill like none other. Buddy was the master at tailing another car. The two lovebirds had separately exited the church through the Fellowship Hall and drove their own cars to the back side of Boaz Elementary School. There, Helen left her vehicle and rode with Mr. Goggans to an old barn down Martin Road. Buddy drove on by when they turned left. Not to be outdone, Buddy parked just over the hill and said, “come on, let’s get a closer look.” I was reluctant, scared to death we would get caught.

We cut across a hay field towards Mr. Pankey’s barn. Neither of us was brave enough to climb over the fence to get an eye full but the sounds coming from the back seat of Mr. Goggans Bonneville convinced us both that one of Helen’s Trojans was directing the music.

This was how my little addiction had gotten started. Neither Mr. Goggans, Helen, or anyone else over the near half-century since had ever gotten hurt. As far as I know, no one had known that I had ever followed and watched them.

At first, I had felt guilty but the good rationalizer I became convinced me I was doing the Lord’s work. I usually learned something sordid about the person I was following. This gave me the perfect motivation to pray the sinner would confess her sin and rededicate her life to God. As far as I know, Helen and Mr. Goggans continued their duet until the week after Buddy and I graduated high school in May of 1972. The two of them were T-Boned crossing Highway 431 and died before an ambulance ever arrived. One thing I know for sure is that God works in mysterious ways.

Chapter 7

When Brie and Finn exited Walmart a half-hour later, I decided against following them. My guilt over having already violated my ironclad commitment to being prepared before initiating a new stalk, prompted me to drive home. After a supper prepared by Mother and Sammie, and two episodes of The Walton’s, I retired to my room.

At 9:30 I was still frustrated with myself and wanted to lay across my bed and shut down my mind. Instead, I had homework to complete. Bill Jones had asked me to create a draft Statement of Faith for Boaz Christian School. I retrieved my laptop from my briefcase and set it up on my little desk in the corner. Since Mother didn’t have internet service, I used my iPhone and Google to locate Knoxville Christian School.

After an introductory paragraph, the second one got down to business: “WE BELIEVE in one God, the Creator of the Universe and the Giver of Life. God is an all-powerful, all-knowing, and ever-present spiritual being.” Less than five years ago I would have wholeheartedly agreed with this statement. That was before Jennifer’s death and before she had finally disclosed why we had never been able to get pregnant: a surgical abortion at age 15 had damaged her cervix. This news had led me to question everything in my life, especially my faith in God. How could a good God have allowed this to happen? More particularly, how could Jennifer, a woman who was as committed to God, His Word, and His church, as anyone I had ever known, have lied to me for nearly fifty years? Jennifer’s confession had triggered an insatiable desire in me to seek out the truth. What I had discovered over the past five plus years was that it was highly improbable there was any supernatural being at all, that the whole Christian story was nothing but a myth.

“WE BELIEVE in one God….” Well, I didn’t, but only Jennifer knew that. And, it was likely she wouldn’t be delivering another life-altering confession. Her death had also forever concealed another one of my secrets: the anger I had revealed after she had told me the full truth of how Wiley Jones, 36 months older than Jennifer, and Bill’s brother, had convinced her as a 14 year old ninth grader, to begin having sexual intercourse with him. My visible and vocal outrage had lasted an entire weekend and had culminated with a statement I had later regretted. I had sworn to Jennifer I would kill Wiley Jones for his year-long raping of my wife, even if it was the last thing I ever did.

With Jennifer now permanently silenced, there was no other living person who knew what I was up to. Only Buddy knew what we had done as teenagers, and even if that was someway disclosed, all reasonable people surely would tag that behavior as mere youthful indiscretion. I was glad I hadn’t revealed to Buddy that my little addiction hadn’t ended when I moved to Auburn to attend college.

“WE BELIEVE in one God, the Creator of the Universe and the Giver of Life.” I created a new WORD document and rewrote the first sentence of Knoxville Christian School’s Statement of Faith to read: “WE KNOW God as ever-existent and the creator of the universe and all life.” I pulled out my middle desk drawer, removed my giant King James Bible and turned to John 1:1: “That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon, and our hands have handled, of the Word of life.” I chuckled when I thought how sincerely I used to believe the Bible was without error, the actual words given to man by God Himself.

I closed my Bible and my laptop, and after removing my shoes, shirt, and trousers, lay across my bed fully committed to using Boaz Christian School as a subterfuge for my primary mission.

According to my iPhone, it was 11:44 p.m. when I was awakened by the deep groan of my A/C unit, limbs from the old oak tree rubbing against each other, or my imagination. Ever since I began my journey to truth, I had often considered whether we as humans have free will. Sam Harris and others posited good arguments that we didn’t. Our thoughts come to us completely unannounced and uninvited. Now, there was the thought of Mother at supper being upset with me because I had forgotten her lip balm. It had to be Carmex Lip Balm in a jar, she said. Her current supply was almost extinguished. I had promised I would return to Walmart in the morning, early. Instead, I got up, dressed, and tiptoed down the hall to the back door.

On the shampoo aisle I finally found a late-night stocker. She was an older woman with arthritic hands, thick glasses, and a pleasing smile but for her seriously stained and decayed teeth. After returning a bottle of Selsun-Blue Men’s Shampoo to her buggy she instructed me to follow her. Two aisles over she pointed to the item I requested and announced she liked it better in a tube. I knelt and pondered whether to buy both, to give Mother a choice. My pondering ended when I heard a voice say, “Mr. Carl Stallings in the flesh, what a pleasant surprise.”

I stood and turned towards the voice and a familiar-looking face. I couldn’t believe she recognized me. Especially from the side with me kneeling. “Julie Foster? Julie Kaye Foster?” I asked believing from the woman’s face I could see the faint portrait of Buddy’s first cousin. But, allowing my eyes to explore the woman from head to toe gave me pause. I never knew Julie’s body was so well arranged.

“Who else would have these damn blond curls?” She did have a point. Her hair was most unique. It was something she hated as a teenager. Apparently, blonds want straight hair. The thought appeared that me and a couple other friends, outside the presence of Buddy, always shared a private insight that she was the sexiest girl in the ninth grade. This happened after we were instructed by our 12th grade Sunday School teacher to flee temptation and to never be alone with a girl more than a year younger.

“I think they’re making some good straighteners these days.” I had the ability to be somewhat of a smart ass.

“Funny. What are you doing in Walmart so late? I assume you are in town visiting your mom?” Julie said walking over to me and pulling my right hand into hers. It was like I wanted to respond but I was fixated on her blue eyes, her smell, a familiar perfume I couldn’t name, and her golden-brown skin oozing out from her pink, sleeveless blouse.

“Truth is, I now live with Mother. As of last week. I’ve moved here from Knoxville to work for Boaz Christian School.” That seemed the most cogent way to answer Julie’s question.

“Wow, that news about doubles the private school’s credibility in my mind.” Julie said, finally releasing my hand, to my disappointment. I started to explore her statement but instead reached down for a jar of Carmex, not wanting to disappoint Mother yet again.

“Hand me that one, the one with three tubes.” I almost laughed when Julie made her request.

“I thought only old people used this stuff.” I said.

“Well, I may not be as old as you, or your mother, but I’m no longer a spring chicken. I’ll be sixty in less than two weeks.” She said taking her Carmex from my hand.

“Uh, August 29th. Right?”

“Damn, you’re good. After all these years you remember my birthday.” I was a little surprised Julie had now said ‘damn’ two times. Half a century can change a person.

“I assume you are still the principal of Guntersville High School.” I thought it was a safe assumption. During the time Jennifer was sick and she was wanting us to move back to Boaz I had explored the possibility of me taking a teaching position in Marshall County. My online investigation had revealed that Julie Foster King had just been hired to fill the top leadership role. I had no doubt the Mrs. King in the photograph was Julie Kaye Foster. No doubt, it was her curls. For several reasons, I never applied to teach at any public school in Marshall County.

“You would be wrong Mr. Stallings. As of early June, I am the principal of Boaz High School, our alma mater.” I could tell Julie was excited about her new job. Her blue eyes sparkled like the Caribbean ocean, and her smile spread halfway across her face.

“Congratulations are in order, although you’ve got some big shoes to fill.”

“I know, Mr. Harrison was a landmark and kept Boaz High anchored to its core of teaching excellence as the only standard.” Julie responded the way I expected, but then changed the subject. “Carl, I’m very sorry about Jennifer. I started to call you but decided against it. Please forgive me for not sharing my condolences.”

“Thanks. It was the hardest time of my life. I’m still not over it.” My words were completely true but for the first time since my dear Jennifer died, I was feeling sexual attraction. As a teenager I had dreamed of making out with Buddy’s cousin but of course never did. Here, now, the uninvited rush of sexual lust was filling every cell of my being.

“Julie.” My words wouldn’t come. “I uh.” I don’t know why I was stumbling and stammering. “I assume you’re still married to Ted.” The sexual electricity that was charging my mind and body caused me to ask a too-forward a question, one Julie would certainly sense as a come-on of sorts.

“I am. Mr. Ted King wouldn’t be half a slug without me. The good thing about Ted, as always, is his money. You know he’s now mayor of Boaz?” Julie’s question threw me. Her last statement seemed out of rhythm from her first two statements which seemed to subliminally reveal an unhappy marriage. I figuratively pinched myself acknowledging that I sometimes over-analyzed words, looks, and overall body language.

“I guess that makes you the first lady.” The words just came. Silly me.

Julie opened the small purse she had been cradling under her left arm. “Here’s my card.” She turned it over and reached back inside the dark red bag for a pen. “And, my cell number. Call or text me anytime.” Our eyes met and held just a little past comfortable. I smiled. She reached out her right hand and placed it on my left forearm. “Let’s have coffee sometime. I’d love to catch up.”

“I’d like that too.” With my words barely off my lips Julie turned and walked away. I couldn’t help but stare at her perfect butt and deep-tanned long legs protruding from her knee-length khaki shorts.

After a minute or so of standing and pondering Julie’s ‘half-slug’ statement, I almost walked out of Walmart without paying for Mother’s Carmex.

Driving home I was flooded with a wave of temptation for a married woman.

Chapter 8

Sunday morning, I walked into the kitchen to find Sammie leaning back against the sink and mother sitting in her wheelchair pulled up beside the table.

“Terrible headache.” Sammie said. I walked over and knelt beside Mother. Even with the hollowness in her eyes and sweat protruding from her brow, Mother managed a half-smile mixed with a whispered request: “toast and oatmeal okay for breakfast?” All my growing up years she had prided herself on preparing a robust breakfast. In her repertoire, toast was about as acceptable as mini-skirts for football players.

“I’ve just returned from Walgreen’s with a new prescription.” Sammie said, turning and facing out the window into the front yard. Beverly had shared with me that Dr. Sandler, Mother’s Parkinson’s specialist at UAB, had told her and Sammie last May that early morning splitting headaches were an unfortunate condition during Phase Four of Parkinson’s disease. I assumed mother had already suffered through the first three phases. I was ashamed at how little I knew about the most debilitating disease that constantly tempts its victim with death but delays delivery, most times for decades.

I sat in the chair beside Mother, held her right hand, and exchanged a page of words without either of us saying a thing. Sammie delivered the simmering oats and fresh toast. “How did you get the new prescription?” I asked, looking up at Sammie.

“Vickie, Dr. Sandler’s nurse practitioner, had given Beverly and me her card, encouraging us to call if we had any questions. I called as soon as I saw your mom. The new drug contains morphine and will make her sleep.”

Mother had planned on going to First Baptist Church of Christ today. Last night, during a break in The Walton’s, she had made me laugh. “Just when I think the Tillman reign has ended, I get another surprise.”

Our laughs were spawned by Mother’s description of what had transpired over the past few years in Boaz, and particularly with the Tillman family and First Baptist. The Tillman males, since the church’s inception in the late nineteenth century, had served as the only pastors of the largest church in town. The only Tillman I had known as pastor was Walter. He led First Baptist Church of Christ during my growing up years. He had resigned many years ago and handed over the reins, with the church’s approval, to his son Wade. Wade was a high school classmate of mine and, from all I’ve heard, an extremely gifted and competent pastor. Until he was charged with the murder of his wife, Gina Culvert, another classmate, along with an assortment of other crimes. Wade’s son Warren had taken over as pastor and, as Mother described in vivid details, had been murdered a year or so ago during a home invasion. That case was still unsolved. Warren’s tenure ended the Tillman rein as pastors of First Baptist Church of Christ. A Caleb Patterson had served in that role for a little over a year, and as all good Netflix series do, end on anything but a passive note. According to Mother, Patterson committed suicide to avoid the embarrassment of a soon-to-be revealed gambling habit. Now, Robert Miller, my youth pastor Randy Miller’s grandson, was just beginning to settle in as the new pastor.

But all this wasn’t the end of Mother’s tale. Even though she hadn’t been to church in months, she had demanded I take her this morning. After the second episode of The Walton’s ended last night, she had given me the reason. Olivia Tillman, Walter Tillman’s daughter and Wade Tillman’s sister, was going to speak during the worship hour. Even though she lived with her husband, Matthew Benson, another high school classmate during our eleventh grade, in Chicago, the Deacon Board had invited her as part of the 125th anniversary celebration. Mother had also reminded me that 1893 was the year her paternal grandfather, with wife and nine kids in tow, had moved to the old Highway 168 home-place from Wadley, Alabama.

After breakfast, I helped Mother into her Lazy Boy in the den. She encouraged me to go on to church. Her words last night describing, so succinctly a big drama in a little town, had motivated me to attend. But I didn’t know anything about Olivia other than she was a classmate of Julie Kaye Foster. I remember the two as stunningly beautiful. I didn’t have a clue what Olivia’s life had been since she graduated from high school.

Instead of going to church, I sat in Dad’s matching Lazy Boy and watched Mother sleep for the next four hours. I was ashamed to think it, but several times I wished she would ease on over to the other side and never wake up. I wished it because it was her wish, the one Sammie said Mother talked about nearly every day.

Sammie returned a few minutes after 12:30 and encouraged me to get up, get out and take a walk, or go for a drive. I chose to grab my briefcase and go check out the office where I would conduct my Principal duties.

I still didn’t have a key but figured the front door would be open since the painters and other contractors were working nearly non-stop to meet their deadline. The first day of school was less than two weeks away. During Friday’s tour, I didn’t see any way the newly renovated Boaz Elementary School could be ready for the first day of classes.

The faculty parking lot was empty when I arrived. Halfway to the front door I heard a car horn. I turned and waved towards the car parked next to mine. A short, heavyset woman exited a tan-colored Tahoe and shouted: “It’s locked. I have a key.” We walked towards each other. “You must be Carl Stallings, our new Principal.”

“I am. I’ve also been told I’m a teacher.” I let out a little chuckle wondering what Bill and the Board would direct me to teach.

“Nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you. I work at the Boaz Library part time. Nancy Frasier knows nearly everything about everybody that’s ever lived in Boaz.” The jolly lady wearing a Denver Broncos jersey and baggy knit shorts revealed her tree-trunk calves.

“I’m sorry but I didn’t catch your name.” I said, realizing I should have already known who my chief assistant would be.

“I haven’t thrown it yet.” She said shaking red hair out of her eyes and fumbling in her purse, probably for the front door key. “Rhonda Perry, the school’s secretary. I’ll be your immediate supervisor.” She blurted out a laugh that sounded more like a burp. “Just kidding.”

Thirty minutes later I sat at my desk. It took that long for Rhonda to show me the class rolls and share a half-dozen stories of how several Boaz High School students had wound up enrolling at Boaz Christian School. I also learned how comfortable Rhonda was in chasing rabbits. She was a master at transitioning from relevant facts concerning BCS to her sorry husband who had just quit his sixth truck driving job in as many months. I escaped halfway through Rhonda’s rendition of why she couldn’t be the secretary at Boaz High School after it hired Julie Foster King as principal. I’d have to ask Julie her take on that story.

My office was half the size of Rhonda’s. Her office was to the left of the front entrance. The only way to my office was through Rhonda’s. I was a little surprised that my office was finished. Unlike my classroom office Bill had shown me on Friday. The wall directly behind my undersized oak desk was blank except for a painting of what no doubt was intended to be God hovering in the clouds. There was a talk bubble beside His head that read: “Remember, His eye is on the sparrow. You are a sparrow.” At first, I thought it was meant to be funny, but then I read the small text along the bottom of the painting: “My mother told me this during my growing up years.” The painting was signed, “Rachel Radford.” Radford. She had to be kin to Randall Radford, a high school classmate whose family had owned and operated Radford Hardware & Building Supply in Boaz for probably a hundred years. The other three walls of my office were built in bookshelves, absent the books.

I placed my briefcase on the desk and sat down intending to retrieve my laptop and continue to work on the school’s statement of faith. While my computer was booting up, I remembered Randall had a younger sister. I think her name was Rachel. She was several years younger than Randall and me. She could have been in Julie’s grade. And, Olivia Tillman’s.

I had just read the second sentence in the second paragraph in Knoxville Christian School’s Statement of Faith, when I heard a siren blasting from Sparks Avenue. I walked over to the sole window in my office and saw a policeman exit his patrol car. I looked to my left further east on Sparks Avenue and saw a semi-truck with “Wide Load” plastered across its front bumper. It was pulling a huge trailer. The police officer seemed upset and held up his hand indicating he wanted the driver to stop. This looked interesting so I headed outside with Miss Rhonda in tow.

Chapter 9

“Why the hell did the City Clerk issue a building permit to Brandon Hawkins?” Clay Radford said refusing Mayor King’s persistent hand motion for him to sit across from his giant mahogany desk.

“I’d like to know that too.” Wiley Jones said coming into the mayor’s office as Clay repeated his question.

Mayor King rose, pushed his matching leather chair under his desk and leaned back against a credenza. “Jill didn’t have any choice. If we need somebody to blame, it’s the Zoning Board. When Brother Bill …” Ted’s words trailed off as he looked at Wiley who was now sitting in one of the two arm chairs positioned in front of Ted’s desk. “When Bill Jones and the Boaz Christian School Board applied for rezoning, they persuaded the neighbors across the street to join in. It seemed Bill aspired to purchase their property and add an athletic facility. The Zoning Committee went along with it. Unfortunately, Brandon Hawkins and his money talked louder and faster than your brother.” Ted again looked at Wiley sitting with his hands perched on the edge of Ted’s desk.

“Where are the others? We can’t do business without them?” Clay asked, still fuming, and still refusing to sit.

“The three musketeers, as usual, sung the same music. They refused to come, said they would see us tomorrow night at our regular council meeting.” Ted said, pulling his iPhone out of his jacket pocket. “I’d love to be a June bug on a tree right about now.”

“Why so?” Wiley asked.

“Two patrol cars have just blocked the entrance to the Higgins property on Sparks. The property may now be zoned for a school or a church but that doesn’t include mobile homes. Brandon’s construction crew can’t bring in any type trailer.”

“That’ll work good until tomorrow morning when Brandon’s attorney pulls your ass into Circuit Court.” Clay said, pulling back the other armchair to give him leg room to stretch out his six-foot eight-inch frame. “But I like that you did something.”

“Mayor, now you sit.” Wiley said, pulling a small notebook from his shirt pocket. “Let me make this clear. The City of Boaz has much deeper problems than Brandon Hawkins’s building his Center for Secular Humanism on Sparks Avenue. It’s not the brick and mortar, it’s the people he’s hiring. I bet you didn’t know Olivia Tillman and her husband Matt Benson have volunteered to teach for a year. Also,” Wiley said eyeing his notepad, “according to WHNT TV last night, Mr. Brandon has already lined up guest speakers for the next several months. You ostriches probably don’t know these guys but they’re pretty famous unbelievers: Richard Dawkins, Sam Harris, and Matt Dillahunty.”

“Oh my God,” Clay said, again standing and walking toward the office doorway. “How in the hell can this be happening in the heart of the Bible-belt? What will happen if our kids hear opposing viewpoints at such a tender age?”

“I suspect we have six months, maybe, if we’re lucky, a year, to destroy Brandon’s plans. It’ll take that long to construct his facility.” Wiley added.

“You dumb ass.” Ted said pulling open the center drawer of his desk and removing a legal-size document. “Seems like Brandon’s money has diverse abilities. Lease. Don’t ask me how I got a copy. It’s for the First Baptist Church of Christ’s old sanctuary and education building on south Main Street.”

“That can’t be.” Clay said. “The store just delivered a special-order conference room table to Rex Brewer. You all should know he’s still in process of converting the church’s administration building into offices for his architectural firm, and he’s going to restore the old sanctuary building into a museum.”

“I still can’t believe the church left their original site and built a whole new facility on Sparks Avenue.” Wiley said.

“Focus you two. Timing is everything. Rex Brewer’s wife was the impetus for Rex moving his world-renowned architectural firm from Atlanta to Boaz. You know she’s a hometown girl. When she learned First Baptist’s old facility was for sale she jumped at the chance. But, life throws curves at all of us. Regina Brewer now has cancer and a whole new set of plans. Just last week she gave Rex permission to lease the old sanctuary along with the attached Education Building, to none other than Brandon Hawkins.” Ted said flipping through the pages of the legal document.

“Well, that’s just perfect piss.” Clay said. “So, when is the Homerun King, get it mayor, King, when is Hawkins planning on opening up his little Center?

“According to my lovely wife, the same day Boaz City Schools start. I think it’s August the eighth.” Ted said, again removing his iPhone from his jacket pocket. “Okay guys, I’ve gotta run. Officer Wilson is requesting I come to Sparks Avenue.”

“Young man, we have a building permit to construct a school on this property.” Rhonda and I were nearly at the end of the sidewalk next to Sparks Avenue when Buddy approached the police officer. Brandon and a petite, Asian-looking woman, were a hundred feet or so beyond, looking at the remains of the old Higgins home. It seemed since I was here last Friday, a crew had been busy tearing down and hauling off three or four houses that had been here since before I started first grade at Boaz Elementary School in 1960.

The driver of the semi had stopped his rig as instructed and now was standing in the middle of Sparks Avenue looking towards an approaching Brandon. “I haven’t got all day. Two other trailers are waiting on me back at the yard.” The skinny little man said without removing the stub of a cigar tucked in the corner of his mouth. From the sign on his truck, and the two old S-10 Chevrolet pickups serving as escorts and now resting behind my car, cigar man owned or worked for a transport company.

For a minute or two no one said anything. The Asian looking woman walked to an Escalade parked on White Street and returned with a manila file to where Buddy and the police officer were standing. “Sir, Officer Wilson, here is our authority to be here.” Just as the woman ended her statement two other cars screeched to a halt behind the patrol car.

“Mayor, I’m glad to see you. Thanks for coming.” Officer Wilson said reaching out the file after a quick glance inside. The sharply dressed man in suit and tie had to be none other than Ted King, Julie’s husband. I hadn’t seen him in years. He still had a confident air about him. Maybe it was how he walked and carried himself: quick, long strides, chin up, serious eyes scanning the horizon, hands twitching, almost shaking, like a prize-fighter readying himself for the ring.

“Mr. Hawkins has a building permit, but he can’t put any type mobile home or portable trailer on this property.” It surprised me that the man from the second car made the first statement. He had gotten out of his black Suburban and was leaning against the hood. I could tell he was a giant of a man: broad shoulders, long legs and arms. His shoes looked twice as long as mine.

By now the mayor was standing by Officer Wilson and looking inside the manila file. “Clay’s right. Oh, sorry, I’m Mayor Ted King, and that’s Clay Radford.” The mayor said pointing back toward the Suburban. Brandon and the skinny truck driver walked over and joined the gathering at the front of the police cruiser.

“Sir, we apologize for being unaware of the City’s ordinance. If I might be so bold as to ask, may we allow this fine gentleman to drop the trailer here tonight, overnight, until my attorney, Dalton Martin, can advise me in the morning?” I was impressed with Brandon ‘Homerun’ Hawkins. Just like Buddy had said, “he’s just a big teddy bear. But don’t push him too far or he’ll pull out his claws.”

“Get your damn trailer out of here. This ain’t New York City.” Mr. Radford had expressed himself clearly as he walked into the center of the growing circle. Officer Wilson held out his right arm to stop Clay from getting closer to Brandon.

“Clay, there’s no need to raise your voice.” Mayor Ted interjected.

“That’s Randall Radford’s son.” Rhonda had stood beside me speechless until it appeared things might get out of control. “You might not know but his father was also a brute, a damn bully if you ask me. He thought he ran this town. That was until Randall went missing a year or so ago. I guess we all have our limits.”

Buddy surprised me when he stepped in front of Brandon and got right in Clay’s space. “You might be tall you Radford asshole, but you’ve never scrapped with a Hawkins. We’ll have you shoving your guts back inside your stomach before that smirk can leave your face.” I shouldn’t have been surprised, Buddy was never one to run from a fight.

“Stand back, now.” Officer Wilson took charge and pulled out his Billy club, pointing it towards Buddy. He turned and said, “this goes for you too. Now, go back to your vehicle.” The two men complied with Wilson’s orders, but not until Buddy said, “pussy-face, we can dance anytime you want.” I couldn’t help but laugh. Buddy always thought he had to get the last word.

“You say another word and you’ll be in the back seat of my squad car. Do you understand?” Wilson took two steps towards Buddy and grabbed him by the arm.”

“Okay, okay, but he started it. You’re my best witness.” Buddy needed to shut up. I could tell by how Wilson was holding his club he was in no mood for Buddy’s smart mouth.

Mayor King told Clay to leave and accepted Brandon’s request to drop the trailer on his property until the lawyers could sort things out. Within a minute, all city officials had driven off and the skinny cigar man was pulling the long construction trailer next to where the Higgins home had been.

“I might have got my ass whipped but I bet that Radford punk would have regretted tangling with this wildcat.” Buddy said walking up the three stairs from Sparks Avenue to where Rhonda and I were standing.

“Old friend, your body needs to tell your smart mouth that you aren’t eighteen years old any more.” I had always been the one trying to give Buddy advice. It had never worked before.

“You need to be giving pearls of wisdom to the punk. He should know his father and brother’s bullying backfired. I assume you’ve heard how Randall, Clay’s father went missing, and how brother Ryan died a few months ago in a hail of bullets down at Aurora Lake.” Buddy said smiling at Rhonda who I figured wasn’t usually this quiet.

“I’ve heard a little about it.” Really, I hadn’t heard anything, but I had read about the shooting in the Sand Mountain Reporter, the local newspaper that I had subscribed to since I moved to Knoxville. I hoped someday to meet Katie Sims, the Boaz High School teacher that apparently has balls of steel.

“You got time to chat?” Buddy asked. “I’ve got some news I think you will be interested in hearing.”

“How about tomorrow? I really need to finish a project.” Buddy’s request reminded me that I had promised Bill Jones I would have a draft of BCS’s Statement of Faith by 8:00 a.m. tomorrow morning.

“Call me if you get a chance. Brandon gave me a cell number: 256-390-3053.”

“Too busy. How about breakfast at Waffle House. In the morning. Six o’clock.” I said, knowing I wouldn’t take the time to call Buddy.

“You’re buying.” Buddy said turning and walking back down the stairs. He was halfway across Sparks when he stopped, stood still and yelled: “Thank you Jesus for waking me up.” His thunderous laughter followed and could be heard in the middle of Main Street, six blocks away.

“I bet he’s a character.” Rhonda said as we walked back toward the front door of Boaz Christian School.

“You couldn’t imagine the half of it.” I said.

Chapter 10

Tuesday morning, I still hadn’t heard from Buddy. He had failed to show up at the Waffle House yesterday morning as we had planned. I had waited for nearly two hours before I had to leave for school. Multiple calls throughout the day to the cell number he had given me had gone unanswered. I figured I must have dialed the wrong number since I hadn’t written it down when Buddy had given it to me.

Just as I was about to try once again, Bill Jones stuck his head inside my doorway and said, “you’re needed in the conference room. Emergency Board meeting.” My first thought was they didn’t like the Statement of Faith I had given Bill first thing after I arrived yesterday morning. I grabbed a notepad and pen and told Rhonda as I passed through her office.

“Come in Carl. Pete and Bart are in Chattanooga enrolling us with the American Association of Christian Schools. They’ll be back late afternoon but have already approved my proposal.” Bill said, sitting at the head of the conference room table flanked by Nancy Frasier on his right and Brie Sutherland to his left.

“What proposal is that?” I asked, sitting on the opposite end of the table.

“That you resign from BCS and go to work for Brandon Hawkins.” I literally shook my head knowing that I had misheard Bill.

“You can honestly say you’ve been a closet atheist since high school.” Nancy said, reminding me her reputation for knowing everything about everyone who had ever lived in Boaz was a settled fact.

“Bill, can you repeat what you just said?” I didn’t want to respond to Nancy’s off-the-wall statement until I clearly understood Bill’s proposal.

“We’ll double your salary if you take this position. It’s the best way to get ahead of the tsunami coming our way.” Brie added, distracting my attention by the way she turned towards me and smiled.

“Please, you two. I’ll give you time to address Carl in a minute. Let him get his bearings.” I guess Bill could tell by looking at me that I was in a fog. “Carl, we’re getting pressured from City Hall to do everything we can to dismantle Brandon’s secular school before it gains any headway. We need someone on the inside to feed us information, so we can always be on the offensive.” Bill still didn’t make any sense. I wondered if it was intentional.

“What does City Hall have to do with these two schools?” I asked.

“Before we become completely transparent, you do remember signing a confidentiality agreement. Right?” I did and still thought it was silly. Knoxville Christian School had never made me make such a weird promise. What secrets could a Christian school possibly have?

“I do. You emailed it to me and had me print it out, sign it, and fax it back to you.”

“Bill, let me give some background.” Nancy said as she sat up straighter in her chair. Gosh, the woman was old as dirt but didn’t look a day over sixty.

“Okay Nancy. If you must.”

“In a way, Boaz is no different than every other small town in the south. It prides itself on being a Christian community, believing in the infallibility and inerrancy of the Bible. But, there’s one unique difference, at least as far as we know. Boaz, well, at least a few folks in town, believe the Bible, belief in the Bible, is the best way to keep its citizens submissive and compliant. To put it bluntly, there has been a deal, let me call it an arrangement, over the years between the City, First Baptist Church of Christ, and the Boaz schools, to indoctrinate everyone from the cradle to the grave. Parents receive a kind of stipend for supporting the program.”

“This is a surprise. And, all along, I’ve thought it was simply a natural outcome of a deluded community mindset.”

Bill stood and looked at Brie like he was prompting her to speak.

“Carl, there’s more to it than that. The City, all of us really, are concerned about the real reason Brandon Hawkins has returned to Boaz with such an aggressive agenda.” Brie said, fiddling with her cross necklace.

“And that would be what?” I asked, doubting the wisdom of my moving back to Boaz from Knoxville.

“Tina Hawkins, Brandon’s mother. Her death in 2009, her mysterious death. Still unresolved. There were rumors back then that she was about to blow the lid off some carefully guarded secrets.” Nancy added. “She is probably the reason Brandon was so easily persuaded by his little Asian doll. Tina, even though married to a hardcore Fundamentalist preacher, was an outsider in many ways. She gave Benson fits, never willing to keep her mouth shut.”

“About what?” I figured I knew but wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth.

“She was always asking questions. This is common knowledge because she taught school at Boaz High School for nearly fifteen years before she died.” Brie said.

“So, she, in essence, was a counterweight to her husband and the community’s full-time program of indoctrinating its youth?” I asked.

“She wanted Brandon to learn how to think critically. Of course, his father never relented in pouring the Bible down his throat. I hate to say it but there’s two sets of rumors, or there were back in 2009. One was that Benson himself got rid of his heretical wife. The other was that Clay Radford, and his friends, did the deed.” Nancy said, accepting more coffee from Bill who was walking around with the pot.

“The deed? How did Tina die?” If I had ever heard, I couldn’t recall.

“She was found early one morning dead in her classroom. The public statement by Benson was she had been diagnosed with cancer. An autopsy revealed she had taken an overdose of cyanide. But that fact was never released.” Nancy said adding a ton of sugar to her coffee.

“Then, how did you know that?” It seemed a logical question.

“Carl, you should know Nancy never reveals her sources.” I didn’t understand why Brie responded. This was getting surreal.

“Let’s get back to what we know for sure. That’s the Center for Secular Humanism.” Bill said, returning to his seat. “It is the most threatening thing to happen to Boaz since the tornado last April.” I remember an article in the Sand Mountain Reporter that said it had to be the hand of God that lifted the swirling mass as it tore through Aurora. If not, the giant funnel would have destroyed every home and building in Boaz.

Bill was about to continue when Rhonda’s voice came across the intercom: “Bill, sorry to interrupt, but you have an emergency call from the Mayor.”

Without a single word, Bill rose and walked out into the hallway.

“That’s probably more news about what Julie King has offered to do.” Brie said.

“Is that something I should know about?” I asked, feeling confident I was just as much an outsider as when I lived in this little backwater town during my growing up years.

Nancy stood and downed the last of her coffee as though she was taking a shot of whiskey. “I knew the council made a horrible mistake in hiring her as principal of Boaz High. She’s a player. Word has it she has agreed to let Brandon or one of his teachers come to the high school once per month and make a presentation to the entire student body.” With that, Nancy left the room. I was relieved I didn’t have to give an account of how much I had been influenced by Buddy concerning the Bible when I was a kid.

I was about to head back to my office when Brie pulled her cell phone from her purse. “I said I would have him there at 5:30. Don’t call me during work hours.” She then looked over at me and said. “Damn ex-husband thinks he’s still my master. Lives in Guntersville at his lake house on weekends and wants me to bring Finn, our son, to him. Victor Sutherland, I was such a fool to get mixed up with that bastard.”

I didn’t respond but said, “I’m a pretty good listener if you ever need a shoulder to cry on.” I must admit; I would love to have the gorgeous Brie Sutherland confiding in me. Who knows, a vulnerable single woman is, well, sometimes vulnerable.

The Boaz Scholar–1st ten chapters

Chapter 1

“Mountain Brook, here I come.” The red-faced, blue-haired older woman said as she stuffed a red and white bag into the overhead bin and sat down across the aisle from me. I hated not having a window seat.

“We’ll be in Birmingham in less than two hours. You going or coming?” Now the overly plump woman was looking directly at me. I was regretting my decision to read instead of listening to music, which required having my ear-buds in, while waiting on everyone to board. I returned my gaze to The Blank Slate by Steven Pinker, one of my favorite writers, although I’d read this book half-a-dozen times. “Birmingham, you live there?” I kept my eyes on my reading.

I was saved by a short and stocky man and a similarly shaped woman directing half-a-dozen kids to their seats, two in the row in front of me, two beside the blue-haired woman, and two more somewhere towards the rear of the plane. I had to get up and stand in the aisle as the man in an Alabama Crimson Tide football jersey moved by toward the coveted window seat and the big-bosomed woman squeezed in next to my temporary residence.

As other passengers boarded. I sneaked a peak across the aisle to the chatty old woman. She was now sitting silent, with her head bowed, with what looked like a Bible laying across her lap. It was large. Probably a King James Version. The thought almost made me sick.

My near-perfect life was headed south. Literally. My flight from Chicago O’Hare to Birmingham was one-way. To silently answer the blue-haired woman’s first question, I was going, not coming. And, I was staying a full year. What was worse, I wasn’t headed to Mountain Brook, a quiet and rich suburb of what once was known as ‘the Pittsburgh of the South,’ a community I suspected possessed a thin layer of sophistication. No, I was going to Boaz, a little backwoods town eighty miles north. Worse still, I couldn’t simply hang out at Uncle Larry and Aunt Mary’s, I had to waste my entire tenth grade year at Boaz High School.

“You live in Birmingham?” Damn, now questions were erupting from my right, from the thick woman whose left elbow already controlled the arm rest.

“No.” I reached under my seat for my leather bag and my iPhone. It didn’t take but a minute to discover I had packed my ear-buds in one of two suitcases. Both, now in the belly of the plane.

“Are you visiting family, friends, or headed further south?” I couldn’t decide which was worse. The woman’s southern drawl or her over-powering perfume. Her speech reminded me it had been my decision to stay with Mother’s sister and her husband, both whose words were painfully slow, instead of spending a year with my parents living out of a tent in south Africa.

Maybe if I responded she would leave me alone. “Just visiting family.” See, I could be polite, and it was all true.

“My six young’uns start to school on Monday. You still in high school? Right? My Tammie’s about your age. Thirteen?” The woman was a machine gun, albeit a slow one with an endless number of bullets.

“I’m fifteen.” The irritating woman obviously hadn’t taken a good look at me, even though I had stood to let her, and her man take their seats. I am tall, nearly five foot eight, weigh one-hundred twenty-eight pounds, and wear a 36D bra. And in these tight jeans she could have noticed I’m shapely all the way to my toes. I almost shared with her what Jordan, my ex-boyfriend, had always said: “you have the sexiest ass,” but that would have been an equally painful subject to explore. Jordan, not my ass.

“I can’t believe Tammy’s start’un the eighth grade. She’s already demanding I let her start dating. That’s not happening. Too many like Roger out there.” The purple-lip-sticked woman motioned her head toward the man sitting beside her. I wished I hadn’t looked. Dear Roger was leaning forward staring at my chest, smiling, and probably wishing I was exposing more cleavage. He could use a good dentist.

Ten minutes later the plane’s tires left the tarmac and headed towards 40,000 feet. I now knew the names of all six of Darla and Roger’s kids, that they lived in Clanton, Alabama, that Roger owned a tire store, and that she worked part-time at SmartStyle Hair Salon at the local Walmart Super Center.

Boaz, Alabama, here I come.

Delta flight 2489 landed at Birmingham-Shuttlesworth International Airport at 9:19 p.m., Friday night August the third. Uncle Larry and Aunt Mary were waiting just inside the terminal. She was holding a silly little sign that read, “Mia Hudson, welcome to Alabama.”

It wasn’t like I’d never set foot in the second most uneducated state in America. But it had been over two years since my parents and I had driven through during one of our annual summer vacations. That one, was the summer of 2016, two days after I had graduated seventh grade at Latin School of Chicago. We had stayed two days at their home straight across from Boaz High School. I still remember Mother saying, as we pulled out heading to Miami, “Mia, being naturally smart isn’t enough. Just look at your Aunt Mary. She made 34 on her ACT exam in the eleventh grade but she now makes $25,000 per year as a secretary for a church. Good decisions are imperative.”

“Hey.” I said, as Aunt Mary hugged me while Uncle Larry smiled and touched my shoulder.

“Mia, we’re excited to finally have a daughter. At least for a year.” Aunt Mary said, leaning her head back as she held both my hands even though my right one clutched my book bag. Her eyes scanned me from chest to feet. “Wow, you’ve filled out since we saw you two years ago.” Mother’s only sister, Mary Jackson, childless, worked as the secretary for Minister of Music Mike Glenn at First Baptist Church of Christ in Boaz. She also volunteered with the youth group, mainly managing refreshments.

“Thanks for letting me come. I promise I’ll not cause you any trouble.” I was being fully honest. After making my decision I had made plans to make the most of this year. At first, I was devastated when I realized I would lose a year at one of the finest college prep schools in the country, and possibly the chance to earn a full academic scholarship to the University of Chicago. It was my dream to someday be a professor at this prestigious college where my parents had taught and researched all my life. My plan, evidenced by two boxes of books already in my room at 711 Stephens Street in Boaz, was self-education. I figured Boaz High School wouldn’t be much of a challenge, so I would immerse myself in dozens of biology and psychology books by the world’s most brilliant minds, including Steven Pinker at Harvard.

“Let’s go grab your bags and head home. It’s already going on 9:30.” Uncle Larry said taking my book bag and walking toward the escalators. Mother had reminded me yesterday when she was giving me last minute instructions before her and Dad left for the Rising Star Cave system in South Africa, that Uncle Larry went to bed early, especially during the school week. He was a math teacher at Boaz High School. I was glad the counselor had let me opt out of Geometry since I had taken it in the ninth grade. It would have been awkward living with your math teacher.

On the drive to Boaz, Uncle Larry conceded to Aunt Mary’s request that he go through the drive-through at a McDonald’s in Roebuck, a place just north of Birmingham right off Interstate 59. She had wanted us to go inside and eat but he wouldn’t surrender that much, something about needing to be up early to finish his next week’s lesson plains before a golf game with Stanley Smothers, the recently hired math teacher that needed some hand-holding according to Uncle Larry.

After eating my fish sandwich and spilling ketchup from my fries onto my jeans, I was kind of glad Aunt Mary addressed the elephant in the room, well, the car. The one major stipulation she and Uncle Larry had when Mother had asked them if I could live with them for a year was that I attend church with them. At first, this didn’t seem to be a big deal. I had attended church all my life. It was Temple Sholom of Chicago, a Jewish synagogue my parents had fallen in love with shortly after they moved from New York in the fall of 2001. Neither Mom or Dad were religious. They simply loved the fellowship and, as Dad said, “you don’t have to adopt the Jewish beliefs to benefit from Judaism. It’s a good way to structure your life; a good place to learn discipline.”

After Mother described Uncle Larry and Aunt Mary’s religion, my feelings had changed. I had done some reading on Christian Fundamentalism, and especially the Southern Baptist denomination. I had even researched First Baptist Church of Christ. It was going to be difficult keeping my mouth shut for an hour each week as I would hear the preacher, a man named Robert Miller, share his interpretation of a book he and 99.99% of his constituents believed had been authored by the Creator of the Universe.

As we exited the Interstate at Highway 77 our church attendance conversation took a darker turn. Uncle Larry spoke for the first time in fifty miles. “Wednesday night’s services and fellowship meal will expose you to the best Southern food imaginable and to the power of prayer. Sunday morning’s Sunday School will motivate you to immerse yourself into the New Testament. Jews stop right before the good part.” I could see Aunt Mary smiling as Uncle Larry pulled into a well-light Chevron station to “filler-up” as he said.

As he was outside pumping gas Aunt Mary said, “Oh, I almost forgot. I’ve arranged a little party for you tomorrow night. It’s kind of a welcome to Boaz party. It’ll be a good chance for you to meet several kids from the youth group, your Boaz High School classmates.”

That’s all I needed, being put in the spotlight of a bunch of snaggle-toothed, slow-talking backwoods kids who all believed in talking snakes and other magic I couldn’t even imagine.

“Thanks Aunt Mary. I can’t wait.”

Chapter 2

It was nearly midnight before we arrived in Boaz. After bringing in my two heavy suitcases, Uncle Larry went to bed. Aunt Mary helped me unpack. My room was small but comfortable. It was also amenable to my reading and study habits. Uncle Larry had built me a desk across the interior wall right next to the door from the hallway. Above the long wood counter, there were plenty of shelves. It was nice to see the books I had shipped. I imagined each of them calling to me, reaching out a hand and saying, “choose me.” I slowly slid my right hand across the spine of each book and silently told them how excited I was they were here to share our one-year adventure.

I had forgotten this bedroom had a private bath. Last night as I was brushing my teeth, I opened the shower door and realized I could barely squeeze inside. There certainly was no way to bend over and wash my feet without bumping my head against the wall. But this was better than having to share Uncle Larry’s and Aunt Mary’s bath down the hall in the center of the house. It was odd the small clothes closet was inside the bathroom.

The room’s furniture was minimalist but enough: a half-bed, a nightstand, and a chest of drawers. The stout but aged items looked like they could have been what Mother and Aunt Mary shared when they were growing up in the country outside Boaz. There was also a small rocking chair by the lone back window. The thing I disliked the most was the carpet. It was the contrast with the wood floors throughout our two-story home in Hyde Park that kept me awake for hours after undressing and crawling into my bed. It was nearly three o’clock the last time I looked at my iPhone. I couldn’t survive thinking about Chicago. I had to resolve to live in the here and now, no matter how much I already hated the sad and scary turn my life had taken.

“Mia.” Aunt Mary said, tapping on my door. It was 6:30 according to the giant, old-timey clock hanging above my chest of drawers. I hadn’t noticed it last night.

“Yes.” I stayed vertical under the covers realizing my habit of sleeping naked might have to change.

“Your Mom and Dad are on the phone. They asked me to fetch you.”

“Okay, I’ll be right there, give me a minute.” I quickly pulled on a tee shirt and a pair of baggy shorts. I was confused why they hadn’t called me on my iPhone. I walked down the short hallway and into the small den by the kitchen.

“There, sit in my chair.” Aunt Mary said motioning me towards a chair next to a sliding glass door leading out onto a small deck. The giant phone sat on a table between two matching Lazy-Boy recliners. “Your mother called to thank me and your Uncle Larry.”

“Mom?” I said.

“Honey, are you okay? Did everything go well yesterday?”

“No problems. We got here around midnight. I didn’t sleep very well. New surroundings, I guess. Are you and Dad still in London?” For some reason I was confused. Was today Saturday or Sunday? I also couldn’t remember when the final leg of Mom and Dad’s flight would be.

“We’re here until tomorrow.” Dad said. I assumed they had their phone on Speaker.

“Hey Dad. I miss you guys. Also, I’m afraid I made a mistake. I wish I were with you right now and was headed to Johannesburg tomorrow.” I had heard Aunt Mary go out the door to the carport. Without any sign of Uncle Larry, I suspected he had already left to meet his teaching buddy for golf.

“We miss you too.” Mother and Dad said in unison. I was blessed with great parents. I had enough friends whose parents were just as smart as mine but appeared incapable of truly connecting with their kids, like it was not intellectual or something. But mine were special. I liked that they didn’t coddle me. They had taught me since I was a baby to think for myself. Both Mother and Dad were professors at the University of Chicago. Dad, a professor of evolutionary genetics in the Department of Ecology & Evolution. Mother, a professor of New Testament and Early Christian Literature in the Divinity School.

“What time is it in London?” I knew they would be several hours ahead of my time.

“Right now, it’s a little after noon.” Dad said.

“What are you guys up to?” I said, remembering our trip to London in 2015.

Mom spoke. I could sense she was excited by her tone and rate of speech. “We’re headed to the Shard for lunch. We have reservations at 1:00.”

“Thanks for inviting me.” More memories. We had visited this beautiful sky-scraper during our trip. It’s on the south bank of the River Thames and the tallest building in western Europe.

“Oh honey. This is no doubt the hardest thing your Dad and I have ever done. We miss you so much.”

“We have to stay focused.” Dad said.

“Discipline Dad. You can do it. It’s just a year. We’ll be stronger and smarter for sticking with the plan.” I repeated his words, what he had said for months, each night the three of us were planning this adventure.

“Honey, you remember The Shanghai Bar at Hutong?” Mother interrupted.

“I do. Thirty-third floor of the Shard. I also remember eating chilled and roasted baby pigeon. It was a starter we shared when we ate there. I think that was the final straw that made me become a vegan.”

Dad changed the subject. He and Mother had different opinions on my decision to give up meat and dairy. I guess he didn’t want to re-plow that ground. At least not today.

“We spoke with Lee this morning. Neil arrived yesterday. They seem anxious for us to arrive. Tuesday, we head to the caves.” Dad seemed more excited than ever.

“Reckon you and Mom will become as famous as Mr. Berger and Neil?” I asked. I had recently become infatuated with both men and had read extensively on their backgrounds and accomplishments.

Lee Berger is an American-born South African paleoanthropologist, a professor at the University of the Witwatersrand in Johannesburg, South Africa, and a National Geographic Explorer-in-Residence. He is best known for his discovery in 2015 of Homo Naledi at Rising Star Cave just thirty miles north of the school. Berger determined that Homo Naledi is an extinct species of hominin.

Neil Shubin is also a professor at the University of Chicago and a good friend of Mom and Dad’s. Neil is a paleontologist, evolutionary biologist, and popular science writer who is best known for co-discovering Tiktaalik roseae, a transitional fossil, in the Arctic of Canada. This fossil reveals a combination of features that show the evolutionary transition between swimming fish and their descendants, the four-legged vertebrates which includes amphibians, dinosaurs, birds, mammals and humans.

When I was in the right frame of mind, I knew this was a once in a lifetime opportunity for Mom and Dad. They were joining Berger and Shubin as they returned to the Rising Star Cave system for the second exploration. From what Berger had written, he expected more exciting discoveries to be made, possibly as important as the Homo Naledi find.

“Baby, we are content to be in the background and support the team anyway we can. It’ll be an honor just to serve water to these extraordinary men.”

Mom and Dad talked and walked until they arrived at the Shard. Dad ended our conversation by saying, “Mia, take it one day at a time and realize the world is home to all types of people. Don’t get discouraged when you hear someone boldly proclaiming his ignorance. We all have lots to learn.”

After the three of us shared an “I love you,” I sat in Aunt Mary’s chair feeling sorry for myself. I couldn’t help but stare at her Bible sitting on the end table. I picked it up and turned to the page where she had inserted a First Baptist Church of Christ bulletin. Underlined in pencil was Philippians 4:13: “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.” At first, I chuckled to myself as I thought how silly it was for anyone to believe in God, or His purported son, Jesus Christ, for that matter. Then, I realized the important thing wasn’t whether God’s existence was true, but what Aunt Mary and Uncle Larry believed. No doubt, they believed Jesus lived in their hearts and helped them day by day to do their work and live their lives.

“Your mom and dad seem excited.” Aunt Mary said coming in the sliding glass door with a basket full of the prettiest tomatoes I had ever seen.

Chapter 3

Aunt Mary prepared me a great but simple breakfast. A bowl of oatmeal surrounded by a host of fresh grown things from her garden, including strawberries, cantaloupe, watermelon, and purple grapes. I even ate two slices of a tomato she said were from seeds passed down from her grandfather, my great-grandfather.

“Honey, we might as well have our little talk.” Aunt Mary said sipping a cup of steaming coffee.

“Don’t worry, Mom’s already taken care of that. I’m a semi-expert on the birds and the bees.” I was halfway trying to be funny, but I suspected this wasn’t going to be about sex.

“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I’m talking about your faith, well, you’re lack of it.” Aunt Mary had a serious face. She wasn’t ugly or pretty but there was a wholesomeness about her. She wore very little makeup. Even though her dark brown eyes might to the unknowing person indicate something sinister, her constant smile argued otherwise. “Don’t worry, your mother hasn’t said anything, but I did see all those books last night.”

She was not referring to the two boxes of books Dad had helped me ship a little over a week ago. Those were mostly about my favorite subjects, biology and psychology, especially evolutionary psychology. No, the books Aunt Mary was now referencing were the ones I had brought in my suitcases. These dozen books or so dealt with the God issue. I had already read them, but I brought them almost like a child’s favorite toy or security blanket. They encouraged me, and I knew I would need much of that as I was stuck in the heart of the Bible Belt for a whole year. “Aunt Mary, can I ask you a question?” I would have no choice but to listen to her, even if she blasted out a sermon, but first I wanted to give her a gift.

“Of course, anything, and please know we’re having this talk because I love you.” If my sweet Aunt only knew the truth of what I believed.

Here goes, “have you ever read a book by an unbeliever, I mean someone who does not believe like you do?” I suspected I knew the answer.

She squeezed her lips together and said, “If I have, it’s been a while. Maybe in college. You know I attended Snead State Junior College for a year after high school.”

“I wish you would read The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins. He is a scientist, a brilliant man, and a superb writer. His arguments for unbelief in a supernatural God are sound. At a minimum, you will begin to understand why I’m not a Christian.”

“Dear, I could never do that. My Lord would not be pleased. His Word instructs me to flee all temptations.” She quoted some verses in the book of Second Timothy, something about avoiding “foolish and unlearned questions.”

“So, it would be wrong for you to ask questions?” I asked.

“Well, not all questions, but certainly ones that dealt with whether God was real. But the good book is clear that temptations themselves are not sin but lead to sin. I guess it would be okay for you to give me an example.” I was surprised Aunt Mary was making this distinction. “I doubt anything you say will even be a temptation.”

Thankful for the opportunity, I said, “complex life doesn’t come about quickly. It comes from a slow, long process, starting with something very simple.”

“That makes sense, except for God of course.”

“That’s the problem, if God does exist, He has to be very complex. It is anything but reasonable to assume a simple creature, say God, could create the universe and all living things. If He exists, He would be the result of a process like the evolutionary process that has created all life today, including you and me.” I figured I was about to be shut down.

“Honey, God and Jesus have always been. Just listen, ‘That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon, and our hands have handled, of the Word of life.’” Aunt Mary quoted 1st John 1:1 from memory.

“So, if the Bible says it, then it must be true?”

“Absolutely, the Bible is God’s inerrant word, totally infallible.” I didn’t ask, but I also knew Aunt Mary had never read a single book, or article for that matter, that laid out the evidence that refutes her Bible claims. My dear aunt was a true believer, she was in the Christian Fundamentalist camp, a group that was shrinking as each year rolled by and the older members died off. I knew from my readings that the ‘Nones,’ the young people who were not affiliated with any church or denomination, were growing much faster than any brand of religion.

I kept eating while we talked. I appreciated her and Uncle Larry accommodating my diet requirements. The non-dairy milk, Silk, was a surprise. “Another question, but related. Do you believe that everything has a cause?”

“Yes, but again not God.” She was very protective of God, restricting her positions to what she believed the Bible said and probably what she had heard from preachers all her life.

“Well, consider this. If God didn’t have to have a cause, why does the universe?” I said. I’d always thought this was a destructive argument for a theist.

Aunt Mary didn’t hesitate. “Because the Bible says, ‘In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.’”

“Doesn’t it say a few verses later that on the fifth-and sixth-days God created all living creatures?”

“Yes, certainly.” Aunt Mary got up and poured more coffee.

“Science tells us this cannot be true. The evolutionary process refutes this.”

“Oh honey.” I had to get used to Aunt Mary’s ‘oh honeys.’ “Evolution is just a theory. It’s a ploy from Satan.”

Right as I started to describe how science defines the word theory, like the germ theory of disease or the theory of gravity, the phone rang, the giant land-line sitting beside Aunt Mary’s Lazy-Boy. “Sorry dear, I better get that. It might be about your party.”

I finished my breakfast as she talked on the phone. When she hung up, she said, “don’t tell your Uncle Larry but I’ll think about reading a little in your book, The God Delusion. But if I believe it is planting doubts in my head about my beliefs then I’m done.”

“My philosophy is to follow the evidence where-ever it leads, no matter if it makes me doubt.” I said as there was a loud tapping on the door leading in from the garage.

“That’s Lucille Johnson from across the street. Saturdays, you can set your clock to her knocking. Mia, thanks for talking. I’m very glad you are here.” Aunt Mary smiled, turned, and walked toward the door beside her washer and dryer. I returned to my room.

My party was unique to say the least. It was held in the basement of what I learned was the old sanctuary. First Baptist Church of Christ had recently completed and moved into a new facility next door, but the youth group had opted to stay and operate here, in this fully functioning room with tall ceilings. There was even a theater of sorts set up towards the rear.

My party came right after a short session, sort of a combination Bible study and pep-rally. The leader was a young man himself, I doubted if he was past his mid-twenties. I later learned he had recently graduated from seminary. Jed Forester was his name. According to a skinny girl sitting next to me, Jed’s dad was a local car dealer and a deacon here at the church.

After Jed finally got the thirty or forty kids to settle down and sit in matching black hardback chairs arranged in a semi-circle, he spent five minutes or so arguing the life-changing importance of each of us sharing the Gospel with our lost friends at school. After he received an affirmative response from the group, I’m glad he didn’t ask for a show of hands, he pointed at me and asked me to stand. I hated being the center of attention. I hoped he didn’t ask me to recite my FAITH presentation.

“Folks, this is Mia Hudson from Chicago. She is Larry and Mary Jackson’s niece and will be with us for the next year. Welcome Mia, we’re honored to have you. Everyone, please stay for refreshments after our prayer and get to know Miss Hudson.” I sat down half way through Jed’s long speech.

After a cool-looking guy sitting right next to Jed said a rather long prayer, the skinny girl beside me led me to a back table, one surrounded by several couches that could have been on the Noah’s Ark I believed never existed. “I like your aunt, she’s a sweet lady and helps with my choir group.” Lexi Jones was pretty, tall like me, but for a ninth grader, she was a late bloomer. Her chest was as flat as a pancake. But, again, she was sweet.

Lexi led me through the line. I chose Kool-Aid (do teenagers still drink this?) and a bag of popcorn. A few kids, both boys and girls, smiled as two lines formed around the long table. The cookies and fudge looked good, but I had to assume they all contained milk.

I followed Lexi back to where we had been seated during the session. “What grade are you in?” She asked. “You look like you should be in college. You are, well, how do I put this. You are mature looking.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Maybe maturity isn’t a physical thing, maybe that has to do with your intelligence.”

Lexi seemed at a loss for words. The cool-looking guy who had led the prayer walked over with a red plastic cup in one hand and a plate loaded with every type cookie available in the other. “Hi, I’m Adam Brown. It’s nice to meet you. Sorry, I can’t shake your hand.” At first, I knew he couldn’t because of the food and drink he was carrying, but then he looked back and saw a gorgeous blond walking towards us. He looked back at me and rolled his eyes. I really didn’t know what to make of it.

“Adam is our superhero. He’s Mr. Boaz High School when it comes to sports. He’s in the tenth grade. Oh, by the way, what grade will you be in?” The chatty Lexi said as Adam sat down beside me and took another two chairs from down the line and pulled them in front of both Lexi and me.

“Tenth.” I said as I was interrupted.

“I see you didn’t waste any time seeking out the sexy Mia Hudson.” The gorgeous blond joined us while looking straight at Adam.”

“Jed said for us to make her feel welcome.” Adam said as though apologizing.

“Mia, this is Jessica Miller, my girlfriend.” Adam said, waiting on her to sit beside him before he sat down. I noticed she only had a red cup and no plate. She was probably watching her figure. Certainly, it had been well managed. She was neither thin or fat. She wasn’t as busty as me, but she was world’s ahead of Miss Lexi.

“Jessica is Pastor Miller’s daughter. He’s our preacher.” Lexi said. She seemed to be the group’s self-appointed historian. “Jessica is also the head cheerleader. She’s a senior.” I thought it a little odd that Jessica would have a boyfriend two years younger. Most teenage girls prefer older boys. But it really wasn’t difficult to understand. Adam Brown was gorgeous. I must like that word. He looked to be a good five or six inches taller than me. He was muscularly built but not the god-awful bulging arm type I hated. His blue eyes reminded me of Jordan. Everything about him reminded me of my first and only boyfriend. Unlike Adam, Jordan was nearly three years older than me. Just looking at Adam made my spine tingle. It was the first time I had thought about Jordan and what he had taught me about sex. I still missed him, but my mind knew I had done the right thing by ending our relationship. I was too committed to my life goals to destroy my life now by becoming pregnant. Right now, though, my body was expressing its attraction to the local superhero.

During my extended look-back mixed with a little forbidden imagination, I hadn’t noticed that Lexi had returned to the refreshments table. I looked over at Jessica who was staring at me, her eyes roaming me from head to toe. I shifted my gaze to Adam who was devouring cookie after cookie. “I need some more Kool-Aid, anybody else?” He asked, reaching for my empty cup.

“Thanks.” I said as he walked away, leaving Jessica’s half-filled cup in her hands.

It didn’t take the gorgeous blond two seconds to blurt out her warning. “Miss Hudson, I hope you understand that Adam Brown is my boyfriend. I encourage you to leave him the hell alone. I can tell you will be the second prettiest girl at Boaz High School, second to me of course. But Adam is taken.” Did the pretty blond think I was afraid of her?

I couldn’t resist. “Since Adam is taken, I assume it wasn’t his choice.” Dad always said I had a way to piss people off.

“Okay Miss Smart Ass, don’t push it or you’ll have regrets.”

“Is that a threat?” I asked.

Where it came from, I’ll never understand. “Adam is my gift from God. He has plans for us. So, if you try to flirt with Adam, God will not sit silent.” The girl was a kook, but I decided against name calling. At least for now.

“Here’s your Kool-Aid.” Adam said as he handed me my red cup. I couldn’t resist grazing his fingers with my own as I took my drink. I guess the kook didn’t see my action or she might have flogged me.

After Jed joined us and welcomed me for the second time to Boaz, Jessica informed Adam they were leaving. Jed also walked away, leaving me alone. I guess Lexi got distracted. All the other kids were either playing ping-pong or sitting on the ancient couches.

I was glad when Uncle Larry and Aunt Mary arrived to drive me home.

Chapter 4

Sunday I was at my new desk by 5:00 a.m. Yesterday, I had slept late, 6:30 I think, and my day bore that out-of-kilter feeling I abhorred. Ever since the summer after my eighth-grade year, I had committed my life to learning. The early morning session had been Dad’s idea: spend at least an hour, preferably two, in a book or peer-reviewed article that strained your mind.

Don’t think my decision had come easily or that I committed to Dad’s suggestion the first time he made his recommendation. I had pretty much floundered my three years in middle school. But this didn’t mean I slept through every class. Latin School of Chicago was much more challenging than what I had experienced during K-6 at public school. Our middle school curriculum covered all the traditional core subject areas: Math, Science, English and Language Arts, Social Studies and Language. The private school also offered a range of innovative, creative ways to present the material. The teachers knew that middle school students learned best when they were engaged with the subject matter through concrete experiences like role playing, simulations, lab work or exploration outside the classroom. Dynamic discussions and interactive lectures were designed to relate to issues and ideas the faculty knew middle school-aged kids were thinking about.

With not much more than minimum effort, I sailed through and graded solidly in the top ten percent of my peers. Nonetheless, both Mom and Dad labeled me a tapeworm. In other words, I was a parasite. They had even made me memorize the definition: “an organism that lives in or on another and takes its nourishment from that other organism, or host.”

For many, if not most parents, they would have been proud of their daughter and her near-perfect report card. But, not my parents, not two professors with doctorates in their fields and an inventory of peer-reviewed writings that were the envy of their academic worlds. In a nutshell, my parents wanted their only child to reach her full potential as an academic and a person.

By Christmas of my eighth-grade year, I was tired of my identity (at least at home) of being a parasite. This had come after Mother made me attend a conference with her in North Carolina. One of her professional colleague’s, a professor Bart Ehrman, had asked her to his school, the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, to present a paper she had recently authored. It had to do, in layman’s terms, with why children almost always adopt the religion of their parents.

Mother argued children were hard-wired by evolutionary forces to obey their parents. She said quite a bit about how important it would have been for pre-historic kids growing up in the African Savannah to take their parents words to heart: “always believe it’s not the wind but a lion you hear coming from behind you.” It was the only way to survive. If the sound turned out to be the wind, then the child was no worse off.

Mother transitioned to a short talk about the likelihood our earliest ancestors also instructed their children to attach agency to natural forces. For example, volcanoes, earthquakes, and tornadoes were beings with a purpose, albeit invisible. One had to act a certain way to please them, to keep from being destroyed.

After Mother’s presentation and during the question and answer session, one student asked Mother what would be the best field to pursue to learn how evolutionary forces had influenced man’s behavior. She confessed she was not the best person to answer this question and expressed her regret that Dad wasn’t present. But Mother advised the student, with a professional qualification, to explore the field of evolutionary psychology. She shared how it was focused on how evolution had shaped the mind and behavior.

It was during our flight home during a discussion on how parents can mislead their children, even unknowingly, that it dawned on me how lazy I was and how I had become satisfied accepting what other people said was true. That night, back at home in Chicago, I had a long talk with Dad and confessed to him that I no longer wanted to be a tapeworm, that I needed to know how to learn on my own what was true.

To him, it was simple: “question everything and read.” I will never forget that night sitting in his study until 2:00 a.m. hearing him describe how becoming disciplined with his time had changed his life.

Two days later, at barely fourteen years old, I committed to early morning study sessions. Other than yesterday morning, I probably hadn’t missed a half-dozen mornings in the past year. Today, after hearing Adam Brown’s prayer last night requesting God give the youth group “a good year sharing the Gospel at school,” I was intrigued when and how it would be determined if God had truly answered this heartfelt plea. I had a suspicion prayer didn’t work but accepting that as fact just meant I was reverting to my old days as a tapeworm. No, I needed to pursue this topic inside and out, following the evidence wherever it led. I couldn’t help but think of Mom and Dad and how fortunate I was to have parents who truly wanted me to reach my fullest potential as an academic and a person.

My first session in Alabama lasted almost two hours. I spent most of this time researching what the Bible said about prayer. I was reminded and thankful, Mom and Dad had convinced Uncle Larry and Aunt Mary to have Charter Cable provide Internet services; it probably helped that Hudson money was footing the bill. My parents knew the importance to my education of having easy and constant access to the worldwide virtual library. My favorite verse, more particularly, the verse I thought put Jesus in quite a precarious spot was John 15:7: “If ye abide in me, and my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you.” To my simple but logical mind, it seemed “abiding” was the key to getting everything on your Christmas list.

By 7:30 a.m., I had showered (washing my feet while sitting on the commode), dried my curly black hair, dressed, and enjoyed a breakfast identical to yesterday morning’s menu. Aunt Mary left for choir practice a few minutes later, leaving Uncle Larry and me sitting in the den. He kept his head tucked inside the Sunday edition of the Birmingham News while I flipped through several golfing magazines lying on the small coffee table. At few minutes past eight he drove us to Sparks Avenue and First Baptist Church of Christ. The only thing he had said to me all morning, other than an almost silent, “good morning,” was as we turned left off Brown Street: “don’t forget to grab a Sunday School book. It’s important to be prepared.” I felt like a kindergartner as we rode the elevator to the fourth floor and he walked me through a doorway bearing the sign, “Youth Sunday School Department.” He left after introducing me to Amber Vickers, the director, a neatly dressed and attractive woman probably twenty years older than Mother. She was alone and writing Bible verses on a giant blackboard.

Lexi Jones, the skinny ninth grader I had met last night, arrived just as I finished answering a host of biographical questions from Ms. Vickers. “Hi Mia, you’re early.” Lexi said motioning me to join her at a table in the far-left corner. I smiled but didn’t verbally respond.

Apparently, this youth group loved sweets. The cloth-covered table contained three types of donuts: plain, pink, glazed variety, topped with sprinkles, and one glazed with either maple or caramel and topped with what looked like small chunks of bacon. There were several dozen red plastic cups filled with ice, and a similar number of empty Styrofoam cups to the right of the donuts. Two large urns labeled coffee and apple juice rested on a wooden table to the right.

Lexi filled a plate with both types of non-plain donuts and poured herself a cup of coffee. “Are you too good to eat?”

“No, I’ve already had breakfast. And, I don’t eat dairy.” I said, choosing to withhold the vegan word.

“Suit yourself. Follow me, I usually sit in the far corner next to the windows.” A wave of other kids poured into the room and headed to the refreshments table as we maneuvered our way through them.

Lexi reminded me of a photo of Joan of Arc from my ninth-grade history book. The author of the related article had said the famous woman was about “five foot two in height, thickly made, muscular, and very strong. Her eyes were far apart, and somewhat prominent. Her hair was black.” Unknown to the writer, he could have been describing Lexi Jones, except for the ‘thickly made, muscular’ part, and the fact she was a few inches taller. Also, like Joan of Arc, Lexi wasn’t pretty but reasonably good-looking, had distinctly dark complexion, and had a soft and compelling voice.

At exactly 8:30, Ms. Vickers, standing behind a skinny podium in front of the long blackboard, without a word, scanned the large room filled with forty or fifty kids and calmed the sea of loud, inharmonious voices. “Good morning young people. Today’s lesson is about humility. Look behind me. I’ve printed a number of verses but focus on the one underlined in blue chalk.” Ms. Vickers proceeded to read the two verses, 1 Peter 5: 6-7. “‘Humble yourselves therefore under the mighty hand of God, that he may exalt you in due time: Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you.’ Someone tell me what humility means.”

A girl’s voice from the far side of the room said, “it’s the opposite of being prideful.”

“That’s good. Anyone else want to give it a try.”

“Respectful, modest, not thinking too highly of yourself, putting other people first?” Adam Brown, sitting beside his gorgeous blond girlfriend right in front of Ms. Vickers, said, phrasing his response in the form of a question.

“Excellent.” The director said.

“Isn’t he wonderful.” I almost gagged when Jessica Miller mouthed these words and placed her left hand and arm around Adam’s shoulders. I tried my best to always give new acquaintances the benefit of the doubt, but I was having a hard time liking this girl. She was a queen bee. Probably also, the queen bitch.

Ms. Vickers nodded and said, “there is no greater example of humility in the entire Bible than Jesus Christ. The Apostle Paul writes of Christ in Philippians that we should, ‘Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others.’ Let’s consider the following question: what if Jesus had looked strictly at his own interests? I mean, when he was being arrested?”

“He could have run for the hills trying to escape the Roman soldiers.” Lexi said.

“He certainly wouldn’t have willingly gone to the cross.” The boy on the other side of Lexi said.

“And, what effect would that have had on us?” Ms. Vickers asked.

“We would be dead in sin without hope of eternal life in Heaven with God.” This time, Jessica’s voice was low, bordering on meekness. I figured she could play both sides of the spiritual fence.

Ms. Vickers turned and used a yard stick to point to a verse along the edge of the blackboard toward the windows where Lexi and I, and the unknown boy were seated. “‘Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men.’ That’s the Apostle Paul in Philippians 2:5-7. There’s no greater life than that of being a slave to Christ.” It was a shocking statement. One, I didn’t understand in the least. Everything in me said that all forms of slavery were wrong. Why in the heck would anyone want to be another person’s slave?

Ms. Vickers led us in a short prayer and dismissed the group to Sunday School classes housed in four rooms behind where she had stood. Lexi again motioned me to follow her. Our class was the ninth and tenth grade girls, led by none other than Ms. Vickers. The other three classes were: ninth and tenth grade boys, and one class each for boys and girls in the combined grades of eleventh and twelfth.

Along with our teacher, nine girls I didn’t know, Lexi, and myself sat in a circle. Ms. Vickers handed me a paperback with a colored photo of a waterfall on the front cover. The Summer 2018 booklet was titled: Standard Lesson Quarterly, NIV Bible Student. I suspected this was what Uncle Larry had instructed me to be sure to bring home. I opened the paperback. Along the bottom of the inside cover was printed: “Series Description: Standard Lesson Quarterly is a richly resourced adult curriculum based on the International Sunday School Lessons Uniform Series. Reliable Scripture exposition, culturally relevant examples, and timely discussion questions engage students and give the Bible lesson meaning in their everyday lives.” For the next forty minutes I sat silent listening to ten girls interact with Ms. Vickers as though Jesus himself was standing in the middle of the room. When the bell rang ending the class period, I had no doubt Southern Baptist girls, at least these ten, believed the supernatural was as real as the moon and stars.

Lexi and I sat up in the balcony during the worship hour. Aunt Mary kept looking up at me from the choir loft and smiling. Mike Glenn, her boss and the church’s music director, was no doubt talented. He led a thirty-minute musical, titled, according to the bulletin I had been handed by an older man in the vestibule, “Coming Soon.” Mr. Glenn lead the choir in several songs, including “Behold He Comes,” which I had heard before at a church I had visited with Jordan in Chicago. The director ended the program with an impressive performance of “Awake and Watch.” Mike Glenn was no doubt an educated and experienced musician.

After the choir sat down, Pastor Robert Miller presented a short sermon on humility, obviously keeping with the theme introduced in Sunday School. He was an average size man probably in his early forties. I figured Jessica got her blond hair from him, although his was much straighter than hers. I really didn’t listen to his sermon. I was distracted by a seemingly contrasting theme taking place in the far-left corner of the auditorium. I could barely see the back row from my vantage point, but young Jessica Miller was clearly unoccupied with her father’s sermon. She alternated between writing notes to the gorgeous Adam Brown sitting beside her and persuading him to put his right arm around her shoulder. I was guessing this was one thing she was signaling him in her pencil drawings. I didn’t figure she could write.

As I walked in the kitchen from the garage, I told Aunt Mary I wasn’t hungry and wanted to take a nap. It took me nearly an hour to force Jessica Miller out of my mind. But, instead of resisting the image of Adam Brown peeking into my bedroom windows, I kept smiling as I fell into a dream with the handsome superhero sliding his arm underneath my head as he lay beside me.

Chapter 5

My showers are normally short. Now that’s historical. With the tiny unit Uncle Larry and Aunt Mary installed when they built this house a dozen or so years ago, I’m required to re-lather my bath cloth every few seconds since I’m constantly being rinsed under the shower head. At home, I could step in, turn a circle under the steaming water, step back away from the waterfall, lather my whole body (including my legs and feet), and then resubmit to the pounding surf (I loved my Waterpik 5-Mode Shower-head seemingly engineered to Dad’s high-pressure washer).

This morning, Monday, I’m not sure why I took my shower before my early morning study session. It’s probably something to do with the reason I didn’t sleep well, the thought of the beginning of my one-year prison sentence to Boaz High School. If that wasn’t bad enough, sitting at my desk a few minutes after 5:00 a.m., I was having a difficult time focusing.

My mind kept reminding me of last night’s church experience. Unintentionally, I was now a member of Fusion. This was Jed Forester and First Baptist Church of Christ’s name for the joint middle school and high school youth group. The tag line printed in equally bold letters on the new banner Jed had hung from the basement ceiling was streaming across my mind: “Where Reality Encounters Truth.”

Last night as we sat in the semi-circle, the energetic youth director handed each of us a one page, single-sided flyer. The top half provided a mission statement for each of the forty or fifty teenagers: “As members of Fusion, we will learn what it means to have and to live out a real relationship with Jesus Christ. We will learn not only about the Gospel of Jesus Christ but will challenge and encourage each other to live the life that He has called us to!” The bottom half of the flyer had listed the names of twelve team captains. Jed had taken nearly the full class hour to describe Project Convert, an organized approach to sharing the Gospel at both Boaz High School and Boaz Middle School. There were two teams per grade. I was assigned to Team 10B. Even though I hadn’t been asked, it appeared evident Jed concluded I was a believer with the top priority of seeking a “real relationship with Jesus Christ.” Recalling the Fusion tag-line, “Where Reality Encounters Truth,” helped my thoughts transition to this morning’s session: the efficacy of prayer.

It was a short walk to school. I was glad Uncle Larry had told me it was okay to walk through the neighbor’s yard, otherwise I would have over a half-mile trek: to the south end of Stephens Street, left on Rains Avenue, and left on Brown Street for nearly a block until I would reach Boaz High School on my right. With the Garrard’s generous permission, my walk was straight out the back door, through their side yard and across Brown Street. It was odd that Uncle Larry drove his 1975 restored Chevrolet pickup truck.

My day got off on the wrong foot. I was late for my first period class even though I had arrived at school at 7:15. The handbook I’d been mailed after enrolling stated that classes started at 7:30 a.m. but when Gina Maze walked into Room 119 and wrote “American History” on the white board I knew something was wrong. I excused myself and walked to the school’s office at the end of the hall. Mrs. Owens apologized after accessing her computer. “Things have been crazy all summer. Your schedule got changed and I guess the email notification fell through the cracks. The good news is the only thing that changed was class times, not your subjects. Oh, sorry, there is one change. We couldn’t fit you in Economics. You’ll be taking Algebra with Finance instead.” There was a silver lining. My math teacher was Mr. Stanley Smothers and not my Uncle Larry. Yea. I was nearly fifteen minutes late to Ms. Vickers English class. I hated everyone staring at me.

My first three classes, English, Anatomy/Physiology, and World History were virtually a carbon copy. Each teacher spent most of the class reviewing the course syllabus and the school’s behavioral expectations. At 10:22 when the bell rang, and Gina Maze dismissed her World History class, I was bored stiff.

If I believed in the supernatural, after Mr. Smothers presented an overview of Algebra with Finance, I would have thought a miracle had occurred. Here was a course that I could easily relate to my future. Each of the subjects, things like investing, credit, banking, auto insurance, mortgages, employment, income taxes, and planning for retirement, were all popular topics Mom and Dad talked about on a routine basis. As the tall, dark, and handsome math teacher read boringly from the class syllabus, I couldn’t help but dream about my future life and accepting an assistant professorship at the University of Chicago at the young age of 27 (hopefully, I could complete my Ph.D. in less than six years). My fully-awake dreaming kept getting sillier: I was torn over whether I should continue to live at home on 1452 East 54th Place or to find a female peer to share the cost of a one-bedroom apartment.

Lunch was at 11:21. Early this morning I had opted not to pack my lunch. I decided instead to trust what Lexi had said last night as we left youth group, Fusion. I had asked her what she did for lunch and what the options were. She seemed overly excited to tell me Boaz City School system had just this summer completed a state-of-the-art lunchroom that tripled the food choices. I was impressed when she said the culinary teacher, a certified chef, was consulting with the school system’s nutritionist to develop a diverse menu that included an assortment of choices for those with diverse food desires, including vegetarians.

As arranged, Lexi met me outside the school’s main office and we walked the long hallway to the largest school cafeteria I had ever seen. We both opted for the salad bar, surprisingly it offered more than iceberg lettuce, carrots, and tomatoes. I think I counted sixteen different vegetables to select from. I chose Italian dressing and Lexi dipped enough Ranch dressing to fill a standard sized bottle. She chose Diet Coke and I picked up a bottle of water at what was called the Pirate Fountain. Other than beer and spirits, the Fountain offered every drink imaginable, including Red Bull. The only table we could find was a two-seater next to a large group of teachers along the far outside wall along a row of floor to ceiling windows.

I left Lexi and the lunchroom at 11:40 knowing I had a long walk to my Driver’s Education class. Right at the end of World History, Mrs. Owens from the school’s office had announced over the intercom that Mr. Dennis Jolly’s classes had been moved to Room 202 in the Cultural Arts building. The map in the school’s handbook labeled it two names. From one entrance it was “Boaz High School Gymnasium,” and “Boaz High School Cultural Arts Center” from the opposite entrance. Either way, it appeared it was a multi-purpose building with several small and large classrooms off a circular walking track overlooking the gymnasium floor below.

I was halfway down the long hallway toward the school’s main entrance when I heard a woman’s voice behind me calling out my name. “Mia, Mia Hudson.” I turned and saw Ms. Amber Vickers half-jogging towards me.

“Hey, I half-yelled over the chattering den of students traversing between us.” I hoped I wasn’t about to be castigated over being late for her first period class.

“Do you have just a minute?” She asked, touching my shoulder and motioning me to step inside a short hallway that, according to the directional signs on the wall, led to the Home Economics Department.

“I guess. But I have to be in Room 202 in the gym by 11:50.”

“Mia, I want to ask you a favor.” Ms. Vickers said, pulling a sheet of paper from a leather notebook she was carrying. I couldn’t imagine what on earth I could do for her.

“It’s obvious you are an exceptional student.” She held out the sheet of paper. I read from the top, “Transcript, Mia Hudson, Latin School of Chicago.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I’m not even in the top five percent of my former school.” I said nodding toward the paper she was holding.

“Oh, don’t be so modest. I called this morning and spoke with your ninth-grade science teacher. A man named Felix. I can’t recall his last name.”

“Amankona-Diawuo. Mr. Felix Amankona-Diawuo, an amazing educator.” I said.

“He, Felix, says you have more potential than anyone he’s ever met. He says you are naturally gifted and are also blessed to have very encouraging parents.” She was about to continue when I interrupted.

“I don’t mean to be rude but what is this about? I do need to be heading to my next class.” Ms. Vickers surely had more to do than try to encourage me, if that was what she was attempting to do. Maybe, I had unintentionally expressed my sadness about being stuck here for a year.

“I’ve talked to the guidance counselor and she has approved my request.” Now, I was thoroughly confused.

“Your request. Sorry, but I’m not following.” I said.

“Our main mission here at Boaz High School is embodied in our tag line.” Oh no, another tag line. “Expectation of Excellence Everyday by Everyone.” Unfortunately, there’s a lot of serious issues that prevent a lot of students from reaching this daily goal. This is where I need your help.”

“You don’t have to worry. A little over a year ago, thanks to my dad, I committed to excellence. In fact, I committed to becoming the best I could be, both as an academic and as a person.” This should allay Ms. Vickers concerns that I might not be properly focused.

“That’s wonderful dear. And, that further confirms I’ve made an excellent decision. I know you are in a hurry, but I want to talk in detail about you tutoring Adam Brown.” If I had been holding an armful of books there is no doubt I would have dropped them. I’m certain my face instantly transformed into two poses. One of shock. The other of excitement. But, the later one had to go. I had sworn when I left Chicago, I was leaving the Jordan Watkins type behind. The older but attractive Amber Vickers was relentless: “Adam is no doubt the best athlete to come through Boaz High. But he struggles academically. If we could, we would hire him a Rhodes Scholar. Of course, we cannot afford that, but according to your credentials, we believe you are more than competent to transform him into a solid student earning respectable grades.”

“Ms. Vickers, I’m not interested. I really don’t have the time.”

“Honey, I know you need to be going. I respect your position but at least give me an opportunity to describe the importance and the likely effects of what I am asking you to do. Could you come by my room after school today? I promise I won’t bore you.” Ms. Vickers said. Her last statement seemed odd. What could she have to say that would be anything but boring? Adam Brown was a poor student. I almost chuckled out loud when I thought he must also be an idiot. Who else, with his body and gorgeous face and not to mention what surprisingly appeared an almost humble attitude, would choose Jessica Miller as his girlfriend?

I didn’t have time to construct a good reason not to go to her class after school. Instead, I said. I’m going to be late for class. I walked back into the main hallway and turned toward the school’s main entrance.

“I’ll see you a few minutes after three. Room 112.”

All I could think about during my five-minute walk to the gym was Jessica Miller’s statement from Saturday night. “Adam is taken.” What was he, a Chihuahua?

Chapter 6

The waiting had been painful. So much so that it had affected last night’s sleep. Yesterday, a little after 1:30, when I was leaving my World Literature class, Ms. Vickers had once again approached me in the hallway. This time to apologize for forgetting her after-school faculty meeting, and to request we reschedule our meeting to 7:00 a.m. this morning.

Dad said it would be this way. “Mia, you will always have one or more good reasons to skip your early morning session. But, if your goal is truly to become the youngest professor at the University of Chicago, you will not let anything, other than maybe sickness or the death of your mom or me, interfere with this most important discipline. Go inside your closet and slam the door behind you.”

It was now 4:30 a.m. I had already showered and was half-way finished reading the “Study of the therapeutic effects of intercessory prayer in cardiac bypass patients,” published in the April 2006 edition of the American Heart Journal. The article reported on a study conducted under the leadership of Dr. Herbert Benson using over two million dollars of funds provided by the Templeton Foundation. This private organization had been established by billionaire investor John Templeton to pursue research that would hopefully show the compatibility between science and religion (he preferred the Christian version). It was somewhat impressive to note that although Dr. Benson believed ‘evidence for the efficacy of intercessory prayer in medicinal settings [was] mounting,’ he was willing to submit the question to the truth-letting (like blood-letting?) scientific method.

There was no doubt this was a serious project. Benson’s team monitored over 1,800 patients at six different hospitals, all who had undergone coronary bypass surgery. These were divided into three groups: the first group received prayers but didn’t know it. The second group (known as the control group) received no prayers and didn’t know it. The third group received prayers but did know it. Groups 1 and 2 were compared to determine whether intercessory prayer was efficacious. Group three results were analyzed to determine whether there were issues, whether physical or psychological, with knowing one is being prayed for. I thought it was somewhat funny that those who delivered the prayers were church congregations from three locations all that began with the letter M: Minnesota, Massachusetts, and Missouri. The phrase mind-manipulating-minions raced across my mind. Those praying were provided the first name and initial letter of the surname of each patient they were to pray for. Also, they were provided the exact phrase to use in their praying: ‘for a successful surgery with a quick, healthy recovery and no complications.’

I found the results of the study anything but surprising. Again, I already had a deep belief that prayer didn’t work. Why? Because there was no supernatural being; prayer is just a private conversation between yourself and your imaginary friend. But my deep belief was just my opinion. I was after scientific proof about the efficacy of prayer, even if I didn’t like the result. The result from Dr. Benson’s research: “there was no difference between those patients who were prayed for and those who were not.” What was a little surprising, almost funny in an embarrassing way, was the difference in the third group: those who knew they were being prayed for suffered more negative complications than those from groups one and two. Although it wasn’t determined why Group 3 presented this anomaly, one of the researchers, Dr. Charles Bethea, put it this way: “it may have made them uncertain, wondering am I so sick they had to call in their prayer team.” Someone else labeled the anomaly, ‘performance anxiety.’

I didn’t have time to research what theologians had said about the study, but I guessed they would argue that “God cannot be tested. He is supernatural and cannot be found in test tubes.” Others, including pew-filling Christians, likely would say the study was a sham; the prayers were not offered seriously and for a good reason. Of course, I knew this Templeton study alone wasn’t the final answer on the efficacy of prayer. But, like every scientific experiment, it tested a hypothesis in a carefully conducted, double-blind study. The question under review was, ‘does prayer work?’ The result was no.

As I closed the lid to my laptop, I kept wondering how I could conduct my own test. There was no way I could include anything approaching 1,800 people in my sample. But I could at least make myself aware of how prayer was working at First Baptist Church of Christ, Boaz High School, and the surrounding community.

At 6:45, I grabbed a dairy-free Bagel and my book bag and walked onto the deck without telling a showering Aunt Mary I was leaving. I noticed Uncle Larry’s truck wasn’t in its customary spot in the backyard next to a detached carport and workshop he was building the last time Mom and Dad and I were here. One thing you could say about the quiet and boring man, he was dedicated to teaching.

Ms. Vickers was facing the blackboard when I entered Room 112. Without looking towards me she said, “is that spelled right?” The word ‘ad hominen’ was written on the white board under a rectangle poster labeled, “Word of the Day.”

“I think it ends with an m.” I said. It was a word I had learned in my 9th grade Basic Logic class. It means to address something personal about your debate opponent instead of responding with a logical argument. For example, if you’re debating tax laws and you criticize your opponent’s extra-marital affair instead of engaging his ideas, that’s an ad hominem attack.

“I think you’re right.” She changed the n to an m and motioned for me to sit in a leather wing-back chair that I didn’t remember seeing during class time yesterday.

“I want you to know I haven’t changed my mind.” I thought it best to dive right in and let Ms. Vickers know she was about to waste her time trying to persuade me otherwise.

“Mia, I’m going to be blunt. You might be the only thing standing between Adam Brown and becoming a football standout for the Alabama Crimson Tide, not to say anything about him getting a good education at the University.”

“In all due respects, don’t try to guilt me into this. Why can’t someone else tutor the local superstar?” I started not to say it but was interested in seeing how Ms. Vickers would react. “Why not let the gorgeous Jessica Miller tutor him?” There, I said it.

I was surprised with her bluntness. “I could say several things, but the most professional response is the PK, that stands for preacher’s kid, has her own academic challenges. For your information, Pastor Robert has committed to tutoring his daughter this year. Jessica’s a senior.”

I could imagine there were dozens of students ten times as smart as Jessica who would excel at tutoring Adam. “Surely you can find at least one, maybe two, students who can correctly spell ten times as many words as the gorgeous and sexy Jessica. That would put them up there close to seventy-seven words.” Mrs. Vickers will like my reference to the number seven, Biblical perfection.

She smiled. Briefly. “Let me be clear. There are two reasons I firmly believe you are the best choice for Adam’s tutor. There are three. First, you possess natural intelligence. I know you scored 32 on your ACT. Second, you’re not from here. The other three or four students who could possibly fill the bill are too close to Adam; they wouldn’t be hard enough on him. I need someone to be brutally honest with him; I’m still not sure he recognizes how much is on the line for him.”

Ms. Vickers paused. “You said there was three reasons.” I said.

“Sorry, I was thinking of how Jessica, oh, forget that. The third reason is your maturity. From my phone call yesterday with Felix, your ninth-grade science teacher, I learned your goal is to become a college professor, like your parents. Mia, it’s unusual for a tenth grader to have a goal beyond what they intend to wear to the dance on Friday night. The fact you plan on teaching is the most important of my three reasons. There is no more rewarding profession than what I do and what you aspire for. Helping someone learn something new about God’s wonderful creation is the most exhilarating thing I’ve ever experienced.”

I couldn’t let this slide. “If I considered this at all, I can’t promise you Adam will learn more Bible stories. I think he gets enough of that from Sunday School and Fusion.” If Ms. Vickers pursued that statement, I suspected she would discover I didn’t believe in the Creator God and this assuredly would change her mind. Unfortunately, I was wrong.

“Oh dear, I’m not saying you will be teaching from the Bible. I’m just saying that when you see Adam understand something for the first time, maybe how Algebra works or how to develop an essay, you yourself will be rewarded.”

I looked up at the clock hanging above Ms. Vickers white board. It was 7:22. I needed to go to my locker and I also needed to pee. “All I will say today is that I will seriously think about your request. One question I’d like to ask: does Adam know you want me to tutor him?”

“Oh no dear. That wouldn’t be right. But he is fully aware I am looking. We’re taking this one step at a time.”

I was a little confused. “Who is we?” I asked.

“The administration, and of course Adam’s coaches. Now, thank God, his parents are finally on board.”

“Why wouldn’t they be?” Seems to me Adam’s parents would have a financial motivation for him to earn an athletic scholarship.

“Jacob and Rachel Brown are serious Christians. They refused my offer last year. Their excuse was that God would direct Adam’s life and that if playing college football was part of the divine plan then nothing man could do would change that. Of course, I argued that maybe God expected us as a Christian community to help. You know the good book says, ‘God helps those who help themselves.’”

“Uh, I don’t think that’s in the Bible.” I was pretty sure I was right.

“Well, not exactly, but it’s implied.” Ms. Vickers was an interesting woman.

“One final thing before I go, when do you need to have my final decision?” I shook my head, figuratively, as I made this God-awful concession. I was reminded of the two very serious promises I had made myself before leaving Chicago. First, given what had happened between Jordan and me, I wouldn’t date at all. And secondly, my spare time would be devoted to serious matters like reading, research, and writing, all to prepare myself for future work at the University of Chicago. I almost laughed out loud when I said to myself that I wasn’t being asked out on a date, and that by teaching, I would be investing in learning; every real teacher knew she learned more through her own preparations than her students learned during class times. Rationalizing. Mom had often reminded me how dangerous rationalizing could be.

“Good question. Friday. How about before school starts this Friday?” Ms. Vickers was in a hurry.

“Why the rush?” I asked.

“Adam needs to be in a solid pattern of classes, football practice, and study before his first game. That’s the 17th. With Arab. I want you. Sorry. If you become his tutor, you need to start this Saturday. You’ve heard the expression, ‘an idle mind is the devil’s workshop’?”

“I have.”

“I’m afraid if Adam has a full weekend under the direction of his girlfriend, she will destroy all the motivation his coaches and I have worked to instill in him the past two weeks since football practice began.”

I left without saying another word when a half-dozen kids walked in from the hallway. As I removed my Language Arts book from my locker, it dawned on me that if I agreed to be Adam’s tutor, Jessica Miller would not be looking to the long-term benefits of her boyfriend being a star for the Alabama Crimson Tide.

Chapter 7

Wednesday was the first day I had seen Adam Brown all week. When I walked into Ms. Vickers English class at 7:20, he was sitting in the first row, fourth seat, next to the windows along the front outside wall of the building. For some reason Boaz High School required alphabetic seating in all classrooms. I thought it was infantile. My own seat was in the second row, one seat further back from Adam’s. This was good and bad. Both for the same reason: I could see his profile and what was laying on his desk.

As I sat down, Emily Brown said, “Hi Mia.” I knew her name only because of the seating chart that Ms. Vickers had passed out on Monday. For the past two days Emily had been sitting at Adam’s desk. Now, she was directly to my left. I wondered whether the two of them were relatives. I nodded and smiled at her but decided not to ask. Adam turned his head and looked to his right, slightly squeezed his lips together, and quickly scanned me from my eyes down to the next to the last button on my dark brown blouse. It happened in less than a second, or so it seemed.

After our eyes parted I saw he had his Literature book open on his desk. The phrase “What’s Happening?” was typed in bold above a silly drawing of a beach scene with a man and box on his head seated on a rock beside a Walrus dressed in a blue jacket, red vest, and white pants. These two characters were staring dumb-faced at a dozen or more short-legged seashells walking toward them wearing matching tan-colored work boots. I wondered whether Adam had read the introductory chapter.

“Good morning.” I said not looking at either one of them.

“Mia, do you know Adam?” Emily said. I thought it was odd how she leaned forward and started massaging his shoulders with her two hands.

“We’ve met. At church. Saturday night.” I sensed he was shy when he didn’t turn around or in any way act like he had heard Emily’s question.

“Well then, you’ve only seen one side of him. Wait till Friday night. My favorite Cuz is a tiger on the field.” So, they are kin.

“Maternal or paternal?” I liked asking easy questions in a confusing way.

For some reason, this got Adam’s attention. He turned in his desk toward me and said, “our fathers are brothers. Is that what you meant?” For an awkward moment I couldn’t decide whether to verbally respond or to continue to look into his blue eyes. I had noticed them Saturday night, but some way that was different. That night was just a glance. Now, we were staring at each other. It was trite, but all I could think about was the blue ocean of the Caribbean. And, that according to what I learned in science class last year, blond hair more commonly is associated with blue eyes. Adam Brown’s dark curly hair revealed he was an anomaly.

I finally said, “yes,” but continued to stare. As instantly as it started, he broke away and returned to staring at the walking seashells.

Emily sat back in her desk and motioned with her right hand toward the front of the room. I hadn’t noticed Ms. Vickers standing before the class, now staring at a classroom filled with thirty students.

After second period my suspicion was growing. Mr. Causey, Ken Causey, my Anatomy/Physiology teacher, was openly egregious with his Christianity. Last night I had spent time on the Boaz High School website reviewing the personal pages of each of my teachers. After providing his educational background and teaching experience, Mr. Causey had written: “I am first and foremost a born-again believer in Jesus Christ.” He then cited Psalms 3:3: “But thou, O LORD, art a shield for me; my glory, and the lifter up of mine head.” He then finished his short biography with: “My priority is to bring glory to Christ’s name in any and everything he does. Because I love Christ, my love for my students and players grows more and more.”

Today, during class, Mr. Causey had continued the course introduction. After a long statement about the interdependence of the human body systems he had said, “a marvelous design by an imaginative God.” I wondered if I was the only student who took offense with his unabashed attempt to smuggle in the Christian religion. I’m not sure I heard anything else said the remaining ten minutes of class.

I was thankful for the ten-minute break after second period. I walked to my locker to exchange my heavy science book for an equally heavy World History book, and to grab the remaining half of my Bagel I had left from breakfast. “How’s school?” I heard from down the hall as I closed my locker with the tough bread secured between my teeth. It was Lexi standing alone beside her own locker twenty feet or so down the hallway.

I removed the stale Bagel from my mouth and said, “Boring. Almost as bad as church.” My words just popped out. I normally was more contemplative before speaking. I think my frustration with Mr. Causey was driving my emotions. I looked back toward Lexi and saw her and another girl, one I hadn’t even seen, walking toward me.

“Mia, this is Pamela Johnson. You two are neighbors.” Said Lexi, the local historian.

“Hi, nice to meet you. So, where do you live?” I thought the possibility of having a friend close by kind of appealing.

“Stephens Street, 712. Our driveway is straight across from yours.” The short and cute girl with thick glasses said. She was eating an apple and staring at what looked like a new iPhone. “Oh, by the way, my mom told me about you. She sometimes hangs out with your Aunt Mary.”

“So, you’re Lucille Johnson’s daughter? I met her Saturday morning.” Since my decision last year to become more detailed, I tried my best to remember names, names of people and other things. Dad had said it was very important to know what things are called.

“In the flesh.” Pamela laughed out loud spitting bits of apple towards me and Lexi standing beside me. “I’m funny sometimes. I’m also adopted, so Miss Lucille and I are not fleshly related.” I was about to question my desire to have a neighbor friend when Pamela said, “Mother says you are an atheist like me.” I couldn’t help but glance at Lexi. She had heard Pam’s abrupt statement. Lexi’s eyes doubled in size and her mouth hung open, like she was trying to say, “uh, what?”

The only thing I could think to say was, “that’s not a word I use. Let’s just say I’m curious and ask a lot of questions.”

“Okay, whatever. Hey Lex, I’ve got to run. Don’t you just love that long walk to the new gym. Especially in this rain.” Pamela walked away pulling an umbrella out of the book bag that was hanging from her shoulders.

A little nervous, I chose to take a big bite of my Bagel. Lexi pulled me to the gap between two sections of lockers and said. “Pamela is the smartest girl in ninth grade. But, she’s kind of weird. We’ve been friends for a couple of years. She’s number one on my list.” I was confused.

“She’s number one of your list of friends?” I asked.

“No silly. My list of prospects for Project Convert. You know, from Fusion Sunday night. I’m trying to share the Gospel with her, but she’s a hard nut to crack.”

I was glad the bell rang for third period. I took one more bite of my Bagel and risked getting an incurable disease when I took a sip of water from the water fountain across the hall. As I walked to Room 119, I made a mental note to visit Pamela Johnson.

Chapter 8

After 6th period I walked to the Library to pick up a copy of How to Read and Why by Harold Bloom. I could have waited until after school but instead used the twenty-three-minute block of time offered each day from 1:42 until 2:05. The school called it ‘AIE’ for Advisory, Intervention, and Enrichment.

World Literature teacher Katie Waldrup had ordered ten copies, one for each of her 6th period students. I could already tell I was going to like this class, and Mrs. Waldrup. From what I had learned, she was my kind of gal: smart, well-traveled, open-minded, and creative. Plus, she was a published writer. Mr. Bloom’s book also sounded like something that would help propel me towards my goal. Mrs. Waldrup had said one of the best and most accessible sources of wisdom is found in books. But, not just any book. Given the vast number of books available one had to learn how to become selective. I liked her statement, “if you want to become a real human being you will fall in love with reading; the pleasures and benefits are incomparable. Let Mr. Bloom become your guide.”

I stored my World Lit book in my locker and headed to the Library. According to the campus drawing in my handbook it was at the end of a long hallway connected to the main corridor where all the ninth and tenth grade classrooms are located. I turned right and passed several small offices on both my right and left. It seemed there were more coaches with private offices than any other staff member or teacher.

Halfway down the hall I entered through double-doors to my left. The Library was much larger than I expected. At the center, towards the back wall, was the information desk. To my right, consuming possibly a third of the entire room were comfortable-looking leather chairs and couches. About half of them were taken with kids of all ages. It was rather ironic. I didn’t see a one with a book in his or her hand, instead they all had eyes and fingers glued to their cell phones. Also, not a one of them was talking to a neighbor.

I walked to the information desk and had to present my student ID to a preppy looking guy who was manning the operation. I think I had seen him at church on Sunday. “Here’s your book, it’s one of my favorites. That’ll be fifty dollars.” The tall, skinny boy with red hair said with an expression I thought could be either light or heavy.

“Thanks. But I was told by Mrs. Waldrup there would be no charge.” I said thinking something was askew.

“Just kidding. Oh, I’m Arlon Vickers. Nice to meet you Mia.”

“Nice to meet you. You had me scared there for a minute.” I had a hundred dollars in my purse, tucked back from my allowance but I didn’t want to return to my locker, nor spend the money at all.

“I’ve been wanting to meet a fellow scholar. My mother is Amber Vickers. She’s been telling me about you.” After he said this, I could see some resemblance. Like his mother, he was attractive. I think they both had green eyes. And, they both wore glasses. Come to think of it, their eye-frames were similar.

“I’m not sure what she’s told you but I’m no scholar. Yet, but I hope to be someday.” I was about to ask him what his mother had said about me when a man with a white shirt and a red bow tie joined the nerdy guy behind the counter.

“And, who is this young lady? You no doubt are new to Boaz High School.” The man said alternating his look between me and the slightly taller Arlon.

“Mr. Fraiser, this is Mia Hudson. She’s from Chicago and will be here all year. She’s Mr. Jackson’s niece. Mia, this is Ned Fraiser, our Librarian.” Arlon reminded me of Lexi, both were likely aspiring historians.

I smiled and said, “nice to meet you. I take it you’ve been here a while since you seem to know all six hundred plus students.”

“Perceptive, aren’t we? I took over after my father retired in 2012. He was head librarian for nearly forty years. I worked at Albertville High School for nineteen years, over half that time as head librarian.” I was glad three other students walked up to the information desk. If not, Mr. Fraiser might have told me about his wife and kids if he had any. Come to think of it, he wasn’t wearing a wedding band.

I backed away and looked at my iPhone. It was only 1:52. I had a few minutes to spare before my P.E. class so I opted to give one of the giant leather chairs a try. This section of the library was configured into four clusters, each containing a couch and three chairs. In the center of each cluster was an oval coffee table. I chose the cluster in the far-right corner. The chair straight across from the couch backed up to the outside row of windows. Sitting here I could see along the back side of the old gymnasium, the one now used for girls’ volleyball. Beyond that was one of the football team’s practice fields. A group of coaches and players were already gathering for today’s session.

I started to lean back and rest my eyes when I saw a 2017-2018 annual laying on the coffee table in front of me. I picked it up. Inside, on the very first page was a picture of a handsome man, probably a few years younger than Mr. Fraiser. He was holding a football and wearing a crimson-colored hat with “BHS” across the bill. Under the photo was written: “Coach Eller, we’ll never forget you.” At the top of the page in big, bold letters was written: “DEDICATION.” At the bottom of the page were two paragraphs that described how Coach Wade Eller was a man who epitomized a true Pirate, daily providing the perfect example of what Boaz High School is all about: Expectation of Excellence Everyday by Everyone.” Here was that tag-line again. It was sad to learn that Coach Eller had died at age 39 after a long battle with cancer. He left a wife and two children. The last statement of the last paragraph was unsurprising: “you fought the good fight and now are basking in God’s Glory.” Instead of being angry, I felt sorry for all the deluded people who would read and believe this.

For the next five minutes I flipped through the rest of the annual. One thing was certain. Jessica Miller was one of the most popular girls at Boaz High School. Even as a junior, her pretty face and shapely body was splattered throughout the annual. I counted she was in eight photos in the Cheerleaders section. I thought she looked like a Barbie doll in her Junior portrait; it might have been her straight hair, unlike every other photo. The class portraits were unique in that they provided a place for a short quote underneath. Jessica quoted Philippians 4:13, “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.” This phrase clearly conflicted with the reputation of the typical PK (preacher’s kid). Along the same line, Jessica’s extra short dress she wore to the Junior-Senior Prom seemed to conflict with her life’s motto. What struck me most from that snapshot taken out on the dance floor was the look in her partner’s eyes. Adam Brown didn’t appear to be having a good time. A blow-up of his face could be used to represent the image of the infamous surprised deer (either animal or human) caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.

On the last page of the Annual, at the back of the Advertisements Section was a full-page Ad by First Baptist Church of Christ. In the center was a photo of Jed Forester and Jessica Miller on opposite ends of a large banner that read: “Seek Christ to live abundantly.” Both behind and around the banner were what looked like the entire youth group. In smaller letters under the photo was hand-written (probably using one of those fancy fonts): “The only way to happiness and Heaven is by faith in Jesus Christ.”

It was still raining when I walked across the parking lot toward the new gymnasium for P.E. I loved the refreshing feel of water streaming down my face. Unlike a lot of girls, I knew in Chicago, I didn’t mind my curly hair curling even more, nor what little makeup I wore washing away. I imagined the rain as nature’s way of ridding itself of the superficial and the idea of the supernatural. I had no doubt I was going to need a lot of rain to keep me from drowning in the flood of delusion that was pouring into my little lifeboat. I just loved mixed metaphors.

Chapter 9

After I finished my shower early Thursday morning, I raised the tiny bathroom window to conduct my weather survey. Naturally, it was at 4:30 a.m., but I didn’t hear the rain. Good, even though I loved the wet stuff I was ready for some sunshine.

While I dried off and slipped into a pair of running shorts and tee shirt, last night’s Fusion session at church raced across my mind. It was like a dark slither of the sky slipped through the half-raised window and tapped me on the shoulder.

Jed Forester was one of an all too familiar troupe. Supposedly, there are over three-hundred thousand Protestant churches in America. Most of these are Baptists. Jed, and all the other members of his troupe, put on a similar performance every time they assembled their constituents.

My familiarity was established during my sixth and seventh grades. I attended First Baptist Church of Chicago with my best friend Holly. You could say it was at a time I was searching, seeking for myself (as Dad and Mom had recommended) what I would believe. In that youth group (I don’t remember if it had an official title like Fusion), there was never a real discussion. The Bible was God’s Word. It was the final position on every subject imaginable. Never in those two years, nor, come to think of it, at the Jewish synagogue that my family now attends, had any minister ever said, “now, let’s look at the arguments against Noah’s Ark.” I could easily tell it was going to be the same way at First Baptist Church of Christ.

Last night during Jed’s lecture he described how Adam and Eve had disobeyed God in the Garden of Eden. Jed referred to this event as the “Fall of Man.” His next topic was what he labeled “Original Sin.” This was how every human being since Adam and Eve had inherited their sin. I knew this concept was first described in writings by St. Augustine in the third or fourth century. I wanted so bad to ask Jed how this could be if Adam and Eve had never existed. Of course, I knew a lot of moderate and progressive Christians described these first two humans as metaphorical. Jed probably wouldn’t have liked my questions: do you know that Evolutionary Biology has proven there couldn’t have been an Adam and Eve, and certainly that the first humans appeared on the scene just six thousand years ago? He likely would have thrown me out of the basement if I had asked: “So, Jesus died for two people who never lived, or for a metaphor?”

There was no wonder the Christian religion kept getting perpetuated. Most all members of the Fusion group had grown up at First Baptist Church of Christ. They had these stories poured inside their heads all their lives. Unlike me, they had never been exposed to the other side, the side with irrefutable arguments that show the Christian religion (like all religions) simply isn’t true.

I spent the entire time during my early morning session researching the locally popular Coach Wade Eller. During the night I had concluded his story would likely be fertile ground for my prayer research. I wasn’t disappointed. He had first been diagnosed with a rare, rapidly-growing form of cancer in 2015. There had been an out-pouring of support and it seemed every church and everybody in the area had prayed for him. His home church, First Baptist Church of Christ, had established an entire prayer team for him, offering prayers twenty-four hours per day on a regularly scheduled basis. A Sand Mountain Reporter article in early 2016 was front page news. It was titled, “Local Coach Miraculously Healed.” The truth, to everyone but the deluded, was that Coach Eller’s cancer had gone into remission, something that often happens with the help of modern medicine (thanks science). Unfortunately, last Fall, God reversed His miracle and, according to another Sand Mountain Reporter article, “chose to take His son and our loving coach home.” No doubt, every local person I could ask would say that “God works in mysterious way,” or “God is infinite, we cannot know His ways,” or, “God’s plans are perfect.”

Four days into my new school and schedule it appeared things were falling into an easy routine. Today, the only thing that seemed a little odd was it had started raining again after several hours of bright sunshine. I noticed the rain during sixth period looking out the windows in Kate Waldrup’s room.

During Enrichment period I went to the Library and read for twenty minutes while lounging in one of the leather chairs. Again, I thought it a waste for everyone else in the Library’s “Lounge and Learn” section to be buried in Facebook on their cell phones.

“You want to walk with me to P.E.? I brought my umbrella.” I looked up and saw Emily Brown holding a giant Boaz Pirate, crimson and gray, umbrella across her left arm formed into a U shape.

“Thanks for asking. I’ll take you up on that.” I said with an ulterior motive. Unlike yesterday, I wanted to keep my clothes dry. I had already decided to return to the main building and drop by Mrs. Vickers room before she left for the day. I had my short speech ready. “I’m sorry but I won’t be able to tutor Adam Brown. I’m too busy with school and church.” None of it was a lie. I had thought long and hard over the offer but ultimately decided it had too much potential for conflict in one of three or more areas: my own focus on becoming a college professor, Jessica Miller’s insane jealousy, or maybe the one that I was most afraid of, my emotional and physical attraction to the man/god superhero.

Emily and I parted company as we walked inside the gymnasium. Thankfully, her giant umbrella had done its job. She headed up the stairs to the second floor and Driver’s Education. I guessed she would appreciate that the first three weeks were spent in the classroom before any actual driving began. No beginner wants to drive in this rain.

I turned left and descended the stairs to the girls dressing room. I met a group of three coming up the stairs. I didn’t know any of them. “No P.E. today,” the red-haired girl with freckles said. “Ms. Nixon had an emergency. It’s posted on the board.” Ms. Juddie Nixon for four days now had left a motivational quote on a large white board that was hung on the main door to the dressing room. I continued down the stairs and around the corner and read, “One of my dogs has been hit by a car. No class today. Sorry.”

Just as I was about to turn and walk back up the stairs to exit the gymnasium, I was pushed from behind. The left side of my face slammed against the thick metal door. The pain was excruciating. At first, I thought I was unconscious from all the giggles I was hearing; this was surreal. Someone grabbed my hair and pulled my head back. Everything went dark when some type of cloth bag was pulled over my head. Someone else yanked my book bag off my shoulders. I knew I was in serious trouble when at least two people started kicking and pulling my legs to one side while several more hands grabbed my shoulders. In a flash, I was down on the floor. “Open the door.” I clearly understood the words. It was a girl’s voice. A little high-pitched.

Over the next several minutes I was drug inside the girls dressing room all the way to a row of open showers along the back wall. “Lay her here.” This was a different voice. A different girl. “Tie her hands and feet with this but not too tight.” The third voice.

“What the hell are you girls doing?” I couldn’t say anything.

“You little Yankee bitch. We’re teaching you a lesson. You don’t come here and steal.” I tried with all my strength to resist the ropes from being tied around my hands and feet. I kicked and clawed for what seemed like a minute. But it was no use. There were too many hands and finally, two people sat on me holding me down. I was powerless.

“Miss Mia Hudson, someone’s got a message for you.” This voice, now the fifth one I’d heard, was somewhat familiar. It didn’t take me long to figure out it was Jessica Miller. “Mia, this is your one and only warning. Do not agree to tutor Adam Brown.” If you do, you will regret it. If you think what you are about to experience is bad, think again, what we will do to you if you disobey will end your pretty little fucking life.” How in hell did Jessica know I had been asked to tutor Adam?

It was only a few seconds when I heard the main door open and close. I was alone, but I was still tied up and the showers were now on. It didn’t take me long to realize I could drown. The girls had placed me in such a position that at least two of the shower heads were directed at my head. The cloth bag would absorb the water. They had set up their version of water-boarding. If that wasn’t bad enough, my hands and feet were tied. Earlier, probably yesterday, I had seen metal handrails were attached to the three walls surrounding the showers. No doubt I was splayed out and tied to these rails. The water kept pouring. I was having trouble breathing. I thought I was going to die.

But I had to try. There was some play in all four of the ropes. I pulled as hard as I could, first with my right hand and second with my left. I did the same thing with each of my legs. Finally, my right leg sprang free. That was good, encouraging, but not helpful. I kept pulling both hands. The rope on my right one seemed to get tighter. The water was cold. My breathing was becoming more labored. I thought of Mom and Dad in South Africa. I started to cry. I wanted to see. I couldn’t even complete the thought. I inhaled as hard as I could. That wasn’t wise. I inhaled some air but mostly water. I was drowning.

“Mia, what the hell?” Oh my gosh. I almost said to myself, Praise God. It was Emily. In seconds, she had turned off the showers and was removing the drenched bag from my head. I had never seen a more beautiful face.

“Thank you, thank you,” was all I could say as she untied my hands and feet.

“I knew something weird was going on. Mr. Jolly received a call he had to take and said we could take a five-minute break. I walked outside and stood by the rails overlooking the gymnasium. I saw Jessica Miller and four other girls frantically running from the stairs to the girls dressing room, and outside the gym’s doors. Something, I don’t know what, made me think you were in trouble. I came as fast as I could.” Emily said.

“You saved my life. I know I would have drowned.” As I stood up, I had no doubt I would never forget what had just happened to me. My life would never be the same.

“It’s a miracle. How else could this have happened? I mean, what else could have drawn me down here?” I didn’t verbally respond to Emily. I knew exactly what she meant.

I found my book bag outside the dressing room door. Emily returned to her Driver’s Ed class on the second floor. I was glad I had brought clean gym clothes. I went back in to my locker and changed and stuffed my wet clothes inside a small garbage bag Aunt Mary had insisted I bring.

I walked outside the gymnasium into a blazing sun. Halfway across a wet parking lot toward the main building I turned and headed home. There was no way in hell I would let Jessica Miller tell me what to do. Adam Parker, meet your new tutor.

Chapter 10

I was successful at hiding myself until dinner at 5:30. When I arrived home I sat in a swing beside the detached garage. Thankfully, Uncle Larry didn’t visit his workshop after he drove up from school. If he had, he would have seen me. Aunt Mary arrived a little after 4:00 and parked, as usual, in the carport attached to the house. After another hour or so and a dozen views of the film streaming across my mind, I finally walked into the house. I could smell Aunt Mary had something cooking in the oven, but I didn’t see her. She must have been in the bathroom. I also bypassed Uncle Larry who was sitting in the den in his Lazy-boy reading today’s Birmingham News. He said hello but never put down his paper. After inspecting my face in my bathroom mirror and drying my hair, I laid across my bed still wearing my gym clothes. For some strange reason, I fell asleep. I awoke to Aunt Mary knocking on my door. “Mia, dinner in five minutes. You good?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m really not hungry.” For some reason I was starving but my plan was to lay-low until late and sneak in the kitchen. My left eye was the perfect shiner. The darkness seemed to be spreading toward my lower jaw. There was no way to hide it.

“You have to eat. A salad for lunch isn’t enough. You must have protein. You love my tuna casserole.” As every vegetarian does, they make exceptions to their diet. I know it wasn’t logical, but I had not sworn off fish.

I didn’t respond, and Aunt Mary didn’t press it. I assumed she returned to the kitchen. But she didn’t give up. Fifteen minutes later she returned, and this time walked into my room. One look at me and she said, “Mia, what on earth happened to you?” It was a reasonable thing to ask.

“Uh, I had a run-in with the steel door in the girls dressing room. The impact happened when several things simultaneously occurred: I was walking towards the door when someone yelled my name from behind me. I turned and said hello. When I turned back someone else was coming out of the dressing room. I walked straight into the end of the heavy door.” This was so stupid. It sounded like I was reading the first poem I had written as a second grader.

“That must have been painful. You’re going to have that for a while. We might ought to have a doctor look at that. You may have broken something.” Aunt Mary had a point, several, but I didn’t want to go to the Emergency Room.

“Thanks for caring. It’s not that bad.” The left side of my face was throbbing.

“Okay for now, but we don’t want it to get infected.” I wasn’t familiar with bruising and infections. “Now, come on to supper.” Supper, dinner, it was the same thing.

“I’ll be right there.” I had changed my strategy. Success with passing off my frightening look as an innocent accident gave me permission, and encouragement, to face Uncle Larry. I hoped he was as gullible as Aunt Mary.

I was lucky he made it so easy. When I sat down across from him at the kitchen table he said, “after we eat, put an icepack across your eye. That’ll help with the swelling. I’ve done something similar. The ice helped me.”

“Thanks Uncle Larry.” I felt guilty about my lying. After I woofed down my first helping of the best tuna casserole, I had the crazy idea of opening up and telling the truth. For the next ten minutes I let that thought coalesce while I ate more tuna. I even thanked Aunt Mary for using fake milk and cheese in one of my favorite dishes.

After eating a big serving of non-dairy ice-cream, my struggle whether to confess came to an unexpected detour when the door-bell rang. Aunt Mary exited the kitchen and walked through the living room to the front door. I heard her say, “hello, may I help you?”

“Oh hi, I’m Emily Brown. Mia and I are classmates. I just stopped by to see if she is okay after that terrible assault.” Oh my gosh. If my world hadn’t been in a tailspin before now, it surely was now.

“What? Please come in. There seems to be some real confusion here.”

The sweet and caring Emily Brown joined us at the kitchen table. I could have killed her. The girl who no doubt had saved my life. The events for the next several hours were like something out of a crime novel. After hearing the blow-by-blow details of what had happened, Aunt Mary called the Boaz Police. Then, the ball really got rolling.

She gave the short version to the dispatcher and was told a policeman would come take my statement. In less than ten minutes an Officer Wilson knocked on the door from the carport. He was tall, handsome, and built like a Bradley tank. Aunt Mary pulled in another chair, but Brad Pitt wanted to talk to me alone. After my aunt and uncle and Emily went out onto the rear deck, I described in detail what had happened. I didn’t withhold anything. I was very clear that Jessica Miller had promised to kill me if I started tutoring Adam Parker.

It was only after Officer Wilson started cross-examining me about how I knew it was Jessica Miller who was speaking, that I realized I might be wrong. My mind had told me it was Jessica’s voice. At first, I had told Officer Wilson that she had identified herself. But after questioning, I knew that wasn’t true. Everything seemed to fit. Lawyers and Law and Order programs referred to it as “circumstantial evidence.” I kept telling Officer Wilson that it was Jessica Miller’s voice, but I had to admit that I had only heard her voice one time and that was last Saturday night.

After a good thirty to forty minutes with me, Emily and I swapped places. Officer Wilson spent another twenty minutes with her. I guess seeing if her statement confirmed what I had said, at least the part where she discovered me.

It was after 7:00 p.m. when the good-looking professional left. The last thing he said to all four of us was, “I’ll call you after I speak with Miss Miller. I have to have probable cause before the judge will issue an arrest warrant, but first I need to visit the girls dressing room to see if those ropes and cloth bag are still there.”

Reluctantly, I obeyed the order he had given me before speaking with Emily. Officer Wilson had demanded I go to the Emergency Room to have a doctor assess the condition of my face. He promised to have a photographer there to take pictures for his case file.

It was nearly midnight before I went to bed. The ER had been horrible. Two packed ambulances had arrived a few minutes before Aunt Mary and me (Emily had gone home, and Uncle Larry needed to finish his newspaper). There wasn’t an exam room available until almost ten-thirty. The waiting room was the worst part of the trip. I had never in my life seen so many pitiful people. There was a cross-section of old and young, but one thing was the same for all. The poet Henry David Thoreau was right about this hoard: “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and die with their song still inside them.” I couldn’t help but feel sorry for them and at the same time, know how fortunate I was.

As my mind and body approached the unconscious state of sleep, I kept questioning my decision to jump into the lion’s den. After leaving the gymnasium and walking toward the school, I had made a very emotional statement, “There was no way in hell I would let Jessica Miller tell me what to do.” Now, it was finally dawning on me what a detour my life would take if I pursued principal, honor, and respect, over plain good sense. I could hear Dad now: “Mia, decisions made in the heat of a moment are emotionally based, not intellectually-generated. They usually are proven wrong.”

The Boaz Safecracker–1st ten chapters

Chapter 1

After sixty-four years I was about to crack my first safe. Or, at least give it my best shot. I hoped I was a natural. I should be, if a name has any influence. My grandfather, Fredrick Martin, had insisted my father, Franklin, name me Fred. My full name is Jimmy Fred Martin. I was named after actor Jimmy Hanley who played Fred Martin in the 1954 movie, Radio Cab Murder. He was used by the police to go undercover to help catch a gang of safe robbers.

I parked my borrowed truck behind Julia Street United Methodist Church and walked with my bag of tools to the back door of the Whitman House at 200 Thomas Avenue. Edward Fenns Whitman, a businessman, served as Boaz’s first mayor in 1896. In 1924, he built this brick Craftsman-style home that had been designed by prominent Birmingham architect William Leslie Welton. Many locals, mostly grandchildren of Whitman’s generation, called it the Hunt House after Dr. Marston T. Hunt who lived here after Whitman and family died or moved away. I vividly remembered Dr. Hunt as the Boaz High School football team doctor who conducted my first rectal exam during the summer of 1971, in his office across the street.

The current occupants, Elton and Rebecca Rawlins, are away on vacation, probably enjoying a quiet and star-lite night at Gulf Shores. It’s taken nearly a year for my stars to align and cast the perfect opportunity to start a part-time job. Tonight, it is pouring rain and most everyone who would brave the streets are at Boaz High School being entertained by the Drama Club’s presentation of Shakespeare’s Macbeth.

I was thankful for the protection provided by the back veranda. It gave me a respite from the downpour. The sole light above the back door revealed the needed contents of the side pouch of my leather bag. In less than two minutes I was in the house and had disabled the security system. The code was provided by my silent partner, Noah Waters (yes, that’s his real name), who owns Sand Mountain Security Systems, often referred to by commenters on his Facebook Page as Ark-Saved.

If it weren’t for my grandfather I wouldn’t be here today. He was a safe cracker of sorts. He worked for over sixty years at the Mosler Safe Company in Cincinnati, Ohio. Although I grew up in Boaz, I spent several weeks every summer from the time I was six or seven with Papa and Mama Martin in their large Victorian home on Mt. Adams perched high on one of Cincinnati’s seven hills. In 1972, a month after I graduated from Boaz High School, and during my regular summer-time visit, my grandfather had a heart attack and thought he was dying. It was during that time he had given me a box full of black journals he had created over the sixty years he was chief accountant at Mosler. The journals contained the make, model, and serial number of every safe his company had manufactured and sold during his long tenure.

I found the safe behind a hidden door in the library. It stood 52 inches tall, was 22 inches wide, and 27 inches deep, and weighed in, according to Granddad, at a little over five hundred pounds. The safe was right where it was supposed to be, and right where it had been since Mr. Whitman had purchased it in 1924. Not only was I lucky to have Granddad’s black journals, but I was equally thankful for my employer, Alfa Insurance Company.

My job as an insurance agent provided helpful information, especially for my new part-time job. From working with and insuring Elton and Rebecca, I had learned they possessed a valuable collection of coins and jewelry. Their homeowner’s policy also insured the safe. I was probably only a handful of people who knew that Mr. Whitman had left the Model T20 Mosler safe, serial number 52039, when he sold the house to Dr. Marston Hunt, and his heirs, in turn, did the same thing, when they sold the beautiful, historically registered home in 2007 to Elton and Rebecca Rawlins. Some things are simply too heavy to move.

Cracking the safe was easy. It helped having the combination. Although Alfa didn’t require it, I had told my clients that sharing the information might prove helpful in the event of an emergency. Now, it seemed surprising they had been so easy to convince. Even if they had changed the combination I had come prepared to dispossess my clients of their valuables. One of my favorite memories was from my summertime visit with my grandparents in 1970. That summer, Granddad showed me how to use a torch to cut a hole in the back of a safe, one big enough to reach in with a long screwdriver and remove two screws from the plate that held the locking mechanism in place. No combination was required from this side. With one flip of a tumbler bar, the entire lock-set would fall inside the safe and the front door would slide open without resistance. Having the combination saved me over an hour. Another thing I was extremely thankful for.

The most valuable jewelry was two ruby teardrop pendants and one pear-shaped ruby lever-back drop earring. Alfa insured these three items for a total of sixty-thousand dollars. The Rawlins collection of St. Gaudens Double Eagles and Liberty Dollars was extensive; thirty-three coins in all. Although Elton had requested a million dollars in coverage, Alfa had capped its exposure to half that amount.

After placing the jewelry and coins in the center pouch of my bag, I took a few minutes and explored the contents of an accordion-style folder standing along the left side of the safe. Inside were several newspaper clippings and a host of original deeds. Also, there was a mauve-colored envelope with Rebecca’s name hand-printed on the outside. I quickly opened the unsealed envelope, pulled out a single sheet of similarly-colored paper, and read the extremely short message. “Dear Rebecca: Go forth and live your life for God. Your sins are forgiven, and your secret is safe with me.” The letter was signed, “Pastor Randy.”

I could hear the rain storm subsiding, so I snapped a photo of the letter with my iPhone and reinserted the letter inside the envelope. I felt silly being so careful with the mauve-colored envelope and accordion file, especially since I was about to walk away with a small fortune in jewelry and coins. I couldn’t help but wonder what secret the former youth pastor of First Baptist Church of Christ held against Rebecca Rawlins. As I reset the alarm and relocked the back door, my mind, as it often did, offered a competing question. What if the Pastor had reneged on his promise? What if he had shared Rebecca’s secret?

My first safe-cracking adventure, so far at least, was an overwhelming success. The only mistake I had made, if you call it that, was continuing to wear my black, full-faced toboggan, all the way home. I parked inside my garage and was admiring my haul scattered out on my kitchen table when my iPhone vibrated in my pocket.

Chapter 2

“Room 201, second floor, all the way down the hall. On the left.” Ms. Gilbreath said guiding me to my post for today’s Career Day. I hadn’t been inside Boaz High School since I graduated in May 1972. I couldn’t believe Betsy Gilbreath was still working in the office. She seemed old forty-five years ago. She must be in her late eighties.

I walked up the stairs, down the long-crowded hallway buzzing with kids of all sizes and shapes. I found my destination and sat down at the front desk in a room of empty chairs. I was glad I was early and had a few minutes to regroup my thinking.

Last night after returning from 200 Thomas Avenue I had changed clothes and driven to the parking lot of the Sand Mountain Stockyard in Kilpatrick. Noah was waiting on me, sitting in his truck parked between two giant livestock haulers. We had divided another type of haul with him taking the coins. I kept the jewelry, not worried I had given my best friend since elementary school over ninety percent of the value. At 11:30 p.m., Noah had sent a text saying, “product delivered and secure.” He had driven to his storage unit in Hokes Bluff. I had made my delivery to a similar facility in Guntersville.

“Hey Uncle Fred.” The voice startled me back to current reality. It was Luke Sullivan my grand-nephew. My niece, Gabby, is the only daughter of my only sister, Deidre.

“Hi Luke. Are you looking for career advice?” It was the first thing that came to mind. He just smiled and said he already had his future fully planned.

“No, I think I’ll stick with being a fireman, that’s all I’ve ever wanted to be. Other than being a garbage truck driver when I was five.” The tall and lanky kid with curly blond hair and a face full of acne just stood beside Luke, totally expressionless.

“Good to see you. I forgot Career Day is for eleventh and twelfth graders.”

“Just one of a million stupid rules around this backwards town.” Luke was a good kid, with one younger sister. Gabby and Brad, her husband and Luke’s father, were good parents. Both had good, but demanding, jobs. When they weren’t working at their day jobs they were assisting with the youth group at First Baptist Church of Christ. Luke and Miranda, his sister, were usually within a stone’s throw no matter what the group was up to.

A wave of boys and girls came in the room a minute or so before 9:00 a.m. They were busy chatting and jostling each other. I asked Luke, “how are things with you? Still liking high school?”

He looked at his older peers and walked closer to me and farther away from the loud group. “Do you think we could talk sometime? Maybe today?”

“Sure thing. Anytime.” I was surprised Luke had approached me. I couldn’t remember a time he and I had ever really talked. Our relationship was defined by the routines of family get-to-gathers. Ever since I had moved back from Huntsville three years ago, Mother had made sure we ate with her and Dad at least once every week.

“What about after you get finished with Career Day?” Luke said, his face more serious now.

“Okay, that’ll work. I don’t have any appointments until this afternoon.”

“Can you meet in the gym around 10:30?” Luke asked.

“That’s perfect. I’m here until that time so it will be just a few minutes after. If that’s good with you.”

“See you then.” Luke and his lanky and listless friend turned and walked out into the hallway.

I spent the next ninety minutes with six groups of six to fifteen students, rotating in a new batch every fifteen minutes. Each meeting I followed the same outline. It was impossible to grab their attention and motivate them towards a career in insurance. Even though I explained to them the importance of insuring cars and homes for a small, monthly premium, while transferring the risk of loss to an insurance company. I tried to illustrate how the laws of probability, actuarial science it was called, but every single student either stared out the windows or at their cell phones. Only when I shared a personal story of how I would have been bankrupt if it hadn’t been for my health insurance policy when Susan got sick, did their eyes look my way.

Walking to the gym I couldn’t get Susan off my mind. She was my high school sweetheart and my wife for nearly forty years. Five years ago, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. After fifteen months of chemotherapy and radiation, she died, even though hundreds, maybe thousands, had been praying, virtually non-stop according to many. Nine months after she passed, I closed my law practice and moved back home to Boaz. I now had been an Alfa insurance agent for nearly two years.

I didn’t see Luke when I entered the gymnasium. I walked through the double-doors and onto the basketball court. “Up here.” Luke was sitting at the very top of the visitor’s side bleachers.

“This ought to be private.” I said after climbing more stairs than I had in years. “What’s on your mind Luke?”

“Tyler, my friend, you met him, has got me to thinking.” Luke said. I could tell he was troubled. He normally had a big smile on his face. Now, he was nearly frowning.

“The kid with you in Room 201?” I asked.

“Yea. He moved here from Chicago after Christmas. He’s pretty much a loner, like me.”

“I never thought of you as a loner. You always seem like the life of the party.”

“That’s mostly around family.”

“What’s Tyler got you to thinking about?” I asked.

“God, church, Christianity. He says all that’s a myth.”

“What do you think?” I wanted to tell him Tyler was right but thought better of it. I valued my relationship with my family, even though it was strained.

“It’s funny really. I’ve never thought about it. You probably know what I’m talking about. You grew up with Nanna and Papa. You had no choice but to believe as they do. I’ve been in church since I was born.”

“I agree. Living in Boaz is like living in a pond. You can’t help but get wet.” I kind of liked my analogy.

“I thought you might give me some insight. How to deal with Tyler’s opinions. I know you’ve abandoned your faith.” I was surprised Luke put it that way.

“What makes you say that?” I asked.

“I’ve overheard Mom and Dad talking. They say, it’s usually after they’ve prayed for you, that you walked away from God after Aunt Susan died.”

“Well, they are not inaccurate. More particularly, I started questioning my beliefs when Susan was diagnosed. I was much like you said, fully immersed in God, the Bible, and the church. This changed when I finally realized that I had little proof that God existed. Susan’s death, she would die all over again if she heard me say this, was the real catalyst for my adventure.”

“What do you mean? Sounds like you went on a trip or a safari.” Luke said.

“That’s a good way to put it, especially your safari word. It has been like a hunt, a hunt for the truth.”

“I don’t have much time right now, but I’d like to hear about your adventure. Do you think you could share it with me, in detail?” Luke asked.

“I would like nothing better, but I have to be concerned about offending your mom and dad. I highly suspect they would figuratively shoot me if I expressed an opinion that conflicted with their beliefs.”

“No doubt, but if Christianity is true, shouldn’t it be able to withstand some questioning?” I was impressed with Luke. He sounded more intelligent than I had painted him.

“You have to promise me one thing.” I said.

“Okay.”

“You won’t tell your mom or dad. Even if y’all have a discussion and they ask you, ‘where are you hearing all of this?’ you promise you will keep me out of it. Agreed?” Even though it was difficult at family meals to listen as Mom or Dad or Sis or whoever was praying with pleas for good health and safe-keeping and a dozen other common requests, I didn’t want to start a controversy that I feared would never be resolved.

Luke pulled out his notebook from his backpack and asked me to write down my email address. “Is it okay if we communicate this way? I still want to meet but email might be more convenient and regular.”

“Works for me.”

Luke shook my hand and left. I had a sick feeling in my stomach that I had betrayed my family’s trust. But, I also knew that my decision to abandon my faith had been the best decision of my life. As I walked to my car, the question remained, “is it okay for me to express my beliefs, to those who have grown up with Jesus-talk pounded into their heads?” Deep down I felt the answer was yes, but I needed to carefully consider the ramifications.

Chapter 3

At 1:00 p.m., I met with Darryl Nelson, the assistant manager of Lowe’s in Guntersville. It was our third meeting and he finally pulled the trigger on a five hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy he was placing in a newly created trust for his wife.

After we finished, I started driving back to Boaz but turned around and headed north. I called Noah and caught him just returning from Huntsville. “Good timing. Meet me at Winzel’s.”

I suggested his office instead. I thought it best to keep our public appearances to a minimum. In the grand scheme of things, it probably didn’t matter. Noah and I had been best friends for over fifty years. We had played sports together starting in junior high and continued throughout high school, playing every sport during our senior year. Although we went our separate ways after high school we kept in touch several times per year. Ever since I moved back to Boaz in 2014, we had renewed our friendship with a vengeance.

“I was hoping you would call.” Noah said removing a large briefcase from the trunk of his car as I pulled beside him. Noah, much more than me, didn’t have one financial reason to be involved in our safe-cracking venture. It seemed everything he did turned to gold. He had started Sand Mountain Security Systems over ten years ago in Boaz. At the time Susan and I were dealing with her sickness, Noah was moving his business to Guntersville. He had purchased the corner lot across from the Hampton Inn on Highway 431. While we were growing up, Reid’s Restaurant did a booming business on this location. Noah had sold the highway frontage to Art Moss. It’s now, Chili’s of Guntersville. Noah’s office and warehouse are housed in a new building behind Chili’s. Noah said he made enough from selling the real estate frontage to pay for his move and his new facility.

“I was at Lowe’s.” He motioned me inside, through a small waiting room, down a hallway, and into his office.

“I bet those St. Gaudens are worth a fortune.” Noah didn’t waste any time. I knew we could talk openly. If there was anyone who was conscious of security issues it was Noah.

“All thirty-three of the coins are insured for half a million. Rawlins wanted a million on them. Alfa wouldn’t do it.”

“It’s silly we even care. The market could be anything by the time we unload them.” Noah said. Our idea had sprouted after Granddad had died in 1998. I sometimes think it was my fault he died. Even though he was nearly ninety-nine years old, he was in relatively good health when Susan and I went for our final visit Easter weekend. Again, it was his heart. After suffering the attack in 1972 he had recovered and continued to work for Mosler until 1980. Some way, over that Easter weekend, my grandfather must have known his time was short. He had insisted that Susan and I take home with us those boxes of black journals he had given me during the summer of 1972. Even though they were mine at that time, I had left them in the closet of the front bedroom I always slept in right next to the left-side turret on his and Mama Martin’s grand Victorian home.

“Whatever their value, I want them out of the country just like we’ve talked about.” I said.

“Mine and Lorie’s trip isn’t until October. They’ll be fine. Stop worrying. Oh, by the way, and not that I don’t trust you my brother, I assume you cleaned out the big bad Mosler?”

“Other than some deeds and a secret letter. I was hoping there might be an antique pistol or an original Bible manuscript. You know, something rare.”

“That would be a find. It’s my understanding the Bible doesn’t exist, I mean in its original form.” Noah said.

“Actually, it doesn’t exist in any form, other than its fictional model, but let’s not go there.”

“What about that letter? You said secret letter.”

I pulled my iPhone out of my coat pocket and opened my Photos. “Here, look, I snapped a picture.” I handed my phone across Noah’s desk.

Noah used his right thumb and index finger to expand the photo, so he could read it. Aloud. “‘Dear Rebecca: Go forth and live your life for God. Your sins are forgiven, and your secret is safe with me.’ Who’s Pastor Randy?”

“I’m not sure but my guess is it’s Randy Miller. He was the youth pastor at First Baptist Church of Christ when I was growing up. You should remember him.” I said.

“Don’t forget, I didn’t go to your church. I was a Second Baptist conscription.”

“Funny. Randy Miller is Robert Miller’s grandfather.”

“Who is Robert Miller?”

“He’s the youth pastor now. Kind of funny or weird, something, that he’s trying to fill his grandfather’s shoes. From what I see and hear, especially from Gabby and Brad, he’s doing a great job. Assuming, you ignore the subject matter.” I said.

“Was Rebecca in Susan’s class?”

“No. She graduated in 1974, a year behind Susan.” I said.

“What’s the secret?” Noah asked.

“I don’t have a clue. But it must be pretty important for Rebecca to keep the letter all these years.” Noah handed me my phone and I looked again at the photo. I scrolled over the entire picture and saw it for the first time. In the lower right corner of the letter was hand-written, May 27, 1974. “Forty-three years. She’s kept this letter nearly half a century.”

Noah’s cell phone rang. “Yep. Oh shit. I forgot. See you in five minutes.”

“I take it you’re in trouble.” I said.

“That was Lorie. I’ve got to go. I’m late for our photo appointment. Church directory. Talk later.” Noah said, grabbing a necktie and a sports coat from a hall tree in the corner of his office. Noah was like so many men. Faithful to his church. Mostly, because it’s good for business, but also to please his wife.

I drove back to Boaz, dropped Darryl’s file off at the insurance office, and drove home. It was always good to see Dad working in his garden right across from my small front yard. It was a trade-off living in the original home my great-grandfather had built in 1896 when he and my great-grandmother had moved here from Lee County. I gave up quite a bit of privacy—which I dearly loved—in exchange for almost daily time with the best parents in the world. As I walked across the recently tilled soil to talk with Dad, I was thankful he and Mom lived halfway across the hundred-acre farm in what had, since my youth, been referred to as the main house.

Chapter 4

I wound up helping Dad plant four long rows of purple-hulled peas and set-out ten Big-Boy tomato plants. It was the first time in a year I had watched him get down on all fours. At eighty-eight years old he was still in remarkably good health, but his strength, stamina, and balance were waning.

Dad had grown up in Cincinnati. Frederick Martin, known as Papa or Papa Martin, Dad’s dad, had grown up at the Martin Mansion as it was called, helping his father and mother and eight brothers and sisters farm their hundred-acre tract. There were shades of many stories as to why Papa Martin had moved at age sixteen, north, first to Detroit and then to Cincinnati. To me, the most likely reason was he and my great-grandfather, Stonewall Lee Martin, had a falling out; Stonewall was like a thick stone wall, literally immovable, especially in his Christian beliefs. In 1928, Papa Martin married Mary Ruth Davis, a sophisticated woman from an old established Ohioan family. Dad was born in 1929 in Papa and Mama’s large Victorian home perched high on one of Cincinnati’s seven hills.

Dad’s experience growing up was almost identical to mine, except he came south every summer rather than north. Like me, he visited his grandparents. Dad always said he came in first place. He had missed only one summer coming to Alabama while he was growing up, after he turned six, and I had missed two summers. That’s where the similarities diverged. Even though Dad grew up a city boy, he loved the outdoors. It probably would have been different if he had grown up living in the country and having to farm. Dad and his grandfather, Papa Stone, spent nearly every waking minute of the two-week visits hoeing and harvesting vegetables from the garden, feeding the pigs and chickens, milking two cows, and fishing. Someway, the two of them had a connection that Papa Martin and the Stone Wall could never discover. Like Dad, my favorite spot was the three-acre pond, halfway between my little house and Martin Mansion.

Papa Martin had gone to work for Mosler in 1919, when he was only twenty years old. He had already completed a two-year accounting course which caught the eye of old man Mosler, the son of the founder. Like me, Dad met his future wife while in high school. He and Harriet Ann Parkland married in 1949. Neither went on to college and struggled for five years (refusing help from her wealthy family) until Dad decided in February 1954 to move, along with my thirteen-month-old sister, Deidre, and his pregnant wife, back home to live at Martin Mansion as Papa Stonewall lay dying.

Looking back, I had experienced the best of both worlds, country and city. Summertime in Cincinnati, and the rest of the year living on the same ground my great-grandfather Stonewall had purchased for $450.00 in 1896 and farmed until his death five months before I was born in August 1954.

Dad made me tag along with him back to Martin Mansion and to a grand supper prepared by the best cook I have ever known. Mother had the ability to make green beans taste like steak. I hated them, unless they were Mother’s. It seemed I was getting spoiled eating over half my supper time meals at the table built by Stonewall Lee Martin in 1896. Along with the beans, corn bread, and left-over ham from Sunday’s even grander lunch, Mom had fresh out-of-the-garden corn, peppers, onions, and tomatoes. The meal was heavenly. That was Dad’s description. His pre-meal prayer always ended the same, “Lord, thank you for this heavenly meal we are about to partake.” I was glad Mom was quiet. Normally, when it’s just the three of us, she had to say something about my loss of faith, even something so slight as, “Fred, you look tired. I wish you got more rest on Sunday’s. You know that’s what it was made for.”

It was after dark when I arrived at my four-room cabin. It was built as a log-cabin, but my great-grandfather had decided in 1953 it needed an upgrade. It was his last big job before he died. Re-framing the outer walls, adding insulation, and covering the studs with clap-board siding. Dad always believed his grandfather had some premonition that caused him to undertake such a project at age eighty-two. Maybe some way he knew my own journey and struggles would lead me back to my roots.

I changed out of my dusty gardening clothes and sat down in what used to be a bedroom before I converted it to my study and library. I booted up my desktop to check my work email. I was pleased to see that Darryl Nelson had asked whether Alfa dealt with annuities. I responded in the affirmative and told him I would call tomorrow with additional information.

I was just about to shut down my old Acer and go to the den for a little TV before going to bed when a Gmail notification flashed across my screen. I opened it. It was from Luke. I almost was afraid to read it, subconsciously believing my agreement to communicate with him over such a sensitive subject was akin to plotting an assassination of the president.

“Tyler said that if I had grown up in Indonesia or Turkey I would likely be a Muslim and believe that Allah was the one and only God. What do you think?”

I continued to ponder whether to renege on my promise. After five minutes my battle with family and tradition had lost. I was too much of an adherent of humanism and the quest for truth no matter where it lay to go back on my promise concerning such an important subject. It wasn’t like Luke was six years old. He was a bright young man, curious about life, deeply troubled over what he had always been taught. I typed out a short response: “Tyler is probably correct. I have read several articles on this subject. It seems to be basic common sense. A child is born with some basic instincts, like how to nurse from his mother’s breast, but the baby certainly doesn’t know anything about religion, politics, sports, you name it. I suppose it is nearly impossible for a child not to adopt the beliefs and practices of his parents, especially those who are loving and kind. In my own experience, it took a rather big jolt to spawn my first embryonic thought that I might have been misled. I’ll not share that story now, but it happened when I was about your age.” I clicked on ‘Send’ and shut down my computer.

I walked to the den and flipped on the TV. I couldn’t find anything interesting, so I turned it off and laid back in my recliner. All I could think about was my own story, the one I had not shared with Luke.

It was 1970. I had completed the tenth grade and was in Cincinnati at Papa and Mama Martin’s. He had just showed me how to remove the locking mechanism on an old Mosler. We were out in his garage. Mama brought us some lemonade and we all three sat down at an old dusty table. Mama soon got tired of hearing Papa rattle on about how he had acquired the safe that now had a ten inch by ten-inch hole cut out of its back. She left us and walked back to their house.

It was the one and only time Papa ever mentioned religion. He said he had come to believe that a safe was like a person’s heart. It was a place where we kept our innermost secrets. He shared how his first boss in the accounting department had told him how Gustave Mosler, one of the company’s original founders, had compared the safes his company built to Christianity. Both were virtually impenetrable. Both were made of time-tested materials. Layer upon layer of the materials that had kept lives and whole societies secure for centuries.

Papa hadn’t said it directly, but I sensed he someway had broken away from the faith of his father and family. He described how, over the years, he had become intrigued with the stories that bounced off the walls in the accounting department. Stories from all over the country from people who had either bought a Mosler safe, often without the combination, or who had discovered one behind a hidden wall. Papa said what really aroused his curiosity was the stories of the different ways folks had gained access to the locked away contents. He shared with me how, over time, he had analogized the physical safe to his father’s Christian beliefs, pondering what it would take to gain access to the very reason his father held on to the inerrant scripture. Papa said his father believed in Adam and Eve and the creation story, Noah’s flood, and Christ’s resurrection. It was one statement by Papa that made me think something, somehow, had gained access to his own heart, otherwise thought to be impenetrable. He had said, “if you can act as though you have never heard of Christianity while you are listening to a Southern Baptist Fundamentalist, questions will arise, such as, ‘how can the earth be only six thousand years old? You will start to question. Questioning everything is the secret to cracking a safe.”

Before those two weeks ended during the summer of 1970, I heard one other thing that probably changed my life. Mama said one afternoon while we were waiting for Papa to arrive home from work, “I think your grandfather would become a professional safecracker if he wasn’t afraid he’d get caught. He’s absolutely obsessed with the secrets people lock behind a combination.”

Now, starting to doze, I wish I had just one more afternoon with Papa Martin. I got up, walked to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and stared into the mirror. I wondered whether I would have the courage to tell him about last night’s adventure to 200 Thomas Avenue.

Chapter 5

Wednesday afternoon I headed to the Boaz Public Library. I was glad to be out of the office. Tuesday was my day, 8:00 a.m. until 5:00 p.m., to man the walk-in desk. I was one of five agents in the Boaz Alfa office. I had much rather be out in the field calling on existing clients and prospects than being stuck behind a desk.

My work life, now, was radically different than my first career. In January 1980, six months after graduating from the University of Alabama Law School, I had started work for King and Hart, P.C. in Huntsville. For the next thirty-four years I spent most of my time either at my desk or in court. There was no time I could really call my own. I resigned March 21, 2014, six months after another significant day in my life. Susan died of breast cancer September 18, 2013. During this period, I was virtually worthless. Most days I was at work but sat staring into space. The kind and generous Bart King and Jeff Hart would have probably let me grieve forever on their dime but finally the day came I knew I had to leave both my job and mine and Susan’s Huntsville home.

The Boaz Public Library was relatively new. A beautiful two-story colonial style building on Thomas Avenue had replaced the old and antiquated facility on South Main. Truly a treasure for such a small town like Boaz. The head librarian wasn’t so new. Nancy Frasier had inspired many a reader for nearly sixty years. She was now in her eighties and could still, from memory, on instant notice, relate what books were on her shelves. Other media was a different story, so the sweet and saintly Nancy referred me to Brenda Yates, the library’s electronic master.

In less than five minutes Brenda had me sitting before a microfiche machine and about a dozen boxes of Sand Mountain Reporter slides from the 1970’s in a dark room under the winding oak staircase. Ever since Sunday night I had not been able to get the mauve-colored letter secreted in the Rawlins’ safe out of my mind. A phone call yesterday to Noah had given me the direction I now pursued.

I started my search with the May 25, 1974 newspaper. The date hand-written on the bottom of the Rebecca Rawlins’ secret letter was May 27, 1974. I had checked. That was a Monday. I knew from my own life-long experience with Dad’s subscription, the Sand Mountain Reporter newspaper was published three times per week, including Saturday. I was glad the Library had the latest technology. Their microfiche machine was what was called search-capable. This allowed me to enter a query and the machine would direct me to an article, ad, or photo caption that included the best response to my question. I was out of luck. There were no responses or hits for any of my key words. I had used Rebecca, Rebecca Aldridge (Noah had told me her maiden name), and even Randy Miller (no kin to Susan as far as I knew).

It was 1:35 p.m. For the next three hours I looked backwards through every edition of the Sand Mountain Reporter, crossing over into 1973. I had just returned from a rabbit trail concerning the Boaz Christmas Parade held on Friday, December 7, 1973 when I entered ‘Rebecca Aldridge’ on the query line for the previous day’s newspaper. Her name was listed, along with half-a-dozen others, under a photo of a giant bonfire. Before reading the full caption or the article I assumed the event was related to a football game, a big pep-rally. Then, I realized the date seemed off for that.

I read the full article twice, a little surprised that I had never heard the story. Correctly, this time, I realized that I was a student living in Auburn, Alabama when the photo was taken, and the article was written. In current day terms the whole thing seemed rather silly. Rebecca and four of her high school classmates had been arrested for burning Bibles. The scene had taken place on the back side of the sorghum cane field next to Boaz High School. It was on school property. Halfway through my first reading I had assumed this was probably why the five had been arrested. This was not the case. After a slower and more methodical reading, it was clear the arrest had been made to protect the five from a near blood-thirsty mob.

The article didn’t explain exactly how things had gotten out of hand, nor how the community had known what the five were up to. The last line of the article quoted Randy Miller, youth pastor at First Baptist Church of Christ, who said, “a few hundred years ago witches were burned at the stake. These five young people better be glad the fine citizens of Boaz are giving them another chance to honor and glorify God.” I thought it was an odd statement especially after the reporter had used a long paragraph to describe how the Boaz Police had to threaten the use of Billy-clubs to nearly a dozen local men and women.

After reading and pondering the article I wanted to continue my search, but I was out of time. I had a 5:30 appointment with the new owner of Sand Mountain Tire and Muffler concerning medical insurance for his employees. I didn’t need to be late.

Chapter 6

It took nearly an hour with Cynthia Lang at Sand Mountain Tire. She was the new business manager and was determined to increase morale. I agreed with her that a comprehensive medical plan for the employees would help, especially if the company paid the monthly premiums.

I missed the fellowship meal but made it just in time for prayer meeting. Normally, at 5:30 p.m., I meet in the Church’s fellowship hall with Deidre and Ed and one or both of their children and spouses, and we share a spread of food almost as good as Mother’s.

To anyone who really knows me, now only Noah since Susan is gone, would think I was weird. Why did I continue to regularly attend church since long ago I had shed my belief in the supernatural? I thought prayer was a total waste of time. But, my comeback, other than it was simply a habit and a long-since expired duty owed to the faithful Susan, was always the same. I enjoyed the fellowship and feelings of belonging to a loving and caring family. Secondarily, it was a good place to network for business prospects. I almost laughed out loud when the thought that church was a good place to pick up women slithered alongside my business reason.

Maybe Noah knew me better than I knew myself. If he were sitting here on the back row with me as Pastor Caleb was updating the thirty or forty folks scattered across the center section of the main auditorium, he would argue it was time for me to move on with my life. It was time I started dating. He would contend that Susan, dead now for over four years, wouldn’t have a problem at all with me pursuing another woman, in fact, she would encourage it. Noah would be correct. Susan was all heart and soul, faithful to God, Jesus, and Christianity. To a fault. She was the best I knew at picking out the good parts of the Bible and emulating them to a tee.

I heard Pastor Caleb give an update on how Eugene Lackey, the Boaz High School basketball coach with cancer, was doing. My mind skimmed past the Pastor’s words and focused, along with my eyes, on Connie Stewart. From where I was sitting I could make out a part of her right-side profile. For some reason she was a subject Deidre had focused on during our church meal last Wednesday night. Deidre, and no one else as far as she knew, had a clue why the still-gorgeous Connie never married. I had my own opinion. I had dated her one time during the late Fall of my junior year, with my little sis to blame. To me, Connie was sophisticated and stuck up. She simply never found anybody she though worthy of her time and attention. I figured she still grouped me with the peasant clan.

I was equivocating between thoughts of Connie teaching high school English for probably forty years and whether she wore a two-piece bathing suit in her private swimming pool when I heard Pastor Caleb say “Elton Rawlins.” Immediately, my attention focused forward. Caleb continued, “we don’t know exactly what happened. Rebecca was apparently driving. She wasn’t hurt. Elton may not make it. He is in surgery now.”

During his prayer for Elton, Pastor Caleb asked God to bless the Foley, Alabama surgeons who were working to save “our Deacon’s life.” My mind put the pieces together. Rebecca and Elton were returning home from Gulf Shores and had a wreck. I almost lost my supper thinking how much pain Rebecca was probably experiencing and my responsibility for adding to that when she got home and discovered her home had been burglarized, although that news might not be instant since the only sign of an intrusion would be the missing coins and jewelry.

After another forty-five minutes of testimonies and prayers for everything from missionaries in Africa, to traveling mercies for the Keenagers adventure to Ken Ham’s Ark Encounter in Williamstown, Kentucky, I slipped out the rear entrance to the auditorium. I walked across the vestibule and down the long hall to the rear of the church leading to the parking lot. I was about to get in my car when I heard, “Uncle Fred.” I turned, and it was Luke walking with a large group of young people back toward the church basement. They were coming from the newly completed amphitheater the church had built, alongside a sand-filled volleyball court. I raised my hand and waved. He said, “thanks,” and continued walking beside Tyler. I guessed he liked the fellowship as much as I did.

When I arrived home, I booted up my computer to see if Tina Graves had sent me the birth dates for her six grandchildren. I had met her yesterday when she had walked in the Alfa office inquiring about setting up a financial plan for her son’s children. As promised, she had sent the requested information. I spent an hour preparing life insurance illustrations and was drafting a cover letter when I received a Gmail notification that I had received a message from Luke. This was quickly evolving into a routine.

Once again, Luke started with something he had heard. “Tyler said that Brother Robert speaks as though the Gospels are historical and eyewitness accounts of Jesus and His ministry. According to Tyler, that’s simply not true. Uncle Fred, what do you think?”

I wanted to tell Luke that it didn’t matter what I thought, that he would have to make up his own mind. That was not what I did. I was too tired to go into a lot of depth. Luke’s question was a good one. It made me want to meet and get to know Tyler. I’d love to know his background and how he had come to learn so much as a young teenager.

I shared with Luke that most Bible scholars claim the book of Mark was the first of the four Gospels, with it being written around 65 or 70 of the Common Era (CE). Matthew and Luke were composed, independently of one another, sometime in the 80s or 90s. There was some disagreement as to the Gospel of John, but most agreeing it was written between the year 100 and the year 120 CE.

I told Luke that none of the Gospels were written by the named person. They were simply later-added titles. The man named Mark in the Gospels did not write the book named Mark, and so on. It was the same with all four of the Gospels with the likely authors being one or more well-educated Greek scholars.

As to eyewitnesses, I shared with Luke that it was very unlikely the authors interviewed anyone who had known Jesus (who allegedly died around the year 30 CE) since average life expectancy during the first century was most likely half of what we experience today. I admitted that it was certainly possible for the Gospel authors to have talked with people who had heard stories that had been passed down from generation to generation but explained how unreliable such accountings typically were.

I ended my email to Luke with a question. “Why don’t you ponder the following: how did the Gospel writers know what Jesus prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane since he was all alone?” I asked him to read the passage from Mark 14:32-42. I then asked him to ponder two reasons that I had heard often given for this seeming dilemma. The most often cited reason was that the Holy Spirit told the authors what Jesus had said. The second reason was that after Jesus was resurrected and before his ascension he spent time with his disciples and told them the contents of some of his prayers and conversations that had occurred out of their earshot. I assumed, maybe hoped, Luke would assess these reasons the way I did. I believed they were simply a guess. A guess wholly unsupported by the evidence.

In closing, I relayed to Luke that my ultimate decision to walk away from the Christian religion did not occur instantly, that it was a multi-year journey. I encouraged him, if he was serious about learning what I described as ‘the other side,’ to become like a heat-seeking missile and go after the truth with a vengeance, reading everything he could. I suggested he try to get a hold of Richard Dawkins’ book, The God Delusion, offering my assistance if he couldn’t find a copy.

Before going to sleep I wondered how Elton Rawlin’s surgery had turned out.

Chapter 7

It was our third meeting. Pastor Caleb said he liked to keep business within the family as much as possible. He was referring to his church family. I was glad I was the most active life insurance agent who was also a member of First Baptist Church of Christ.

Caleb and his wife Tabitha and their twin boys, Matthew and Michael, were relatively new to the area. They had moved to Boaz a few months ago for Caleb to shepherd this nearly one-hundred twenty-year-old church. He had spent the past ten years as lead pastor at First Baptist Church of Prattville, Alabama.

Caleb was the first pastor in the church’s history whose last name was not Tillman. I had learned from reading Lucille Wright’s, A Short History of Boaz Churches, there had been six Tillman’s who had pastored the church since its founding in 1892. The most recent, Warren Tillman, had been killed in a home invasion less than a year ago. From what I had heard, if it hadn’t been for some serious legal troubles for Walter and Wade Tillman, Warren’s grandfather and father, the church would have continued with the family name as its senior pastor. Many in the church had breathed a breath of fresh air when Caleb was called. I think it was probably because he was a Boaz native that tipped the scales in his favor. He was a 1990 graduate of Boaz High School and had grown up here at First Baptist.

Today, Pastor Caleb and I were finalizing the paperwork required to hopefully secure him a million-dollar life insurance policy. His purpose was to provide financial security to his family in the event of his death. I didn’t expect any issues with underwriting since Caleb appeared in good health and had steady employment. I had brought in attorney Trevor Nixon to address Caleb’s legal questions. Although I was still a licensed attorney I thought it best to wear only my life insurance agent hat. Trevor had drafted a Revocable Life Insurance Trust to own and control Caleb’s policy.

We met in a small conference room beside Caleb’s office on the third floor. After he signed the life insurance application I slid over to him a checklist that Alfa strongly encouraged its agents to give to each of their clients. It was titled, “The Don’t Forget Checklist.” I said, “I encourage you to read and implement each of these.”

Caleb laid his pen down and scanned the list. “Number three recommends I discuss my estate plan with my family. I’ve done that. Number four talks about keeping my documents in a secure and accessible location known to my executor and trustee, since I am establishing a trust. Tabitha wants us to rent a safety deposit box.”

“That’s a good idea. I wish I could convince a lot of my other clients to do that. It seems most of them just put their important papers in a desk drawer. This could cause a lot of grief to survivors, especially if there were a fire and the documents were destroyed. Wills and trusts turned to ashes aren’t much help.” I said.

“I’m not going to make that mistake. The church has an old safe down in the basement. I talked with Elton Rawlins, bless his heart, before he and Rebecca left for their Gulf Shores trip. He said the only problem was as far as he knew, the church had lost the combination. I hope to have that solved. Yesterday, I asked Betty Tillman if she would look through her late husband’s things, or maybe write her imprisoned son Wade and ask if he knew the safe’s combination.”

“Sounds like it might be simpler just to rent a box at the bank, like Tabitha suggested.” I said.

“You’re probably right but there is just something about those old safes. It’s like they have a mind, maybe even a heart. I guess I’m hoping me and the old Mosler can have a long conversation with it unloading a ton of memories.”

I just looked at Caleb as he shared how he loved history and wanted to know everything he could about the many roads our church had traveled over its long and honorable history.

I let him talk for thirty more minutes before I invented a meeting I had back at the office. Pastor Caleb was certainly an interesting character but what intrigued me most of all was his mentioning the church owned a Mosler safe. I made a mental note to review Papa Martin’s journals when I arrived home later tonight.

After spending a couple of hours in the office responding to phone messages, I drove to Mom and Dad’s. For three weeks now, she had hosted a family reunion of sorts. It wasn’t unusual for Deidre to join us three on a Thursday night for dinner, but once again she brought not only Ed, but their two children and their families.

After another fantastic meal by Mother everyone left except for Deidre. Mom made Dad help her clean up the kitchen while Deidre and I sat out on the screened-in back porch. I took advantage of this opportunity and asked her if she remembered anything about the 1973 Bible burning. For some reason, I couldn’t get that visual image out of my mind.

“Have you heard how Elton Rawlins is doing?” I thought I would ease indirectly into my chosen subject.

“He’s hanging on by a thread from what I hear. The surgery, from all accounts, was successful in stopping the internal bleeding but he’s still in very serious condition.” Deidre didn’t say where she had received her news.

“I bet this is very difficult on his wife.”

“It is. Rebecca said the doctors are coordinating with UAB doctors to get Elton transferred to Birmingham.”

“You’ve talked with Elton’s wife?” I asked.

“Through Facebook, Messenger.” I started to call her but knew she was probably bombarded with phone interruptions. I’m going to see her just as soon as they are in Birmingham.”

“I take it you two are still friends. You two graduated together, didn’t you?” I asked.

“Other than Ed, she is one of my best friends. She’s a remarkable woman, especially for what she’s been through.” Deidre said.

“It’s funny we’re talking about her. I ran across an old photo the other day at the library. I think it was taken in December 1973. Do you remember anything about Rebecca and a Bible-burning bonfire?”

“Gosh, there’s a picture of that? I’m surprised there is even a single ash remaining of that horrible night.”

“Tell me about it. When I saw the photo, I realized I had never heard about it since Susan and I were already living in Auburn.”

“I’m not sure what exactly triggered Rebecca and four of our classmates to rebel. But, they started giving Brother Randy, you know, youth pastor Randy, hell on wheels.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m cloudy on a lot of the details but it seems there had been a guy from Chicago who had lived in Boaz for a while. He, I can’t remember his name, was an atheist. He was in the eleventh grade when Rebecca and I were in the ninth. Anyway, apparently, he had some influence on a few people. Rebecca and her gang kept confronting Pastor Randy and basically arguing the Bible was made-up, you know what.”

“So, according to the photo, Rebecca and her friends burned their Bibles?” I asked.

“If my faith hadn’t been so strong I probably would have gone along with her. Anyway, things turned out for the good. All five of the culprits wound up returning to the fold. I guess they realized the error of their ways. I think Brother Randy and a few of the deacons took a real interest in the wayward teenagers.”

“That’s all you remember?” I asked.

“Yea, pretty much.”

“You said, or I thought you indicated, Rebecca had experienced a lot of hardships. Were you talking about the Bible-burning episode or something else?”

“Since we graduated, Rebecca has had a lot of bad luck. That’s not right. In truth, God had to take her through some tough lessons. She’s lost two husbands, one child, and both parents.”

“All lost to sickness? God inspired?”

“Don’t go there. No, I guess that’s what made it even harder for her. Car wrecks, a house fire, and an unsolved murder. Tragedy with a capital T.” Deidre said making me wonder how on earth one person could overcome such losses. It had been four years since I lost my dear Susan, and many days I could barely go. I couldn’t imagine losing most all my family, and especially if I lost them because of accidents and crime.

I was just about to ask Deidre a little more about how Brother Randy helped Rebecca back into the fold when Mom and Dad walked in. After fifteen minutes of Mom asking Deidre questions about life after death and at what point the believer received a new body, I excused myself indicating I had a phone call I had to make.

Chapter 8

I had just gotten up Saturday morning when my iPhone vibrated. It was Noah. I was thankful he had waited until nearly 8:30. He knew I liked to sleep later on the weekends, a habit formed after I had graduated from Boaz High School and moved away to Auburn University from Martin Mansion in 1972.

“Yep.” My standard greeting for my best friend.

“Elton Rawlins died late yesterday afternoon. I feel sorry for Rebecca but sure won’t shed any tears for our dear old friend.” Noah said. I could hear the faint sounds of a couple of different voices in the background.

“Don’t try to be funny. You know you suck at that.” Noah was the most serious person I had ever met. Even back in high school he was driven to succeed and rarely would relax or crack a joke.

“What happened? I heard he might be stable enough to transfer to UAB.”

“Apparently not. He died during the med flight. I heard he had a heart attack just before the helicopter landed. Rebecca saw him die.” I barely heard Noah while the background noise increased.

“Are you at work?” I asked.

“Yea, sorry. I’m with the general contractors doing a walk-through at the new UPS facility in Huntsville.”

“Must be nice working in the big leagues. One would think you wouldn’t need a part-time job.” I said, always better at comedy than Noah.

“Don’t go there. Remember, I don’t exist. I’m silent you know. That means I don’t have any job other than Waters Security.”

“Okay Mr. Serious.”

Noah ended his call and I poured a bowl of cereal and sat in my recliner. Elton Rawlins. I couldn’t help but speculate a connection between my uninvited visit to his home, and his death. I concluded that much stranger things happened every day. The reality was I didn’t know about them. Neither could Elton know about my visit.

After Noah told me Elton had died, I wanted to reminisce about how all this had gotten started, but cell phones weren’t the best way to discuss such delicate subjects. I made a mental note to ask Noah next week about his memory of how Elton and Doug Barber crawled under our skin during the three years we played high school football.

Elton Rawlins was a real estate broker with Rawlins Realty, a company his father had started after returning from World War I. The story goes that Ellijay Rawlins did it mainly on a whim to compete with Ericson Construction and Real Estate, a company, albeit under a slightly different name, that had been around since before the turn of the century. Ellijay and Benjamin Ericson were lifelong enemies. I didn’t know why. As to the other skin-crawler, Doug Barber was a pharmacist who operated his own company,

Both Elton and Doug were former Boaz High School football players, having graduated in the early 1960’s. They seemed to be good friends with Coach Hicks since he let them meet and interact with the players, especially in the team meetings before each game. But, it was their little speeches a couple of times each week after practice that aggravated Noah and me.

Each of them always started off reminding us that football builds character. Elton liked to repeat the phrase that was posted over Coach Hicks’ desk in the field house: “when the going gets tough, the tough get going.” Neither Noah or I had a beef with this. It was his virtual preaching that pissed off the both of us. It never failed he spoke as though God had a plan for each of our lives and our part was to be obedient. I will never forget how Doug often said that Jesus would give each of us our own Damascus Road experience like he had the Apostle Paul. But only if we were sincere and believed with all our hearts.

This may sound silly but by the end of our senior football season, during the Fall of 1971, both Noah and I had already seen the light. We were, as far as we knew, the only two on the entire team who fully believed Elton and Doug were the most deluded men in Boaz. Unbeknown to them, the trials and tribulations of football, including enduring their routine preaching, had spawned a life-goal for Noah and me.

Over the years, life’s pressures and priorities had evolved. It wasn’t until I had carefully explored Papa Martin’s black journals in 1999 and discovered both Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber owned a Mosler safe, that I had introduced a foggy idea to my best friend. But, it wasn’t until nearly eighteen years later that we had acted. Even though the Rawlins burglary (and the yet to be executed Barber burglary) was intended to rattle the cage of the two men who had gotten under the skin of two naive teenage boys, at no time had we contemplated (or desired) physical harm to anyone. The only concession I made to myself was that Elton’s driving, his auto accident, had nothing to do with my criminality. Especially, since he had no way of knowing his safe had already been cracked.

Hearing the news of Elton’s death was troubling but it still, strangely, gave me some consolation. I think it was my memory of how damned certain Elton was some forty-five years ago. He had a way of twisting everything into the Master Plan, Master meaning God Almighty. I recalled how he shared with the team after the tragic death of one of our teammates. The young man, Terry, had been arrested over the prior weekend for something, and committed suicide by hanging while still in his jail cell. The wisdom of cocky Elton revealed that Terry’s death was all in accordance with God’s plan and was intended to teach us a lesson. I always hated when he said that “we see through a glass darkly and don’t always know God’s reasons, but the Master does. He is mysterious to us, but we can trust that he always acts in our best interest.”

I nearly poured the remaining milk in my cereal bowl into my lap when I wondered how clearly old Elton was seeing now.

Chapter 9

Sunday, Pastor Caleb ended the morning service with a long prayer for Elton Rawlins. It was almost like the pastor was conducting the actual funeral even though it wasn’t scheduled until Tuesday. His final statement got my attention: “And Lord, we ask that you bathe Miss Minnie with your grace that she might find comfort and peace during these dark days.” I made a mental note to find out who Miss Minnie was.

Lunch at Mom and Dad’s on Sunday’s was almost mandatory. From what I hear, before I moved back to Boaz in March 2014, this rule was more flexible. I believe Mother thought there was safety and power in large numbers. With all her family, except me, real Bible thumpers, she subtly manipulated the makings of a mini-revival around Papa Stonewall’s giant dining room table shortly after noon every Sabbath. One thing that wasn’t flexible was the seating arrangements. This had long ago been established, while Susan was alive. We drove from Huntsville for the grand gathering at least half a dozen times per year. The lineup further refined itself as soon as the four grandchildren were old enough to feed themselves. Susan’s chair, across from me and besides Dad, continued to remain unfilled until, as Mom hoped, I would eventually remarry.

After everyone was seated and Dad blessed the food and our bodies, Luke, who was seated to my left (because of Mom’s novel seating chart) grabbed a hot biscuit from the plate in front of him and then popped a question. “Brother Robert told the group this morning that the universe is finely tuned by God for us humans; what do you think Grandmama?” I was glad he hadn’t directed the question to me.

I guess Deidre couldn’t resist. “Luke, pass the bread down this way for your mom and dad. As to your question, the Bible is clear. God created man and woman in His image. This would have to mean he first created a world that was just right for us.”

I filled my plate with potato salad, baked ham, black-eyed peas, and a host of raw vegetables including tomatoes, peppers, and onions. I had learned not to offer an opinion unless I was pinned to the wall. I think all the adults, other than Mom, had learned to bypass my street when they were seeking Bible truths.

“I’ve read that just a tiny change in the distance between the earth and the sun would kill us all. If it were a little farther away, we would freeze to death. If it were a little closer, we would fry.” Ed added.

“Pass the biscuits back this way sis.” I sometimes was able to distance me and the rest of us from potentially explosive subjects. But today my power lay dormant.

Luke turned and looked toward me and said, “what do you think Uncle Fred?”

I had to say something. “I’ve never thought about it much, but I did read or hear this analogy. If you think of a standard two thousand square foot house as the universe as we know it, the earth would be represented as a grain of sand over in one corner of the den. I’m really not sure how to square that with the Bible, or why 99.99% of the house couldn’t support a flea.”

It surprised me that no one followed up on my opinion, especially if they caught my intent that God must be small himself if he is like us humans.

Maybe it was Dad’s way of dulling the edges. He interjected, “Deidre, I assume you’ll be going to Elton’s funeral?” I took it that he was asking her and not simply making a statement.

“I am. Rebecca seems to be doing well, but I don’t want her to ever wonder why I wasn’t there. If nothing else, it will be interesting to see Jessica.”

“Whose Jessica?” Brad, Diedre’s son-in-law, asked.

“Elton’s first wife, and the mother of their two children.”

“Seems like only yesterday that you and Rebecca were inseparable, school, spend-the-night parties, and ball games.” Dad continued to interject.

“Don’t forget cheerleading and chasing the boys.” Ed added.

“How long have Rebecca and Elton been married?” I asked, knowing that he had to be twelve to fifteen years older than her, given the difference in mine and Elton’s ages.

“Three, maybe four years.” Deidre said.

“Why would a good-looking woman like Rebecca marry an old codger like Elton? She’s sexy enough to snare a man as young as me.” Ed said, trying to be funny or soliciting an affirmative response to stroke his ego.

“Oh boy, you’re older than Rebecca and she’d lock on to you. If she were desperate for a yardman.” Diedre said, smiling across the table at the pudgy Edward.

“Thanks, my love.”

Gabby seemed to be interested in her father’s question. “At least answer Dad. Did they marry because of love? I bet Rebecca is a gold-digger. I’ve heard Elton was loaded.”

“Don’t insult my best friend in all my high school years. Maybe, Elton was her knight in shining armor.” Deidre said, her voice trailing like she was dreaming. She was no longer smiling.

“If you ask me, Elton was pretty brave to marry a woman who had already murdered three husbands.” Ed offered, surprisingly rude for him.

“Murdered?” Mom said, taking a sip of coffee. I hated coffee at mealtimes, other than breakfast.

“Grand kids, Mr. Ed was only kidding. Rebecca, unfortunately, sadly, lost three husbands, all some sort of tragedy. Rebecca wouldn’t hurt a flee.” Deidre was trying to clean up Ed’s mess.

“Elton was a good man, probably loved Rebecca a great deal. But I suspect he also wanted to help her, take care of her. Maybe he was like your sis said,” Dad looked over at me. “He was her knight in shining armor.”

Sis apparently wanted to change the subject. I was glad she did. “Mom, do you know how old Miss Minnie is?” It was the question I had wanted to ask but had already forgotten.

“Let’s see. She’s at least ten years older than me. Her and Paul had Elton later in life. She was probably in her thirties. I’d say she’s getting close to a hundred.” Mom seemed confident in her reasoning. My own mother, at age eighteen, was valedictorian of her Boaz High School class, already married to Dad, and was eagerly anticipating going on to college in accounting. My own mother, now eighty-eight and fit as a fiddle.

“Where is she now? I doubt she lives alone.” I wanted to know more about the woman who had put up with Elton Rawlins for a good seventy-five years.

“Albertville Nursing Home. She’s been there for years. Parkinson’s. Fortunately, well, maybe not, she’s kept her mind. Now, she probably wishes otherwise.” Dad added.

“I bet she’s praising God right now for being so good to Elton, taking him on to paradise before her. She might even be a little jealous.” Mom said. I wondered at first whether she was serious. I looked at her carefully. She was serious. I almost made a snide remark, ‘old Elton is probably swindling some old woman out of her mansion.’

Instead, I remembered Dad’s knight in shining armor comment and decided to ask why Rebecca needed rescuing when a loud car horn blew. Mom got up and looked out the front window. “It’s a young man in a red car. Needs a good haircut.”

“Oh, that’s Tyler. We’re going fishing if that’s okay granddad.”

I was a little surprised that Tyler was driving by himself. He was just a ninth-grader like Luke. Maybe, he was already sixteen and had his driver’s license. If so, I guess he’s failed a grade or two.

“May I be excused?” Luke said, looking towards Dad.

The meal was great as usual and thankfully I had escaped the ever-reaching, long tentacles that seemed to surface from under and around Papa Stonewall’s giant table.

I drove down the half-mile narrow, hard-packed country lane to my house for a nap. For some traditions, I was forever thankful.

Chapter 10

I slept later than I had intended. I woke up just in time to get dressed for Training Union. I wasn’t sure that was still the name First Baptist Church of Christ called it. It had been called Life’s Way or Learning the Way, or something similar, at First Baptist Huntsville where Susan and I attended during the thirty-three years we lived in the Rocket City before she died.

Pastor Caleb had triggered my interest when he announced at the end of the morning service, and after the long prayer for Elton, that new classes were beginning tonight. I was barely listening when he stated the names and teachers of the first two classes. That changed when he said, “Doug Barber will be teaching a class on death.” I think the Pastor called it, “Dying with Dignity.” He encouraged everyone, especially those with aging parents, to attend this six-week series.

There were only seven or eight women in the R.P. Steed Sunday School room when I arrived. No men except for one. I took a seat along the back wall, behind everyone else, and looked to the man standing at the front behind a small podium. I hadn’t seen Doug Barber in years. He didn’t say anything to me when I walked in but kept looking at me, even to the point he was staring. “Are you Fred Martin?” He finally asked, still pouring his dark-circle eyes into my face, like he was trying to peer inside my brain.

“That’s me. Are you Doug Barber?” I honestly couldn’t see the younger Barber in the old man’s face. He looked to be as old as Dad but that couldn’t be. Dad was eighty-nine, and Doug would be no older than his mid-seventies.

“The one and only Douglas Barber. Sharp of mind and dull of body. It’s been a long time Fred.”

Just as I started to become a smart ass of sorts, like ask Doug if he was still working in the drug trade, I almost fell out of my chair. At first, for a few seconds, I didn’t recognize her. My mind quickly convinced me it was Connie Stewart. I would have easily and instantly recognized her profile, but I hadn’t seen her straight on, or face-to-face, in a lifetime, probably at her high school graduation. I reminded myself that was the last time I was at Boaz High School, other than the recent Career day, when I had gone to see Deidre Martin give her valedictorian speech.

Doug started the class after Connie sat down on the front row just in front of his podium. He spent the next thirty minutes touching on a broad list of topics, everything from the need for us all to start preparing for our own deaths, to developing a resource plan for our parents if they were still living. He also outlined the six sessions we would have together. The one that I certainly didn’t want to miss would provide the latest research on what happened to the body when we die. I thought I already knew everything I needed to know about that: basically, the body decomposed. The initial phase, I believe, is called rigor mortis.

Doug used the tired old phrase, “ashes to ashes and dust to dust,” to refer to the natural process of dying and the body returning to the earth. He referred to Genesis 3:19 as though he was quoting but I knew this wasn’t how the text read. I knew it by heart, Mother had quoted it a million times over the years: “In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.” No one said anything to Doug’s little slip and he ended his answer to his question by saying, “I’ve read that when a body is buried six feet down, without a coffin, in ordinary soil, an embalmed adult normally takes eight to twelve years to decompose to a skeleton.

Doug transitioned to what would have certainly perked Mother’s ears. He said, “we gain hope by hearing God’s plan to give us a new body in Heaven.” If for no other reason, I hoped to hear something that I could share with Mother. She was often intrigued or troubled over how and when this transformation would take place.

Doug dismissed class a few minutes early saying he had to run to the pharmacy. I suspected he continued his longtime practice of being available for his customers at any time. I think his business, Good Neighbor Pharmacy, had a tag line. Something like, “Always available for the sick, or never closed to the sick.”

After Doug left I got up and wasn’t far behind him when I heard my name called. I turned, and Connie Stewart was standing just outside the entrance to our classroom.

She repeated my name and said, “Don’t you work for Alfa Insurance Company?”

I told her that I did.

“Can I ask you a question?” She asked as I walked back towards her.

“Sure. I’ll try to answer it. I’m still fairly new to the insurance business so I’m still learning.” It was kind of an elementary statement. My thoughts were more, ‘how in the hell do you still look almost the same as you did when you graduated from high school?’ I didn’t ask that question and I forced myself to avoid staring into her deep blue eyes.

“I bet you’ve run into this. Mine and your parents are probably close to the same age. I’m interested in a long-term health care policy. I’ve been reading up on them and heard Alfa has one of the best and most cost-effective as far as premiums go.” Connie said, leaning back against the door frame. She hadn’t lost any of her height. I remembered her as a tall and lanky majorette in the Boaz band. I could see her coming off the football field, strutting her stuff, when me and the rest of the team were coming out of the field house after halftime. I could still see her perfectly shaped legs. And, at the time, she was only a sophomore.

“Alfa does have a great policy, but I’m afraid you’re out of luck. Underwriting won’t consider anyone over eighty and then, the rates are astronomical.” I was glad I had worked some in this market.

“No. Sorry. I wasn’t clear. I know I’ve waited too long to pursue a policy for Mom and Dad. I’m interested in one for myself.” Connie said.

“Okay. That’s a different story. I believe these type policies are still cost-effective for someone our age. Hopefully, you’ll be like your parents and live a very long time.” It was a miracle of sorts I could formulate a simple sentence and voice it without babbling. Why was I so shaken with such a simple conversation? Connie Stewart, the mysterious Connie Stewart, was to me like talking with the late Princess Dianna.

“You know I’m two years younger than you?” Connie said with a smile. I didn’t know if she was trying to make me feel bad by being older or if she was trying to lighten things up a little.

I don’t know how long I stood there reminiscing about the one and only date we had. I was a junior. Susan and I had been dating on and off for over a year, but we were taking a break, what she had said we needed to do to make sure we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together. When I called Connie to ask her to go with me to a basketball game, I knew I was way out of my league. I was shocked that she had agreed. I can’t remember a thing we said during the entire basketball game. But, I do remember walking her to the back door of her house when I dropped her off. It was awkward at best. I wanted to end our first date with at least a kiss, any type of kiss would have been fine. As I had leaned in, I still remember it like it was yesterday, she had leaned out. That was the end of my days in the big league.

“I may be sixty-four years old, but I still have a pretty good memory. You were in Deidre’s class. Right?” I asked.

“And Rebecca’s. After church, I’m heading over there to see my very best friend.”

“She and Deidre were close. At one time, anyway.” I said.

“If you still have half a memory, you should recall how close the three of us were in high school. Have you forgotten Rebecca and Deidre sat behind us at the Albertville Coliseum during our one and only date?” I couldn’t believe she had remembered we had a date during high school.

“Don’t remind me. I actually don’t remember Rebecca and Deidre being there, but I could never forget that disastrous night.”

“Well thanks. I enjoyed it myself. I’m sorry it was so bad for you. But, I’m not surprised since you never called me back.”

“That didn’t come out right. I was the disaster. Quite frankly, you were too good for me. I was such a dunce. I was embarrassed. That’s why I never called you back. I couldn’t face the guaranteed rejection.” I said.

“People can be so dumb and so wrong. All you had to do was call. Anyway, we’re going to be late for the service. I always love hearing the Fishermen sing.” I had forgotten the popular group was scheduled for the entire worship hour.

Connie walked back into the R.P. Steed Sunday School room for her purse. I took the opportunity to stare at her rear and her naturally tanned legs. Her skin had always been dark and beautiful. Her bright flowered dress didn’t hide her figure. Sixty-two. It’s a miracle. She turned and almost caught me staring. I had to say something. “If you want I can help you find a long-term health care policy. But, I’ll need a little more information, things like daily benefit amounts you would want, deductibles, waiting periods, things like that.”

She was looking straight into my eyes, smiling, almost as though she had eyes in the back of her head. “I’ll give you a call in a few days. You work out of the Boaz office, right?”

“I do.” She walked on by me, kept smiling and was half way across the small auditorium headed towards the stairway, when she turned and said. “I’ll try not to forget to call you.” She seemed to always be smiling. I couldn’t hardly move from where I had stood frozen beside the Sunday School door. As I often do, I pondered what conversation I had just experienced. The sound of the Fishermen’s first song making its way down the stairwell was enough to bring me back to reality.

After the concert, I drove home with a whole new appreciation for Connie Stewart, and a determination that if she didn’t call me tomorrow, I would call her on Tuesday. I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice in one lifetime, no disrespect meant towards my dear Susan.

The Case of the Perfectionist Professor–1st ten chapters

Chapter 1

I saw her the moment I opened the door. She was standing on the far side of the waiting room looking into the eyes of Thomas Jefferson, sitting reposed in a reproduction painting by Steve Penley. One he had produced for his 2008 book, The Reconstruction of America. Whoever she was, I agreed that Mr. Jefferson’s eyes could transport you to another world.

It was the second time in the last two days I had eaten at Pirates Cove Cafe, then walked across the street to the new offices of Connor Ford, Private Investigator, and found someone mesmerized by the mysteriously intelligent eyes of Mr. Jefferson. Yesterday, it was a woman from the Sand Mountain Reporter wanting to sell me a year’s worth of print advertising. She had read about me in her own paper, how Marshall County’s only brick and mortar private detective had a newly renovated office. Today, it was probably the Reporter woman’s twin sister from WQSB radio. My mind hadn’t changed. This type advertising didn’t work.

“Good morning.” I said, always wanting to be polite, but hoping it was someone waiting to see Blair, my secretary. She too was new. I refused to get caught up in another lecture on branding or the pitfalls of social media. I think, tomorrow, I will walk around to the rear of our building and enter through the back door. A little extra walking won’t hurt.

“Hello.” She said. I had startled her, which reminded me, we needed to get the door-ding thing installed to announce someone’s entry. My first impression. She was attractive, not beautiful, but handsome in a feminine sort of way. She was wearing a gray cashmere sweater. Warm for my office but wouldn’t win a playground fight against the cold wind and light mist outside. Then, I saw her overcoat, laying across one of the leather chairs along the front wall. Already making herself at home. Damn salespeople.

“I don’t see Blair, my secretary at her desk.” I figured she was back in our kitchen making coffee. It wasn’t yet 8:00 a.m. I made a mental note to remind Blair to stop by the kitchen and make the coffee on her way in from the back door, before walking to the front to open the main door.

“She’s making coffee I think. She let me in. I figure I’m a little early. I was standing outside when she, Blair is it? opened the door.”

I always could kick myself when I jumped to a conclusion without fully exploring the issue. Usually, there’s one or two things yet to consider, even when I’ve done a thorough analysis. “I’ll tell her you’re still waiting.”

“Are you Connor Ford?” She had walked towards me. I could see her bright green eyes. But, I also saw they were narrowed, rigid, cold, hard.

“I am. And, you are?”

“I’m Marissa Booth. I came to make an appointment. Is there any chance I could meet with you now?”

Normally, I would have said something like, “I’m busy on a case right now. Why don’t you make an appointment?” I tried not to let someone’s looks persuade me one way or the other. Sometimes I failed. Marissa was more than pleasant to the eyes, my eyes, and she had that look of quiet desperation.

“Let me check with Blair. Maybe I can adjust my schedule.”

At Blair’s insistence, I returned a call to attorney Dalton Martin, my best friend since high school. He had worked as an associate with the local firm of Bearden & Tanner for several years. He had recently made partner. I was happy for him. I was also happy to return his call. We had a good working relationship. We did each other favors all the time. His firm didn’t have an investigator on staff, choosing to use one from out-of-town when they had a big case, which left me with quite a bit of work to do on what Dalton called his “meat and potatoes” cases.

I wasn’t really surprised when Dalton said he had called to tell me late yesterday he had given my name and card to a lady who had dropped by his office. Her name was Marissa Booth. I thanked him and said she hadn’t wasted any time, that she was sitting in my waiting room as we spoke. I was about to reveal my slight, but growing, frustration over the number of collection case investigations he had thrown my way since the end of October, when he said, “I doubt it will be much of anything, but at least it’s something different. Her father was found dead Sunday afternoon and she’s a little suspicious. The police have kept it quiet. Probably figuring it was just a heart attack.”

Dalton filled me in with just a few basic facts. He didn’t know much. The victim was Adam Parker, a teacher at Snead State Community College here in Boaz. He was found slumped over in his car behind the College’s Science Building. Dead.

I told Dalton I appreciated the referral and would keep him updated if hired and assuming Ms. Booth granted me permission to do so.

I buzzed Blair over the intercom and asked her to see our early morning visitor to the conference room.

I swiveled my chair and opened Flipboard on my computer to see the morning’s news headlines. I hated when I relapsed. Trying to keep up with national news was not only a waste of time, it was depressing to say the least. My hero, Thomas Jefferson, would die a double death if he could see what the American people were choosing as national leaders. Pitiful, deplorable.

Marissa was already seated when I walked in. “I’m very sorry about your father. I just heard. My friend, attorney Dalton Martin, told me. I’m not sure what I can do for you. If warranted, the police will investigate.” I said, sympathetic towards Ms. Booth but also not wanting to waste a lot of time. Thankfully, I had a solid inventory of cases to work.

“I don’t trust the police. I know my Dad was murdered. He was healthy as a horse.” My first impression of Marissa in my waiting room had been positive. Because it was based on looks. But now, I wasn’t impressed at all. She seemed the modern American, clueless about reason and logic, oh so willing to jump to the conclusion she wanted to reach, without properly considering the evidence, or lack thereof.

“That’s three big claims. I suspect you are more correct about your father’s health than the other two. Do you mind telling me why you don’t trust the police? I assume you’re speaking of the City of Boaz police?”

“I am. Jake Stone, police-officer Jake Stone, is an idiot and an asshole, probably a criminal.” Marissa said opening a small box of Kleenex she had pulled from her purse. I let her gather herself. A long minute or so later she relayed a few more facts, facts to her. Stone had recently made some derogatory comments about her father on Facebook. Something about his research project on abortion. Seems like Stone also knew Marissa’s father had supported Doug Jones in the recent Alabama Senate race. Stone and a few of his buddies had been damning Jones over his recent vote rejecting a Republican bill that would have banned most abortions after 20 weeks of pregnancy.

“Let’s say for arguments sake that you are correct, that you cannot trust Jake Stone. That doesn’t mean his way of thinking, his animosity towards your father, has or will infect the entire police department.”

“You may be right but, for me, the best position, the safest position if I want to know the truth, is to not trust the Boaz police.” She dabbed her eyes again. Even with her sadness and grief and a hefty dose of anger, her eyes were mesmerizing, in a different sort of way than Mr. Jefferson’s. I felt she had to be a warm and passionate woman, especially under normal conditions.

“You also said you believe your father was murdered. What are your reasons? I assume you have some objective evidence?” I asked, again anxious to finish this meeting and get back to my desk. The new office carried a heavy mortgage. I needed to work on active cases.

“Mr. Ford, I live in Nashville, so I’m not attuned to the local heartbeat, but I do know my father. He and I are close, were very close. We talked by phone nearly every day. We also shared emails and texts. Adam Parker was a perfectionist. That was both a curse and a blessing, especially for a biologist. That’s what he has taught the last two years at Snead College. I was aware that he had never fit in around here. He never said, but I fully believe, he was afraid. There’s three people that I believe had something to do with his death, or they know somebody who did.”

“Dalton, my friend and the attorney you saw yesterday, said your father was found slumped over in his car. Couldn’t it have been a heart attack?” I asked.

“I guess it could, but I suspect it was triggered by something other than his own body. I’ll hopefully know in a couple of days. I’m having an autopsy conducted.”

“What exactly are you wanting me to do? I assume you are here because I’m a private investigator.”

“Correct. I want you to determine what happened to my father. I’m not a rich woman but I can afford to hire you, with my salary and the inheritance my late grandmother left me.”

“What do you do? Where do you work?” I asked.

“I’m a professor of New Testament and Early Christianity at Vanderbilt University Divinity School in Nashville. Please Mr. Ford, please help me.”

“Call me Connor. I’m not your elder.”

“Connor, will you take my case? I need answers. I loved my father. I know he could be a pain in the ass, but he loved the truth. I will never be able to live with myself if I don’t do everything I can to learn exactly what happened.”

“How long are you in town?” I asked.

“For a week. I must deal with his house. Thankfully, he was only renting but he had it packed with his research materials, a few thousand books and a boat-load of journals and documents.”

“All I can promise right now is that I will consider taking your case. I need a few days to think about it. What would be helpful would be for you to provide anything you feel is even remotely related to the cause of his death. Things like texts, emails, letters, Facebook posts and comments. You see what I mean?” I asked.

“I do. I’ll be back by tomorrow with some things I’m confident will persuade you. Changing the subject, but what is your fee. That is, if you accept my case?”

“I work off a retainer. I charge $150 per hour for my time. I also charge $60 per hour for Joe’s time. Joe Carter is my assistant, an apprentice investigator. Finally, I charge $25 per hour for any time Blair is working on a specific research task directly related to your case. Not for typing a letter but bulldogging and gopher work. I also charge for all expenses related to the case. I would request you sign a written agreement and pay a $10,000 retainer to begin.”

“That sounds fair.”

“I appreciate you coming and again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks Connor. I look forward to working with you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Since Marissa’s car was parked out back, I walked her through the kitchen and the file room to our building’s rear entrance. We didn’t have enough parking out front, especially with our neighbor, Pirates Cove, consuming most of the few spaces along the one-way street.

Chapter 2

Joe was looking at my collection of crime and legal thrillers along the back row of my office when I returned from escorting Marissa out the back door.

“Have you read all of these?” Joe had been with me for two years. Even though he was still an apprentice investigator (according to NAPI’s standards–National Association of Professional Investigators), he was on track to becoming a real Sherlock.

“Certainly. Several of them twice. A few, like “A Time to Kill,” by Grisham, three times, at least. And, those are just my hardbacks. I have a few hundred other ones on my Kindle.”

“I used to read a lot for pleasure, now seems all I do is study. You were lucky not to have had to take those darn State Board exams.” Joe said, scanning the back cover of “An Unsuitable Job for a Woman,” by. P.D. James.

“I agree, but you don’t have a five-year apprenticeship like I did. Most of the old heads, even though there was no legal requirement, wouldn’t dare turn a youngster like you loose with a case until he’d spent half-a-decade as a sidekick. Now, put James under your arm and let me hear if you’re close to untying a knot.” I said reminding myself this subject was growing a little weary. The closer Joe’s two-day test got, the more he seemed to verbalize how unfair it was.

“Funny. I met with Hannah, Hannah Knott, yesterday afternoon. Our meeting ran late so I didn’t come back by the office.” I really liked him. For several reasons, but one was he was considerate. Over my nearly fifty years I had seen that characteristic evaporate.

“Sit and speak.” I said pointing to the round oak table in the corner of my office, behind the two leather wingback chairs across from my desk. He took my advice and held on to one of my favorite crime novels of the 1970’s.

“Coffee?” Blair came in holding two large cups of coffee. She didn’t have to ask. Considerate. I love that both members of my staff learned this invaluable trait.

“Thanks Blair. I think she’s going to be a keeper.” Joe said, allowing his eyes to follow her out of my office. I couldn’t fault him for noticing. He was twenty-eight and single, and in between girlfriends. Blair, also was single, but seemed oblivious to her stunning beauty. I hoped the two stayed focused on their work.

“How did it go with Hannah. Yesterday?” I asked. Mrs. Steven Knott had been a client for several months. Steven is the Minister of Music at First Baptist Church of Christ in Boaz. Hannah suspects her husband is having an affair. So far, we have been unable to verify her suspicions.

“Finally, a breakthrough. You’d think she would have found an opportunity to look at Steven’s iPhone several times over these last two months. The man is insanely mechanical. I’m glad our client is patient. Yesterday morning, while he was in the shower, where he normally always has his cell phone, in the bathroom that is, Hannah heard his cell phone vibrate. He had left it in his underwear drawer. She suspects he got distracted when she, as she often does, pops in unannounced to try and distract him.” I had trained Joe to be thorough, but somethings could be left out in the retelling. Just get to the relevant stuff.

“I assume Hannah got a look-see and found some evidence?” I asked.

“Yes, Steven’s iPhone vibrated because he received a text. It was from, you want to try and guess?”

“No, why don’t you just tell me.”

“Peyton Todd. Obviously, she was in his Contacts or Hannah wouldn’t have known who was sending the text. Peyton said, ‘Don’t forget the tickets. Can’t wait.’

“Tell me about Ms. Todd. I assume you have tracked her down?” I said, guiding Joe a little more than I should have to.

“That was easy. I called Blair. You know she knows everybody, lived here all her life, never even moved away for college. Her and Peyton were semi-close during high school. She’s Kurt Prescott’s assistant at Sand Mountain Bank.” Joe said sharing a story his grandfather had told him. Sand Mountain Bank, originally, was a local bank formed in the 1930’s, operating until the mid-1980’s or so. Until, it was bought out by a big holding company, Southtrust Bank I believe. Two years ago, Kurt Prescott, a great-grandson of one of the original founders, returned to Boaz from Atlanta to re-charter SMB. From all I’d seen, it had been a good idea. I had a personal account there and they always seemed busy. I really liked the new building they built on Billy Dyar Blvd., next to the pharmacy. Bank Row, as it was being called, now had nearly as many banks as Boaz had churches.

“What else did you learn?” I asked.

“That’s pretty much it. That’s big isn’t it? Just learning her name. Now, we know who Steven is having an affair with.” Joe’s mind must have followed Blair all the way to her desk because it certainly hadn’t stayed in his head.

“We do?”

“Well, not for sure, but I think that’s a reasonable deduction to reach.” Maybe Joe was thinking. A little.

“We need confirmation. Let me ask you. You know I’ve deliberately stayed passive about this case, allowing you to lead and manage. What is the end game here?”

“Do you mean, what does Hannah want to accomplish?” Joe asked.

“Certainly, it’s her case, her life. We work for her. She sets the agenda.”

“I have to say I’m not really sure. It’s a weird case. Hannah’s a weird woman if you ask me. It seems she wants to know for sure Steven is having an affair. Then, she can confront him to see if he will be remorseful, repentant. I think Hannah wants her marriage to work.” Joe said.

“So, she’s not after blood, not wanting to grab the kids, the money, and throw Steven’s ass out in the cold?” I knew this would be what most women would want or should want.

“It’s the Christian thing to do, she says.” Joe was like me. We both had grown up in churches, Southern Baptist Churches, but neither of us hardly ever attended. We both simply shed that set of clothes. For me, it was over twenty-five years ago. For Joe, it was maybe six or seven.

“Back to your investigation. You’ve been tailing him for over a month. You haven’t learned anything to support Hannah’s suspicion?” I asked.

“Not really. Like I said, he is mechanical to a fault. His life is rather boring. He’s at church six days per week by 8:00 a.m. Monday through Friday’s he goes to Health Connections for about ninety minutes to work out. Saturday’s, well, I haven’t been following him much on the weekends.”

“Health Connections? Ninety minutes? Sounds like you might want to look under the hood. Especially now that you suspect Peyton is his girlfriend. Maybe, they are meeting there, sitting in the spa for ninety minutes. Maybe, ambling over to the linen closet. Who knows?” I said, wishing I had taken a little more active role in Hannah’s case.

I spent the rest of the afternoon at my desk drafting a report for Dalton. He and Trevor, Trevor Nixon, one of Dalton’s law partners, were in the early stages of a capital murder defense in Jackson County. They had hired me to conduct a preliminary investigation, mainly locating a few potential witnesses and preparing a written profile of their backgrounds. Dalton wanted my report by Thursday afternoon for his meeting with his chief capital murder case investigator, Bobby Sorrells from Dothan. He was scheduled to be in town Friday morning.

At 5:00 p.m., I was finishing my first draft when Blair came in and said she was leaving unless I had something else for her to do. I said I was okay. She lingered in my doorway like she had something to say.

“Here’s the rule around here. If you want or need to say something, just let it flow, assuming it’s just us clowns here and no clients.” I said wanting her to feel welcome and a vital part of our operation.

“I don’t want to get any one in trouble, but I think Joe likes me. I would be okay with it too, in liking him, but now is a bad time. You know, when I interviewed, I told you about my divorce and that I might never get over it. I really feel Joe is a good guy but I’m nowhere ready for another commitment, not even just to date.”

“Why tell me? Why not tell Joe?” I asked.

“I kind of think of you as a father figure and I don’t want to hurt Joe’s feelings. I thought you might drop a hint or something, nothing to make him think I didn’t like him.” Blair said.

“Thanks. I suppose I should take your ‘father’ comment as a compliment. I’m just glad Camilla doesn’t think the way you do.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I get it now. She is a lot younger than you, isn’t she? I bet she’s not much older than I am. I didn’t mean.” I think Blair would have continued digging herself deeper into a hole, except that for the voice coming from the back door.

“It’s just me.” Camilla said. She always said that about this time every day.

“Come on in. We’re in my office.” I said as though she couldn’t figure that out on her own.

When Camilla stood in my doorway, she said, after seeing Blair, “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were alone. I didn’t see Blair’s car.”

“It’s not here. In the shop. Mother is supposed to pick me up about now. I’ll go look for her.” I could tell Blair was embarrassed.

“It’s nice of you to come by and see your dear old dad, Camilla.” I hardly ever ignored an opportunity to be a comedian of sorts, or to put someone on the spot. Blair’s face turned red.

“Dad, do you still think of me as your favorite daughter?” Camilla asked. I think she knew what I was up to.

“I certainly do. You’re thirty-two and I’m nearly fifty. I’m old enough to be your dad.” I said.

“Blair, don’t you think I’ve got a good-looking father?” Camilla asked, as Blair was putting on her jacket and gathering her purse and cell phone.

“Ya’ll are making fun of me. Connor, I didn’t mean to imply that you are too old for a young woman, just that I needed someone, a wiser someone, for advice.” Blair now had reached my door and Camilla had moved across and was leaning against my crime and legal thrillers.

“Kind, sweet, considerate, and competent. What more could I want in an assistant. Blair, my dear, we were only joking, having a little fun. You stay exactly the way you are. You’re perfect for Connor Ford, Private Investigations.”

After Blair left and I heard the back door close, I got up and walked over to Camilla. Her lips were ever more of a thrill than any one of the hundreds of novels lining the whole back side of my office. Other than a little temper that she so far had managed to cage, she was near perfect for me. Tall, brunette, shapely in just the right areas, and a true romantic. We made a good pair. She was the best thing that had happened to me since my divorce over five years ago. Camilla, I fully believed, was a keeper.

Chapter 3

Blair buzzed me a few minutes after eleven o’clock. I had just returned from the Marshall County Courthouse in Albertville where I had testified in a divorce case. Marissa was in the waiting room asking if she could see me or whether she needed to make an appointment. At least, this time, I had a choice. It wasn’t a difficult decision.

“Good day Mr. Ford. Thanks for seeing me.” Marissa said, standing in my doorway holding two leather briefcases.

“I’m Connor. Remember? Yesterday, I’m not your elder?” I said motioning her over to the oak table.

“Some habits are hard to change. Dad ingrained that Mr. stuff in my head from a little girl. He said, “until you establish a friendship it is Mr. and Ms. If it’s strictly business, then stay strictly formal.” She said, still standing but having opened both cases.

“Then, consider us friends. What do you have for me?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to leave all this but wanted to give you a hint at the type of information Dad produced, cataloged, and retained. This brief case.” Marissa stood more in front of the dark-colored brief case. “This brief case contains a chronological stack of email correspondence between Dad and Jake Stone. You can see here, Dad attached articles supporting his arguments.” She handed me an example. The email listed three different attachments. There was probably thirty pages, in addition to a two-page email.

“Looks like your father was thorough.” I said.

“He was a perfectionist. You’ve heard of a type-A perfectionist. They perceive anything less than perfection as failing. Who else do you know who would have kept such records? Ninety-nine percent of people, even if they referenced supporting data, would not have gone to the trouble of printing out the documents and creating a physical file. I won’t go into Dad’s indexing and cross-referencing system. Let me just say. It was thorough.” Marissa said, finally sitting down across from me.

“Adam Parker sounds like an interesting man. I wish I had known him. I suspect he would be the type to get under your nerves after a while. I bet he wouldn’t get along with the temperamental type.”

“Not just a moody person, but someone, say, the disorganized, flaky, oversensitive type would have made him claw the wall.” She stood and pulled out a journal from the tan-colored brief case. “Dad was a multi-layered person. He had what he called his public life and his private life. Privately, he kept detailed journals. Here, he would be more emotional. Don’t let that statement mislead you. Even his emotions were logical and well-reasoned, if there is such a thing. Here, here’s an example from back in the summer: ‘Mr. Stone’s outburst, including his use of damn and idiot stirred my anger. That enemy of reason. I somewhat regret my own response, one virtually dripping with sarcasm. Some of my peers might even label it an outburst: ‘your reference to the Bible is unpersuasive. Where’s your evidence I should care what the Bible says?’”

“That was emotional? I don’t even catch the sarcasm.” I said.

“I think he was engaged in a little game he liked to play. By himself. It’s almost like he was saying, ‘surely Jake Stone couldn’t be serious to root his anti-abortion arguments in the Bible.’ Fortunately, Dad was a much better communicator in his public life than his private.”

“Marissa, I’m enjoying our little chat but at this rate we will be here till midnight. Why don’t you show me some things that convince you Jake Stone can’t be trusted, maybe even had something to do with your father’s death.” I said. Always, the bad guy of sorts.

“I can tell you are not much of a chit-chatter. I’m not either. I’m new at this. I’ve never had a reason to seek out the services of a detective.”

I didn’t respond. Verbally. But, I did nod and gaze toward the two open brief cases.

“Okay. I see. Look here.” She pulled her iPhone out of her dark wool jacket pocket. “The two of them, Dad and Stone, first started communicating on Facebook. Dad wasn’t one to waste much time, but he did use social media in his professional life. Mostly keeping up with his Biologist colleagues. Several weeks ago, it seems Stone tagged Dad in a post. Here, read it.” She tapped her iPhone screen a few times and handed it over to me.

“Liberals like local Biologist Adam Parker don’t value life. They think it’s okay to abort a baby at any time. Like that damn Democratic Senator who stole the election from the God-fearing Roy Moore.”

“Did your father respond to this?” I asked.

“Scroll on down, fifteen or twenty comments.” Marissa responded.

I finally found it. Here it is, ‘Mr. Stone might spend some time reading and researching facts.’ Well, I can tell Adam Parker wasn’t the type to respond to an attack with emotion.”

After a few more similar examples, Marissa showed me on Facebook where Adam had issued his challenge to Mr. Stone. Asking him to engage in civil dialog via email. To his credit, Stone had agreed. She had me read Adam’s first response to Stone’s assertion that life begins at conception just like the Bible says. I could see how Jake Stone would get upset. Adam’s writing was academic, narrowly focused, completely sterile to most Southerners. He defined fetus and referenced several peer-reviewed articles that argued a fetus wasn’t even remotely viable until at least twenty weeks, thus it wasn’t a living person. Before this time, it was more like an organ and that we (Americans) don’t make women or men donate a lung, a liver, a heart, eyes, any body part, whether we are dead or alive. It’s strictly a matter of choice.

Adam also listed a few reasons why a woman might have an abortion after twenty weeks. He first cited a statistic. Only 1.3% of abortion procedures occur after 20 weeks gestation. From scanning one of the articles attached to Adam’s first email, I gathered that the vast majority of these, post-twenty-week abortions, occur because of the discovery the fetus, call it ‘baby’ if you want, has a fatal, or near-fatal condition. Although there are several earlier screenings a woman can have in her pregnancy, the most comprehensive and revealing test is an amniocentesis, which can’t be performed until the 16-week mark at a minimum. The article’s author wrote: “The optimum times are between 16 and 22 weeks. This test can diagnose chromosomal abnormalities, neural tube defects, and some genetic disorders. However, an amniocentesis is an invasive and risky test (with a chance of causing miscarriage), so many women wait to receive results of earlier screenings before deciding to undergo one. For those women who are experiencing routine pregnancies initially, this is likely the first time they receive any sort of actual diagnosis of fetal anomalies that could be fatal.” My eyes were growing weary.

“You see what I’m saying?” Marissa asked.

“Uh, I’m not sure. I do see that your father believed in details, sticking with a science type argument.”

“Absolutely. This is just the type of argument that people like Jake Stone would find offensive. He and his type are not interested in facts, real evidence. They are so anchored to the Bible, that’s all they know, all their brains will hear and acknowledge. There’s many sophisticated words for this syndrome but the most common one is brainwashed.” Marissa said, again standing and digging down into the stack of documents in the dark-colored briefcase.

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings but all you’ve shown me so far is two people having a semi-friendly discussion.”

“All you’ve seen is the beginning. It gets much worse. I’m looking for the first threat. Here it is.” Marissa pulled out a thick document and flipped to the last page. “Look at Stone’s post-script in his email responding to Dad’s argument over the right of a woman to choose.”

She handed me the document already folded to the relevant page. ‘You and your type don’t belong in Boaz, Alabama. In fact, you don’t belong anywhere on the planet. Nature has a way of destroying the weak and insane.’ I read it twice. “Well, I have to admit, that is much different than anything you’ve shared before. It’s tangible evidence he, Jake Stone, believed your father’s position on abortion was unacceptable, and he wasn’t welcome around Boaz, but it’s still far from indicating Jake had any intent on murdering your father. I’m sorry, but unless you’ve got something much stronger, I can’t in good conscience take your case.” I said this with a little sadness. I liked Marissa. She obviously loved her father.

“Would you at least withhold your decision until after the autopsy is completed?”

“I don’t foresee that changing anything.” I said.

“Please Connor. And, please read more of these emails. If you will, I think you will gain a better sense of Mr. Stone’s growing anger and disgust with my father. Can I leave these two briefcases?” I could see tears start to form in Marissa’s eyes.

I couldn’t quiet put my finger on it, but this woman had a subtle, almost innocent, way of persuasion. It was like she disarmed me while I was in my sleep. I reached down and made sure my Ruger SR9 was still in its holster on my right side. “Okay, I’ll wait till the autopsy is finished. Also, I’ll read some more, but I’m not promising to read everything you brought. Please don’t take this as any type commitment to take this case.”

“I take you strictly at your word. Here’s my cell number if you need to call. Also, I’ll let you know when I hear from the autopsy.” Marissa said sliding a business card across to me.

Chapter 4

I decided to eat a bowl of oatmeal at home this morning. Garrett, my regular Pirates Cove breakfast partner, was visiting his oldest daughter in Birmingham. Garrett Lane, a retired Methodist minister, was my senior by at least twenty-five years, my parent’s minister for twice that time, and now, the only one I allowed within earshot to attempt to pierce my hardcore logic armor with stories of faith, the supernatural, and a unique brand of Bible inerrancy.

After finishing my oatmeal and two slices of toast laden with a thick layer of strawberry jelly, I walked to my study and opened the Adam Parker journal I had brought home with me last night. I had meant to read some in it last night but got distracted when Camilla called. She had gotten in late from an all-day workshop at The Cosmetology Center in Huntsville. It was still hard for me to believe she had shelved an eight-year career in nursing to become a hair-dresser.

Parker’s 2018 journal was almost full. Out of a total of 200 pages, he had filled up 160. The first entry, dated January 1, 2018 read: “Lawton Hawks’ comment, ‘Life begins at conception. Abortionists are killers. The law should prosecute them for the murders they commit just like anyone else who kills. Unfortunately, the law says otherwise.’ Hawks’ reference to Acts 5:29 is troubling. I’m unsure exactly what he meant but it could be he believed vigilante justice for all abortionists is justified. I wonder if Hawks would include me as a conspirator to murder, since I believed in a woman’s right to choose?” I turned to my side table holding my desktop computer and opened Facebook. I searched for Lawton Hawks and scanned the comments my query produced. My suspicion was confirmed. Boaz Councilman Lawton Hawks had, on December 31, 2017, written the quoted comment as a response to a post shared by Jake Stone, a post showing an alleged twelve-week-old human fetus laying inside an adult’s hand.

As I continued to read Adam’s journal entry, my iPhone vibrated. It was Joe Carter. “Morning Connor. My dentist’s office just called and is trying to change my appointment to 8:00 instead of 10:00 this morning. I have a favor to ask.”

“I bet it has something to do with that stack of subpoenas we received yesterday from Dalton.” I said, knowing Joe had a full day ahead of him, even without a dental appointment.

“Would you mind serving two of them first thing this morning. Timing is a little more difficult with these. I can take care of the others after my teeth cleaning.”

“No problem. I don’t have an appointment until 11:00. Who are they?” I asked.

“Ansley Mandy. She’s a nurse and drives to Birmingham five days per week. Gets home late. She lives on North Main. The other one is for Jake Stone. You know, the police officer. He’s usually at the police station first thing every morning.”

“Okay, no problem. Be sure and leave them on my desk. I’ll leave the house right now, so I can catch Ms. Mandy.”

“Thanks Connor. I owe you.” Joe said.

I closed Adam’s journal, walked to the kitchen, grabbed my keys off the bar and headed out. It was already seven o’clock. I hoped I could swing by the office and get to North Main in time to catch Ms. Mandy.

During my drive to town my mind thought back to the last time I served a subpoena. It was Labor Day 2004. I was still working for Bobby Sorrells, Investigations in Dothan, Alabama. Just two weeks earlier, I had also started attending law school in Birmingham five nights per week. Billy Arnold, a highly successful, local business man, had just been acquitted of rape a few weeks earlier. The alleged victim was now suing Mr. Arnold to recover financial damages for the alleged assault. I had no problem serving the subpoena. Arnold, who insisted I call him Billy, even invited me into his home and offered me a cup of coffee. I refused but got the feeling he was a conman. Bobby always said, “feelings will get you killed.”

As I sat at the red-light at Highway 431 my mind changed gears. My life had been a whirlwind ever since I served that last subpoena. I had left Bobby Sorrells and completed law school. Practicing in Dothan with Teague, Loggins, and Spradling for eight years, my divorce in 2011, my murder trial and acquittal in early 2014, and finally, my return home to Boaz in October 2014. I was out of the office in two minutes and turned into the driveway at 410 North Main Street, in another three. I felt blessed the swirling winds had landed me in a business of my own and a job I thoroughly enjoyed.

Unfortunately, I was late. According to her sister, Ansley Mandy left five minutes ago. I backed out onto Highway 205 and headed south. In less than five minutes I was sitting in the parking lot across from the Boaz Police Department. I grabbed the right subpoena and almost opened my truck’s door. I realized I should have thought about how to use this opportunity to get some type of reading on Jake Stone’s current feelings about Adam Parker. I should have used my driving time to develop some form of strategy.

Before Marissa Booth had entered my life, all I knew about Jake Stone was that he and his sister, Jane Ellsworth, owned the Brass Lantern Restaurant. It was another long-dissolved business that had recently been revived. I looked at the subpoena. The parties to the civil lawsuit were Sysco Foods, Inc. and Jake Stone. He was the defendant. I was curious why I didn’t have a subpoena to serve on Jane Ellsworth. I made a mental note to ask Dalton. Maybe, Jake was the responsible party, the one who had guaranteed the contract with Sysco Foods.

I chose to ignore my idea to craft a strategy. I chose to wing it. I got out of my truck and walked across the street. As I was walking up the hill to the dispatch window the front door opened, and Jake Stone walked out. I assumed he was about to head out on patrol. At first, he didn’t see me.

“Mr. Stone, do you have a minute?” I asked, now almost within hand-shaking distance.

“What does it concern? I’m now on duty.” Stone said pushing his Billy club into a side-slot on his belt.

“I’ve been instructed to deliver you some papers.” I reached out toward him with my right hand holding the blue-wrapped subpoena.

“And, I’ve been instructed not to accept them.” He replied.

“Consider yourself served.” I followed him over to his car and laid the papers on the hood right next to the driver’s side windshield.

“Consider yourself devoured.” Stone said opening his door.

“Mr. Stone, I take that as a negative, very improper, way to address me. Would you like to explain?” I asked.

“Hell no, I wouldn’t. Now, get your ass out of my face.”

“Let me ask you, Jake, may I call you Jake?”

“No, don’t call me anything, except Mr. Stone.”

“Okay Jake, did you ever tell Adam Parker, ‘Consider yourself devoured’? I asked, seeing if I could get a further rise out of the asshole Stone.

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. What’s that to you?” Stone asked.

“It might just become part of my full-time job. You hated Mr. Parker, didn’t you?”

“I sure as hell did. The world’s a better place now that he’s in hell.” I couldn’t remember when I’d had such a delightful conversation.

“You’re pretty smart aren’t you Jake, using hell two different ways. Are you smart enough to cover your tracks, or am I going to find you killed Mr. Parker?” I was way out of line. I was letting my feelings govern my words. Bobby would be very disappointed in me.

“You’re Connor Ford, aren’t you? Are you going to kill me like you did that Gore fellow a few years back? Yes, I know you. All of us are keeping an eye on you.”

“I would guess you consider me a killer just like you do everyone who performs an abortion.” Stone slammed his door and walked towards me. I saw his right hand slid down towards his club.

“Mr. Stone, Jake, you need to back up. I won’t play word games with you like Mr. Parker did.” I said hoping he would realize he couldn’t bully me.

“Shut the fuck up, you smart ass.” I braced myself when I saw both his hands coming towards my chest. I wanted to punch his face but had to maintain control. If he wanted to fight, I had to let him take the first action. I suspected someone was watching us through the big glass window beside the police station’s front door.

I let him push me back. No doubt he was strong. I couldn’t retain my stance, but I didn’t fall to the ground. I recovered and acted like I was going to turn back towards my truck behind me. Just as I did, just as I feigned fear by breathing in, opening my eyes as wide as I could, I swung and landed a solid right uppercut to the underside of his left jaw. He fell back across the hood of the car but didn’t stay there long. Even though he was a little taller than me, maybe six-two, I had at least forty pounds on him. He bear-hugged me and lifted me off my feet. We slammed down on the pavement and both struggled to gain the top position. Just as I rolled him to my right and was about positioned to swing my right fist at his head, two officers came outside and pulled me off. The fight was over. Jake’s mouth was bleeding.

It was nearly 11:00 before I got to the office. It had taken Dalton nearly three hours to convince the City Attorney to release me without filing any charges. If it hadn’t been for Karen Lee, the dispatcher, who said that Jake started the fight, I probably would have been charged with third degree assault. I figured her job would be in jeopardy.

While I washed my hands and face looking in the mirror I told myself I was getting too old for these school-yard tussles. I also hoped the Adam Parker autopsy gave me even the slightest evidence he had died under suspicious circumstances. Jake Stone was a bully and needed a good licking.

Chapter 5

Other than my eleven o’clock appointment with Boaz Mayor Zach Mohler, I spent the rest of the day at my desk finalizing my report to Dalton on his Jackson County capital murder case. With Bobby Sorrells coming to town in less than a week, I wouldn’t have another multi-hour stretch of time to complete the report. I certainly didn’t want to be saddled with the responsibility tonight since Camilla was returning from her two-day workshop in Birmingham. The best part of the afternoon was overhearing Blair and Joe laughing in the kitchen after he returned from serving a dozen subpoenas. Joe had a way of innocently embellishing the truth to create hilarious stories of him figuratively slaying dragons. This time, Joe had shared how two older women, the mother and grandmother of the defendant, had virtually held him against his will in their kitchen while they skinned two rabbits all while their male offspring was changing clothes. The punch line happened when, fifteen minutes later, the defendant came out wearing a woman’s dress and a sunset-red wig.

A few minutes before 5:00, I slid out the back door in between stories and swung by Pizza Hut. I was ready to be with Camilla and didn’t want either of us slaving in the kitchen. She was sitting in the dark on the back porch when I drove up.

“Don’t you think it’s a little cool to be out here?” I asked, noticing she didn’t even have a sweater on and her blouse was short-sleeved.

“I’ve been stuck in a room full of hot-flashing middle-aged women. It’s strange to me they complain about their fluctuating temperatures but love the room at a hundred degrees. Plus, I needed the cool air to clear my head of the hair-dye toxins.” I had set the pizza in a chair by the back door and walked across to her just standing up from the swing. I didn’t have to reach out for her. I was lucky to have found an affectionate woman.

“I’ve missed you.” I said trying to be more open with my feelings. Before she left Tuesday morning, we had an argument, not really, but certainly an intense discussion about how I didn’t always show her that I trust her. She complained about me always analyzing everything. I wanted to be more of what she wanted and needed. I had to learn to leave my work at the office and truly be with her when we were together.

“Wow. Mr. Touchy-Feelie. I like it. This old dog can learn.” She said, laying her head on my shoulder and using both hands to pull us closer together.

For a minute we stood there, frozen. At least I was freezing. Finally, she leaned her head back as though she was going to kiss me. I couldn’t see her eyes. I leaned in to kiss her, but she said, “Emily is still angry at you for divorcing her mother.”

“Where did that come from?” I asked.

“I had dinner with her last night. She’s a wonderful young lady.” Camilla took my hand and led me into the house. She had arrived earlier and had already unlocked the back door. The house was well lite, and I could smell the sweet scent of an apple pie that she was cooking, a frozen one she had bought at Walmart. Camilla wasn’t a cook-from-scratch type of woman.

I sat the pizza down on the kitchen bar and said, “Emily is nearly your age.”

“So, I’m not a young woman?”

“No, not really. To me, a young woman is like twenty-two, not thirty-two.” I said.

“With that logic, I guess you are an old man. For sure, sometimes I feel like I’m sleeping with my father.” Camilla said opening the oven and checking the pie.

“Ugly picture.”

“Which part? You are the same age as my father you know.” Camilla opened the refrigerator and poured me a glass of cranberry juice and her a glass of milk.

“I thought we’d settled the issue. Your words, ‘age is just a number.’ Now, back to Emily.” Camilla rolled off double paper towels for us instead of using plates and dished each of us a slice of pizza. I was glad she liked to jostle and joke about my age. Even though I was certain our seventeen-year difference wasn’t a problem, I knew I had to do everything I could to avoid becoming a grouch.

“She’s thinking about moving to Gadsden, maybe even Boaz. She’s interviewing with Gadsden Regional Medical Center.” Camilla said taking a bite of our Supreme Pizza.

“That’s surprising. Seems like I’m surrounded by roving nurses. Ansley Mandy lives in Boaz and is a nurse in Birmingham. You are a former nurse, now nursing an old man, and my thirty-year-old daughter is encroaching on the man she hates.” I said.

“Connor Ford, you are wrong. Emily, I believe, down deep, adores you, worships you. Sometimes, girls, daughters, need their fathers to be open and honest with them. Admitting a mistake sometimes pays big dividends.” Camilla said, pulling the apple pie from the oven and setting it at the end of the bar to cool.

“So, I made a gigantic mistake? I’m the one who shoulders all the blame? Amy and I were kids when we married. Less than a month after we graduated high school. Nine months later the little Emily package arrived. Amy and I were kids trying to raise a kid. Add in college and later the police academy. The gorgeous little baby grew up almost without a father. I put my schooling and my work a football field ahead of my relationship with my one and only child. Lonely child and a lonely woman. I take full responsibility for being too busy. But, Amy is the one who had an affair.” I said, wondering how and why we were rehashing all of this. Was Camilla questioning her sanity and her recent willingness to start talking about our engagement?

Camilla placed another slice of pizza on my paper towels and moved her barstool across from me. “I think we need to slow down just a little. Let me tell you why I think this before you respond. Okay?”

“I take it you’re not talking about how fast we’re eating pizza.” I said.

“You’re right.”

Camilla went on to tell me she loved me but with Emily contemplating moving to Boaz we needed to postpone shacking up together for now. She didn’t like the ‘shacking’ word but I clearly understood what she meant. For several months, Camilla had stayed overnight at my place about as much as she had at her Sundown apartment. I loved her beside me as I fell to sleep every night. By the time she finished encouraging me to invite Emily to live with me for a while until she got settled, I felt I didn’t have much choice. I wasn’t an expert on women, but I knew getting mad and demanding Camilla move in likely wasn’t the best route to winning her heart for good.

The apple pie was wonderful as usual but falling to sleep with Camilla in my arms was even sweeter.

Saturday morning Camilla had an early appointment. She was the newest beautician at Serenity Salon. The owner, Deb Moody, had started a seven o’clock haircut special that fell in Camilla’s lap three days per week. She didn’t mind because she knew this was a good way to build her book of business. Camilla was friendly, caring, and inquisitive enough not to make the customers feel crowded or uncomfortable.

Garrett was already waiting at our table when I walked in Pirates Cove.

“Good morning Mr. Ford. You don’t have me a subpoena, do you?” I pulled out a chair and sat down, not responding. His face looked serious. For a few seconds and then he smiled.

“I suspect you’ve heard about my little run-in with Jake Stone?” I asked.

“I’ve been here drinking coffee since 6:30. That story was all the buzz around here until you walked in.”

“I’d rather not rehash that if that’s okay. How was your daughter?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

“She’s fine, busier than ever. I think I told you about her new position at Birmingham Southern.” Garrett said motioning for a waitress.

“Professor of Biology?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m sure she will find a college affiliated with the United Methodist Church to be quite different from the University of Chicago.”

“That’s an improper conclusion if you’re thinking Gina will not have complete academic freedom.” Garrett said.

The waitress came and filled our coffee cups and took our orders. “I’ve got a question, a Bible question.”

“Fly it towards me.” Garrett, seventy-five, was never far from surprising me. Either by his words or by his actions. Both seemed to have something to do with flying. His words flew easily and most times, poetically, He was working on earning his pilot’s license, the fairly new type that allows a pilot to fly light-sport aircraft without the need for an FAA medical certificate.

“When does life begin? According to the Bible.”

“That’s an interesting question. No doubt, there is more than one answer or response. According to who you ask. Many people think that a human being is created at the time of conception, but this belief is not supported by the Bible. I believe the correct answer is that life as a human begins with breath. After God formed man in Genesis 2:7, He ‘breathed into his nostrils the breath of life and it was then that the man became a living being.’ I can hear Gina’s words on this subject. Funny. She and I were talking about this yesterday. Gina said, ‘The fact a living sperm penetrates a living ovum resulting in the formation of a living fetus does not mean that the fetus is a living human being. According to the Bible, a fetus is not a living person with a soul until after drawing its first breath.’”

The waitress set down our food and walked away. “I suppose there are other Bible verses that support your position?”

“Definitely. “In Job 33:4, it states: ‘The spirit of God has made me, and the breath of the Almighty gives me life.’ One of my favorite passages comes from Ezekiel 37:5 and 6. It states, ‘Thus says the Lord God to these bones: Behold, I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live. And I will lay sinews upon you, and will cause flesh to come upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and you shall live; and you shall know that I am the Lord.’”

I poured maple syrup over my pancakes and pondered what Garrett had said. “If life doesn’t begin at conception then it seems to support the U.S. Supreme Court’s 1973 Roe vs. Wade ruling that recognized a woman’s right to an abortion based on the Fourteenth Amendment.”

“No doubt, you are spot on. Here’s something that might surprise you. Although the Bible never specifically addresses the issue of abortion, reality reflects that God is an abortionist. Garrett said spreading blackberry jam on his toast.

“What? I’ve never heard that.”

“Did you know there are approximately 60 million miscarriages worldwide every year?”

“That’s astounding.”

“Since Gina is a biologist and I’m a theologian, we’ve spent quite a lot of time talking about abortion and related subjects. Did you know that as few as one-quarter of all conceptions avoid re-absorption or miscarriage, and of those fetuses that do make it to full-term, another large percentage die during natural childbirth?” Garrett said with a mouth full of eggs and bacon.

“But, don’t a lot of Christians argue that God considers a baby in the womb to be as human as a full-grown adult? There’s that verse, I think it’s in Jeremiah that says God knows us before He forms us in the womb.” I said.

“That’s right, here it is exactly” ‘Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations.’”

“That seems to conflict with your position, that life begins at first breath.” I said noticing two Boaz police offers come in the front door. I was glad neither of them was Jake Stone.

“Clearly it’s a conflict. My friend, it’s the Bible isn’t it? I won’t say this too loudly for fear of being overheard, but the Bible is man-made. It has conflicts. The reason is there are a bunch of different authors and their works were created over many decades and centuries.” Garrett said.

“So, what makes your argument any better than that of most every Southern Baptist, that life begins at conception?” I really wanted to have a well-reasoned position on this.

“First, majority opinions are normally wrong. I think the best way to know the truth on this issue is to look to science and not even reference the Bible at all. Viability is the key. A human fetus is not viable, meaning it cannot sustain itself. That doesn’t happen until twenty-four weeks, some say twenty-eight weeks.”

“That makes sense. It doesn’t seem the law should protect a person until he, she, it, is a person. But, for sure, most Southern Baptists think that a woman who has an abortion is a killer, more specifically, a murderer.” I said, finishing mopping up the last of my pancakes.

“And, the doctor who performs the abortion is a co-conspirator, just as guilty.” Garrett added.

“It seems pro-lifers, specifically those who argue life begins at conception are rife with hypocrisy. Most of them don’t give a rat’s ass about the baby once it’s born, fighting against any financial support for poverty-stricken mothers. Heck, these people have no sympathy for pigs, cattle, chickens, all sentient beings that feel real pain when slaughtered. These people don’t care if a human fetus feels no pain. Don’t get me started. Don’t get me started or I’ll spew out my hatred of the NRA and how most right wingers, Republicans that is, say they are pro-life but don’t give a rat’s ass about school kids getting gunned down every few days. To me, in many respects, we are no different than pigs and cows. We are all animals. Sorry, for the rant.”

“You’re forgiven. I’ve got to go. It’s your day to pay.” Garrett said, standing up and putting on his coat.

“Thanks. Have a good day. See you tomorrow if the creek doesn’t rise.”

Garrett walked out, and I paid the waitress. As I was leaving a tip on the table, my iPhone vibrated. It was only a few minutes after 8:00 but Blair was looking for me. “You have an email I think you will want to see. Where are you?”

I walked across the street and once again forgot to walk down the sidewalk along Highway 168 to the rear of my office. I walked in the front door and saw Marissa using her iPhone to snap a photo of Thomas Jefferson, my hero.

Chapter 6

I had already decided to take her case. If Marissa still wanted me to investigate the death of her father, Adam Parker, I was willing. In large part, because of yesterday’s confrontation with Jake Stone. He was a bully. Bullies are tyrants. It was the type of case I loved. Since my days as a criminal defense lawyer I had adopted the phrase, “Rebellion to Tyrants is Obedience to God,” as a motto of sorts. I had even pasted the statement on my letterhead and attributed it to Thomas Jefferson. It was years later before I learned that he had really loved the statement, but the correct source was Benjamin Franklin.

Stone wasn’t the only reason for my decision. I liked Marissa Booth. It wasn’t because of how she was becoming more attractive every time I saw her. That was true, but it was something in her eyes that said she came from good stock, stock that once it set sail, wouldn’t look back until reaching the foreign shore. I was still pondering my mixed metaphor when Blair brought two cups of steaming coffee to the conference room.

After an exchange of pleasantries, she said, “I wanted to come by and pick up Dad’s briefcases.” I noticed she hadn’t even looked at me, but instead peered looking at my shelves loaded with legal and crime thrillers while holding her coffee cup close to her face, gently blowing away the steam.

“Okay, but I haven’t finished my review.”

“You didn’t read my email?”

“I did, at least your subject line, just as I walked over from Pirates Cove.” I said.

“That could easily have been funny. I sense you have a subtle sense of humor, one that even you often miss.” Marissa was observant, even though I hadn’t tried to be funny. This time.

“I can be subtle.”

“To the autopsy. I was disappointed. That’s almost disgusting of me. What I mean is, I just knew Dad died under suspicious circumstances. Apparently, my gut was confused. My head also, I guess.” Marissa said.

“What I’m about to say won’t be subtle. Are all Bible professors as shallow as you?” I said wanting to shock her, certainly to get her attention.

“What? I’m confused. Should I be insulted? I think I am.”

“That was humor, but it was meant to be open and honest, direct. Question. Because the autopsy states Adam died of natural causes, necessarily means he wasn’t murdered?” I asked.

“Well, I would think most people would reach that conclusion. What am I missing here?”

“Autopsies aren’t perfect. Nothing is perfect, not even Adam Parker. And, please don’t take that as an insult in any way.” I said, hearing the back-door ding. It’s probably Joe.

“Are you suggesting that Dad killed himself?” Marissa asked.

“Wow, I didn’t know I could be that subtle. I didn’t mean to imply that but now that you mention it, that’s a possibility. Isn’t it?” I asked, wondering where this conversation was going, feeling she might storm out at any second.

“There’s no way my father killed himself.”

“I think what I’m trying to say is that we don’t know much at all. And, if I’m going to investigate this case, I need to have an open mind. So, do you. We should assume nothing.”

“Case? Investigation? I obviously assumed that decision was made the moment you saw the autopsy results.” Marissa said, looking at her iPhone that had just signaled a text notification.

“I can see where you could think that. I’ve led you down that path. But, I’ve had a change of mind, especially after my little visit with Jake Stone yesterday, spending some time in those two briefcases, and contemplating Baptists and abortion.”

“You think Adam’s death deserves an independent investigation?” Marissa asked.

“To be honest, I would normally respond in the negative based on what actual evidence we have. But, here, your case, Adam’s death, there are sufficient circumstantial ingredients floating around that have triggered my sixth sense, that thing most people call a gut feeling. Of course, you’re the one who must foot the bill. It’s ultimately up to you.” I said, subconsciously reminding myself that I always had to consider the business side of things. I now had a hefty mortgage to pay after buying this old building and spending a small fortune renovating it into an impressive set of offices.

Marissa shifted her body, turned more towards me, and looked me straight in the eye. Her green eyes were even lighter, accentuated by the fluorescents overhead. “My decision was made almost from the beginning, since I first talked with Dalton Martin about you. I’m ready to sign your agreement and pay the ten-thousand-dollar retainer. Why don’t we do that before you change your mind?” Marissa had set sail.

Over the next thirty minutes, Blair printed out our standard engagement letter, I made a few changes, with Marissa’s approval, Joe witnessed her signature, and she tendered a cashier’s check dated the first day she had appeared in my office.

“I’m leaving Sunday afternoon for Chicago. Since the autopsy is complete, Dad’s funeral will be Monday afternoon. Mother and Dad had preplanned everything, but I still have several things I need to do.”

Blair had gathered all her contact information on Tuesday when the two had completed our standard intake form. “What’s the status of Adam’s house, the contents?” I asked.

“I’m sorry to say that I’ve not made any progress. To be fully transparent, I’ve not done anything but explore and reminisce. I was waiting on your decision. I concluded, that if you took the case then you would want to inspect Dad’s place. Also, his office at Snead. I’ve made arrangements with Dean Naylor that nothing be touched there until you give the go-ahead.”

“Thanks for having confidence in me. I guess that’s what you did, at least in part.” I said.

Marissa gave me keys to Adam’s house and school office and stood up to leave. “Oh, something I wanted to leave with you. Probably nothing. Here’s a list of Dad’s students. I’ve had some time and have let my mind fly around whereever it wanted. For some reason, I did a Facebook search for each name. You’ll find it interesting that Natalie Goble is Jake Stone’s step-daughter.”

“Gosh, that’s interesting. You learned this from Facebook?” I asked.

“Yes.” Marissa said, slightly shaking her head and looking a little sly the way she squinted her eyes. “Mostly.”

“It’s amazing how Facebook and Twitter and Instagram have almost revolutionized detective work.”

“One other thing and I’ve got to run. Natalie’s best friend is Paige Todd, who’s also a student at Snead. Seems like the two of them are anything but Southern Baptist fundamentalists. You might enjoy reading their posts.”

I again led Marissa out the back door. As I walked back down the hall towards the front office I couldn’t help but question my decision to have the rear of our office face the parking lot. I hadn’t contemplated the effects of the one-way street and Pirates Cove. Sometimes, little things bothered me. Big things too.

It was Saturday morning and I was taking things slow. It had been a hard week and all I wanted to do after my breakfast was to read and dose and dose and read in my recliner. A little after ten o’clock Emily called my cell and asked if it was okay to drop by. Apparently, she had just completed one of three required interviews at Gadsden Regional Hospital.

Even though she said she would arrive around 10:45 a.m., it was almost noon when her and a Harley type walked in from the back porch. It was my term for anyone who looked like a biker, someone with long hair, a mangy beard, and a hefty beer-belly. Carl actually didn’t look like a biker of any type, whether Harley or Honda. Neither did he have long hair or a beard. And, the best I could tell, he had abs like I had twenty-five years ago when I completed the police academy. I had to face it. I wouldn’t have been satisfied if Emily had walked in with Saint Peter. She was still my little girl. Of course, I was forgetting what a wild stallion she had been, especially during and for three years following her high school graduation.

“Hi Dad, this is Carl. He’s a friend from St. Vincent’s. He drove me up in this nasty weather.”

“Hi Carl, nice to meet you.” I stood up and the two of us met in the middle of the den. “Thanks for driving Emily.”

“Nice to meet you Mr. Ford.”

“Connor, just call me Connor.”

“Carl, come back around one o’clock if you will. Do you remember me saying Harbor Freight is only about a mile further north from where we turned on Martin Road?

“I think I’ve got it. See you at 1:00. Nice to meet you Connor.” Carl said as he walked out the back door.

“He seems nice, respectful, hopefully responsible.” I said.

“Dad, I know what you’re thinking. ‘Has she taken up with another low-life?’

“Probably, to some degree. It’s kind of hard after considering your history. But, forget me, what’s up?” I said, wanting to be responsible myself, which seemed to call for less judging.

“I just wanted to come and make sure you are really okay about me moving in while I’m getting my feet under me with this new job.”

“I am. To be honest, at first, I didn’t like the idea at all, mainly because it happened, your request, about the time Camilla had decided to move in. But, she and I have talked it through enough. I want to put you first for real, for maybe the first time in my life.” I said motioning Emily to sit on the couch.

“Thanks for that. I hope you know that I want us to become close. It’s important that we forgive each other and make a clean start. Don’t you think?”

“What exactly do I have to forgive you for?” I asked.

“Don’t even try to be funny. You know, maybe not as good as mom, how much of a hellion I was when I was in high school.”

“Also, don’t forget your three years after high school. I seemed to remember the sucking sound coming from mine and your mom’s checking account while you roamed the world and.”

Emily cut me off before I could complete my sentence. “And partied and slept around more than any healthy person should?”

“What’s important is what we do now. I can’t, and you can’t go back. I suspect we both would do a few things differently. I know I would.” I said.

“Dad, you don’t have to, but would you mind going a little deeper there. Let me just say, I ask that because I want to know you better, I want to know how you feel, now and about back then.” Emily said.

“To be blunt, I abused you. Now, don’t think I’m talking about sexual abuse. No, never, but I did ignore you. I think it had a lot to do with your mother. After she finally came clean, well, I’m assuming she did come fully clean, about her sexual promiscuity in high school, I thought I had forgiven her and that we had moved on with our lives, especially as we struggled with school, work, and a colicky baby at Auburn. In truth, I don’t think I ever was able to love your mother like a wife deserved to be loved. It was like I subconsciously believed that she had been dishonest with me. In 2009 or 2010, after Amy had the affair with one of her old high school boyfriends, you know who I’m talking about, I felt a little vindicated. None of this should have influenced our relationship, mine and yours. I should have put you first, but I didn’t. Instead, I threw myself into my work, later into law school. Of course, by that time, you had graduated from Dothan High School and had flown the coop as they say, you were gone.”

“Thanks Dad, for being so honest with me now. It’s important for me to ask your forgiveness. I know you know all this but here lately, I guess after we talked the other night and Camilla and I kind of ganged up on you, I’ve been wanting to spell it out. Dad, I’m sorry for being such a slut, having two abortions, and causing you and mom a living hell. Can you forgive me, even try to forget, and help me go forward?” Emily said.

“Of course. I can, and I will.” I said getting up and moving over beside Emily on the couch. She turned to me and hugged my neck. “I love you Emily.”

“I love you too Dad.” She released me and we both continued to sit on the edge of the couch facing each other.

“Life is lived one day at a time. I know that sounds trite but the older I get the more I realize this is true. Maybe we could promise each other that we’ll try our best to do a full day’s work for a full day’s pay. That didn’t make a lot of sense. Did it?” I asked.

“No, but it sure points to the right philosophy. It’s kind of like that saying, ‘don’t go to bed angry.’ Emily said, looking around the room and almost smiling as she looked behind my chair at the hundred-plus year-old log walls.

“Your granddaddy would be proud of you.” I said. “And your grandmother.”

“I have so many regrets. It seems I barely knew them. I remember short visits while I was growing up. I remember their kindness and generosity. Now, I so hate myself for traveling the world and partying for three years when I could really have gotten to know them, maybe even coming to live with them.”

“Okay baby, here’s the rule. Look forward, not backward. You’re less likely to break your head or your heart.”

“That’s good. Did you make that up?” Emily asked.

“Probably not. I might have modified a little. It’s not an original thought.”

It was nearly 1:30 before Carl returned. Emily and I enjoyed some coffee while we both stood at the bar. We talked about Amy and the decisions she was making in her venture of returning, with Parkinson’s, to her home across town, and how much hope she had for Emily’s new nursing job. She was excited about landing a nurse’s supervisor’s job. I was proud of my one and only child. After being a wild bronco and roaming the countryside for years, I was proud that she had returned to Alabama, excelled for four years at the University of Alabama at Birmingham, stayed committed for an equal number of years at St. Vincent’s Hospital, and, despite a failed marriage to Tyler Tyson, was determined to move forward to an even better life. It was a good day for Emily and me.

Chapter 7

After Marissa left, I walked to Blair’s office. I was almost ready to remind both to focus on their work and stop their flirting when Joe said he needed to talk with me but had a quick errand to run. I told him I should be available all day.

Joe left, and I returned to my office and made a couple of calls. As I was making out a deposit slip for Marissa’s retainer check my mind made a connection and cleared up some confusion it had since my meeting two days ago with Mayor Mohler.

The main purpose of his meeting was to again congratulate me on the opening of my new office. I had given him the tour and we had settled at the round table in my office. I now couldn’t recall how we had started talking about our lives and backgrounds. I think it was something to do with my building’s past.

Mohler shared that Cato’s, a women’s clothing store, was in my building back in the early and mid-seventies. That’s what led him to mention his ex-wife, Sandy Goble. Her mother had worked at Cato’s. The Mayor had gone on to tell me that for the first few years, his and Sandy’s married life was happy and satisfying even though they had to struggle financially. It was then he mentioned their one and only child, Natalie. I think the Mayor let his tongue slip just a little when he breathed, “it hurts when your own daughter, step-daughter, seems to favor her police-officer step-father over me, the father who raised her.” I probably shouldn’t have asked my follow-up question.

Now, my mind did a little organizing. Natalie Goble, Adam Parker’s student, was the Mayor’s step-daughter, even though he had first said she was his daughter, indicating, at least to me, that he thought the two of them were especially close, at one point. Natalie’s mother, Sandy Goble Stone, was Jake Stone’s wife, and Vice-President of First State Bank of Boaz. Finally, there appears to be some tension between Natalie and her father, and possibly between him and step-father Jake Stone. Hell, there must be some friction between the two men. I pondered whether it was true animosity. I knew that type often led to fist-a-cuffs.

Joe didn’t return to the office until 2:30. He tapped on my door and I motioned him in.

“Thanks for your idea. It paid off.” Joe said, introducing a subject, skipping the heart of the issue, and then stating a conclusion. He rarely did this.

“Your welcome but place me in the correct country before asking me about its weather.”

“Hannah Knott. Two days ago, you said I should dig a little deeper into Health Connections, the time, ninety minutes or so, everyday Steven spends there.” Joe said, pulling out his notepad from his jacket pocket.

“You learned something relevant to Hannah’s case. Tell me.”

On Wednesday afternoon I followed him. Like clockwork, at 5:00 p.m., he left First Baptist Church of Christ and drove to Health Connections. This time, I didn’t wait in the parking lot. I doubt if he even has a membership there. He walked straight down the hall past the exercise room and through the doors that leads to the swimming pool. There is an emergency exit door at the end of the hall, past the doors that led to the pool. By the time I reached the exit door and looked out the glass window at the top of the door, he was in a white Maxima with Peyton Todd, that’s who I assumed at the time. I was lucky to go back out the way I had come in, get in my car, and find them. I tailed them. When they parked and exited her vehicle, I could tell it was Peyton Todd. I had already done a little research. She’s shown on the Sand Mountain Bank’s website, standing beside her boss, Kurt Prescott. She’s really easy on the eyes.”

“You didn’t say where they went. Where did they exit the Maxima?” I asked.

“A fairly small brick house down Henderson Road, right beyond the animal hospital. I checked, it’s a house owned by a Jane Ellsworth.”

“That’s Jake Stone’s sister. I wonder if it’s her place, or if there’s someone else with that name. Not likely around here but could be.” I said, pondering the possibilities.

“I parked in the animal hospital’s parking lot and could see the house quite well, especially with my binoculars. They stayed for over an hour. Both days, yesterday and Wednesday, same routine. They were back at Health Connections a little before 6:30.”

“What all do you know about Peyton Todd?” I asked.

“She’s been at Sand Mountain Bank since it opened, a little over a year ago. She’s the main man’s executive assistant, according to the website.”

“Kurt Prescott, the Bank’s President and one of the original founders.” I added.

“Yes, Peyton did work at Wells Fargo. I’ve asked around. It seems she had worked there for several years but had been out of work for nearly a year before being hired by Prescott.” Joe said.

“You don’t know why she left Wells Fargo?” I asked.

“No.” Before Joe could say anything else, Blair buzzed my intercom and said Hannah Knott was here to see Joe.

“You’ve got a visitor.”

“I knew she was coming. Would you mind meeting with us?” Joe asked.

“No problem. Let’s meet in the conference room.”

I hadn’t seen a photo of Peyton Todd, but I couldn’t imagine why Steven Knott would do anything to risk losing Hannah. She was drop-dead gorgeous. There was no better way to put it. Sometimes clichés said it better. The ones that were true that is. She was tall, maybe five feet eight. She was shapely. I was surprised she was showing me how curvy she was. And, everybody else who was looking. Her tight black dress accentuated her peaks and valleys. It was almost dizzying. I thought it odd especially given mine and Joe’s previous conversation where he had said she was a devout Christian and all she wanted was for Steven to admit his sins and restore their marriage. She sat down, barely smiling. To me, her dark hair was a little disheveled.

I pushed the pleasantries through quick. Hannah spoke. “Joe, you said on the phone Steven is spending time with a Peyton Todd. Are you sure they are having an affair?”

I thought the woman must be quite gullible.

Joe looked at me like he was thinking the same thing. “No, I don’t know for certain. I haven’t seen them kissing or in bed or anything remotely close.” I was glad to hear that Joe could get straight to the point and be clear with his client.

“You think because for two days he and this Peyton woman have spent time alone, they are having an affair?” Hannah’s beauty obviously compensated for her thick mind.

Joe again looked at me, like he wanted me to speak. “Hannah, I’m sure this is difficult, but in my experience, someone who is engaged with such subterfuge is not out spreading the Gospel.” I said that intentionally, wanting her to face the music, no pun intended. Her wonderful, godly, Southern Gospel singing husband, wasn’t satisfied with Hannah’s beauty and her abilities beneath the sheets.

“Subterfuge?”

“Steven isn’t pumping weights and making laps in the pool. He’s working on his biceps and abs in a more natural way.” I said, thinking, ‘do I need to draw a few pictures.’?

“You don’t have to be so graphic. You might be wrong you know?” Hannah Knott, the woman with a knotted brain.

I was glad Joe spoke up. I was growing tired of this lame conversation. “Hannah, do you have an idea of what else Peyton and Steven would be doing for over an hour at Jane Ellsworth’s house after he had sneaked out of Health Connections two days in a row?”

“I need to be completely honest with you two. Steven had a gambling problem. It’s why we now live in Boaz. We moved here nearly two years ago. It wasn’t a move we really wanted to make. We both were from Montgomery and Steven had a great job with First Baptist Church. Until, he was fired.”

“Why?” Joe asked.

“The pastor and Deacon board got wind of his gambling. And, his affair.” Hannah said reaching into her purse for some Kleenex.

“Were the two connected?” I asked.

“Is that like a chicken and egg question? A ‘which came first’ type of thing?” Hannah asked.

“Sort of.” I said. I assume the gambling came first. I’m curious if that lead to the affair. And, why. Of course, the affair may have led Steven to gambling. It’s an odd world.”

“That may go to the point I was trying to make a while ago when I asked Joe if he knew Steven and Peyton were having an affair. I feel like I might be detecting a pattern. Steven gets into hot water with his gambling and then he starts looking for a way out. That’s how it happened in Montgomery, or that’s what he told me.”

“Elaborate on that a little.” Joe asked.

“The woman there, I don’t even want to say her name. It disgusts me. She was a banker. Seems like he’s attracted to women and money and banks.”

“Normally, that’s where the money’s at.” I said, feeling quite astute.

“Steven has told me that after the affair started, she, that woman, suggested she help him out. He was already in debt. I’m not sure, to answer your question, if the affair started before the debts mounted. Anyway, the woman thought she was smart and tried to redirect some bank funds for Steven’s benefit. He declares he knew nothing about it. The long and short of it is First Baptist let him go. I never have been able to figure out how he got the Minister of Music job here in Boaz. I suspect the Montgomery church kept quiet, probably didn’t want to tarnish their reputation. Apparently, First Baptist Church of Christ relies on God’s guidance more than a thorough investigative report.” Hannah became quiet and stared at her iPhone.

“Let me see if I followed you. You are hesitating to conclude that Steven and Peyton are having an affair because you believe he is pursuing her for financial relief, even though you admit that in Montgomery, it was the woman who initiated the idea to screw her bank?” I asked. “Does that sum it up?”

“Pretty much. Maybe I’m being a little naive. It really doesn’t make a lot of sense to think that she would appear out of the blue and offer Steven money. She’s after something.” Hannah said, now, curiously, for the first time, looking around my office. She seemed entranced by all the novels staring back at her.

“Or, Steven’s after something or maybe two somethings.” I said. I suspect his gambling problem simply coincided with his sexual desires. Sorry, no insult intended. I’m jumping over a foggy abyss. We don’t know what we’re saying. Has Steven returned to gambling? Is he in debt again? Is Peyton aware of this? If so, has she offered to help him out? If so, how? Is she amenable to nicking the bank? Again, we have more questions than answers. One thing I would bet on, is that your husband is having an affair with Peyton Todd.” I always liked to ask questions. There is normally one more that needs to be asked.

“What else do we know about Ms. Todd?” Joe asked.

“I’ve done a little research myself. It seems there are several folks around the College who have lived here all their lives and seem to feel the heartbeat of the city. Peyton has one daughter, Paige Todd, who is a student at Snead State. She’s one of my English Literature students. Peyton is the ex-wife of a Boaz police officer, Jake Stone.” I thought I would lose my dentures and I didn’t even have false teeth. What a world, what a city. It was almost as if everybody was related in some way, everybody had been married to everybody else’s ex-wife or husband.

“So, Paige Todd is Jake Stone’s step-daughter? Funny, I just learned that her best friend, Natalie Goble, is also Jake Stone’s step-daughter. He is currently married to Sandy Goble, the Mayor’s ex-wife. I’m going to need to draw a diagram.

Blair stepped in the conference room and motioned for me to meet her outside in the hallway. “Hannah, thanks for coming in. I have an issue to deal with, so I’ll leave it with Joe to figure out our next move.” I knew Blair’s hand-signal meant that I had an important phone call and it didn’t need to wait.

An hour later I was still sitting at my desk reeling from what Bobby Sorrells had told me. He had called from Dalton’s office. At first, I thought he simply wanted to ask me a few questions about the preliminary investigative report I had prepared on Dalton’s capital murder case. It wasn’t that at all. It was a simple six-word sentence that had thrown me into a tailspin: “Tommy Lee Gore has been released.”

Tommy was the brother of Brandon Gore, the man I was accused of killing. I did kill Brandon Gore, but I didn’t murder him. I knew that from day one, but it took the Houston County Sheriff and District Attorney nearly fourteen months to learn differently. During that time, I stayed in jail. I stayed for three reasons. One, I didn’t have enough money to post a million-dollar bail. Second, I wanted to build a bank of days towards my sentence in the event I was found guilty and sent to prison. And third, I hate to admit it, but I was a little afraid of Tommy Lee Gore. After discovering his dead brother, he swore to kill me. I believed him capable of doing so. Now, after three years in jail over a drug trafficking conviction, he was free as a bird, other than the terms and conditions of probation. I had no doubt he still held a deep grudge against me for the death of his brother. I hoped he didn’t know that Bobby Sorrells and I had furnished most of the grease that had slid him north to Harvest, Alabama and Limestone Correctional Facility.

I left the office at 4:45 and looked every way but up as I crossed the parking lot to my truck. I was glad Camilla and I had planned a weekend at the Mentone Inn north of Fort Payne. It was our favorite getaway. I doubted Tommy Lee would think to look for me there.

Chapter 8

It was too cold over the weekend to visit DeSoto Falls, just south of Mentone. It was a favorite spot since it was last September, Labor Day weekend, that we had descended the stairs to a visitor viewing area and had first discussed getting engaged. Looking back, it was a lamebrain idea. Not that Camilla had been too rude or disinterested. She had commented, “your kind of weird Connor Ford, a true romantic man would have simply gotten down on a knee and presented me with a diamond ring while asking if I would marry him. You are too scared, thinking you had to do a little investigative work before making any type commitment.” She had been right. I was fortunate that she hadn’t asked me to call her a cab. I was also lucky that I had found Mother’s ring in my middle desk drawer the following Tuesday morning. Camilla had cried when I, on bended knee, after coming in, unannounced, to Serenity Salon, and popped the big question. I loved how Camilla put up with my slow but steady attempts at becoming a true romantic.

Camilla and I spent Friday night through Sunday afternoon in the Orange Room at the Mountain Laurel Inn, braving the near-zero degree, howling-wind weather, only once. And that was Saturday afternoon to venture across the street to the Wildflower Cafe, only to find it closed due to frozen water pipes. We had quickly returned to stand beside a roaring fire in the giant rock fireplace at the Mountain Laurel Inn, the quaint bed and breakfast that was becoming our favorite weekend getaway.

Being locked away for nearly two days with the gorgeous Camilla was unlike the last time when my movements were fully restricted. I’m not sure why I had brought up my prison days when I did. I probably should write a book, a type of instruction manual on how not to be a true romantic. It was after nearly setting our pants on fire standing beside the fireplace. We had retired to the Orange Room and easily slid beneath the sheets. It was only a moment after Camilla had convinced me I was still man enough to meet her almost insatiable desires, that I had said, “prison was the most boring time of my life.” She, not surprising, now that I’m looking back, had thought I was expressing my boredom over her sweet smile, and her smooth, sensuous, and steady kisses. It was my quick thinking that had saved me. I was able to clumsily quote a little stanza from my favorite poet, Donald Hall, and his poem Love Is Like Sounds:

Love is like sounds, whose

last reverberations

Hang on the leaves of strange

trees, on mountains

As distant as the curving of

the earth

Where the snow hangs still in

the middle of the air.

Rolling onto our sides, her left and my right, had spun-up a slight smile on her natural face, untarnished by Mary Kaye. I had attempted to give her my interpretation, “love is like my moans and groans that hang on these strange orange walls.” Her sly smile had transformed into a wave of laughter. She finally had responded, “you’re totally weird Connor Ford, but at least you make the effort to touch my heart. You’re a keeper but a lifetime will be needed for you to reach those distant mountains.”

I had not been the only one to mention the past. After our love-making we had stayed in bed until dinner downstairs. She had never asked me much about mine and Amy’s relationship. The only thing Camilla knew specifically was that I had caught Amy in an affair in 2012. For some reason, she was interested in details. Pretty much during the entire two plus years we had been dating, she knew only a framework of my past. I thought it strange that she had waited until shortly before our engagement to probe into such a natural subject—the background of the one you have just promised to marry. She wanted to put flesh on the past skeleton of my life.

Camilla started at the beginning, more specifically, the beginning of mine and Amy Vickers’ relationship. I was open and honest. I knew from experience that dishonesty in any degree was no way to build a sustainable foundation for any two people, especially two people who were promising to spend the rest of their lives together in holy matrimony.

I had shared how Amy and I had met at Boaz High School and had started dating when I was in the eleventh grade and she was in the tenth. It was, for me at least, true love. I thought it was for Amy. Until I learned several months later that she had lied to me. It was in April of 1971 that a friend of mine had shared with me a rumor he had heard. That in the ninth grade, Amy had dated Brandon Gore and that he had gotten her pregnant. When I confronted Amy about it she at first had denied even having sex with him, much less becoming pregnant. I shared that the love I had for Amy enabled me to forgive her after she finally confessed. She made me believe that she had made a mistake, that Brandon Gore was three years older than her and had manipulated her into having sex. One time and that she had never been pregnant, never even thinking she was pregnant.

The rest of the weekend was spent answering Camilla’s questions. I never got mad or even frustrated with her. Although it continued to puzzle me why she had waited so long to bring up the past, I was patient and wanted to be as open as possible. She covered a lot of ground, about twenty-five years of my life. I think she agreed with me on the importance of honesty and trust in our relationship. As we drove back home on Sunday afternoon, I felt I had violated my own rule by withholding the fact that Amy’s affair had been with Brandon Gore, the same Brandon Gore she had sex with in the ninth grade.

We arrived home just a little after dark. I felt Camilla and I both needed a little breathing room, so I drove to the office. I opened my email and soon became bored with a long list of questions Bobby had left me concerning a couple of witnesses in my report. My mind couldn’t get interested in his case. But, my newest case flooded my mind when I noticed the keys to Adam Parker’s home and office still lying beside my computer.

I drove to the one-story rental house on West Mann Avenue, just past Snead College. From the outside, it looked old, virtually the same age as all the other houses surrounding the school. Inside, was a different story. The house had been completely remodeled. It wasn’t fancy, but it was clean, bright, and had the feel of simple elegance. The walls were all painted beige and the floors were oak hardwood with a natural finish. I must have misunderstood Marissa. I thought she had implied her father’s house was, at a minimum, fully disheveled. I had been expecting to have to hold my breath as I squeezed between piles of books and mountains of garbage. All six rooms were neat and tidy: two bedrooms, a study, a bath/laundry room, a den/kitchen combination and a large sun-room across the entire back of the house. It was obvious the sun-room had been added when the house was remodeled.

I had ignored Marissa’s note in the middle of the den floor when I had arrived, choosing instead to take a full tour. After playing with the automatic blinds built into the glass windows out back I had returned to Adam’s study and the journal entry Marissa’s note had suggested I read. She had left it open on the giant roll-top desk in the corner. The entry was dated January 1, 1981. It was over a page long. Adam was in the ninth grade at Dearborn High School in Chicago. His parents, both professors of linguistics at the University of Chicago, were the cold cerebral type.

Adam shared his deepest thoughts about what a horrible Christmas vacation he had as his parents tried to instill in him the importance of good grades and setting goals at an early age. Adam used some graphic language to describe how his father castigated him about his laziness and his unwillingness to deal with reality. It seems Adam had made a B on his first semester report card, the first grade less than an A he had since second grade. It was particularly damning because it was in English.

Marissa had boldly written in her note for me to read the sideways writing that Adam had apparently written much later than the first day of 1981. It read, “it was that Christmas holiday that I first realized I would never be able to please my parents, but for some strange reason (one I will forever be eternally grateful. Reader, I’m not fully sure what I mean here.) I will be eternally grateful that they instilled in me the deep longing for dissatisfaction.”

I had carried Adam’s 1991 journal out into the sun-room when my iPhone vibrated. It was Camilla and she was suggesting I come home. Emily was there wanting my help. I turned off the lights, locked the door and drove home to Hickory Hollow, the log cabin my dear parents had left me in their Joint Will.

Chapter 9

Monday morning came too soon. I even skipped my walk to Oak Drive and back. Emily had stayed until nearly 1:00 a.m. It was like her and Camilla had performed a well-orchestrated double-team exploration into my sordid past. I was fortunate both loved me, even though for two hours or so I wouldn’t have bet a nickle Emily had the will or capacity to accept that the responsibility for the breakup and divorce of her parents was complicated and that blame lay at the feet of both her mother and father. This morning, I had mixed feelings whether we all had made the right decision. Emily would move in with me, for now, while she settled into her new job at Gadsden Regional Medical Center; Camilla would remain in her Sundown Apartment; and I would try my best to leave my investigative bent at the office while I was at home.

I had just sat down at my desk with a cup of Blair’s coffee when my iPhone vibrated. It was Joe. “Good morning Joe. Field work first thing Monday morning?” I asked.

“Uh, actually, I slept a little later and just left Grumpy’s.” It was a local diner. A good place to eat a cheap meal and to hear even cheaper gossip. “I just heard some news. Haven’t confirmed anything, but, if true, it hits pretty close to home.”

“Okay, you can tell me.” I said, wishing I wasn’t always so damn impatient.

“Lawton Hawks was found dead late last night. He was murdered. I knew you would want to know.” Joe was right. He knew that Lawton Hawks was Camilla’s father. He didn’t know they weren’t close, in fact, they were estranged. But, he was still her father.

“What else have you heard?” I realized that rumors and gossip were often false but sometimes there were slivers of truth rolling off a few yelping tongues.

“He was found behind the new Dollar General being built on East Mill Avenue, just right up the road from Grumpy’s. It seems two guys on the construction crew found him behind the dumpster sitting out back. I’ve noticed in passing there is a tall wooden fence along the back side of the property. I suspect it was a fairly secret place to dump a body.” Joe said. I could tell he was driving because I could hear his radio in the background. It always was on and always tuned to WQSB in Albertville.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“That’s about all, but I’ll keep you posted. I should see you late afternoon. Just to let you know, I worked several hours over the weekend. That’s why I’ve been a little lazy this morning.”

“No problem. Joe, you’re doing good work. Keep it up.” I said, knowing full well I wasn’t fully satisfied, heck, I wasn’t even half-way satisfied. But, that didn’t mean Joe wasn’t doing a good job. I couldn’t help but recall Adam Parker’s statement he had written sideways along a January 1, 1981 journal entry: “I will be eternally grateful that my parents instilled in me the deep longing for dissatisfaction.” I understood, at least in part, what Adam meant. Some people seem to thrive on dissatisfaction. I was one of them.

After hanging up with Joe, I called Camilla. She was still home. Since it was Monday, she was off today. As my phone rang the third time, I was feeling like I should have returned home to see her. When she answered, I rationalized a phone call was appropriate since her and her father were the furthest thing from close.

“Hello handsome, you already missing me?” Camilla said. I could picture her in the kitchen, sipping coffee, and staring out the windows above the sink across the back yard and towards the pond. She loved seeing the ducks when they were swimming. At times, depending if the ducks were in their favorite spot, you could only see their heads above a wooden fence rail. The elevation of the house and pond created a weird scene. Camilla had said more than once, “sometimes I feel like those ducks, my head is disconnected from my body. I live in my head and I’m paddling around with invisible feet trying to find my way.”

“Baby, I’ve got some news. It’s about your father.”

“My father. Remember. I don’t acknowledge having a father.” Camilla said, saying pretty much what I had expected her to say. Funny, I had wanted all weekend to ask her a few questions about her past, including some details concerning her fully dysfunctional family. Now, I wasn’t sure if I’d made the right decision to listen and respond to Camilla’s questions and to leave mine for another day.

“Camilla, I’ve just heard that your father is dead. He was found this morning. Right now, all I have is gossip. He may have been murdered.”

“It doesn’t really surprise me. I’ve kind of expected something like this. For years I fantasized about killing him myself. He had a subtle way of pissing people off. I don’t know how he was able to be elected five times to the Boaz City Council.” I think Camilla would have kept talking. I wasn’t sure exactly how this was affecting her.

“Why don’t you come hangout with Blair today. You two could go out for lunch. I wish I could join you, but I have to go to Guntersville.”

“Thanks Connor. I do appreciate your concern, but I’m okay. We can talk more about it tonight if you need to. Bye, drive carefully.” As she ended our call I suspected she was struggling just a little more than she was revealing.

All I knew about the root of Camilla’s dislike, almost hatred, of her father, was that a few years ago he had dumped his wife, Camilla’s mother, Darlene, and taken up with Rita Cranford, a woman nearly ten years his senior. In Boaz, and probably most everywhere, the natural pattern is for a man to seek out a younger woman. I had some experience with that. Of course, everywhere else wasn’t Boaz. It had its own mystery water.

And, every other younger woman wasn’t Rita Cranford. Even though she was probably sixty years old, she looked twenty-five, well, for sure, no more than forty. It must have been in her genes because it sure wasn’t because she had been pampered. Her husband, Billy Cranford, and Rita had started Brite Look Cleaners in the late seventies. At the time of Billy’s death, 2009, I believe, they had a three-store chain with locations in Boaz, Albertville, and Guntersville. It was common knowledge that if it hadn’t been for Rita’s work ethic and business acumen, Brite Look Cleaners would have struggled to survive.

Camilla hated Lawton as much for marrying up as she did for dumping her mother. I knew she would always blame him for the onset of her mother’s Parkinson’s, and for his unwillingness to provide more than a penance of support after she became unable to work.

My meeting Monday afternoon was with Mark Hale. He is one of two detectives with the Marshall County Sheriff’s Department. Mark and I have known each other since 1992 when we both attended the police academy. We both worked as patrol officers with the city of Dothan. In 1996, he had stayed on as a sergeant while I moved on to work at Bobby Sorrells, Investigations. Eventually, Mark left the police department and went to work for the Houston County Sheriff, working his way up to detective. Our relationship had become tense, to say the least, when I was arrested for the murder of Brandon Gore. Our solid friendship deteriorated more over the following fourteen months I was in jail. Our relationship was only semi-restored in 2014 after my acquittal. It was two years later before I saw him again. Sometime in mid-2014 he had taken a job with the Madison County Sheriff’s office because his latest girlfriend lived in the small Marshall County town of Grant.

Long story short, things didn’t work out for Mark in Madison County and so, in the summer of 2016, he accepted a detective position with the Marshall County Sheriff’s Department. Over the past year we had made great strides in fully restoring our friendship, and our working relationship. As much as we could, we exchanged information. It was this reason I had called him late yesterday afternoon. I wanted and needed his thoughts on the Adam Parker case. Now, I had two reasons to talk with my old friend. The Lawton Hawks case would currently be getting his and his partner’s full attention.

I had driven over the causeway into Guntersville when Mark called my iPhone. “Sorry buddy, bad timing I know. I should have called you an hour ago. I’m back in Boaz. It’s going to be later before I can meet.” Mark said. I could hear the squawking of a police radio in the background.

“I just past Publix’s. Should I wait on you?” I could have gotten pissed for Mark wasting my time letting me drive all the way to Guntersville. But, I didn’t. I valued our friendship and didn’t know exactly how strong it was given our rocky past. More importantly, I needed him. He was a valuable resource.

“Probably not. I may be here a while. I suppose you’ve heard of the murder right up the street from your office?”

“I’ve heard some rumors.” I said.

“Pull in to Burger King and grab you a cup of coffee. I’ll call you back in no more than ten minutes.” Mark said, whispering to someone that he was coming.

“Okay, will do.”

It was twenty minutes before Mark called. I was halfway through my second cup of coffee. “Sorry again, this scene’s a party.”

“I appreciate your time. I know you’ve got your hands full, especially now. I’ll not take much of your time. What can you tell me about the Adam Parker case?” I asked.

“That it’s not a case. Have you not seen the autopsy?”

“I have.”

“Then, you know Parker died of natural causes.” Mark said.

“Maybe, maybe not. I received an email from Parker’s daughter last night. She’s in Chicago burying her father as we speak. Marissa, the daughter, said her father’s latest physical exam shows that he was in almost perfect condition. She attached a copy which included a statement by his doctor that his heart was as good as any twenty-year-old that he had ever examined.” I said having pondered this since reading it earlier this morning.

“Still no case. Connor, you know the Sheriff’s office doesn’t pursue cases without a reason, a reason that, at least at a minimum, indicates there has been a crime, that the victim died from criminal actions.”

“I know. I know. But, I’m getting those vibes.”

“Connor, let me stop you right there. The expert of all experts in criminal investigations, the one and only Bobby Sorrells, would rip your tongue out right now if he heard you.” Mark said, and I knew it was the truth.

“You’re right. ‘Objective facts don’t have feelings, and neither should you.’ I can hear him now. By the way, he’s in town, working on a case with Dalton Martin, a triple homicide out of Jackson County.” I said.

“Listen, I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”

“Mark, are you telling me that nothing, absolutely nothing, has crossed your mind, or your desk, that seems even a smidgen odd in regards to Adam Parker’s death.” I had to ask because I knew enough about Mark that he had a great imagination, one that he allowed to roam freely but while at the same time didn’t influence his final conclusions. That was reserved strictly to objective facts.

“I really need to go.” Mark said but then paused and hummed. This was Mark thinking and pondering, filling the air with a virtual hand, outstretched, palm open and facing towards on-coming traffic. STOP. WAIT.

The humming got boring. “One thing, and it’s probably about as relevant as the color of the red-light at the intersection of Highways 431 and 168 the moment Adam Parker’s body was discovered.”

“Now, you’ve got my attention. If you believe there’s not a chance in hell that its important, I have itching ears.” I was simply wasting breath, Mark was a solid detective.

“His car, Parker’s car, was not parked the way he normally parked it.” Was Mark trying to be funny?

“How would you know that?” I asked.

“It’s called investigation.” Mark said drawling out the thirteen-letter word.

“Can I ask how you determined this?”

“After the Boaz Police Department called our dispatch I drove to Boaz. They were extra cautious and wanted us to look, just to make sure it wasn’t anything suspicious. While there, I queried a few star-gazers. One girl, I think a student, said that Parker always pulled into his parking spot beside the science building. He had a designated spot since he was a professor.”

“So, you’re saying when his body was found in his car it had been backed into his parking spot. Right?” I asked.

“Yep. Now you could care less what color the light was.” Mark said, at first confusing me.

“The light?”

“Hey man, you figure it out. I’ve got to go.” Mark was about to hang up on me when I thought to ask.

“Quickly, do you remember the name of the student who told you that?”

“Hold on, I’m sure I jotted it down in my black-book.” Mark didn’t hum but a few seconds. “Goble, Natalie Goble.” See you Connor.” Our call ended.

By now I was over halfway back to Boaz. The remaining eight or so miles all I could think about was why would Natalie Goble be hanging around a possible crime scene. I let my imagination loose. As I drove into the parking lot behind Connor Ford Investigations I thought I caught a glimpse of Paige Todd in the background.

Chapter 10

Monday evening was good and bad. Emily was already home when I arrived a few minutes before six. We hadn’t talked about it, but for some reason I was expecting her to show up with at least a U-Haul trailer filled with a few pieces of furniture, a ton of clothes, a couple dozen novels, and her iPad. I was right about her iPad. Surprisingly, she had only two suitcases of clothes, no furniture, and no books. Emily loved legal and crime thrillers nearly as much as I did but she declared that she was now fully committed to e-books. “They are cheaper and lighter. I can carry an entire library in my iPad.” Over pizza that Camilla had brought, the three of us spent an hour at the kitchen bar alternating our discussion between Netflix and which series we were currently watching, and how substitute writer, Reed Farrel Coleman, was doing with the Jesse Stone series after its creator, author Robert B. Parker, had died.

It had all gone downhill after I made the mistake of asking a silly question, “I wonder which came first, Jesse or Jake?” Of course, Jesse wasn’t real, but Jake was. My mention of Boaz police officer Jake Stone had prompted Camilla to mention Lawton, which precipitated Emily marching Amy onto center stage. It seems ever since Amy was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, she has become sentimental, often cornering Emily and making her listen to stories from high school and the early years of our marriage. After Emily’s orientation at the hospital and during her drive to Boaz, Amy had called and shared a story about Lawton Hawks and Darlene Jenkins.

I was surprised that Emily relayed so many details, and I was surprised she didn’t already know one fact. While Amy and I were in the eleventh grade at Boaz High School, so was Lawton and Darlene. While Amy and I were spending our private time kissing and heavy petting, Darlene was sharing front row seats with Lawton. She had gotten pregnant and, in the spring of 1985, had given birth to a near perfect baby girl. Amy had either omitted telling Emily that Camilla was that child or Emily had failed to listen carefully before.

The tension had gotten so intense between Emily and Camilla, I did what I often do and asked another question. This time, it made things even worse, especially for me. I had asked Emily how Amy was doing. This is when I learned she was moving back to Boaz. My world was growing smaller and smaller. The news wasn’t totally unexpected. I had been surprised that Amy had stayed in Dothan after Brandon’s death. She was now either following Emily or me. The only good thing about the bad thing was it seemed to reconcile Emily and Camilla. I went to bed early to avoid their continual insistence that I had to “be there” for Amy as she faces such a monumental health crisis.

I was halfway through an article from Adam Parker’s light-colored briefcase Marissa had left with me. The author argued that “if fetuses are human persons, one cannot be pro-choice on abortion, just as one cannot be pro-choice on slavery and at the same time maintain that slaves are human persons.” I suspected Parker had a response but before I could read it, Camilla called my iPhone.

“Sorry about last night. I know that was difficult on you. Please know I’m fully committed to you, to us. I’ll do everything I can to help you support Amy.”

Camilla could be a hell-cat when she got her dander up but at her core she was kind, respectful, and encouraging. “Thanks, but you seem to indicate I have some moral duty to my ex-wife.” I said contemplating what my duty would be if Amy stayed in Dothan.

“You do. Mark 10:8: ‘And they twain shall be one flesh: so then they are no more twain, but one flesh.’ Now, you’re quoting scripture? I thought you’d outgrown that book.” I said, realizing how difficult it must be for a Christian to have to live with so many rules.

“In 2011, the one flesh split. We returned to twain.”

“Funny. You want to know something else that is funny, funny in a sick sort of way?” Camilla asked. I figured she was between haircuts or perms.

“Mayor Mohler was in for a haircut. He normally sees Barbara but she’s out today. I don’t think he’s made the connection between you and me.”

I just had to interrupt, comedian that I am. “Twain, you and me.”

“For now. By the way, that’s something we could talk about if you ever have time, all with Emily and Amy coming to live with you.”

“Funny. You mentioned a sick funny, what was it?” I asked.

“The Mayor, like most everybody else, was talking about the first murder in Boaz in ages. I suspect he also doesn’t know that Lawton was my father. Anyway, he said he hoped it, the murder, wasn’t some sort of ritual killing.”

“Why would he say that?” I asked.

“I was about to tell you. Quit asking questions and listen. It seems there were three B’s etched on his back.”

“Like bumblebees?”

“No stupid. The letters, alphabet. B as in boy.” Camilla said.

“Can I ask a question?”

“I doubt if I could stop you. But hurry, I have another appointment walking in.

“Did the Mayor say anything else, like what he thought the B’s stood for?” I asked.

“Nope, just said three capital letter B’s were carved, no, I think he said etched in. He did later, I think, say the B’s were burnt into the flesh.”

“Let me know if you hear anything else.”

“I will. It’s a shame, my callousness is a shame.”

Camilla didn’t give me a chance to respond. Her feelings for her father, and even her mother, were so foreign to me. I had always been close to mother and her mother, my maternal grandmother, and even though Dad and I knocked heads, I could never in a million years imagine me being so nonchalant after he passed, not to mention, if he died in such a brutal way.

I spent the rest of the day at my round table reading from both of Adam’s briefcases. I didn’t even leave for lunch, opting instead for a grilled cheese and a small bowl of vegetable soup from Pirates Cove. Blair was evolving into a real asset. These days, secretaries were eager to avoid domesticating their jobs for their boss. I was glad Blair had made it a part of her everyday routine to ask if I was hungry or needed a cup of coffee. I guess, since I was such a father-figure, she felt compelled to take care of her daddy.

At 5:30, just before I was about to leave the office, Marissa called. She relayed that Adam’s funeral yesterday had been the hardest thing she had ever endured. No doubt, her and her father were close. She said staying with her mother had been nearly as difficult as watching her father’s casket lowered into the ground. I learned that Adam and Anna Parker had divorced in 2000. According to Marissa, Anna just finally gave out; Adam had driven her crazy from his growing perfectionism. In 2001 he had left lab work and accepted a job teaching Biology at the University of Tennessee. I learned that he had stayed there until moving to Boaz in 2014 to teach the same subject at Snead State Community College. The main issue Marissa had with staying a few days with her mother was that she had become a literal hoarder since Adam moved out in 2000. “Her place stinks, books, Bibles, and garbage are everywhere. I saw several rats and no cats. I can’t believe I stayed with her.”

I shared with her a little of what was going on in my own personal life—something I rarely did with clients. “When are you coming back to Boaz?” I asked.

“Not for a while. I’m headed back to Nashville in a couple of hours. I can’t stand another night in this rat hole. Anyway, I’m a month behind at school and I’ve only been away ten days. I have two article deadlines to deal with, not to mention two courses to teach.”

“Sometimes, I’d like to hear more about your work, maybe learn something about your religious philosophy.” I said.

“My theology might surprise you. Listen, I’m needing to go but wanted to share something else, another sort of surprise.”

“Okay, I’m listening.” I said.

“Mother shared with me some email correspondence she had recently with dad. He had contacted her about his will, something about her going ahead and deeding the house to me instead of leaving it in their names and having to go through probate when the last of them died. I got the feeling that dad was somewhat anticipating his death, but I may be wrong. He may have just been his usual self, trying to plan out every little thing.”

“Estate planning is important. More people need to do it before they die or become legally incompetent.” I said.

“Sounds like a lawyer. Of course, you were one for, what, ten years?” Camilla asked.

“Actually, I’m still licensed to practice law. But, those days are over.”

“I bet you’ve got some stories to tell. Since you’re interested in my work, we’ll have to swap our fishing tales sometimes.” Marissa said.

“Seems like everybody here lately is interested in my past. I suggest we focus on learning what killed your perfectionist father.” I said.

“Okay, we’ll talk about his past and leave yours alone. Bye for now.”

After we got off the phone I made a note to visit Adam’s office at Snead. I figured that’s where he kept his computer.

The Boaz Schoolteacher–1st ten chapters

Prologue

I remember it like it was yesterday. It was 2002 and I was home for Christmas. It had been a whole year since I had visited my mother and my grandmother in our hometown of Boaz, Alabama. This year, unlike the previous five years where I had stayed in Los Angeles fully focused on my high school teaching and writing, I had seen them in April when they had flown to Washington, D.C. to see me awarded the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction in the Great Hall of the Folger Shakespeare Library.

I had driven my rental car from the Birmingham-Shuttlesworth International Airport and arrived in Boaz during late afternoon of the 23rd. Instead of going straight to mother’s house east of Boaz on Bruce Road, I opted to drive west on Highway 168 to old downtown Boaz to see if the fountain in the center of town was active or lying dormant. It had become something of a tradition for me after my grandmother had shared the story of how Darla, my mother, had met her husband, Raymond Radford. I loved Mama Bev’s oft repeated statement, “love is never stagnant, it is bursting forth, new every day.” It was, to me, a silly and too simple an expression. I had never known anything but the stagnant type of love. When I parked and walked to the center of town, the fountain was worse than stagnant. There was no water anywhere in sight. The huge basin that fed the fountain was empty.

I never saw anyone. I was walking back to my car parked in a dark parking lot on the south end of town and past the little building that housed the two public restrooms when someone grabbed me from behind and forced a black hood over my head. The whisper of voices told me there were several of them. I was shoved into the back of what had to be a van and driven for miles. I knew I was going to die. I couldn’t sit up but could feel a combination of hard and soft hands traveling across my bare legs. One quick stop by the van and I could hear the vehicle’s tires rolling across a graveled road.

I was removed from the back of the vehicle and led inside a tent. I knew it was a tent by the smell. Everyone knows that Army tent smell. Over the next hour I was laid across a bed covered with what had to be an animal skin and raped by at least five men. They made lots of sounds. The man inside me would moan and groan. The bystanders would laugh and jeer. The only words I ever heard were, “teach the little bitch not to write about Boaz.” Maybe I shouldn’t have set my one and only novel, Out of the Darkness, in my hometown.

When the five had each taken a couple of turns each thrusting inside me without a single condom, they drove back to town leaving me behind the public restrooms. That day, I never saw one of the men nor the vehicle they were driving. They left me hooded and tied up enough to make their getaway before I could untie my hands and remove the hood from my head.

It was as though they wanted me to know who they were. I did. But, I never went to the police. Instead, I drove to McDonald’s and went inside to the restroom, refreshed my makeup and straightened my clothes the men had hastily redressed me with, drank a cup of coffee, and drove home to an eager mother and grandmother worried that my plane had been late.

That was nearly fifteen years ago, nine months before Cullie, my beautiful daughter, was born. When I first saw her face and the sweetness of her smile, and felt the tenderness of her skin, I swore to myself I would forget the horror of that night, and instead, invest my life keeping Cullie safe and focused on the good all around her.

Chapter 1

Once again, I had not slept well. It was the sixth night since Cullie and I moved back to Boaz. The dreams, virtual nightmares, were no doubt triggered by sleeping in my bed, in my old room. I hadn’t slept here since 1996 when I finished college and moved to Los Angeles. During the intervening twenty years I had visited at least once every couple of years, but I had always made sure I slept at a local motel.

I had to make some changes. Maybe I would ask Nanny Bev, my grandmother, if I could have mother’s room upstairs. That was probably a bad idea. Mother, Darla Sims Radford, may be needing it herself. Her husband, Raymond Radford, is in some deep shit with the law, accused of a multitude of crimes, including murder. Mom hasn’t been too open about her situation, but I suspect Raymond’s grandson, Ryan, will pressure Mom out of the sprawling Country Club mansion if his grandfather is convicted and sent to prison. Maybe, a new coat of paint and some different bedroom furniture will chase out the demons who have homesteaded my room since I was a kid.

I pulled on a sweatshirt and a pair of jogging pants and walked down the hall and into the kitchen. It was 4:30 a.m. and the coffee was waiting, thanks to my automatic coffee brewer that I had brought. I couldn’t help but feel bad over the scene Bev and I had when Cullie and I had moved in. Nanny was a creature of habit, hated change, and believed anything smart enough to make coffee without your presence was also smart enough to be a spy.

The thought also reminded me of why Cullie and I were here. Bev was growing more senile by the day and Darla was too preoccupied to see the trouble Bev was in. It should have been apparent. Nanny was going on ninety years old but had a daughter whose dream had become a nightmare.

Darla was my biological mother, but I could hardly call her mom or mother. It was Nanny who had raised me. Darla had gotten pregnant at her high school graduation party in May 1972. She was still a kid herself. But, not one incapable of hooking up, eventually marrying, Raymond Radford, the man whose son, Randall, was one of the ones Darla had sex with that fateful graduation night. Raymond left his wife of twenty years for the young and pretty Darla. To his credit, he had offered to raise me, let me live in his big house. Nanny would not have it and literally made Darla sign me over for adoption. I doubt if I would ever forgive my mother for throwing me away.

Early morning was my time. It was now an ingrained habit, virtually like breathing. Since high school I had been a scribbler, finding deep satisfaction in putting words on paper. During college I had learned a lot about the craft of writing, but my short stories seemed hollow, with uninteresting plots. Not to mention, my characters were stiff and narrow. It was my first teaching job in Los Angeles where the early morning routine became the habit that continues today. Before my day job began, I had written at least a thousand words towards my current story. I owe my students, rather their seemingly unbearable lives, for transforming my writing from a head knowledge to a heart-throbbing adventure. My life, for the first time, had discovered meaning. I finally had a purpose and it was two-fold. Creating stories, short and long, that moved people, entertaining but also helping them discover something that made their lives more bearable or maybe even spurred them to reconstruct their circumstances and become a whole new person. The second purpose, closely related, was to inspire my students to read and write for themselves. I strived to motivate them to learn the power of words, others and their own. If they did, I knew the stories they read, and the words they scribbled, would provide virtual experiences, the cheap way: by traveling, hiking, swimming, flying, failing, succeeding, and dreaming. This would give them a better chance of coping with their current lives, and hopefully creating a better one in the days ahead.

This morning was the first in seven days that I had come to my writing spot. I had adopted this corner of the little used basement, windowless and damp, while I was in high school. Back then I was not a daily writer, scribbler was really what I was, but it was here that I attempted to fictionalize Darla’s story. It’s hard to realize how the little snippets I wrote, hardly the makings of the most rudimentary scenes, grew over the years into Out of the Darkness, my novel that won the PEN/Faulkner prize for best fiction in 2002. During the twelve or thirteen years it had taken to complete the story, it evolved far from where it had begun: Darla’s consensual sex with Randall Radford and the other four members of the Flaming Five (as they were called because of their basketball prowess), her pregnancy, and my birth nine months later. One thing I had learned in Out of the Darkness, was that horrible life experiences did not have to define one’s future. That too was what my protagonist had learned. I still had a way to go before this principle settled in my mind and heart as easily as my habit of rising at 4:30 a.m. every morning.

Today, I chose to work on another project I had put in a desk drawer nearly two years ago. Out of Control was born after that fateful night in December 2002 when I was gang-raped by the sons of the Flaming Five, including Ryan Radford, Raymond’s grandson. Sporadically over the past fifteen years I had attempted to gain momentum, but I always seemed to hit the wall. It was like my mind and my body were fighting each other. I guess it was because I was too close to the event. It had happened to me and my entire being, to protect itself, fought my every effort to relive the horrifying two-plus hours. Maybe now, back in the dark and dingy basement, where my only prize-winning story had sprouted, I could convince my writing mind and heart that my life would benefit, maybe even begin to thrive, by going deep to destroy the demons that were assaulting me lying upstairs in the bed of my youth.

At 6:15 a.m., I returned to my room, showered, dressed, and drove myself and a waiting Cullie to Boaz High School. It was my first day as an English teacher and Cullie’s as a ninth-grade student at the high school I had graduated from in 1991. I hoped our time here would be as rewarding as the last six years at Eleanor Roosevelt High School in New York City. For reasons that were not difficult to list, I doubted things would be as good.

Chapter 2

“I’ll have four eggs over-easy and a pound of bacon.” Ryan Radford said as the young and shapely waitress multi-tasked writing down his order and fending off his left hand that was attempting to rub her lower back.

“You’re going to die at 40 if you don’t lay off that fat.” Fulton Billingsley said. “You may be as tall as your dear late father, but he used his head, exercised, and ate sensibly.”

“What’s so important we meet today and not Sunday’s as usual?” Justin Adams asked sipping a steaming cup of coffee.

“I have a final walk-through at 7:00, so let’s make this quick. This is my biggest sale in Pebblebrook.” Danny Ericson mumbled as he wolfed down a stack of pancakes. “And Fulton, if you call a meeting, make sure you show up on time.

“Are you going to answer my question? Justin said motioning for the newest and hottest waitress at Grumpy’s Diner to come take his order.

“Two words. Katie Sims.” Fulton said just as Ryan moved his hand across his throat indicating for Fulton to go silent until Tina, the waitress, came and went.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Danny said. “We promised a decade or two ago to never mention the lovely Katie.

“She’s in town. For good.” Fulton always liked being rather terse.

“For whose good?” Ryan asked.

“Stupid. She’s moved here from New York City. She’s teaching English at the high school.” Fulton said almost becoming windy.

“How do you know?” Justin asked.

“I didn’t see her, but she came to the bank yesterday afternoon to open a checking account for her daughter. I saw it early this morning on the New Accounts printout.” Fulton said alternating looking at each of his three friends and scanning the dining room for potential eavesdroppers.

“I say this doesn’t even justify a quick heads-up on the phone, much less a meeting. What’s the big deal?” Ryan said cramming three slices of bacon into his mouth at one time.

“I agree.” Danny added. “She doesn’t know anything. We made sure of that. Even if she did, all we need do is deny everything she would say. By the way, where is Warren? Why is he not here?”

“Nashville. A pastor’s conference of some sort. He’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll tell him then.” Fulton said eating the last spoonful of his oatmeal.

Ryan let out a low groan as he looked over at Tina two tables over. “I wouldn’t mind having that for breakfast. Come to think of it, I have an idea. Why don’t we do us a little replay with the lovely Katie. She liked it rough, just like me.”

“Ryan, get your mind out of the gutter. We’re not teenagers anymore.” Fulton said regretting having to spend a minute with the crude and vile Radford.

“As Ryan says, what’s the big deal?” Justin asked, looking at Fulton.

“Cullie Sims was born September 23, 2003. I saw it on her account application. That’s exactly nine months after our little roll in the hay with Katie Sims. Doesn’t that strike any of you as more than mere coincidence?” Fulton was always the most serious of the sons of the Flaming Five, the fathers who broke every high school basketball record within a hundred miles when they thrilled audiences during the early seventies.

“Let me make sure I understood you. Exactly. You are saying that one of us, including Warren, is the father of Cullie Sims?” Danny asked, laying his cell phone face down beside his plate.

“Right. How could it be anything else? I don’t know much about genes and science, but it seems to me that one of our little sperms found its way to one of Katie’s little eggs.” Fulton’s statement surprised the other three. It was so out of character for him to attempt any humor.

“I say you’re making too much of this. That was nearly fifteen years ago. What would she gain from bringing it up now? We would deny it and she would look silly. Even if she proved that I was the father of Cullie, couldn’t I say that we had consensual sex and had never been told Katie became pregnant.” Justin said.

“Let’s hope, at the worst, it would be that simple.” Fulton said looking for the time on his cell phone. “I have to go.”

“Me too.” Danny added.

As the four went their separate ways it wasn’t a stretch to guess that each of them, today, and Warren, tomorrow, would spend countless time pondering the potential effects from Katie Sims move to Boaz.

Chapter 3

“Literature will change your life for the better if you will give it a chance.” I said leaning back against the giant old desk and facing a room full of tenth graders virtually unaware of my presence. Half the class wasn’t even looking at me, peering into their cell phones instead.

“I will not ask you to put away your phones, to sit up straight, to look at me, to listen. That will be up to you. If you prefer to eat bologna at your desk while I am serving filet mignon up here, that’s not a problem. It will just be more for the few of you who will be both present and hungry.”

A red-haired, pimpled faced young man in the back stood up and started walking towards my desk. “I’m hungry right now for that steak. Where’s the beef?” The class belched out a roar that would send Mr. Harrison, the high school principal, into the room if he were walking the halls within a hundred feet.

“Come on up. You are Ben Gilbert. Right?” I said glancing at my roster.

“That’s right.” Ben said, already standing before me, his face turning red as he realized he was making a fool of himself.

“Sit here if you like.” I said, pointing to a chair beside my desk that faced the classroom. Ben sat without a word as though he was being seated at a restaurant. I walked to a microwave in the corner of the classroom that was almost hidden behind a huge bookcase filled with books I would loan to anyone who promised to read. I opened the microwave’s door and removed a plate. Walking back towards Ben, I said, “Here’s your filet mignon and a sharp steak knife. I hope you enjoy it. I’m so pleased you were willing to act on your hunger this morning.” Half the class stood to see if I had given a real steak to Ben.

“Thanks Ben for giving us our first lesson of the day.” I walked to the blackboard behind my desk and wrote, ‘Literature builds experience.’ Turning to the class I said, “Most of you probably have heard that experience is the greatest teacher. That seems to argue that the more experiences you have the smarter you will become. There is just one problem. Does anyone know what it is?” I said walking to the long row of windows next to the outer wall.

“It takes a lot of time.” A plumb, purple-haired girl said from the desk in the far corner.

“Excellent response Joanie.” Thankful that I had taken the time to study last year’s Annual.

“Literature is a time-saver. If you will read, then you will gain experience. In a few hours with a book you can learn lesson after lesson the protagonist took a lifetime to learn.”

“What’s a protagonist?” Ben said with a mouthful of steak.

“It’s the main character in a story.” I said looking over the entire class, not seeing a single student peering into a cell phone. Several had gathered around Ben asking for him to share his treasure.

“So, if I have a lot of experiences, whether real or virtual, then I’ll automatically be the brightest bulb in the room?” Clara Ellington said from the front desk in the center row clearly in the running for teacher’s pet.

“Great question Clara. What do you think the answer is?”

“It doesn’t seem to follow, not naturally. I say something is missing.” She said sitting up even straighter in her chair if that was possible, pressing her designer eyeglasses upward a little on her nose.

“And, great answer also. Experience alone is insufficient for true learning. It is a vital ingredient, but you also need to add in a heavy dose of thinking. Now we are at the heart of Literature, the greatest benefit of all.”

“Thinking, Literature will teach me to think, teach me how to think?” Clara transformed her statement into a question.

“Exactly. When you read the story of our protagonist, let’s call him Bill, taking the subway in New York City every day from the ghetto to Brooklyn and high school, what is he learning? Let’s say he sees a preppy young man that gets on the train in Queens, all dressed up and carrying a briefcase. After a few days the two begin to talk. Bill learns Bob is a lawyer who lived in a series of foster homes most of his teenage years but, through hard work, determination, and a little luck, overcame the obstacles that kept most young men his age and in his position, down and out. If Bill will think about Bob and what happened to him, he might begin to believe there is a chance he can overcome his homelessness. Bob’s experience gave Bill hope mainly because he engaged his mind and didn’t let his circumstances drive his emotional despair.”

“That was awesome Miss Sims. I’ll be hungry for more in the morning.” Ben said as the class again erupted in laughter.

“I suspect you were referring to the mignon. There will be an all you can eat steak supper at my place in the country for every student who pursues Literature this next year like you were a starving man. Or woman.”

The students stayed fully engaged the remainder of the period. It was a good first class and a good way to begin my teaching career at Boaz High School in the fall of 2016. I sure hoped my third teaching job would be as rewarding as the six years I had spent at Eleanor Roosevelt High School in Brooklyn, New York, teaching AP English Literature and Composition, and the eight years before that teaching English Literature, Poetry, and Creative Writing, at Marymount High School in Los Angeles, California.

Chapter 4

An end of the day fire alarm had delayed Mr. Harrison’s faculty meeting to the second day of school. According to Cindy Barker, my Language Arts counterpart, the head administrator was a stickler for relaying his rules and regulations and inspiring his teaching staff with philosophies that had secured his position for the past thirty years. It was hard to believe he had already been principal at Boaz High School for four years when I started as a freshman in August 1987.

“Get comfortable, this will take a while.” Cindy said as she and I, along with fifty or so other teachers, marched into the auditorium.

“How long? Cullie is waiting in my room and will be starving if I’m not back in thirty minutes.”

“At least an hour. Don’t think you can slip out. The last thing on Harrison’s agenda is introducing new teachers. He would fire you if you weren’t here to receive his recognition.” Cindy said checking her iPhone.

“What is Mr. Harrison’s policy concerning cell phones.” I said in case he didn’t cover this.

“For emergencies only, or for teaching purposes. He believes electronic devices are the bane of education. I’ve heard him call them ‘a tool of the devil.’”

Mr. Harrison and Patrick Wilkins walked across the stage with the assistant principal taking a seat in one of eight chairs behind and beside the giant podium at the center of the stage.

“Welcome ladies and gentlemen, my fellow teachers. I apologize for any inconvenience that may have been caused by the fire alarm at the end of the day yesterday. It was a malfunctioning cooler in the lunchroom. It overheated and triggered the alarm.

“I want to do something a little different this year. I suspect most of you have met our new teachers, but I wanted to take this opportunity to formally introduce them and allow you to learn a little more about them. Please, if you are one of our seven new teachers please come on the stage. Patrick and I have you a chair waiting.”

I hated being the center of attention, unless it was in my own classroom with my own students. I always felt everyone would know my story, my dark story, and would conclude that I was a person to be avoided. I reluctantly made my way to the stage.

Mr. Harrison went in alphabetic order. I was the last one he asked to come to the podium and give a short bio. Before Kenneth Alverson said a word, standing beside Mr. Harrison, he laid out the rules. I could tell my principal was a man who followed the rules. Mr. Harrison had said to tell everyone our professional history, including educational background and teaching experience if any, also to describe our personality in two or three words, and next, to tell the group what we liked to do in our spare time. Finally, he said, with a laugh, to tell everyone our deepest and darkest secret, ‘if it is one you don’t care to keep as a secret.’

Oh, this was just perfect. I had to impress everyone with my ability to remember four things I had been asked to share and, if that wasn’t bad enough, I had to make up a secret that I didn’t mind sharing. For a second, I thought I would be truthful and share how I was brutally raped fifteen years ago by five local men who everyone here knows. I guess Brenda Peyton, and her story, changed my mind. I needed to stick with something less horrible, a lite and funny story. Brenda shared how she had dreamed the night before she married that she could have done better finding a husband. She said she was thankful Brad was such a loving and forgiving man. She had the entire group roaring.

When it came my turn, I noticed Mr. Harrison looking at his watch. I figured he believed his agenda was behind schedule. Sometimes blessings come carefully disguised. I kept my speech short, totally on point, four points. I didn’t have any trouble remembering my outline but was a little disappointed that my secret didn’t earn a single laugh, at least not any I heard. “My secret is also a dream. I won the Nobel Prize for Literature.” I hoped no one thought I was being arrogant. I also hoped they would appreciate a cynical and paranoid personality type. These two descriptors didn’t garner any laughs either.

“I’m glad you’re here. And, I’m excited about learning a lot from you.” Cindy said when I returned to my seat. She must have noticed the beads of sweat across my forehead. I wished I hadn’t pulled my hair back this morning.

“Stop trying to be funny. You’re my inspiration. I’ve heard that two of your former students are now working on a creative writing master’s degree at the University of Alabama. The Boaz community is blessed to have an English instructor of your caliber.”

“We better listen to General Harrison or we both will be in the soup line.” Cindy said turning her iPhone face down on her lap.

For the next forty-five minutes our leader shared his teaching rules and regulations, along with his educational philosophy and vision. Most of what we were told I had already learned from reading the Pirate Practice, the school’s policy and procedures handbook for teachers and students. The only new thing I learned was Mr. Harrison believed in the power of prayer since he closed out his time with a plea for the Divine one to bless the new school year.

Mr. Wilkins, the assistant principal was younger, much younger than Mr. Harrison. He was probably in his mid-forties, like me. I whispered to Cindy, asking her if he had graduated from Boaz High School. She didn’t know.

Two things I quickly learned and hated them both. Mr. Wilkins oversaw lesson plans and demanded teachers have the following weeks submitted to him, both electronically and physically, by Thursday of the current week. This was so antiquated. Real teaching demands teacher flexibility. Teaching English Literature demands a heightened degree of teacher mobility. Literature, especially fiction pieces, are like mining gold. You never know what direction a promising vein will take you. No matter what the handsome Wilkins said, I would stick to my methods, those that had proven profitable since I learned Mr. Dawson’s secrets during my first year at Marymount High School in Los Angeles.

The second thing I didn’t like among Wilkins commands was his requirement that all supplemental materials had to be approved by him. What the hell? Later, back in my classroom and with Cindy searching for a snack in my little refrigerator in the corner of my room, I asked her about this arcane issue.

“He’s afraid the students will be exposed to something offensive, especially contrary to his Biblical beliefs. You know he is the Education Director at First Baptist Church of Christ?”

“Does Wilkins not know this is a school, an institute for learning, possibly even higher learning? Does he not know that even things offensive may be the truth?” I said, feeling my heart rate rising, just as it always did when I heard of any injustice.

“Welcome to Boaz Miss Katie Sims, this ain’t New York City.” Cindy said popping open the only Sprite I had and trying to incorporate a phrase from the popular salsa advertisement.

“I love Picante. I also love colloquialisms, local and national.” I said realizing Cullie had been sitting at my desk in the little office beside my classroom. “Sorry for the long faculty meeting. Are you ready to head out?”

“Been ready for an hour. Mom, can we go shopping this weekend?”

“I thought we had already been. Remember? Two days after we got here, even before visiting Darla?” I was guessing Cullie had figured out her clothing choices didn’t fit with the Southern girls in Boaz, Alabama.

“My jeans aren’t tight enough, nor are my blouses.” Cullie said crumbling a potato chip bag and tossing it towards a trash can in the corner.

“No way, but we will go if you will be reasonable.”

“Hey, you two, I’m leaving. Thanks for the Sprite.” Cindy said walking toward the hallway.

Chapter 5

“Rex and Rose Mary were the most appalling human beings I’ve ever seen. The poor kids. I think they should have been taken away from their deplorable parents and placed in foster care.” Cindy said as we exited the Cinema 16 in the Gadsden Mall.

“They were a dysfunctional family no doubt, but I was inspired how the brilliant and charismatic Rex captured the imaginations of his four children. He taught them physics, geology, and how to fearlessly embrace life.” I said, a little surprised by Cindy’s narrow interpretation of The Glass Castle.

“What good does the imagination do when the four darlings are cold, hungry, totally unkempt?” Cindy added as we walked to the Food Court in the middle of the mall. Cullie and Alysa, Cindy’s daughter, should be waiting at a table close to Chick-fil-A. “I’m not condoning the father’s dishonesty and destructiveness while he was drunk, but he and his wife were free-spirits and non-conformists. Maybe that was the little gold nugget buried under Rose Mary’s abhorrence of domesticity and the more traditional role as a mother raising a family.” As we turned the corner towards the Food Court, I was relieved to see our two girls waiting.

“To me, real nonconformist’s parents are folks that reject the allure and temptations of the world and instead immerse their children in the church to teach them fixed, universal and unchanging principles.” Cindy said, stopping to look at a black and gold skirt and jacket displayed in the window of the Dress Barn. “I guess that was my way of inviting you and Cullie to church tomorrow.”

“Come on Miss Perfect, the girls are probably starving. And, that outfit could be your first step towards Hell.” I said thankfully that Cindy and I had so easily connected through our work and now we are developing a friendship. I was surprised, almost shocked. I literally sucked at making friends.

“Did you find the jeans you were looking for?” Cindy asked Alysa. I was also thankful that Cullie and Alysa were attempting to connect. I guess the two afternoons this week that Cindy and I had made them sit in the back of my room as we compared notes on how we intended to teach Macbeth, starting in a couple of weeks, had given the two ninth-graders just enough of a spark to launch a friendship. It made me envy their age and ignorance. They were too young to have acquired a lot of the baggage me and most every adult started acquiring as the school years became history and the grind of work and family took over.

“We did. And, we also bought matching blouses. Except for the color.” I overheard Alysa tell her mom.

“That’s confusing. If they aren’t the same color, how do they match?” Cindy, always the analyzer.

“The cut, the style.”

“Anyone hungry?” I had eaten popcorn in the theater but knew Cullie was probably starving. She was smart enough to not spend the money I had given her on food, instead using it all for clothes.

“I could eat a horse.” Alysa said, focused on her cell phone. She had been reading and texting since she had first come into my line of vision.

“Here’s twenty bucks, go buy us some sandwiches.” Cindy said, handing the money to Alysa.

“No, I’ll pay for Cullie’s. I don’t think I want anything.” I said.

“You paid for the movie. I’ve got this.”

After the girls wolfed down grilled chicken sandwiches, waffle potato fries, and fruit cups they convinced Cindy and me to let them return to the sale at Belk’s. I was glad Cindy instructed Alysa to remember she is not allowed inside Victoria’s Secret.

“Let’s move away from this crowd. I told Cullie where we would be.” We picked up the girls’ shopping bags and walked to the center of the Food Court where there were ten or more unoccupied tables and only an older couple within thirty feet of where we settled.

“What’s Steve up to today? I was surprised he let you and Alysa come with us.” I said, still trying to understand how normal people live.

“He and his brother were going fishing. I just love fishing. Not for me but for him. It’s the only time I get any breathing room on the weekends.”

“I figured you two were still as inseparable as you probably were in high school.”

“You can’t remember that. I didn’t go to Boaz.” Cindy said, exploring Alysa’s shopping bags.

“Sorry, I guess I’m confusing you with Charlene Bonds.”

“Oh. Well, you know absence makes the heart grow fonder. I told you I loved fishing. It seems our sex life took on a whole new dimension after he and Sean bought that silly bass boat.” Cindy said with a sly little grin.

“Okay, I don’t need any details.”

“All I’ll say is there’s something tantalizing about watching your man fillet fish. And, that doesn’t even address what the fishy smell does to my hormones.” I was seeing a side of traditional mom Cindy that I hadn’t expected.

“Enough, enough. I am seeing Steve, and you in that black and gold outfit, and smelling the fish. Let’s talk about Literature.” I had to change the subject. I could not admit I wanted to know more. Cindy had no idea how lucky she was to have Steve, a hard-working, honest, and faithful husband. I almost had the beginnings of that little sensation that I used to get when Colton would take me in his arms and push me against the wall of my apartment when he would visit us in New York City. That was four years ago, and three years since I had heard from him. I couldn’t imagine Steve just up and leaving one day like Colton had.

“Earth to Katie. Come on down.” Cindy said snapping her fingers in my face.

“Sorry, I guess I got caught up in your little fish story.”

“I meant to ask you earlier, how’s Darla? I saw her at Walmart last night but didn’t get a chance to say hello.”

“She’s holding her own. I think.”

“It’s just horrible what she must be going through. The rumors just keep getting worse and worse.” Cindy said, pulling out a chair to prop her feet.

“What’s the latest you’ve heard?” I wanted to know what others were saying. My question surprised me since I normally avoid scuttlebutt conversations.

“That Raymond and Walter and you know, all the fathers of the Flaming Five, have been involved in some type of sex trafficking. This is, in addition to the possible murders of Harold Maples and that kid back forty something years ago.”

“It still blows my mind that Darla got involved with Raymond Radford. What is it that women see in older men?” I asked.

“Duh, it’s the back side of their pants and not the front side.” Again, Cindy surprised me. Until today, I had gathered at work that she was a little miss perfect, with thoughts and actions that Pastor Warren would use in a sermon illustration.

“I take it you are referring to Raymond’s wallet?”

“Absolutely. In that regard, he was a catch. He’s probably the richest man in Boaz, or at least one of the richest.”

“Let’s change the subject. I try not to think of Darla’s infatuation with the handsome Raymond.”

“This may be a little too personal, but can I ask why your grandmother adopted you. Seems to me you would have been better off to live with your father and your mother?” Cindy said, clearly confused, completely ignorant of the facts.

“Raymond is not my father. In fact, I don’t know who my father is.”

“Okay. I just figured that Raymond got your mom pregnant and they decided to get married. This is what my mother told me. Of course, that was back nearly a half-century ago.”

“Don’t remind me of how old I’m getting.” For years now, I had put aside the question about my father. It had come as a shock when I was twelve, maybe thirteen, when Darla had told me the truth. I had never told anyone the details. I had, like today, always simply left it at, ‘I don’t know who my father is.’ That seemed to divert attention back on my mother, rightly so I guess, that she must have slept around and never sought a paternity test. The truth is, she did sleep around. For sure, she slept with five guys, probably more than once each, during her high school graduation party.

“Let’s leave it at that for now. Okay?” Something told me that at some point I might become comfortable, and confident enough, to share the full story with Cindy. But today was not the day.

“I guess you know those two.” Cindy said leaning her head toward the counter at Starbucks.”

“Who are you talking about?” I asked, playing completely dumb, looking towards the American Cheesefactory instead.

“Pastor Warren and Fulton Billingsley.”

“Oh, them. I know of them but have never met either one of them.”

“Come to First Baptist Church of Christ tomorrow and you can hear the best preacher for miles around. Then Monday, you can go to First State Bank of Boaz and meet the smooth and sophisticated Fulton Billingsley, the best-dressed man in town.” Cindy said, no doubt the fountain of local information.

“To your total dismay, Cullie and I are planning on being at church tomorrow. She has asked me. Apparently, your faithful little daughter has already invited my little heathen to attend a youth group. As to Fulton, I have already been to his bank. Twice actually. Opened two accounts. One for me and one for Cullie.”

“Boaz is fortunate to have those two and their three best friends. They keep the community’s wheels turning.” Cindy said standing up and motioning the girls our way. They had stopped, arms full, and were talking with a group of guys standing in line at Chick-fil-A.

“What three best friends?” I already knew who Cindy was referring to but wanted to act a little naive.

“Ryan Radford, Justin Adams, and Danny Ericson. It seems these five, all sons of the Flaming Five, your mothers’ classmates, are doing a good job following their fathers. Except for the criminal activity I guess.” Cindy said bursting out laughing. I had noticed she is her number one fan when trying to be funny.

“You might be surprised. Everyone has secrets. No one is what they appear to be.”

“Let’s go get the girls. They will talk until midnight with those cute guys. Oh, you’re right. Literature has taught me that. Please know I’m always open to hearing your secrets.” Cindy said picking up the shopping bags and walking away.

Overall, it was a good day. I enjoyed anon-teaching day with Cindy. After we dropped the two of them off at their house, all Cullie wanted to talk about was how cool Alysa is. “She’s boy crazy but in a healthy sort of way.”

I decided not to respond to that observation by my fourteen-year-old daughter. I would lose either way. I did not want to hear how serious she was about boys in general, and I certainly did not want to know the unhealthy type of crazy that some girls her age were experiencing.

Chapter 6

Sammie Teal was no doubt the glue that kept Nanny in her home. Paid for by Raymond, at the insistence of Darla, Sammie had been a godsend. Until five years ago she had lived in the apartment above the garage that Papa had renovated for Aunt Maude, his younger sister. The world’s greatest aunt was nearly ten years younger than Papa and Nanny. I think my granddad was clairvoyant or something. After Aunt Maude’s husband died of brain cancer at age thirty, Papa offered her a deal. It was really a joke. At first. Papa offered his childless sister a place to live if she would take care of him and Nanny when they got old. He had turned a junkie, seldom visited, storage room above the garage into a darling apartment. I have fond memories as a young teenager sitting with Maude reliving a life of love and adventure. All virtual experiences. She was probably the main reason I’m now a teacher. She certainly instilled in me a love of reading.

It was less than a month before Nanny was diagnosed with Parkinson’s that Papa’s plans fell apart. Aunt Maude was killed in a one-car accident a few days before Valentine’s Day. On a snowy and icy late afternoon, she had gotten out to buy candy and a card for Papa and Nanny. It was the second worse day of my life. Looking back, I have evidence that out of tragic circumstances roses can grow. At least one.

Sammie was the perfect replacement and if it hadn’t been for the generosity of Raymond Radford, Papa would never have been able to afford her. She too had lost her husband to cancer. A couple of weeks after we buried Aunt Maude, Sammie’s house had mysteriously burned to the ground. She could have afforded to rebuild her large sprawling house on North Main Street but was easily persuaded by Darla, at Raymond’s behest, to move in Aunt Maude’s apartment and care for Papa and Nanny. She was a retired nurse with the bedside manner of what all patients sought from a doctor: time and compassion. All of Sammie’s children were grown and gone which made her decision easier.

Sammie lived outback upstairs until Papa died three years ago. His death had nearly destroyed Nanny. Her health took a nosedive. I will always believe the effects of her mourning for Papa triggered her dementia. Sammie now lived in a bedroom across the hall from Nanny. She would retreat to her apartment when assured by me or Darla that we take care of Nanny. Of course, that was rare, especially with Darla. I’m thankful she was the conduit for the funds to pay Sammie, but it was difficult to observe how little affection existed between daughter and mother. Other than my own tragedy’s ability to motivate me to love, cherish, and protect my Cullie, Darla’s near full-absence drove me to be present and engaged with the little girl who was quickly evolving into a young woman.

When Cullie and I returned late yesterday afternoon from the Gadsden Mall, we had found Sammie and Nanny sitting in the den watching reruns of The Walton’s. Nanny was almost the real Nanny during these times. Her and Papa had loved this 1980’s TV program about John and Olivia Walton, his parents, and a small army of children, struggling to survive on Walton’s Mountain, Virginia during America’s Great Depression. I’m not a doctor but the Walton drug, as I called it, gave Nanny more benefit than most of the dozen or so pills she took throughout the day. I think even Cullie noticed a real difference in the smile and relaxing hands of Nanny when she was absorbing an hour or two of the Walton drug. Cullie would rarely sit and endure, her words, the ‘silly show about backwoods people,’ but last night, I think maybe for the first time, she realized that youth is so transitory and that she herself, if she was lucky, would someday be old like Nanny, and suffering from two horrible conditions. I was torn between watching Nanny and watching Cullie watch Nanny. Cullie was just now getting to know her great-grandmother. Until less than two weeks ago, the two of them had never spent more than the equivalent of a few days together, with those being spread over fourteen years of one visit every couple of years when I made myself return to the little town I had sworn I would never make my home.

Before we had gone to bed, I had promised Cullie we would go to First Baptist Church of Christ in the morning. I had to keep my promises to the most important person in my life. Even if it nearly killed me. My desire to be a good mother to Cullie was justification enough for us to waste a perfectly good opportunity to sleep in and relax, maybe even have one of Sammie’s breakfast feasts when other folks were eating turnip greens and cornbread at Grumpy’s Diner after church. Sammie, once again, had someway known what to do. At 7:45 she had knocked on my door and whispered, ‘breakfast at 8:00 if you are interested.’ I was. Especially since I hadn’t eaten anything but a little oatmeal Debbie Cake since popcorn at The Glass Castle.

I had dropped Cullie off at youth group at 9:00 a.m. and driven to my classroom at the high school. I was glad Principal Harrison’s philosophy encouraged teachers to invest ‘a healthy portion of your non-school hours in preparation.’ He was right. The best schoolteachers are like the best attorneys. To get the best results, they both have to prepare. There is simply not enough time from 7:30 to 2:45 to properly prepare. Principal Harrison wasn’t my main reason for coming to my classroom. It was my fear of church, better put, my fear of Sunday School. It was too dangerous. I had loved it as a teenager growing up with Brother Randy Miller as youth pastor. He had made the Bible come alive. Mostly, he was human with his hoard of young people. There was no subject that was off the table. He was genuine. Unfortunately, he was too human. He died in a tragic accident when the Lighthouse, an outreach ministry of the church, burned down the summer before my eleventh-grade year. I hoped his grandson, Robert, would be different in that regard, and his care and teaching would be just what Cullie needed. I could make myself sit beside Cindy during the preaching hour, but I was not ready for the stares and gossip of adult Sunday School.

Cindy met me at 10:55 just like we had agreed. Outside on the front steps leading into the giant auditorium the church had built a few years ago. Something in me longed to go inside the big but old and decaying building next door, the one that created all the memories that were now flashing before my eyes. The first thing Cindy said was, “glad you came. I was worried I would disappoint you. Late night. Steve was especially fishy when I got home.” Only Cindy, the sweet, gentle, and shy around the world Cindy, could talk sexual without saying a word that Cullie would find lurid.

We sat in the balcony with the fishy Steve and their two younger children: Arlon and Anita. Alysa was no doubt downstairs with Cullie and about a hundred-other youth ranging from middle school age all the way to college. Triple A’s; Cindy was no doubt an English teacher. Before the sermon began, she whispered a question: “had I looked at what the girls bought at Belk’s?” I just shook my head in the negative but promised myself I would do that first thing upon our return home.

The song service touched my heart. I hadn’t been to church but a few times since I had left Boaz late summer of 1991, right after graduating in May from Boaz High School. I recalled how I loved the old gospel hymns. I was glad my hometown church hadn’t gone the way of the world and forsaken tradition and instead adopted contemporary Christian. Of course, Sunday morning worship hour was designed to keep the adults, many of them approaching Nanny’s age, satisfied. The youth group, according to Alysa, was another story. If Brother Robert thought loud and fast-beat songs of the savior would keep my Cullie safe and sound here instead of hanging with the wrong crowd, I had no opposition at all.

Brother Warren’s sermon would have given me inspiration if any other preacher in the world had said the very same words. Knowing a dark secret or two about the man who is a master at sharing the Good News was worse than throwing a dripping wet quilt on a small but flaming fire. It was my first time to hear Pastor Warren as Cindy called him. My memories were clear of his father and grandfather’s sermons. Wade and Walter Tillman were every much the masters of storytelling and persuasion as was Warren. Unlike Brother Randy, Warren inherited the criminal gene from his ancestors. I know Warren, at least in 2002, had a dark side, one so dark that he could, along with his four buddies, kidnap and rape a 29-year-old woman. That woman was me. There was nothing I hated more than a hypocrite. Regardless of my lack of inspiration, I would take Pastor Warren’s words to heart. His message from John 15:7 sparked a desire deep inside me to attempt to restore my prayer life. I wanted to see if what he said was true. I had once believed it. It was time I gave it another try.

Pastor Warren was not the only one delivering messages today. At the end of the service, I followed Cindy and Steve, and two of the Triple A’s, through the line to shake the preacher’s hand. His fake smile and smarmy greeting were my final encouragement. I palmed the tall and handsome orator my two-word unfolded sticky note: ‘I know.’ Reluctantly, I kept walking, redirecting my eyes through the open doorway without pausing to delight myself by a facial response to what I hoped was a top-three shock of his life.

Chapter 7

Out of the Darkness was started as a psychological thriller. It was about a woman who had been gang-raped and how she had coped mentally and emotionally. Now, fourteen years after my award-winning novel was published, it would seem natural to think my book idea had been seeded by my own traumatic experience. That would be wrong, since the five men who raped me had done so during my 2002 Christmas visit to Boaz, eight months after Out of the Darkness hit the shelves in bookstores across America. If I believed in karma or some other-worldly notion, I could easily conclude my writing had somehow caused or at least anticipated the worst thing I had ever endured. But, knowing there was little if any credible evidence for the supernatural of any stripe, did little to ward off bouts of writer’s block. The move back to the heart of the crime scene had thrown my writing mind completely off track. Now, after nearly three weeks living in Boaz, I have been unable to write a single scene in my current project I was subconsciously dubbing Real Justice. It is a fact; I was stuck. I had, as writers often say, hit the wall.

I had never, well, not since college, gone this long without writing at least a thousand words a day. This daily accomplishment was so ingrained in me that it was as fixed as the color of my hair, although I had been noticing a little gray emerging above my right temple when I pulled back my hair. Other than the wellbeing of Cullie, my entire life, my mood, my teaching motivation, my self-worth, everything about me, was controlled by whether I daily produced those thousand words as part of a current project.

This morning I was as lost and unmotivated as I had been in more than 14 years. Not since the Faking Five had shown less respect for me as a human being than they would have for a silicone sex doll, had my mind and heart wandered so far out into the dessert. I knew myself well enough to know that my teaching and my parenting would once again fail, just as it had during the months after I was raped and had given birth to Cullie. I could not let that happen again. I had to avoid the drugs and the alcohol. Just like the Walton drug for Nanny, the writing drug for me was the only thing that would keep me from falling into the abyss far below the precarious track of my life.

Maybe it was the prayer I had said this morning when I arose. Yesterday’s prayer I had promised to believe and pursue. Maybe my simple request to God that He would guide me today was the seed that had given me those three words. The Faking Five. Less than two minutes ago I had never put these thirteen letters together, in that order, in my mind. I sipped my coffee and smiled to myself. This was what I was talking about. Or, was it? Thirteen letters? Why not twelve or fourteen? I had never been superstitious. I wouldn’t start now. These thirteen letters, such a simple idea. It could be the door that opened a whole new world. I hadn’t had to spend $1,000 on a cruise, or even $25.00 on a new novel. What was occurring to me was priceless. The fathers of Warren Tillman, Justin Adams, Ryan Radford, Fulton Billingsley, and Danny Ericson had been known since the early seventies as the Flaming Five. This name had spawned from their ability to set the basketball nets on fire. The entire Boaz community had adopted the name. Their sons, my attackers, had now spawned their own name, not by ten thousand or more people but by one. Me. The one who knew the truth. These five, Warren, Justin, Ryan, Fulton, and Danny, were individually and collectively living fake lives. The people of Boaz thought they were community leaders, devoted husbands and parents, gentlemen, servants of Christ. In truth, they were the Faking Five.

By 6:00 a.m., I returned the half-finished first draft into the middle drawer of the old roll-top desk in the corner of the basement, having spent all my time brainstorming instead of writing. At least, I had controlled my emotions and allowed imagination to intelligently revisit my horrible trauma and consider what a hypothetical person in my shoes might do to get revenge. And, justice. The novel’s name would likely change but for now I liked Real Justice. Of course, a novel is fiction, made up, but it is quite okay to base the story on real events, what has already happened. As any novel writer would, the names of all my characters would change. I had already decided the setting would be a small town in Georgia and that my protagonist would not be a teacher, but a secretary at a law firm. One thing would be the same. The secretary, Stella was her name, would be raped by five men in the legal community. Maybe one would be a judge. I didn’t need to know that yet. I already knew how Stella would think and how her mind wanted revenge but what I didn’t know was what she would do. I would have to get to know her much better and spend days observing her. I had no doubt that once I started, daily, following Stella around, she would reveal her story and how she would exact real justice.

I had somehow crawled back onto my track. As I straightened my desk, I felt whole, alive, driven. Words and stories were my lifeline, the real blood coursing through my veins. Now, I had to share this gift with a couple of hundred hormone-driven teenagers.

Cullie and I arrived at school at 6:30 a.m. She wasn’t happy and had almost decided to ride the school bus until she learned it came past Nanny’s country home at 6:15. The real source of her foul mood was the near-screaming incident that had occurred when she came down the stairs. I had forgotten to look at her Saturday’s clothes purchases. The tight jeans and the even tighter blouse was bad enough, but it was the revelation of a blossoming bosom that ignited the fireworks. She had not said a word as I had driven us to school. My attempt at humor, “loose-fitting clothes keeps them wondering. A mysterious woman is more attractive than a billboard,” had failed miserably as she sat peering into her cell phone without a smile or a jeer. To me, there would be no ninth grader at Boaz High that was more attractive than Cullie with her high-waisted, knee-length denim shorts, flowing white top, boots, and a feather necklace. My darling daughter was gorgeous.

For the next hour Cullie sat at a computer workstation I had set up in the corner of my room. As I had done for my entire twenty-year teaching career I quickly read through today’s lesson plans and closed my eyes. I had developed a practice of visualizing each class and imagining the interaction with each student. It was during the next hour that I would refine the one main goal I had for each class. There were always secondary goals, but I had learned a long time ago that if I could effectively accomplish one goal, teach one important idea or principle, then my work was successful.

But, this wasn’t going to be as easy as it had been at Eleanor Roosevelt High School. There, for the past six years, I had taught two subjects, American Literature and Creative Writing. There, I had only two classes per day. The New York City School Board’s philosophy was more akin to that of a university. Specialization. Each teacher had a specialty. The Board believed the best teachers were the ones who prepared the most. The four plus hours per day that I wasn’t in the classroom, I was in the lab. That’s what they called it. It was simply my time alone to research, write, relate, and record. Also, what they called it. The Board knew that writing was the key to thinking and that if a teacher, no matter her subject, didn’t put words on paper, words exploring her lessons, that the class, and thus each individual student, would likely be deprived from core and vital truths.

Here, at Boaz, Cindy and I shared the load of teaching Language Arts, including English and American Literature, Vocabulary, Spelling, and Composition of all types, to every tenth, eleventh, and twelfth grader. Over 300 students. I envied Rhonda Hudgins and Jennifer Kirkpatrick who shared the same responsibilities as Cindy and I but they only had 148 ninth graders. The fear of failing to properly teach and reach my 150 or so students was lessened only because I had convinced Mr. Harrison during my initial interview that a narrow focus was the key. He had agreed, at least temporarily, to allow me to use one carefully selected story at a time to serve as the basis for teaching all aspects of the Language Arts curriculum. For example, this week the focus was A Good Man Is Hard to Find, a short story written by Flannery O’Connor in 1953.

Cullie left my classroom at 7:25, in time for me to gather my things and walk to the auditorium. The brilliant Mr. Harrison and Mr. Wilkins had decided to try something new this year. I would teach the basic English class to one full grade at a time. This meant my first three classes were taught in the auditorium to seventy-five plus students each period. Normally in Alabama, English is not required for twelfth graders. The Boaz City School Board’s new superintendent, Mr. Krieger, from Chicago, had made the change this past summer. “It may not be the only way, but it is one way I believe we can begin to counter the ignorance of North Alabamians.” I hadn’t yet met the man but knew he shouldn’t completely unpack his bags.

After 10:30, I would still have two more classes to teach: AP (advance placement) American Literature from 12:00 to 12:50, and creative writing from 1:10 to 2:40. This ninety-minute class was the other concession that Harrison and Wilkins had granted. I must thank Mr. Krieger for this. Otherwise, my plea for extra time to do justice to creative writing would have fallen upon deaf ears. Alabama had a terrible reputation when it came to its focus on the importance of writing. I intended to do what I could to change that. I was glad Cindy had full responsibility for teaching poetry. She agreed to this only because I had agreed to increase the size of my first three classes.

I had started the first class on the stage behind the giant podium. I quickly determined this wasn’t going to work. I was too far from the horde of kids who were sitting, as per my request, in every other seat in the front half of the center section. After I asked who had enjoyed reading the story over the weekend and saw no raised hands, I didn’t take time to walk off the stage and down the side stairs. I sat down on the edge of the stage and slid down to the auditorium’s floor.

“Ben Gilbert, are you hungry?” I hadn’t yet found him but knew he should be present. This was tenth grade English class.

“I sure am Miss Sims. Where’s my steak?”

“Hungry for experience and learning? That’s the question.” I felt like I was lining up to kickoff at a football game, but I wasn’t even on the team.

“Not really. I’m kind of fine just sitting here and listening.” Half the class let out a giggle. It seemed no one was awake.

“Everybody keep your seat if you read the weekend assignment, A Good Man Is Hard to Find. No one stood up. “So, I’ll assume everyone did their homework.”

I looked over the entire class and didn’t say a word for maybe thirty seconds. Ben Gilbert stood up and apologized, “I forgot to take my book home and couldn’t get back in school yesterday afternoon when I thought about it.”

“That’s nearly as good as ‘the dog ate my homework’ excuse. I’m sorry you don’t have access to the Internet. Most every story we will be reading is readily available.”

Ben sat down mumbling something under his breath.

“Clara Ellington, who is the character in the story that we are told the most about?”

“The grandmother. She’s the character we’re told the most about.”

Thanks Clara. You read the story. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask you a question, it might be a little personal?”

“I guess.”

“Would you have stood up if I had asked my question differently? If I had asked, ‘everyone who read the story please stand up’?

“Probably not. I would have been too embarrassed.”

“Class, I remember what it was like to be in high school. The peer pressure is horrible. But, does that mean we simply ignore it even though we recognize it is a real problem?”

Several people in the class voiced an opinion, mostly saying they wished it didn’t exist. A few said it wasn’t a problem for them. One was Eric Smothers.

“Eric, please come up here and join me. Let’s have a little conversation.” He didn’t hesitate. He no doubt was cocky and a member of the football team, evidenced by his Boaz High football jersey.

When he stood beside me I asked, “are you saying that embarrassment isn’t ever an issue with you?”

“No way. What would I have to be embarrassed about? What you see is what you get. It’s pretty solid isn’t it?” His ego and arrogance were on full display.

“Eric, you are a lot like the grandmother in our story. You always get what you want. Don’t you?” I said not knowing for sure what he would say. I would hate to be a lawyer who should never put himself in this position. He always should know what the witness is going to say.

“You are pretty bright, pretty too. I’ve been taught that if you want something you have to go after it.” Eric said looking at his buddies on the back row who were giving him a thumb up.

“Would you say you are somewhat of a manipulator?”

“Absolutely, if that’s what it takes. I make things happen.”

“The protagonist in our story, the grandmother, made things happen too. Do you want to venture a guess how that turned out for her?”

“Don’t have a clue. I don’t like to read; I sure don’t like homework. But, my guess is she got embarrassed. That seems to fit what you’re talking about.” Eric said standing straighter than before.

“She got herself killed. Evil, as represented by the misfit, won out.”

The rest of the class was similarly unproductive. At 8:15, I gave up and had the class take out their books to start reading the story.

The rest of the day was worse if that was possible. I had never seen such a bunch of disinterested kids. I didn’t know for sure, but it appeared that Clara Ellington was the only student that had even attempted to read A Good Man Is Hard to Find.

If things could not have been worse for the first day of the first full week on my new job, what happened before Cullie came to my room after the last bell was almost unbelievable. Mr. Wilkins had appeared in the doorway of my small office. Without a word, he had semi-smiled and walked to my desk, standing to my left. Initially, I thought he was staring at the textbook laying in front of me, open to a short biography of Flannery O’Conner. I will never forget the ere feeling I got when I looked up and caught him trying to look down my blouse. Thank goodness, Cullie burst in before I could respond.

Chapter 8

Tuesday morning, I had just come from the basement when I overheard Sammie talking on the kitchen phone, “she’s downstairs writing but I’ll get her.”

“I’m right here.” Sammie turned from the stove and a large pan of sizzling bacon.

“It’s Darla. Wants to talk to you.”

I set my notebook on the kitchen table and took the old green wall receiver from Sammie. “Hello Darla.”

“Katie, come get me. I can’t stay here another day.”

“Now? I have to be at school in forty-five minutes.” I said, sitting down to a plate of eggs, bacon, and waffles.

“Ryan is here again, going through his father’s things. He’s in Raymond’s study. Justin Adams is with him.” Darla said, barely above a whisper.

“Dumb question. Why don’t you drive yourself? You have a car.” I said, feeling a headache coming on, the type I hadn’t felt since touching Warren’s hand when I palmed him my little two-word note last Sunday.

“I don’t have a car. Ryan took it somewhere a week ago.”

“Why did he do that?”

“Doctor’s orders. I was going to tell you, but you haven’t been by here. Saturday, a week ago Saturday, I passed out at Walmart. I was there with Nella. An ambulance came and carried me to the Emergency Room. The doctor still doesn’t know why I fainted.”

“I’ll send Sammie and we’ll talk about it tonight. I can’t afford to start being late. I have to work, you know.” I said, knowing what Darla was probably thinking. ‘You’ve never forgiven me for having it so easy.’

“Tell her to hurry. I’ve never seen Ryan so upset.”

Cullie and I arrived at school at our regular 6:30 time. At 7:35, as the last of the tenth graders were slogging in for my first period class, Mr. Wilkins shouted at me as he walked in the double doors at the back of the auditorium, “Katie, Miss Sims, you have a phone call. It sounds urgent.”

I walked as fast as I could to the back of the auditorium and across the hall to the School’s main office. Mrs. Overstreet, the office manager, motioned me behind the counter and pointed to her office. “You can take it in there. Press the flashing button.”

“Hello.” I expected it to be an impatient Darla saying that Sammie still hadn’t shown up. I knew Sammie would have to find a temporary sitter for Nanny. There was no way the caretaker would leave her ward unattended, even for the short time it would take to drive across town to Country Club.

“Katie, I can’t find her anywhere. I’m worried.”

“What do you mean? She’s at her house at the end of Lindo Drive.”

“When I got there, I rang the front door bell. Ryan came to the door. When I told him, I was there for Darla he said, ‘she went walking.’ I didn’t want to wait. That big beast gives me the creeps, so I got back in my car and started driving around.”

“What time did you get there and talk to Ryan?” I said trying to determine why Darla would go for a walk when she knew Sammie was coming to pick her up. She wasn’t that impatient.

“It was nearly 7:00. It took Verna almost an hour to show up to sit with Nanny.”

“You drove around the entire subdivision?” I asked a frantic Sammie.

“I did, twice. Then, I went back to Darla and Raymond’s, but Ryan was already gone. I guess, because no one would come to the door even though I rang the bell several times and kept pounding the front door.”

“Just go back home to Nanny. Darla probably saw a neighbor and is there now visiting and drinking coffee.” After I said this I realized how illogical it was. Why would Darla, before 6:00 a.m. this morning, be anxious to leave her and Raymond’s house and then up and go out walking after I told her I would send Sammie to pick her up? Even if she did that she wouldn’t become invisible by going inside a neighbor’s house. She’d just walk the neighborhood to be easily seen. Unless, Darla was like Nanny. Maybe Darla had dementia.

“I do need to get back. Verna has to sit with Basil Epps’ wife starting at 9:00.” Sammie said, the tone of her voice returning to its natural low calmness.

“Call my cell phone and leave a message when you hear from Darla.” I said, remembering I had seventy-five rowdy teenagers unattended in the auditorium.

By lunch I was feeling much better than yesterday. I had delivered my little speech to my first three classes. I had decided around midnight last night that I was going to be brave and bold and lay it all on the line. I was not going to allow the rampant apathy to dominate ninety-plus percent of my students. “Right now, every one of you have an F in my class, and that’s where your grade level will stay unless you give me your best efforts. Don’t think I won’t fail you.” That was the stick I used. Something in me said it wouldn’t do much good. But I had not ended my speech there. My carrot-talk followed. After I had every student stand. I separated them by gender. I had the boys stand along the front of the stage but down on the auditorium floor level. The girls stood single file down the right-side aisle. “Listen and listen good. Every one of you is damned right now.” I had stopped there and let silence and snickering bounce around the room. “That’s what you are, that’s what I am. All of Flannery O’Connor’s readers are damned, just like the characters in her stories. If we, as readers, will acknowledge this we can go on to relish her grotesque and unforgettable art of telling. The gist of that last sentence is taken from my favorite literary critic, Harold Bloom. I encourage you to seek him out.”

“In our story, A Good Man is Hard to Find, the grandmother’s mouth had gotten her killed. I want us to go on a journey, one filled with adventure. Literature can change your life for the good. The stories we will read offer gold nuggets.” For Ben Gilbert’s tenth grade class I had said, “If you prefer, these gold nuggets are mouth size pieces of filet mignon.” I had ended each of my three speeches with the trite but true statement, “food never tastes good unless you are hungry.”

There were two other things I had done after each of my three speeches. I told them they were going to have homework every night and that unless they invested quality time and attention into the completion of their assignments their final semester grade would never even be a D. “You will never learn to think without thinking, this takes time and attention. You have to invest to earn a decent return.” Also, I had described my teaching assistant positions, and assured everyone they would all help teach the class. I gave them a handout stating who were the initial thirty-seven teaching assistants and who were the students. These initial pairings would also serve as co-authors for the semester’s major writing assignment.

I gave the same talk and made the same assignments during the two afternoon classes, AP American Literature and Creative Writing. At 2:45, after the last student left my classroom, Cullie arrived and was hungry as a bear, as usual. She had just grabbed a Sprite from my refrigerator and pulled a bag of chips from my desk drawer when Mr. Wilkins came rushing into my room. “Katie, the police are here to see you. They are waiting in the main office.”

I instructed Cullie to stay put as I followed Patrick down the long hallway. He opened the outer door for me and said the two officers were in his office. He directed me around the counter and closed the door behind me as I walked into his large office with two tall and beefy young officers standing with their backs to the outside window.

“Miss Sims, I’m Officer Dixon and this is Officer Brown. I’m sorry to tell you that your mother, Darla Radford, has been found. She’s dead.” He just stood there looking at me for a few seconds and then lowered his eyes. Officer Brown never said a word.

“What happened? Where did you find her?” I said, not surprised that I wasn’t collapsing into a ball of tears. But I was troubled, even feeling guilty for not going to pick up Darla as she had asked me to this morning a little before 6:00.

“She was found at the edge of a pond off Pleasant Hill Cut-off Road. That’s about a half-mile from where her and Raymond lived. Right now, we are not exactly sure how she died.” Officer Dixon said turning a chair around for me to sit down.

“She had walked there?”

“We can’t say for sure. All we know is Ralph Williams found her. That’s his land. There was no car found and Mr. Williams said he didn’t see anything.”

“Where is she? Now?” I said not sure if she might be at the hospital just to make sure she was dead. My mind was retreating to a safe zone.

“Her body has been taken to Birmingham to the State Forensics Lab. It’s state law when this type thing happens. Autopsy required.”

“How did she look? Was she bleeding? Had she been hit? By a car or something?” I said, frantic to know anything.

For the first time, Officer Brown spoke. “There was no visible sign she had been traumatized. To be frank, she looked like she had simply gone to sleep. I was the first on the scene. Officer Dixon didn’t see her.”

I could have asked a dozen other questions but decided against it. “Thank you for coming and telling me. I need to see Cullie, my daughter, she’s in my classroom.”

“I understand. Here is my card if you have any other questions. I am very sorry for your loss.” Officer Dixon said as he walked by. Officer Brown tipped his hat at me and mouthed, ‘I’m sorry.’

When I came out of Wilkin’s office, he could tell something was wrong. I didn’t stop to explain but kept going. Halfway down the hall he caught up with me and took my arm as though I was going to faint. He led me all the way back to the door of my classroom and said, “Katie, if there is anything I can do please call me. Anytime is okay.” He handed me the School’s standard business card with his name and cell phone number written on the back. As he was giving me his card and offering his sympathy and support he had moved his left hand up on my shoulder. It had lingered too long, just long enough to give me that same eerie feeling I had yesterday when he was standing behind me at my desk and peering down my blouse.

When I walked into my classroom I could hear Cullie crying. Cindy came out when she heard me come in. Someway, someone had already shared the news. I shouldn’t have been, but was once again, surprised at how rapidly news traveled in a small town. Cullie was unsurprisingly strong. She wasn’t close to Darla even though to me it had always seemed she had cared more for her only granddaughter than she ever had me.

We left school and drove home, discussing nothing but how to share the bad news with Nanny.

Chapter 9

Yesterday afternoon after Cullie and I arrived home from school, we sat with Nanny and Sammie in the den. I was contemplating exactly how to break the horrible news to my 89-year-old grandmother when Sammie said, “she already knows. That damn police scanner that I thought I had hidden from her. She must have dug it out while Verna was here. Early afternoon Nanny had said, ‘no need to go get Darla, she’s dead.’ The scanner was tucked under a blanket beside her chair. She must’ve had the volume turned down when I wasn’t doing chores.”

In a way this had not surprised or alarmed me. Two weeks ago, when I had tagged along with Sammie and Nanny to see her doctor, he had said that at times she would seem normal, but this would become less and less frequent. Usually, she would be a mix of bizarre and mundane. If Nanny’s conduct last night was normal she sure didn’t seem to possess much love and sympathy for Darla, her only daughter. If her conduct was bizarre her statement to Sammie about no need to go get Darla fit the bill. The only thing that seemed like the mix the doctor mentioned was Nanny’s statement, “turn on The Walton’s, I want to see if Ike Godsey kills Mary Ellen, my darling Darla.” Mundanely bizarre indeed.

After the four of us ate Sammie’s delicious chicken salad on TV trays in the den I excused myself and went to my room. Cullie disappeared to the front porch to listen to her iPod and text Alysa. Ryan Radford’s wife Karla answered on the second ring. I was a little surprised their home phone number was listed in the phone book. He didn’t seem to be the type who would give his customers at Radford Hardware and Building Supply easy access to him, especially after business hours. I had told Karla who I was and asked to speak to Ryan. I could hear him in the background. The two of them talking. I thought I heard him say, “tell her I’m busy.” After a minute or more, he said, “hello, this is Ryan.”

“Ryan, this is Katie Sims, Darla’s daughter.”

“Katie, I know who you are. I’m sorry about your mother. I just got back from telling granddad the horrible news. I’m hoping the District Attorney will finally grant him a bond, at least to come to the funeral.”

Raymond Radford was one of five local men who were facing criminal charges. Everything from sex trafficking to murder. The news had shocked the community since these were the deep-rooted leaders that seemed to control every aspect of religious and business life around Boaz. I couldn’t help but recall the other time Raymond Radford had shocked local folks. In 1973, he had ditched Cynthia, his wife of twenty years, and token-up with Darla, my mother. She was still a teenager, the same age as Randall, Raymond’s son. I suspected that in many places these type events would have ruined a man like Raymond, but not in Boaz. It was like he, along with the other four fathers of the Flaming Five, and their sons, was immune to citizen criticism. We’d have to see how the criminal justice system dealt with Raymond and his four peers.

“I need inside the house, to see if Darla left anything that would indicate how sick she was. Can you let me in?” I didn’t figure Ryan would agree but I had to ask. At first, before I had called, I thought about going straight over and trying to break in. A criminal charge was the last thing I needed. As I sat and waited for Ryan to respond I was torn whether to go to the sprawling mansion at the end of Lindo Drive in the Country Club subdivision. I hadn’t been except for one time, and then only inside the front foyer. For some reason, Darla hadn’t wanted me to see how comfortable a life she had. I guess she had known how it would make me feel, especially given how she had rejected me and chosen Raymond and his riches over her duty as a mother.

“I will meet you there in twenty minutes. I have to be somewhere at 8:30.”

I had arrived at 7:20 and was relieved that Ryan let me in the front door and left. He said he would be back in thirty minutes. I spent ten minutes touring the entire house, in awe over the expensive antiques and art work. I wasn’t an expert but several of the paintings on the wall appeared to be original. The master bedroom was on the first floor beyond a short hallway and a large study. I first searched the bathroom for pill bottles hoping to discover the medications Darla was taking.

The only prescription bottle I found was a drug called Clonidine. This didn’t tell me anything, but I found a document, Your Personal Prescription Information, on an oak washstand beside the double vanity in the giant bathroom. Scanning the document, I learned Clonidine ‘allows your blood vessels to relax and your heart to beat more slowly and easily’ and ‘clonidine is used to treat hypertension (high blood pressure).’ Here, I stopped reading knowing I didn’t have unlimited time to linger. The only other drugs in the medicine cabinet were bottles of Aleve, Tylenol, and Aspirin.

I walked out of the bathroom and towards a sliding glass door that opened to a private balcony even though this was the first floor. On a little wicker table in the corner I found a brochure that was titled Syncope. A quick peek inside told me this was a condition that caused a temporary loss of consciousness. I concluded that was why Darla had been prescribed the Clonidine.

When I walked back inside I noticed a pull-type suitcase in the corner behind a lounging chair. On the end table beside the chair were two TV Guides, a novel by Andrea Preston, and a stack of newspapers, the top one being the New York Times. I had not known Darla was much of a reader.

It was now almost 7:45 and Ryan would likely return within a few minutes. I’m not sure what prompted me to do it, but I rolled the large suitcase outside and hid it in the trunk of my car. I didn’t want Ryan to know I had taken anything. He arrived less than a minute later. I was standing on the front porch reading more about Clonidine.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” He said as he was locking the deadbolt on the front door.

“I did. Looks like Darla suffered from a condition that caused her to pass out. I found this bottle. I’m guessing she got disoriented and wandered over to Ralph Williams’ pond. Probably then she passed out and never regained consciousness.” I held up the pill bottle for Ryan to see what I had taken.

“I have to go. Let me know if you need anything else. Oh, I hate that I have not said this before. I’m sorry for your loss. Darla was a sweet lady and was always good to me. By the way, don’t worry, I’ll make sure all her funeral costs will be taken care of.”

With that, Ryan had driven away leaving me standing at the bottom of the front porch stairs. His final statement made me ponder Darla’s will and what type of financial relationship she and Raymond had. Surely, he would have loved her enough to make sure she was taken care of if he had predeceased Darla. But, that hadn’t happened.

As I had driven home my stomach had grown more and more nauseous. What would happen to Nanny? Would Sammie’s caregiver costs continue to be paid? My mind had changed when I turned in Nanny’s long driveway and saw Cullie still sitting on the front porch. No matter what, my primary goal in life wouldn’t change. I would do whatever it took to take care of my precious daughter. Although I would do everything I could for Nanny, she would never displace the time and attention I would give the child whose presence continually showed me that good can come from evil.

At 10:30, Cullie and I had gone inside after having spent the prior two-plus hours talking, really talking. It was the best mother-daughter conversation we had had since moving back to Boaz. I went to bed early, wanting my dreams to center around Cullie’s openness to share her concerns and the roller-coaster that most every ninth-grade girl finds herself buckled to. I forgot all about the suitcase stuffed inside the trunk of my car.

Chapter 10

“You two dumb asses. In broad daylight. Are ya’ll just itching to go to jail for the rest of your lives?” Fulton said as he walked inside the cabin. Ryan and Justin were sitting at a round, hundred-plus year oak table. Warren was still outside on the porch finishing a phone call on his cell.

“We didn’t have time to plot this out. When Justin and I discovered the tape was missing we knew that Darla knew.” Ryan said standing and leaning against the kitchen sink.

“I think we got lucky.” Warren said appearing in the open doorway from the porch. “My contact in Germany says the combination of Clonidine, Xanax, and alcohol in the right proportions can be a deadly cocktail for anyone, but more so for someone suffering from Syncope.”

“Well duh. We already knew that. She’s dead as old Abe.” Ryan said looking over at Justin.

“Where’s Danny?” Justin asked sipping the last drops of his third Bud Light.

“He had a late closing and was running by to see Ralph Williams. Don’t worry, the visit won’t raise any suspicions. Danny said Ralph had asked him last week about the ten-acre pasture for sale across the road from him.” Warren said accepting a beer from Justin.

“Okay, let’s sit down and review every detail of what’s happened.” Fulton said looking around the room and imagining his ancestors gathering around this same table to discuss business deals and unfortunately, things more sinister.

Club Eden, as it was called, was not only the name for the private 289-acre tract of land on the southwest side of Aurora Lake, but also the unofficial name of the organization formed in the 1890’s by five families who had immigrated from Georgia and settled in Boaz ten years earlier. Five generations separated Fulton, Warren, Ryan, Justin, and Danny from their original forebears. Each of them hoped the crazy evil stunt they pulled in 2002 wasn’t about to be revealed.

“Let’s start with the tape. I thought it was destroyed fifteen years ago. That was the agreement.” Fulton said, looking over at Ryan.

“Maybe he forgot. Granddad, Raymond, was a pack rat. No one would have ever known about our private little session with Katie if Raymond hadn’t been coming out of Aurora Market when we left here. You all remember. We had to confess. Damn, he followed Justin’s van and saw us toss Katie out at the deserted end of town. This was just one of a dozen mistakes we all made that night. I’m talking about how and where we left Katie. More stupid than that was videotaping our little romp.”

“Why in the hell did Raymond keep the tape? I doubt it’s because he’s a hoarder.” Warren asked.

“Maybe he was into porn.” Danny said, like Warren earlier, silently appearing in the cabin’s open doorway. “You guys might want to be a little more careful. I parked on the other side of our bridge just to see if I could sneak up on you lamebrains. Guess what? I did, and I just heard you talking about the tape.”

“Point taken. Right?” Fulton said looking first at Danny and then at the other three sitting around the table.

“I’ve heard Dad talk enough about Raymond to know he was as cunning as they come. Granddad probably believed the tape was some type of insurance, that he could use it to protect me if need be. You do recall that I’m not shown in the video.” Ryan said.

“You were doing the taping and turned it off when you were having your turns with Katie. You are as cunning and disloyal to the rest of us as Raymond was.” Warren said.

“Whatever reason Raymond had for retaining the tape, it was a bad decision. The bottom line is the tape still exists. Back to Darla. Are you sure you didn’t leave any evidence that can come back to haunt us?” Fulton asked, looking at both Ryan and Justin.

“No. None.” Ryan declared. “By the way, there is a limit to loyalty. You all know that.”

“I’m confused as usual.” Warren said writing something on his notepad. “Why were the two of you at Raymond’s to begin with?”

“I had visited granddad two days earlier. He asked me to visit Darla but also to bring back his will. When I opened the safe I saw the videotape and started to take it but for some reason didn’t. When I went back to see Raymond yesterday, to take his will, he gave me another one, a new one I guess, and asked me to store it in his safe. I guess he had his lawyers make a change or two. I didn’t read it. This time I took Justin along to occupy Darla. When I was in his study and opened the safe I noticed the videotape was missing. I knew it had to be Darla. I confronted her about it and she blew up. Apparently, she either knew the safe combination or figured it out after seeing me there two days ago.” Ryan looked at Justin as though to prod him to take over describing what happened next.

“We had hoped Darla would still be in bed and wouldn’t know we were there. That’s why we had gone so early. After her and Ryan got into their screaming match, Ryan and I walked back to Raymond’s study. Then, we heard her on the phone. We figured she was calling Katie. We couldn’t let her get the tape to Katie.

“I doubt if I would have done anything different.” Danny said. Darla was clearly a threat. If it weren’t for the stupid tape, we were in the clear. Even if Katie came forward and accused us all of rape, we could simply deny it. It would be her word against ours.”

“Unless, she knows which one of us is the father of Cullie.” Justin added.

“That still wouldn’t be our downfall. If I were the father I could say that Katie and I had an affair. Not good for my reputation but a hell better than going to prison.” Danny said.

“So, you fed Darla her prescription meds?” Fulton asked.

“By the handful. Also, made her drink nearly half a bottle of Jack Daniels.” Ryan said popping open another Bud Light from the twelve pack on the table.

“That’s all you gave her? The Clonidine, Xanax, and alcohol?” Warren asked. Nothing else?

“We’re apparently all dumb asses. Maybe it’s the beer but here’s the million-dollar question. Where in the hell is the videotape?” Fulton asked throwing a half full bottle of beer into a garbage can.

“We didn’t have much time to look, but it has to still be at Raymond’s. We know from a review of the security system that Darla never left the house after Ryan first removed Raymond’s old will, two days ago.” Justin said.

“Other than leaving the house dead when we took her out yesterday morning.” Ryan added.

“That was assumed dumb ass.” Justin added, confident that his best friend knew he was only joking about his mental acuity.

“We darn well better find that tape. I suspect that if anything suspicious turns up in Darla’s autopsy that law enforcement will be searching her house. We cannot allow that tape to be discovered. It could ruin us all.” Warren said scribbling rapidly in his notebook.

“Ryan and I will go back to Raymond’s tonight soon as we leave here. We’ll find the tape.” Justin said attempting to assure the others there was nothing to worry about.

“One other thing, Danny, what did Ralph Williams say? Any problems there?” Fulton asked Danny who had walked over and plopped down on a leather couch while typing a text.

“We lucked out. Ralph said he was in the house on the phone with his son in Houston for over an hour. Said he came out to his barn around 8:15 and had just gotten on his tractor to move a bale of hay to the pasture when he saw what he first thought was a bunch of ducks lined up along the edge of the pond. He said he drove on down and before he got through the gate he could tell it was a body. He also said he hadn’t seen any traffic going past his place.” Danny said just as his cell phone rang.

It was Tuesday night, near midnight, two hours after everyone had gone to bed and the house was finally still, that Katie walked outside, opened the trunk of her car, and rolled Darla’s stuffed suitcase inside. After removing clothes, shoes, a large toiletry bag, three novels, a couple of journals, and a videotape, Katie went to bed hoping the Audio-Visual Department at school would have an old eight-track video player she could borrow.

The Boaz Stenographer–1st ten chapters

Chapter 1

I will not lie for President Kane. I will not lie for the President. I kept saying to myself as I waited in the secretary’s office just one door away from where the world’s most powerful man sat with Fritz Archer, the President’s Chief of Staff, and Zack Quitman, my boss and Head of the Stenographic core.

“You can come in now Mr. Shepherd.” Jane Goodman, the President’s secretary said as she walked in from the Oval Office.

I tapped my forehead with my handkerchief one final time, stood, and walked through the door into a room with six eyes of hot steel that instantly wounded my determination to hold unwaveringly to honesty and truth. These men would give me only two choices, lie or walk my integrity off the gang plank into a raging ocean.

“Good afternoon Walt.” Fritz said, reaching out to shake my hand. The President sat behind his desk without a word, or glimmer of a smile. Zack twisted in his seat and gave me a slight affirmative nod, like he was signaling me to say yes to whatever demand was coming my way.

“Thank you for coming. Please sit here.”

“My meeting with Billy Graham yesterday in the Rose Garden has created quite a stir.” The President said while looking at his laptop screen that sat on his desk in front of him.

“Walt, I have reviewed your transcript of the President’s and Mr. Graham’s meeting. I’ve also reviewed Tad Goldstein’s transcript. Tad, as you know, was the closest to the President when he said, ‘Billy, I never met with a single Russian during my campaign.’ Why is it that you didn’t hear the word never?” Zack asked.

“Sirs, I can only record what I hear. I heard the President say, ‘Billy, I met with a single Russian during my campaign.’”

“Mr. Shepherd, even though you have worked nearly 35 years as a White House stenographer, Tad Goldstein has won every major competition the National Stenographic Society has held in the past five years. I believe you simply misheard. Why is it that you cannot acknowledge that?” The President said, continuing to look at his laptop screen.

“Sir, in all due respect, I am not the only one who did not hear the word ‘never’ in the subject sentence. I’m aware that several reporters have said they did not hear the word.” I said feeling the sweat run down my back.

Fritz glared at me and sat forward to the edge of his seat, “Sharon Hawkings with Fox News, who, like Tad, was closer to the President than the reporters you mention, is adamant. She says the President never said he had met with a Russian during his campaign. In fact, she said his next sentence confirms that. ‘I am the most patriotic president this country has ever had.’”

I didn’t respond but acted like a school kid who had been caught cheating on an exam.

“Let’s be very clear Mr. Shepherd. You will change your transcript to match Tad’s or you’re fired. Do you understand what I’m saying here?” the President said.

“Yes, clearly.” I said wanting to stand up and run out of the Oval Office.

“Walt, it’s 3:30 now. I’ll give you until 5:00 p.m. today to make your decision. I fully expect you to get on board with Tad.” Zack said, continuing to give me an affirmative nod.

“Am I dismissed?” I said as I stood up directly facing the President. He never made eye contact. He never even looked up from his laptop.

“You may leave Mr. Shepherd but please know there is a price to pay for blindly following your principles. I trust you are hearing what I am saying.” Fritz said as the door to Jane Goodman’s office opened and she herded me like I was a cull cow headed for the slaughter house.

As I walked outside the West Wing and toward the Eisenhower

Executive Office Building I knew my thirty-five-year career here at the White House was over. No Administration had ever asked me to lie. No one had even asked me to correct a verb tense. But, that hadn’t stopped me from making the biggest mistake of my White House career. The only time I ever modified what a President said was in 2000 when I changed President Bush’s ‘is’ to ‘are.’ At a stump speech in Florence, South Carolina on Jan. 11, 2000, Bush asked a question — “Is our children learning?” I had caught hell over transcribing the statement to “Are our children learning?” I was wrong. It was not my job to protect the President. My duty was to record the truth, exactly what was said. I swore then I would die before I ever recorded anything except exactly what the President said. I was not about to change my mind. I didn’t care if it cost me my job.

Three days later, at 6:35 a.m., we left Washington, D.C. It was me in my loaded down 2014 Ford F150 pickup with all my boxed-up transcripts in the truck’s bed under a new camper shell. Behind me, for now at least, were two men in a Peterbilt with a growling CAT engine pulling a 53-foot dry box trailer loaded down with the remainder of my worldly possessions.

The two men crew and rig from Elrod Moving and Storage arrived yesterday shortly after noon and began the ten-hour loading sprint. I had paid their overnight hotel bill at the Georgetown Inn on Wisconsin Avenue and they had returned at 6:00 a.m. to conduct their required 26-point truck and trailer inspection, and to eat a Hardee’s breakfast I had waiting for them. Our plan was simple: drive, virtually non-stop, to 5583 Crosson Road in Boaz, Alabama. They would manage their own schedule, I would mine. I could lead or follow, go on without them, or stop for a nap. One of the requirements was for all to meet at

6:00 a.m. in the morning at the designated spot and start unloading the trailer.

Eighty miles after leaving my home on Rosalyn Street in Georgetown, somewhere around Middleton, Virginia, I pulled past the long semi and settled in to endure one of my least favorite things. I always thought driving, and even worse, riding as a passenger, was boring. For a little over seven chapters I listened to The Last Juror, a John

Grisham book, but surprisingly got tired of Clanton, Mississippi and Willie Traynor, although it was one of my favorite stories, having previously read it in hardcover and on my Kindle.

My mind took a different direction just as Miss Callie Ruffin finished her prayer, and her and Willie were about to eat a feast for lunch out on her front porch in Lowtown. I was 15 and was walking up the back-porch steps to my parents’ house, my home on Crosson Road, when I was startled by a woman’s voice coming from the swing on the far side of the porch. Vann Elkins, my 16-year-old friend, the same grade as me but a few months older, had just dropped me off from an after-church gathering at the Dickerson’s house in Country Club. The back-porch lights were off, and I hadn’t seen Mother. I also hadn’t seen her crying. This is what altered her voice and startled me.

“Walt, let’s talk.” Mother’s voice was clearer now.

I walked over and sat down in a lounging chair. “Are you okay? It’s after 10:00, late for you. What’s wrong?” Mother was always in bed by 9:00 p.m. sharp.

“I’m worried about you. You’re changing, and I don’t like it.”

“You don’t like me growing up?” I was really confused. Why would Mother be worried about how much I was growing. Since last year, the beginning of 9th grade, I had grown nearly three inches taller and gained fifty pounds. She knew how hard I had worked with Coach Hicks in the weight room, on the practice field, and running an obstacle course, he had helped lay out here at Shepherd’s Cove, our 40acre domain off Crosson Road.

“No, silly, it’s not that. I am very proud of how you have stuck to your goal of playing football. Son, what is breaking my heart is how you are falling away from God.” Mother barely got the words out.

Before I could think of what to say Dad opened the back door and turned on the porch light. He didn’t get a word out before Mother shooed him back inside.

“Mom, I was at church tonight and I led the prayer at the

Dickerson’s before ice cream and cake.”

“That’s good Walt, but don’t patronize me. I hear the type of questions you are asking in Mr. Smith’s Sunday School class and I see how you act during Brother Walter’s sermons. When you slouch down in the pew I know you are not listening or you are disagreeing with what you are hearing. Be honest with me. Tell me what is going on.” Mother had laid her tissues aside. She was gaining composure. I knew my goose was cooked.

“I have my doubts about Christianity. There, I said it.” I said standing up and moving over by the porch rails.

I know now a little more how those words broke Mother’s heart.

That night we talked until after midnight. I told her how the year before I had started reading how the Bible came about, and, this year, had gotten interested in evolution, thanks to Dr. Ayers, my Biology teacher. At the end of those two hours, the only thing we accomplished was to agree to disagree. For sure, one thing didn’t change, and that was my love for my Mother and her love for me.

My mind was now solidly in the past. I kept driving. By the end of high school, I was, at a minimum, a closet atheist. No, I didn’t stop going to First Baptist Church of Christ. I respected my Mother more than that, Dad too. By graduation night, May 25, 1972, I had accumulated nearly four years of reading, studying, and contemplating. Atheist was not the right word. I didn’t have the right word to describe me. What do you call a person who strongly doubts most of the stories from the Bible? Who believes in an old, old earth, and that all life is connected and has arisen through the evolutionary process? What do you label a person who both doubts God and loves God, or the things my life had associated with God? Whatever I was, by the end of high school, I still was open to God, most days was eager to hear from Him.

I truly was open to knowing Him. I just needed evidence.

Mother was the most open-minded about my fall from grace, as she put it. In fact, her and Dr. Ayers were the only two people I knew of who didn’t think I was a disgrace to the community. It didn’t take long for word to spread around church and around town that I was different. It didn’t take me long to figure out that a closed mind is such a dangerous thing. In a way, I felt like church folks threw me into the same camp with homosexuals. We were all heathens and destined for hell.

After graduating, I attended Snead State Community College for one year. During the summer of 1973, Jennifer Ericson and I married, and her rich father opted to pay our way at the University of Virginia, a truly great school, and the one I had dreamed of attending since the tenth grade. I majored in English and minored in Creative Writing. We had stayed in Charlottesville during the summer after our sophomore year. I got a job at Pizza Hut and right before the end of summer I delivered a pizza to Craig Langston sitting on the steps of the Rotunda. He was a talkative professor. After he learned I was an English major, he invited me to sit, even gave me a slice of his pizza. He asked me a dozen questions and ended advising me to take a couple of stenographic courses. He said I needed to find a way to, as efficiently as possible, take notes from what I was reading. He warned me that my sophomore year was going to be heck, but my junior and senior years would be hell. He strongly encouraged me to pursue “the best note-taking system known to man.” I will never forget those words.

I did follow his advice, ultimately taking six courses over the next three years, almost deciding to change my major. I’ve often wondered if Craig Langston was an angel sent from God to guide my life. Probably not, but for sure he played a significant role in my future. After graduating, I tried for over a year to find a teaching position. I wanted to teach at the college level but soon learned I needed a PhD. That wasn’t happening. I wound up teaching night classes in stenography at Prince George’s Community College in Largo, Maryland. How I got there was a whole other story. It was only fate that I met Sally Pelham, the sister of the College’s President who had been a stenographer at the White House for nearly twenty years. Out of the blue one Thursday evening, nearly six years after I started teaching at Prince George, Sally and her sister, Suzie, the College’s President, dropped by my class. They stayed the remaining hour of the class, even had me demonstrate my ability on the steno machine. After all my students left, Sally gave me her card telling me to call her if I wanted “a note-taking job in a high stress environment.” A month later, November 18, 1982, I was the newest staff member of the White House’s stenographic core.

Over the next eight hours, my mind jumped between alternating scenes, from my 35-year career at the White House, back to high school girlfriends Regina Gillan, and the late Jennifer Ericson. At 6:35 p.m., twelve hours after leaving my townhouse in Georgetown, I pulled my Ford pickup into the driveway at Shepherd’s Cove, 5583 Crosson Road, Boaz, Alabama.

Chapter 2

It was almost 8:30 p.m. before the moving van arrived. After Ed and Larry parked the van and left for a hotel, I drove to Walmart to pick up a few things. As I was loading up on ten kinds of yogurt, I glanced over and saw an attractive woman at the milk cooler pulling out and returning several gallons of milk. The woman had on tight jeans and a sleeveless pink top. I had a feeling I knew the woman but all I could see was her profile.

After she finally selected a gallon of milk, placed it into her buggy, and headed towards me, I knew exactly who she was. “Regina

Gillan, is that you?”

“Who’s asking?” She replied looking towards me for a second before abandoning her cart and walking over to the eggs directly opposite the yogurt coolers.

“Walt Shepherd is asking.” I said.

She then ignored her need for eggs and walked over and hugged my neck without saying anything. We just stood and looked at each other for what seemed like a minute or more. By now, I couldn’t help but notice her pink top was exposing just enough cleavage to remind me she still had a teenage figure. Even though I hadn’t seen her in nearly 50 years, memories of our last conversation flooded my mind.

“I can’t believe this. Last week I heard you quit the White House and now you’re in Boaz Walmart?”

“My story isn’t as good as yours Miss Gina. Not long ago at all you were giving President Kane hell in editorials at the Chicago Tribune. Now, you’re checking out expiration dates on twenty gallons of milk in Boaz Walmart.” I said.

“You always were a smart-ass Walt Shepherd.”

“Seriously Regina, you here for a New Year’s visit or still hanging around after Christmas?”

“Neither. As of ten days ago I am the Editor-In-Chief of the

Sand Mountain Reporter.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. Why would the editor of the editorial page for the Chicago Tribune jump from that high pedestal and fall so far south? Living around a bunch of liberals is one thing, but living amongst red-neck Christian fundamentalists can get you killed?”

“Not only a smart ass but rather insulting too, aren’t you?” Regina said.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. It just seems such a radical move.”

“It wasn’t as sudden as it might appear. I’ve been wanting a change for a while. Over forty years in the windy city is enough. Since our class reunion in 2012 I’ve been homesick of a sort. It was surprising that my nostalgia from hanging around a bunch of our classmates, all who still live around here, didn’t go away. No doubt, it was a post-midlife crisis of a sort. By the way, why didn’t you come to one of our class reunions?

We’ve had them at least every ten years.”

“I didn’t want the pain.”

“Pain? What the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s a long story, but you are one of the leading characters.”

“That’s a story I would love to hear, but now I have to get back. Mother needed milk for her banana pudding. She makes me swear to triple-check the expiration dates.”

“It was nice seeing you.”

“Oh, I forgot to ask. What are you doing in Boaz?” Regina asked.

“I not only quit the White House Stenographic staff, but have moved back home, home as in right here in Boaz. I just got in town around an hour ago. I guess you could say I’ve retired.”

“Walt Shepherd, you will never retire. You can’t sit still. Come talk to me at the Reporter. I’ll be in the office first thing Monday morning.”

Chapter 3

I spent the next three days unpacking. The moving company had placed all my furniture neatly around the outer walls of the great room, study, and two bedrooms, and stacked the dozens and dozens of boxes inside the master bedroom. All the boxes, except my White House transcripts. I moved them to a safe and secure, climate-controlled, unit at Paradise Self Storage in Albertville. I toiled with this decision, but for now decided it more prudent to spend the extra money to protect the fruits of my 35 years working with five Presidents until I could have the documents scanned.

I had mixed feelings about moving back into my childhood home, what my paternal great-grandfather had dubbed, Shepherd’s Cove. Mom and Dad had deeded the home-place to DeeDee, my sister, and me in 2007. Dad died in 2012 and Mom had moved into Brookdale Assisted Living in Albertville three years ago. She was not doing well. DeeDee had listed Mom and Dad’s place with a realtor in 2015. There had been a little activity during the first few months after it was listed, but none for nearly the past two years. Since I was moving back home anyway and needed a place to live, I decided to buy the 118-year-old thrice-remodeled cabin that Stephen Parker Shepherd had built in 1899, motivated greatly by my DeeDee’s offer to buy her out at a great price.

This morning, Thursday, would be a change of my recently created routine. I had to meet with Dean Naylor at Snead State to finalize my adjunct professor duties in the business department. That meeting wasn’t until 3:30 p.m., which gave me plenty of time to waste here sitting in a padded lounging chair on the back porch, one that likely was the same one I sat in as mother and I talked when I was 15. I had been here since daylight watching three ducks swim and frolic in the pond along the edge closest to the old barn which was built shortly after the house.

At 6:50 a.m., I heard a car horn. I really didn’t want any visitors, so I stayed put, lowering the back of my chair into a sleeping position. If it’s important, the person will find me. I shut my eyes as though I was asleep.

“Walt, you can hide from your troubles all day.” Vann Elkins shouted from the porch steps. I kept my eyes closed until he walked over and shook me with both hands until I nearly fell out of my chair.

“I wasn’t hiding from my troubles. I was hiding from you. Well, I guess that’s about the same thing.”

“Good to see you Walt. I’ve been seeing activity around here for nearly a week. I just figured DeeDee had sold the place and my new neighbors were moving in.” Vann said unfolding another lounge chair.

I raised the back of my chair. “I hear you’ve retired?”

“Thought it was time to fish, hunt, garden, and gossip anytime I wanted without distraction from 250 high schoolers.” Vann said fiddling with the settings on his chair.

“I’m glad you stopped by but I’m hungry. Let’s go grab a bite and we can catch up. That good for you?” I said finding it difficult to get up out of my low-slung chair.

“Sounds great, I was headed to Grumpy’s Diner when I decided to pull in.”

I rode with Vann in his 90’s model Ford pickup and found one table available. Three men I didn’t know were just abandoning the table in the far left-hand corner. I followed Vann and stopped every time he did to greet folks at four other tables. I felt like a member of the Secret Service. He didn’t introduce me to anyone and no one even looked my way. Maybe I’m invisible. That might not be a bad thing.

After the waitress brought us coffee and took our orders, I asked Vann why he had really retired. I knew he wasn’t much of an outdoorsman, even though his wife insisted he help her in the garden. The truth is, he was a bookworm.

“I’ve been teaching American History at Boaz High School since 1978, two years after I graduated from the University. Time for a change. I might finally get to writing that book I’ve been dreaming about for a quarter of a century.” Vann said.

‘University,’ in these parts always referred to the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa. And, no other college in the world. Cross-state rivalry Auburn could never earn such a title. “How will you survive without the interaction with your students? I’ve always heard and believed that was the key to your longevity.”

“Oh, horse radishes, let’s talk about you for a while. I see where you really got your ass in a crack with old man Kane. I have one question. Did you quit or were you fired?”

“Both. I quit and got fired.”

“That makes sense.” Vann said hesitating to go on while the waitress delivered our food. “Clarify please.”

I realized for the first time since high school why Vann Elkins and I were best friends. We had always been totally transparent with each other. There was nothing, and I mean nothing, that we couldn’t ask or divulge to the other. “Before my meeting with the President I had already decided how I would respond. If he asked me to lie, then I was out of there. That’s what happened. The President let my boss, Zack Quitman, have the honors of telling me to change the transcript or hit the road.”

“You’re my hero man. The rest of the country’s also. Well, except for ninety-nine percent of the Wacko’s supporters.” Vann said.

“You’re right. Just like Kane said, ‘I could be in the street in downtown Manhattan and shoot somebody and wouldn’t lose a one of my supporters.’ The man is a Presidential disgrace. But, his day is coming. I feel it in my bones.” I said noticing my voice rising as I spoke. “Not so loud my friend. Half of Kane’s’ supporters live here in Boaz. Since you’ve never been so good at math, that means most every person you will encounter in Boaz, no matter where you are, Walmart, church, here in the diner, are die-hard Kane fans.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. Surely, it’s not more than 50%.

Wouldn’t that be what it should be given the general election results?” I said.

“Kane math doesn’t work that way. For some unknown reason,

Boaz voted nearly 100% for Kane. But, that might change.”

“Vann, who’s your new friend?” The waitress, Gloria, said pressing a large and protruding hip into Vann’s shoulder.

“Some nut job liberal I found on Highway 431 broke down heading to New York City. No, sorry. Gloria Brown, this is my best friend since high school, Walt Shepherd.”

“Nice to meet you Walt, can I call you Walt?” Gloria said walking over and filling my coffee cup.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way. Nice to meet you Gloria.”

“Hot stuff, coffee please.” A sixtyish looking man sitting with three younger men halfway across the dining room shouted at Gloria.

And, she was gone.

“What did you mean before Gloria came up? You said something might change.” I said.

“Regina Gillan, your old flame, has taken over as Chief Editor at the Sand Mountain Reporter. You do know she has spent the past hundred years or so with one of the most liberal newspapers in America, the Chicago Tribune?”

“Funny you mention her. Last Friday I ran into her at Walmart. She mentioned moving back and her new job.” I said with my mouth stuffed with the best pancakes I’d eaten since my mother’s when I was a kid.

“I predict things around here are going to get interesting.

Especially since Belinda, you know, Regina’s twin sister, is married to Frankie Olinger.”

“Oh shit. When did Belinda lose her mind? You are talking about the same Frankie Olinger we went to school with?”

“Yep, and we thought he was crazy 45 years ago. He is bat-shit crazy now. He’d have to be to be head honcho with the local Kanites. I forget what they call themselves. Oh yea, Kane Tribe.” Vann said.

“I thought I was moving away from a screwed-up city. Looks like this town may be just as bad, maybe worse. I got to go.” I said cramming a whole slice of bacon in my mouth.

Gloria brought us two coffees to-go as we were walking to the checkout counter beside the front door. As we were leaving, I heard behind me, “Vann, remember Sand Mountain Tire needs your business. I thought you were coming by after our little chat at Walmart a couple of weeks ago.” It was the older man who had yelled at Gloria for coffee from across the restaurant.

“I’ve been busy.” Vann responded. “Who’s your friend?”

“Frankie, don’t you remember Walt Shepherd? We all went to school together.” Vann said.

“Oh hell no. Walt, good to see you. It’s a shame you didn’t have the balls to support our President. I read all about it.”

I wanted to kick him in the balls, but I just stood there and looked at him. Frankie was bigger than ever, a couple of inches taller than my six feet and probably weighed three hundred pounds. Even with half of it being fat, I didn’t want to wrestle a bear. I also didn’t want to smell like oil and gas for my meeting with Dean Naylor. “Nice to see you Frankie. I don’t think I’ve seen you since you quit school at the end of the eleventh grade.”

Vann gently pushed in between Frankie and me and said, “hurry up you two, there’s people waiting. Let’s go.”

Vann dropped me off at my mailbox next to the road. As he started to drive off, he stopped, leaned out his window, and said, “you better stay away from the foxy Regina. You know she’ll come with a

Frankie bonus.”

I waved him off, checked my mailbox, and walked the long and winding driveway home.

Chapter 4

My meeting with Dean Naylor was cut short by a ‘human issue’ as he called it. Seems like an assistant coach and the new head basketball coach hired during the Christmas holidays were having difficulty expressing brotherly love. During the twenty minutes we had before Naylor was called to the gymnasium, we discussed the second semester stenographic course I was to teach on Monday and Thursday evenings from 6:00 to 9:00 p.m., including lab time. From his bragging about Snead State winning last year’s Tri-State Regional Stenographic Tournament, I could tell he had high expectations. He also was supportive of my decision to stand up against the President. As Naylor was rushing out of his office he said, “Thanks for being a man of principle when you chose truth over job security. Let’s have lunch one day soon and I’ll introduce you to a couple of other supporters.” With that, he was gone leaving me sitting in his office.

For five minutes or so I continued to sit and reminisce. After graduating from Boaz High School in 1972, I couldn’t make my mind up about what profession I wanted to pursue. So, I spent the next year here, what was then called Snead State Junior College, taking general curriculum courses. The Dean’s secretary came in and said she had to run an errand and needed to lock-up his office. I walked out and instead of descending the nearby stairs to the first floor I walked down the long hallway towards the classroom Jennifer and I had taken a Speech class together. The room was the old auditorium. I sat down in a seat closest to the area I remembered sitting every day during that semester. I imagined Jennifer right beside me, her blowing that crazy, unruly black curl out of her right eye. That was January 1973. Where in hell had forty-five years gone? “You got to leave, I’m locking up.” A short, older man holding a key ring with a hundred keys shouted from the double doors by the hallway.

Chapter 5

I left the College and drove to the Sand Mountain Reporter. I don’t know why for sure. It may have been the lingering nostalgia that was morphing in a different direction. I had married Jennifer, but it was Regina who was my first love and the one I had walked away from. Was my mind playing tricks on me? Or, was my heart reminding me of what I was blind to see nearly fifty years ago? I had to find the answer. Regina would know. As I pulled into the parking lot I was happy to remember that Regina had invited me to drop by. We could at least talk shop. Talking about how we were nearly half a century ago might be a little premature.

It was almost 4:30 p.m. when I asked the receptionist if Regina was available. I told her my name and she disappeared. Just as I sat down and picked up the latest edition of the Reporter from a table in the corner, the receptionist reappeared and instructed me to follow her. Behind a desk in an office that dwarfed the size and intimidated the furnishings of Dean Naylor’s office, sat the gorgeous Regina. I shook my head to push back the past as she motioned for me to sit with her at a round table in the corner.

“I’m so glad you dropped by. What’s up Mr. Walt?”

“Nothing much. I’ve been by to see Dean Naylor and confirm the details on the class I’ll be teaching.”

“You’re taking Stella Gillman’s position, aren’t you? I heard she accepted a position at Wake Forest?”

“A great promotion for her but also the opportunity to be near her aging parents in Winston-Salem. I’m happy for her.” I said glancing at Regina’s straight, short-cropped brown hair. Brown sounded so bland.

There should be one word to describe silky, brilliantly bright, and sexy. “Talking about opportunity. Snead State is rather fortunate to have a world-renowned stenographer like you. One with a radical reputation at that.”

“I’m just me, plain and simple Walt.”

“Oh, give me a break. You’ve always undersold and underestimated yourself. Of course, I do admit you are rather lame in some respects.” Regina said sitting back and crossing her legs.

“What department are you referring to?” I said feeling a little sweat breaking out on my forehead.

“Women, your ability to choose women, is grossly inadequate.”

“Funny, funny.”

The receptionist announced over an open intercom she was leaving. Regina rushed out and when she returned she said, “I was overwhelmingly the best choice for you when you were a teenager and look what you did.”

“I have recently thought about that. You may be right.”

“Right? You know I’m right. But, that was a lifetime ago. Hey, I owe you an apology. I don’t have a clue how I got us started on that little conversation.”

“No apology needed. In fact, let’s continue the conversation over dinner, tonight, my place.”

“I’d love to Walt, but I have a Board meeting tonight. Rain check?”

“Absolutely.”

“In fact, I need about an hour to prepare then I have to run a couple of errands. I hate to push you out but duty calls.” Regina said coming towards me reaching out her right hand offering a friendly handshake.

“Thanks for seeing me without any notice.” I said, standing and taking her hand. Her grasp lingered a few seconds more than normal. It seemed 45 years of adult scales fell off our eyes and we were back in the barn loft the night before our high school graduation. It was there, a place we had met late at night for nearly two years, I told her Jennifer was wanting a full commitment. Now, standing here, what I had done those many years ago, seemed the most stupid thing a man could ever do.

“Oh, I knew there was something I wanted to ask you. I was in Guntersville this morning at the Courthouse. After the Draper sentencing hearing was over, I lingered while the courtroom emptied, hoping to get an interview with the District Attorney. The court reporter, Ginger, something like that, and I, got to talking as she was packing up her steno stuff. She was frantic to leave saying she had to drive to Huntsville for a deposition. Long story short. She works for Rains & Associates, a big court-reporting agency based in Birmingham. Ginger said they were very short-handed, so much she was driving herself mad as she drove all over North Alabama trying to meet demands. Anyway, I thought of you, thought you might like another part time job. Something to keep the restless Walt out of the bars and honky tonks.

“Again, funny. Thanks for the tip. I’ll give it some thought. Now, you go do what you need to do. I’ll call you later to remind you of the rain check you owe me.” I said glancing over at Regina who by now was back at her desk ruffling through a stack of files and papers.

“Later gator.” She said without looking up.

I dropped by Pizza Hut for a large Supreme and drove home feeling more nostalgic than ever.

Chapter 6

I was just walking into the kitchen from the back porch when my cell phone vibrated. It was DeeDee. My one and only sister. The one I loved and loathed.

“What’s up? You had supper?” I could hear road noise. She had always loved driving with her window down, no matter the weather. It took a hard, driving rain for her to keep her window up. She rarely ever turned on the car’s air-conditioner. Of course, she didn’t need it now. I was freezing outside.

“Just got here. I have a Supreme pizza, hot and ready. Where are you?”

“In front of Boaz Walmart heading home. Been with Mom.”

“How was she?”

“Sleepy, listless, hopeless. She said very little.”

“I’m going to see her tomorrow. I hate she is so depressed. Come by if you want.” I instantly regretted my invitation. I really didn’t know why. DeeDee and I had always gotten along, if we didn’t talk about God and religion. We had never been close, close but had great respect for each other. One thing that kept us in the same ditch together was our mutual love for Mom, and Dad too when he was alive.

“I’m starving. I’ll be there in five. Got any beer?”

“No dear. You know I don’t drink.”

“I’ll pick some up. You need some milk?”

“You trying to be funny?”

“See you Walton.”

Walton Alec Shepherd. No one ever called me Walton anymore. Also, no one called me ‘Was.’ In ninth grade, Vann had dubbed me, ‘the

Was.’ This came about in an English class where Mrs. Stamps taught us the importance of tenses in our writing. She was concentrating on the verb ‘be.’ After she stated the past tense of ‘be’ is ‘was,’ Vann, almost instantly, said, “hey Walt, that’s you. You, Walton Alec Shepherd, is a ‘was.’ Of course, the class burst out laughing. Everyone except Mrs. Stamps. Thus, the beginning of a nickname that spread like wildfire through high school. It never failed, nearly every day, walking the halls, someone would meet me. Their greeting was always, “hey Was, you are the past, man.” I was (there it is) glad ‘Was’ died shortly after graduation in 1972.

I was hungry, so I sat at the counter and was working on my second slice when DeeDee walked in with a six-pack of Coors Lite, and two gallons of milk.

“Thought you might want to make some ice-cream.” She said looking at me with her left dimple more pronounced than I could remember.

“Thanks. All afternoon I’ve been planning an ice-cream party. It will take two freezers, one vanilla, the other grape. You’re not invited.”

“Move over.” She nudged me, and I scooted my barstool toward the wall.

We sat for the next ten minutes or so and ate pizza. She drank a beer. I drank a glass of milk just to play that card. With only one slice remaining, I left it for her and walked to my chair in the den. It was part of the kitchen, what they call a great room. It was only an evolving idea when Mom and Dad had, in the early 1950s, remodeled the house his grandfather had built in the 1890s. Most folks those days stuck with a separate kitchen/dining room, a separate den, and a separate living room.

I’m glad they broke that tradition. I loved this pine-paneled room.

DeeDee joined me and flipped on the TV. I made her turn it off after five minutes of Fox News lauding President Kane’s loyalty to his supporters. Apparently, this afternoon, he had signed an Executive Order commanding the Immigration and Naturalization Service to start rounding up illegal aliens, especially Hispanics, and shipping them back to Mexico.

I figured DeeDee would make a supporting comment to Kane’s action but instead she said, “I hear you and Regina may become a thing again.”

“What, what are you talking about?”

“I ran into Vann at Walmart and he told me about you guys having breakfast at Grumpy’s this morning. Said, he had to move to another table when you started undressing Regina.”

“Oh, he’s such a jerk.”

“You know Vann, always the jokester.”

“Now, I’ve got good reason to pull a little prank on that retard.” I said.

“Seriously, he did say that you had seen her the other night at

Walmart.”

“I did. We talked just a few minutes. I also saw her this afternoon. At the Reporter.”

“You have business there?”

“She is the new editor and invited me to drop by.”

“I can see it now. The smoldering fire erupts. I knew those embers had never gone cold. Is she as gorgeous as ever?” DeeDee said moving over on the couch and propping her feet on the coffee table.

“No, actually. She is more so. I’m completely blown away that I still have feelings for her.”

“I’m not. You know I never could understand why you chose Jennifer over Regina. Jennifer had played the field before she latched on to you. I think she wised up and knew it was time to find someone with a future. It took her a while, but she finally realized spread-eagle in the back seat of a car wasn’t likely the best way to make a living.”

“Don’t talk about her that way.” You have her all wrong. She made a mistake with a guy that was three years older than her.”

“Believe what you want my dear Walton.”

“Stop calling me that, okay?”

“I’m sorry, I was out of line. I must admit Jennifer was good to you. You will probably never find someone more loyal and faithful to you. She died way too young. I do miss her.”

“I do too, but most days I try to think as she wanted me to think. As she was dying she made me promise her that I would move on with my life. That, I would know that she was in a better place. I can’t believe that was nearly forty years ago.”

“Do you believe she is in a better place, in Heaven?” DeeDee knew this was a touchy subject. She knew that I had long given up my childhood faith.

“No. Jennifer is dead. She’s in the same place she was in, mentally, psychologically, before she was born. I now, more than ever, believe that when you die, you die, and that’s it.”

“Mother still doesn’t know, does she?”

“Know what?” I said looking and feeling perplexed.

“That you no longer straddle the fence as she called it when you were a teenager. She doesn’t know how, what, thirty years ago, you pulled the other leg over that teetering fence?”

“I doubt it. And, I’m not telling her. You either, okay?”

“You know you don’t have to worry about that. I could never hurt our dear Mother.”

“I think you are rather ignorant to continue believing in God and Christ and the Bible, but I know you have good reason. You just know one side of the story.”

“Walton, don’t start. I don’t want to hear it. I know God is real.

He talks to me every day.”

“Sis, I know you believe that. And, I know you believe He has everything under His control. He has a plan and it’s all good. I get it.”

“I’m not mad but I do have to go. Kevin’s plane should be landing in Birmingham about now. I want to be home when he arrives.”

“He still traveling a lot?”

“Too much. Thanks for the pizza and I hope you get serious about your Regina stalking.”

“Get out of here you lamebrain. Love you sis.”

Chapter 7

Kip Brewer was the U.S. Congressman from Alabama’s Forth Congressional District. This district covered Dekalb, Etowah, and Marshall Counties, and ten other counties stretching westward to the Mississippi line. Kip lived with his wife of twenty-seven years in Boaz, west of town in the Red Apple Community. When he was not in Washington, D.C., or traveling in other parts of his district one would find him mending fences or remodeling the one-hundred-year-old barn his great-grandfather had built in 1919 after returning from World War I six months earlier.

Kip was elected to the U.S. House of Representatives in 1996 filling the seat of 15-term Tom Bevill. Kip had served ever since. He was a member of the Republican Party, a non-active member of the nonactive Tea Party Caucus, and one of only a handful of Republicans outspoken against President Andrew Kane. Kip’s opposition wasn’t so much against Kane’s policy ideas, but against his manners and methods. Kip believed the President of the United States, the most powerful man in the world, should conduct himself always with honor, humility, and respect. To Kip, there was never a time the President is justified in calling names like a drunken sailor. The full truth be known, in the center of his rationality, Kip believed Kane was wholly incompetent to serve as President.

Four hours earlier Kip and his wife Darla returned from a Town Hall meeting at the Bevill Center at Snead State Community College. It was their last stop from a thirteen-county tour that began two weeks ago on Valentine’s Day in the northwest Alabama city of Tuscumbia. The Bevill Center meeting had gone well, at first, with difficult but respectful questions from a well-mannered audience including thirty members of the Etowah County Democratic Party who grilled Representative Brewer on whether the Republican Party had any plans of confronting President Kane on his conduct and his involvement with the Russian attack on the 2016 Presidential election.

The meeting got ugly when Kip wholeheartedly agreed with the Democratic group. Shouting started in the back rows on the far-right side under the balcony. Frankie Olinger stood up and without microphone, thundered above everyone, “you Rino, don’t you know Kane is God’s man to drain the swamp. I elected him, we elected him, to get rid of all you talk and no action puppets. You better get on board the Kane wagon or get run over. The Revolution has started. You’re the enemy and enemies get killed.”

It seemed every member of Frankie’s gang was present and spoke out. He was the outspoken leader of the local chapter of Kane Tribe, a grassroots organization that sprung-up in early 2016 after Kane’s train began gaining steam. The shouting for and against got louder and louder. The opposition was mainly from the Etowah County

Democratic Party. The other 600 attendees joined in as Frankie’s group approached the front and attempted to mount the stage. It took fifteen Boaz police officers and thirty cans of pepper spray to squelch the uprising. In the middle of the storm, Kip’s secret service team pulled him out the back exit and transported him home.

At 2:30 a.m. Kip eased out of bed, frustrated over the outburst at the Town Hall and frustrated he couldn’t go back to sleep. He tipped toed into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. As it percolated, he recalled meeting Frankie Olinger in 1997 during his first campaign. Kip’s father, a banker, had done business with Frankie and his father, helping them build a new building for Sand Mountain Tire & Battery, their automotive repair business. Frankie had supported Kip’s initial efforts to get elected, even sponsoring a three-month radio campaign at WQSB. Kip poured a large cup of coffee and walked outside on the back deck, flipping on the light as he stepped out into the cold and near-moonless night.

He stood by the railing and looked out towards the old barn. He was beginning to think he would never complete the remodeling he had started in 2002, at the end of his third term in the House. Kip started to sit down but as he turned he caught a glimpse of a light in the distance. It was five or six hundred yards east of and beyond the barn. It was at the edge of the woods that started along the edge of the pasture. His mind convinced him it was some odd reflection of the moon, or possibly the aftereffects of a campfire built by a group of teenagers hanging out at the creek, though it seemed too early and too cold for that.

Kip never heard the shot. Just as he was sitting his coffee cup on the top rail at the back of the deck, the bullet arrived. It’s sound trailing by only milliseconds. The bullet’s impact exploded the mind of one of only a handful of men who stood between a Constitutional crisis, and the most narcissistic man Americans had ever sent to the Oval Office. Kip Brewer, already dead, collapsed into a pool of brains and blood. In less than a minute Sean Miller with the Secret Service was on the deck with Kip calling 911, and radioing his team-mates to, under no circumstances, allow Darla to come outside.

Chapter 8

I decided to get up early and visit Mother. I was ashamed that I had only visited her five times during the nearly two months I had been back in Boaz. Other than the first visit, where she did smile at me when I walked in and whispered a goodbye when I left, our visits had become routine. I would gently knock on her door, receive no response, go in, walk-over to her sitting in your lounging chair, take her right hand, hug her, and then sit in front of her in a straight-back chair, and talk about old times, hoping and waiting for any response. There had been none, so far. I hoped today would be different.

I signed with the receptionist at the information desk and walked two long halls back to Mother’s room. I lightly tapped on her door and heard, “come in.” I was temporarily encouraged but then realized when I opened the door that the words had come from a nurse’s aide. Mother sat in her chair and looked at me. No smile, but at least she had looked my way.

“Are you Harriet’s son?”

“I am.”

“Please tell her she needs to leave the air-conditioning set on at least 78 degrees. I know it’s winter-time, but these rooms don’t know that. I came in a few minutes ago and it was nearly 90 degrees in here. If you click over to Heat, the thermostat doesn’t work, and it thinks you want to boil. If you click over to Cool and turn down the thermostat to

78 degrees or below, the unit will keep the room temperature comfortable. These old units need throwing away.”

“I’ll remind her when I leave. Would you be so kind, along with your team-mates, to look in on Mother? By the way, when is Brookdale going to address the heating and air-conditioning issue?”

“We’ll try. We have a full-house right now. Talk to the Director about your last question.” The aide said walking towards the door. “Don’t forget to remind her. Her getting too hot and breathing all this stale air can cause pneumonia. She doesn’t want that.”

“Me either.” I said as the short and wide woman left Mother’s room.

I walked over to Mother, took her right hand and hugged her, this time kissing her on her forehead. I pulled over the straight-back chair and sat down in front of her. She was dressed in a navy-blue jogging outfit, pants and top, the top being, to me, an overly thick sweatshirt. I looked her in the eyes and saw a glimpse of my real mother for the first time since I returned from D.C. I may have been simply imagining. I’m not sure. But, it seemed we were back on our back porch, sitting in the swing, that Sunday night, me at fifteen, and her at thirty-eight.

This glimpse and my mind recalling my conversation with the on-duty nurse I nearly bumped into turning down the last hallway on the way here, brought tears to my eyes. That was an understatement. I was crying.

The nurse had said Mother’s condition had deteriorated a great deal since she moved in nearly three years ago. When she arrived, Mother could get up out of her chair, and with the use of her walker, get about in her room. Now, she can barely sit up in her chair. And, she has no power to move herself at all. The nurse said that aides transfer her from her bed to her walker, from her walker to her chair, from her chair to the bathroom, even though Mother now wears diapers. Also, she said that Mother’s near inability to speak was common for

Parkinson’s patients in the disease’s final stage—something about how it affects the throat muscles. The biggest shocker came when the nurse said that Mother’s days here may be limited. When the first of two things happen, inability to swallow, or when she can no longer sit up in her chair, will be the time she must transfer to a nursing home. The nurse said Brookdale, like all other assisted living facilities, is not equipped to deal with either of these problems. These issues require skilled nursing care, the type care provided only by a nursing home.

I took out my handkerchief and dabbed my eyes. It took me a few minutes to suppress my crying. This alone, that is, my crying, troubled me. I wasn’t the crying type. All my experience told me this. However, I was now dealing with a whole new experience. One, that broke my heart. Seeing my dear mother, broken by Parkinson’s, broke my heart.

When I could finally see Mother again, she was half-pointing towards an end-table beside her chair. There was a half-folded sheet of paper with my name written on it.

“Mom, do you want the sheet of paper?” I asked feeling more tears about to surface.

She nodded her head, forward and back up just a little.

I took the paper and handed it towards her. She moved her head sideways back and forth just a little.

“Do you want me to look at it?”

Another affirmative nod, which was hardly a nod at all but I knew her response wasn’t a ‘no.’

I opened the sheet and immediately recognized DeeDee’s handwriting. It was the same that had printed my name on the outside of the paper, but I hadn’t even thought to question it.

“Mother, I assume you want me to read this. Is that correct?” Another affirmative nod.

DeeDee introduced what was to follow by saying that Mother had asked her to write all this down. I glanced down to the bottom of the sheet and it was signed, “Harriett Shepherd, by DeeDee.” Written beside her signature was the date, February 10, 2018. It was now February 25th.

Basically, Mother’s message to me was short and simple, stay open-minded about God. Apparently, Mother had shared with DeeDee several events that had taken place during my youth, including that infamous meeting on the back porch when I was fifteen. Another one was the talk we had in my room after I came in at 3:00 a.m., the morning after I graduated from Boaz High School. That meeting included her having the two of us kneel beside my bed and her praying a rather lengthy prayer which included her pleading God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit, to gift me with what she called, ‘Walt’s Damascus Road unveiling.’ At the bottom of the sheet, DeeDee had written. “Walt, Mother had me help her get down on her knees beside her chair to pray (it took two aides to help her back up after she finished). These are her exact words, no paraphrasing, ‘Lord, open Walt’s eyes, show him your face, please

God, give me a sign before I die.”

I reread the note and looked back up at Mother. Now, she was the one with tears.

“Mother, you know I love you and have always respected your beliefs. For years now, I have had a closed mind when it came to God, but I promise you, right here, right now, I’ll change that. I’m going to be looking for that sign you talked about. I am going to be wholly open to having my Damascus Road unveiling.”

The tears kept rolling down Mother’s cheeks.

“Mother, please believe we are back on the porch having just finished the two-hour talk we had when I was fifteen.”

Until lunchtime around 11:30, I talked, and Mother listened, slightly nodding up and down, or sideways. At first, I shared with her the significant moments in our relationship. My tears almost erupted when I realized the huge gap between a host of wonderful moments growing up, and now, nearly a half-century later. While I was in college I called Mother every week. Since leaving Charlottesville in 1976, our contact had been very sporadic, maybe eight to ten times per year. I realized here, now, how I had broken Mother’s heart, the one person primarily responsible for my life.

When an aide came in with Mother’s lunch tray she told me she needed my space. I asked her to give me just a moment. I knelt down in front of Mother, reached over, with tears in my eyes, kissed her on both cheeks, bowed my head and prayed, ‘Lord, oh Jesus, I want to hear from you. And please, take care of my Mother.’

I squeezed Mother’s hands and stood with a flush-red wet and sloppy face. She slowly raised her head and smiled. I could barely breathe out the words. “Goodbye Mother, my Queen.” I turned and walked out of her room and down the two long hallways contemplating my next visit could be at Mother’s bedside in a nursing home.

Chapter 9

Saturday, six hours after Sean Miller had called 911, the search began. Twenty-eight officers from an assortment of local law enforcement personnel, including Boaz, Albertville, and Guntersville police officers, Etowah and Marshall County Sheriff deputies, and FBI, and ABI (Alabama Bureau of Investigation) agents fanned out and walked south from the Brewer’s backyard, across the open pasture, and towards the tree-line a quarter of a mile away. Information from the Alabama Department of Forensic Sciences conducting Kip Brewer’s autopsy indicated he had died of a gunshot wound from a long distance. To Marshall County Detective Darden Clarke, an average-ability shooter could have made the shot from within the front half of the pasture, the half closest to the Brewer’s back deck. A highly-skilled shooter would have chosen the cover from within the tree line. For two reasons. It was a comfortable shot, and for cover. Given Kip Brewer was a public figure with obvious enemies as well as friends, Detective Clarke concluded the shooter would more likely be a professional, therefore opting to concentrate along the entire 700-yard tree line south of the Brewer resident. Clarke knew the shooter had to have taken his shot somewhere along this line since the contour, slope, and elevation of the pasture prevented a straight-line shot from both the east and west sides of the nearly one hundred-fifty acre pasture.

Thursday afternoon, a Marshall County Sheriff’s deputy found one shell casing. It was a 30-06 cartridge. It was found in clear sight but tucked slightly under the edge of a decaying oak tree 644 yards from Kip Brewer’s back deck. The location was accessible only by foot, four-wheeler, or horseback. It was three-quarters of a mile from the dead-end of an old logging trail that began at Highway 179 just beyond Clear Creek Snacks & Spirits. An expert at Forensics confirmed a 30-06 cartridge could not be excluded as the bullet that killed Representative Brewer.

Other than the shell casing, the crime scene offered little else. Just over the fence from the pasture there was a man-size depression in the grass. At the southern end of the depression the ground was semi plowed. Likely, the shooter’s boots, while he was laying down scoping his rifle, created two, inch deep and three-inch-wide indentations. After the depression was photographed, videotaped, and evaluated for DNA material, an FBI marksman arrived to attempt to simulate the shooting. After less than five minutes laying with a 30-06 Springfield rifle equipped with a Leupold VX-2 3-9x40mm Rifle Scope with Duplex Reticle, Agent Tedder declared, “easy shot for an expert, assuming he could see Mr.

Brewer standing on his back deck. Must have turned on the porch light.”

Detective Clarke was thankful for the cartridge discovery, but knew it was frighteningly little to mount an extensive investigation. The shooter’s motive would hold the key. Frankie Olinger appeared centerstage in Clarke’s mind. “Damn, Olinger had declared Brewer an enemy at the Bevill Center Town Hall. Frankie, Frankie, you are one fucking dumbass.”

Halfway during Clarke’s return trip to his office in Guntersville, sitting, waiting for a train to pass in Albertville, he said to himself.

“Maybe I’m the dumbass here. How could Frankie Olinger have made such a shot? The word professional and Frankie seemed to go together about as well as oil and water. There was no doubt the shooter was an expert marksman. As the last train car rumbled by, Clarke asked himself, “why would a professional marksman, in this case, a professional

assassin, leave the one and only cartridge he had fired?”

Chapter 10

Sunday morning, patrons of Grumpy’s Diner were weaving a Kip Brewer story that was sure to land in Hollywood. Their imaginations were ignited by an article in The Birmingham News, “Shots Heard Round the World; Second Revolution Begins?” The two reporters introduced their story by reviewing how in the first American Revolution, the “Shot Heard Round the World,” had been fired just after dawn in Lexington, Massachusetts, the morning of the 19th of July 1775, and quickly described the Battles of Lexington and Concord and the Siege of Boston ten days later.

In the second paragraph, drawing from a New York Time’s article, the reporters, described, in detail, how U.S. Senator Ralph Evanston from Malden, Massachusetts, was found dead yesterday morning in his luxury suite at The Kendall, the oldest hotel in Boston. His wife, Julie, had previously attended three other Town Hall meetings but this time she had stayed at home, nursing the flu. However, the New York Time’s article did not answer the glaring question: How did the killer get inside a highly guarded and secure U.S. Senator’s room at The Kendall?

Evanston, had come out of nowhere on the national political scene. In November 2016, he had defeated multiple-term Democratic Senator Ed Markey. For the prior eight years Evanston served in the General Court, Massachusetts’ law-making body. There, he had been a virtual parrot of Markey. He even heralded from Malden, Markey’s hometown, although Evanston moved to Springfield when he was thirteen.

To Kane’s base, Evanston was a true turncoat. He had ridden into office on Andrew Kane’s coattails. It had been shocking to most Massachusetts citizens when in July 2015, Evanston had switched parties, from Democratic to Republican. It was a gutsy move, and surprisingly, won him a U.S. Senate seat. Kane didn’t do so well in Massachusetts, losing to Hillary Clinton by a 2 to 1 margin.

However, after arriving in D.C., it didn’t take long for Evanston to reveal his true colors. He voted against Kane’s legislation at virtually every turn. Even worse, he appeared often on national news programs castigating the President’s ‘deplorable tweets and elementary intelligence.’ This riled nearly a third of Massachusetts’ citizens, the 33% who had voted for Kane.

The New York Times article, in its fourth paragraph, recited the Alabama shooting of U.S. Representative Kip Brewer. The NYT was arguing for a connection between the two deaths. Both men were discovered within a few hours of each other. Both men had been shot, although one from a long distance and the other from close range. Both men were, “on the wrong side of Kane.” And, what had 75 diners stirred almost into a frenzy, was The Times’ accusation that the shooters “most likely were embedded into the growing ranks of Kane Tribe, which, up until now, was thought to be a rag-tag group mostly comprised of rednecks. The New York Times ended its article describing how Frankie Olinger in Alabama, and Albert Lawrence in Massachusetts, had both led a near-riot at the Friday night Town Halls Kip Brewer and Ralph Evanston had held in their respective states.

The Birmingham News (TBN) elaborated mostly on Frankie Olinger and the North Alabama Chapter of Kane Tribe. Someway, TBN had unearthed news from Kane’s inaugural weekend in January 2017 that revealed a secret-meeting of sorts between Andrew Kane, Jr. and nearly a hundred men and women who had been hand-selected by the Kane team. Most of these were uneducated white men. Each of them had attended a Kane event in their home-state during the election campaign. Each of these one hundred were openly anti-Hillary, virtually, antigovernment. And, most important to President Kane, was that each of these had openly and consistently supported him for at least six months before he won the election. TBN had no knowledge of what took place during that inaugural weekend meeting, but it identified both Frankie Olinger and Albert Lawrence as attendees.

Vann and I arrived at Grumpy’s Diner as the crowd was dissipating. When I saw Frankie and four of his parrots getting up from the same table I had seen them the first time Vann and I were here, I wished we had gone to McDonald’s. We took a seat near the far-left corner, as far away from the Olinger table as possible. This didn’t keep the five stooges from coming over, probably to invite us to church. I must say, Frankie looked better than the last time I had seen him with his greasy coveralls. Now, he was dressed in a pair of clean khakis, and a blue button-down shirt with a green and yellow-striped tie. All four of them could have been members of an older, boys band.

“You boys going to church?” Frankie said placing his left hand on Vann’s back.

“Sorry Mr. Olinger, we gave up on myths a long time ago, although, Walt here still hangs on pretty tight to Santa Claus.” Vann said removing Frankie’s hand.

“Typical tongue from a liberal. Anyway, know Pastor Warren and all of us at First Baptist Church of Christ, are always extending an invite to all, even to you liberal atheists.”

“What are you teaching today, Frankie? Civil disobedience?” I said, recalling how close Frankie and I nearly came to blows during the last time we were together here at Grumpy’s.

“God’s for it, under the right circumstances.” Frankie said raising his chin slightly, like he was a Bible scholar.

“Vann, you and Walt ready to order?” Gloria Brown said nudging Frankie out of the way.

“See you boys later.” Frankie said as he and his four buddies walked away.

After Gloria left, I told Vann, “please shoot me if I ever come back to this place. Really, shoot me if I ever mention or agree to coming here.”

“I agree, seeing those clowns doesn’t do wonders for the appetite.” Vann said pushing his chair back and reaching for The Birmingham News laying on the table closest to the window.