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The Blameless Bystander Ch. 01

By: AutumnWriter



CHAPTER 1—Into the Valley

It was late in the afternoon on a day in late August. Summer freedoms were melting away, which meant that things would soon get back to normal. A small sedan pulled over and parked on the side of the road at the crest of the ridge overlooking the village that was the center of the town. The driver shut off the engine and sat looking at the panoramic scene.

Lying neatly on the opposite hills, basking in the summer sun, the farmers' fields arranged themselves into a patchwork on the slopes. Every block tucked exactly into the space assigned to it, like grandma's quilt. Each performed its function without complaint or troublesome disturbance. As the summer wore on the colors of each field turned away from the greens of spring. A soothing tan showed where hay was growing. In fields of wheat was a golden hue, signaling the richness of the coming harvest. The acres of corn retained their greenness until much later in the year. Only in the pasturelands did the painted fields vary from their assigned monotones. There, one could see speckling of weeds among the untended grass, where sample colors of anything conceivable might interrupt the order of things. It was there that cows roamed about with little control. An untrained observer might think that the pastures were the most beautiful, but that person did not know about farmland. In the spring to come those fields would be plowed under for crops.

The neat village rows below reflected the manner of the fields. White houses, row on row, stretched along on strings of narrow streets like pearls on a necklace unclasped and stretched to its limit. Under each gray roof lived a family, a cog in the village society. Each person had a purpose in the family, each family a place in the village. It was a neat arrangement that no one wished to disturb. 

To make sure it stayed that way were the institutional buildings, the churches, the Town Hall, the banks. They sat in the center, built of stone and brick. They were gray, brown and red-orange. They growled and grumbled every day, every week, month after month, unchanging and unbending, year after year. They all had cornerstones with ancient dates, proving that they had always been there and would always remain. The tall spires posed authority to the fields, to all people in the fields, the houses and anywhere else within line of sight. 

At the edge of the village resided their stepchild. It was made of brick and glass, sprawled across acres with its proprietary fields around it. It was a low, newer building that hadn't quite grown up to look like its foster parents, but emulated them in its own way. The school tutored the young in the proper ways and received sustenance from the resources of the town in return. Everyone paid great attention to everything in or about the school. 

************ 

"What do you think he wants?" a young girl whispered to the muscled youth next to her. She was lying on her belly at the edge of a grove of trees. It stood isolated in a grassy field about fifty yards from the road. The teens hid in the shadows from the unknowing interloper. They had preceded him to the lonely hilltop and didn't appreciate the intrusion.

"Forget about him. He can't see us. He doesn't even know that we're here. If he did, he wouldn't care," the young man ordered.

The girl was blond and pretty. Her wavy locks fell over her shoulders and tee shirt. The youth was good looking in a different way. He wore curly brown hair, just a little bit too long. He was heavily muscled. His face was changing form, straddling the tender features of a boy to the thicker ones of a man.

The girl gave a last look to make sure of the stranger's indifference. She resumed her place—lying on her back. The young man hovered above to kiss her, or taste her, or possibly possess her. They continued while the man in the sedan continued looking out over the valley, oblivious—or choosing to be so—to the scene being played out just yards away.

The young man bent lower to kiss her. It was gentle at first, seeking to convey emotion and caring, just as he knew she would be expecting. It turned rougher, more demanding. A hand went under a tee shirt and traveled upward to the brassiere. The girl paused in her reaction, a moment of indecision. She didn't want to break the kiss. Passion and convention warred within her. She was breathing heavily, enjoying the feeling and the thrill.

"Um-umm!" she protested weakly, as though to a child snitching a lollipop. He ignored her and continued advancing. Finally, she pulled away from him, grasping his hand to stop his advance.

"Brad!" she scolded more strongly. "I thought that we agreed that you would stop trying to do that." 

"Becky, I can't help it. I want you," he pleaded. "You do this every time we're together!"

"I know—I know," she consoled him, stroking the locks from his forehead. "I'm just not ready yet."

"All the other cheerleaders are doing it with their boyfriends," he lamented. "I'm the quarterback and I haven't even done it yet." He paused so that she could absorb his frown of disappointment.

"I got a 'Trojan'!" he announced. He brandished a light blue foil packet.

The girl gasped. "Where did you get that?" staring at the threatening package.

"At a drugstore in Corning. We all got them when we went over after morning practice." 

"I'm just not ready," she pouted, changing her tone but saying nothing new.

"Well," he demanded, "when do you think that you will be ready?"

"I don't know," she whined. "Soon—it'll be soon."

The youth exhaled loudly and rolled off her onto his back.

"Do you really think that you'll be the starting quarterback?" she cooed, changing the subject.

"The coach made the announcement at practice today," he assured her.

"That will be wonderful!" she exclaimed. "I'll be so proud to be cheerleading for you!" She turned to him and kissed him lightly on the lips and then rested her head on his chest. 

"But Becky, what about...." he made one last try.

"If I let you put your hand under my tee shirt, will that be enough for today?"

"Okay, but what about...?" he pressed harder, but the girl put her mouth on his to silence him. He took advantage of his small winnings and snaked his arm under her shirt, placed his hand on a bra-protected breast. She purred in delight—at the attention and sensation. 

"It will be soon," she whispered.

************* 

Jamie O'Toole started up his small sedan, his respite over. He had spied the young couple hiding in the trees, but ignored them. It didn't take a lot of imagination to guess what they were up to. Whatever happened was none of his doing. He was new in town; it was pointless to get started by interfering. 

He would have preferred a job in an urban locale, but his change came so late in the hiring cycle that all the sought-after teaching jobs had been taken. This opening, in this little town of Bates, was all he could find. It was a farming town, tucked inconspicuously in southern New York State, between the Finger Lakes and the Allegany Plateau. He was lucky to find it. He was a teacher of mathematics—all kinds. He could do any of the big three—Algebra, Geometry and Trig. He could handle Calculus or Statistics, as well, if they had a desire to offer Advanced Placement. He didn't imagine that they did. He would give them what they asked of him.

He paused before putting the car in gear. It was as if pointing it over the crest and down the hill was the final decision to leap over the precipice—but it wasn't. Perhaps he could just turn the car around and go back to his former life. That, of course, was not the case. He had started on his journey to this place long ago. The point of no return was not a place on a map, but a scribbled line of ink on a document, his signature that closed him from his past and hurled him into unknown time and space. 

He was single—no attachments. He was required to fend only for himself and no others. As long as he performed his duties no one had call to question his motives or circumstances. They could not ask him for more that he had agreed to give. It was freedom and captivity joined together, for in the emancipation he treasured so deeply, he closed himself to all else. He had thought of that. He resolved live with the paradox until and if he could figure out more.

He checked the folded newspaper on the seat beside him. It was opened to the classified ads, with circles around potential places to rent. He sighed as he put the car in gear, leaving behind all that he had rejected. Becky and Brad, lying in the grove, were too busy to notice his departure.

"Jamie, you'd better get down there," he said to himself out loud.

************ 

Jamie stopped in front of the big Victorian house on Whitman St., in a quiet, residential area. The house sat back on a double lot in the older part of the village. It was far from derelict, but its grandeur was certainly in days gone by. A porch encircled the ground floor. That feature, and its round turrets on the top floor, made the grand old place look like a white fort. The scallops and gingerbread trim of the house were ruined by the black iron jacket of the fire escape attached to the side, as though in prison for superfluous joviality, making what was once cheerful appear grim. 

Jamie paid the aesthetics no mind and turned into the gravel driveway. They were none of his concern. He just needed a place to lodge. He stood waiting on the porch for several minutes. He was nearly ready to leave when a portly woman answered the door. She looked to be about seventy, wore her grey hair in a bun and a Betty Crocker apron. At first glance one might have assumed her to be a sweet old lady who would offer hot cookies out of the oven.

As she drew closer, it became apparent that the first impression from afar was a mistake. She had a permanent scowl pasted on her round face as she peered out at him from behind her wire rimmed spectacles. The corners of her mouth turned down slightly. The nose was scrunched to make her eyes take on a beady, suspicious look. 

"Here about the room?" she asked, skipping the pleasantries. "Wait here a minute. I'll get the keys," she ordered, not waiting for his answer.

She reappeared about thirty seconds later.

"The entrance is around back," she mumbled as she moved past him and down the stairs of the porch. She walked with a waddle and a slight hitch in her step. Jamie attributed it to the burden of her excess weight. There may have been some arthritis at play, too. Still, she got around quickly enough. He followed her command.

There was a stairway in the back that led to a small platform and a single door on the second floor. 

"You have your own private entrance," she called out as she led the way up the stairs. 

"Who's in that one over there?" Jamie asked as they reached the landing. There was an identical arrangement at the other end of the house.

"The company that owns the cheese factory on the State Road keeps up the rent on it. They use it when the bosses come down here to check things out," she explained. She fumbled with a keychain and a score of keys. "If they've got so much money for such things, you'd think that they'd pay more to their workers," she mumbled as she searched for the right one. "The other I rent to hunters in Deer Season and to snowmobilers in the winter. I've got my regulars." Finally she produced it and opened the door and motioned Jamie in.

"Fully furnished—brand new mattress on the bed!" she called after him as Jamie made his inspection tour. 

"Who had the place before me?" Jamie asked. "Do you mind my asking?" he quickly added. 

"A retired man," she answered. "He had to go to the County Home. He ran out of money. It took me forever to get him out."

Jamie looked into the cupboards and the refrigerator. It was clean and there were pots, pans and a set of dishes and utensils. 

"I had a right to evict him. It's not like I didn't give him extra time," she uttered the justification even though not asked to provide one.

Jamie nodded that he understood and kept inspecting.

"You have to get your own account for your utilities. That would be propane, electric, telephone and cable TV, if you want it. The gas and electric are on now, but you would have to take care of that within the week," she informed him.

"I saw the electric meter under the stairs," he confirmed.

"Well, do you want it?" 

"I guess I do," Jamie answered. "What do you need?" In fact, it was perfect for him. Small, neat and private; it was within walking distance from the high school. The entrance was invisible from the street, so he could exist unseeing and unseen.

"Before I let you have it I have to have some things from you. I need a copy of your license and proof of your employment. You can get a copy at the library. I go strictly month to month—no leases. You have to pay the first month in advance and one month security. The propane tank is full, and you have to leave it full when you move out." she recited the litany of demands. 

"I was hoping to stay here tonight," Jamie said. "I don't know if I can get to the library before it closes." 

"Where are you working?" she queried and squinted her eyes a little tighter.

"I've got a teaching job at the high school. I have a letter in the car I can show you."

"The rent has to be three-fifty."

"The ad in the paper said three hundred," Jamie protested. 

"That was before I bought the new mattress,"

"I can give you a check right now, but I was thinking three hundred," he answered.

"Get that letter and your checkbook; and let me see your license—and be sure to get me a copy in the morning," she demanded and they filed out of the room

"I'm Ethel Wilkinson. This is my place," she declared as Jamie followed her down the stairs. "And, what do I call you?"

"Ethel, my name is Jamie O'Toole. I'm pleased to meet you."

"Mr. O'Toole, my rules are these," she yelled out as she continued down the stairs. "Rent is due on the first of each month. Pay on time. Whatever you do in there is your business, unless it causes me trouble or bothers me, in which case you have to stop or leave," she recited. "Fair enough?"

"That's fair enough!" Jamie answered back. He wrote a check for most of the money his parents had loaned him. It took him less than an hour to move in.

************ 

That night, Jamie sat in the chair in his living room. He finished reading for the night and turned off the light. He was delving into Descartes, trying to comprehend how to fathom the meaning of life from lines and planes and algebra. So far, it escaped his grasp, but so had everything else that he tried. No matter how futile and abstruse the writing, he decided to give it a second chance the next night. He was running out of philosophies to latch onto, so it would be unwise to discard any without due consideration. He was, after all, a teacher of mathematics. A kinship of understanding should evolve across the centuries. At least, he hoped so. At the same time realized that the odds were against it.

Except for his books and a modest set of clothing he owned nothing. Even the car he drove into town really belonged to his brother who told him to keep it, but Jamie insisted that it be strictly a loan. He wondered to himself if he shouldn't have taken a motel room for just one night. At least it would have a television. He decided not to forestall the inevitable, and he really couldn't afford it.

It was a new moon. In the back of the big house there wasn't any source of light to cast a beam or shadow through the small window next to him or the tiny one in the door. The 'cheese factory' guys obviously weren't around that week. Even Mrs. Wilkinson's lights weren't visible, if indeed, they were still on—and he didn't know if they were. To the world, and perhaps to himself, he was a non-entity sitting in the darkness. No matter what sound he might utter, or action he might make, either on purpose or accidental, it would not matter. It was the isolation that he sought, or so he had assumed. 

He looked back to those long, hot nights during his two years in Guatemala a long time ago. Those days, when he felt like he mattered, were long in the past. He had been recently ordained, assigned to the missions. He was young, hopeful, idealistic, dedicated, self-important. He taught God and Math all at one time. "Just like Descartes," he said to himself with a chuckle and a smirk at the comparison. He left Guatemala fourteen years ago to teach at a boys' prep school to the sons of the well-to-do. Of course, they needed God and Math, too. It wasn't the same. He was just turning forty-two and those happier days were long past. He sat in the chair, in the dark, alone, wondering how solitude would suit him. 

"I wanted to stay." he said out loud with some conviction. The prefecture turned him down. It was predictable. Assignments were made to serve God, and the Order, not to suit individual desires. He accepted the judgment as he had been trained to do. Still, the Guatemala days were his best.

He wondered why he had spoken aloud, with no one but him to hear the words. Surely, he did not need to convince himself. He had just read Descartes': "I think, therefore I am." Was his existence narrowed to this? Perhaps it was his protest to any Power that could hear that there had once been a spark in him that was sure and happy and delighted to be who he was. Perhaps his soul rejected solitude. Did anyone hear him? He thought not, but ached to be sure.

He was too agitated for sleep. He thought he might read some more, but thought better of it. He realized that it was warm and stuffy in the small apartment. He stumbled to the window and pushed it up. The air outside wasn't much cooler, but it was fresher. The only sound was the crickets chirping. A glass of water might be a good idea. He realized that he should have bought some groceries, and maybe some whiskey, but the double rent of that afternoon left him with little money. He would have to make it last until his first payday.

He sat back down with the water, listening to the crickets outside his window. They kept up their ceaseless monotone. It made him feel more alone. They just kept at it ceaselessly, not caring if he heard them or not. Jamie settled back in his chair contemplating solitude. 

**************** 

Jamie was up early the next morning. He was hungry because he had skipped dinner the night before. He wanted to take his morning run and then shower. That would leave him with just enough time to find a diner for breakfast and then make his meeting at the school. He decided to devote the afternoon to errands. As he stepped out the door the weather was sunny, but pleasant and cool in the early morning. The clear sky promised a hot day later. 

He started on a slow trot out the driveway of his rooming house, not sure which way to go. He decided he would see if he could get onto the High School track, so he jogged over the few streets to where the back of the school grounds adjoined the private residences. He found an easy gait on the flat street. He could see the school grounds, but was unable to find any back way access to the fields. A chain-link fence guarded the perimeter. He could have hopped over it, but didn't. The fence was a silent sentinel, an unspoken warning to trespassers. Entrance to the grounds had to be done properly, though the appropriate gate, where authorities had predetermined the best means of entry. Jamie shrugged and jogged on. He would find the entrance another day. This first day he would take a running tour of the neighborhood.

It was lonely in the early morning. He was a little surprised. It was the Friday before Labor Day. Perhaps the residents were beginning their holiday. He ran on, looking from side to side at the houses. None were as large as the Victorian edifice where he now resided. These houses were smaller. Most had two floors, either in the split-level or Cape Cod style. It appeared that many had been built in the 50's. It made Jamie wonder what had preceded them. Perhaps Mrs. Wilkinson's house was a last remnant of days gone by. All the houses seemed to fit with those around it. Even the oversized house on the double lot blended in. Maybe it was a reminder that as the old gives way to the new, few things really change.


The Blameless Bystander Ch. 01



In the distance Jamie saw a fellow early morning jogger approaching him. It was a female figure. She wore gym shorts and tee shirt, like he did, and a baseball cap. She was tall for a woman and had a gait and posture that gave the impression of an athletic figure. Jamie reckoned that her pace was faster than his. She had blond hair leaking out from under her cap and wore sunglasses.

As she came nearer he made her out to be in her mid-twenties, although it was hard to tell for sure with her face hidden behind her dark glasses. Lithe strips of lean muscle flexing in her thighs pointed at him as she lifted her knees with every stride. They were covered by soft woman's skin, but there could be no doubt of their strength and flexibility beneath the veil. They were long legs that demanded a man's attention and Jamie responded as a man as he drank his fill from the fortuitous cup. It was the movement and the shape, especially as the legs approached the juncture with hips, combined together that would not allow his eyes to travel elsewhere. He judged her to be nearly as tall as his own six feet. Unlike him, her skin had a bronze tone that told of hours in the summer sun. 

As she drew closer Jamie noticed that she had large breasts, which finally allowed his gaze to escape her upper thighs. They rode high on her chest beneath broad shoulders. The tee shirt stretched over them like a glove. A hint of nipple asserted itself slightly through the fabric of the shirt. Even so encased, they bounced slightly as she ran. It was a woman's body of steel bands and velvet covering. It made Jamie stir in his groin and in his brain.

As their paths drew together Jamie raised a hand to say 'hi', but as he did she looked away; her face wore a displeased look. It was obvious that she wished to avoid acknowledgement of his friendly gesture. He didn't doubt that she was correct in doing so. Her rejection was disappointing but not surprising. Then, the encounter was over all too soon as they passed. 

Probably, he thought, her contempt arose from her perception of his pale, freckled skin and slender form. His red hair was thinning at his brow, giving away his age. He was too old for a nubile young woman with a honed physique. She was angry that he had even tried to make contact with her, disrupting her private space. Or, he thought, maybe she noticed his unabashed gaze traveling from thighs to breasts and back again. 

Jamie shook his head and chuckled. "Either way, I insulted her." It occurred to him how inexperienced he was. "I've got a lot to learn," he said to himself. "She would find that I'm not as feeble as I look." Indeed, he was not. He had always worked out nearly every day. There were no bulging muscles to show for his efforts, but he never carried any extra pounds. His years in the Order barred him from excess and his training for the missions left with a physical hardness that he never lost.

As he slowed to walk up the long driveway of Mrs. Wilkinson's rooming house it dawned on him that the brief encounter with the jogging woman was part of his new life. He was permitted to enjoy it—even pursue it further if he could find the combination of nerve and opportunity. He had no experience in sexual matters. He had never disobeyed his vows. Over the years he had pushed desire and fantasy out of his mind. 

He wondered how many forty-two year old virgins still existed in the world. He winced as he thought of himself as a 'virgin'. It wasn't a shame over sexual inexperience. It was the remnants of his devotion to the virgin, and the unwanted comparison of him to her. 

The ultimate paradox: his years of celibacy gave him great experience in being at ease in talking to women. Secretaries, lay teachers, students' mothers all gravitated to him. They liked his freckled, boyish looks and his celibacy made them feel secure. They would murmur, mumble and twitter their secrets to him. He would listen, and then forget. He learned to relax them and ease them into their divulgences; not because he longed to hear them, but he knew they were coming out eventually and it saved a lot of time.

Perhaps soon, he mused to himself, his abnormality would get straightened out. He wondered how and who would do it. The vision of the blond runner had been pleasant enough. He could picture himself resting comfortably between her smooth, muscled thighs waiting for the exact moment to push into her. She, once so disdainful, would be lying under him, waiting. In the meantime he would have his hands clamped on her breasts, feeling the nipples stiffen. She would breathe ever-harder, then whisper in an excited, desperate hush, "Please..." He would slowly move forward and not disappoint. 

As he showered he glanced down. The warm water cascaded on his penis and it rose respectfully upward as if to signal its readiness, if only he could be ready, too. He dared not touch it. He had never given in to the urge to do so, and would not. He looked again. It stood straight out—a harbinger of future pleasures? Perhaps, but possibly it would turn out to be yet another disappointment in life—to be absorbed and accepted, and eventually evaded.

********** 

Jamie entered the school building through the front door. In the empty hallway his heels snapped a loud click with every step. He didn't mean to, but he found that he could not avoid it without practically walking on his toes. He reasoned that the School Office had to be somewhere near the front door, and finding it would be the only way to end his noisy, conspicuous presence.

He walked by one classroom after another. All of the doors were closed, but through the windows he could see that it was a school just like the others in which he had spent so much time. Since it was before the start of the school year the walls were without the usual banners. The ones that announced the after-game dance or the particular football game that weekend. They would appear soon enough. He also passed by a "Ladies Room" that reminded him that he would be teaching girls as well as boys. That would be something new for him. He noticed right away that there were no crucifixes on the walls of the classrooms, it being a public school. It seemed ironic to him, as some said that he had turned his back on the cross with the renunciation of vows. He didn't think so, but there many who said that he had. He would have to reason that for himself later. It was difficult to go anywhere without a reminder of that which he wished to forget. He strode to the end of the hallway, and nearly gave up when he spotted a tarnished, brass sign mounted on the wall. An arrow pointed the way. 'Office' was inscribed above it. Grateful for the direction, he turned and finally found an open door.

Jamie stood at the open door. Across the room there was a woman working at the filing cabinets. Her back was to him. She was short with a petite frame, with wavy, chestnut-brown hair of medium length in the traditional Donna Reed style. She wore a sleeveless blouse and a denim skirt with a pair of loafers on her feet. She kept at her task, oblivious of Jamie's presence.

He knocked on the door and she spun around, surprised, with a questioning expression.

"Hello, I'm..." he started.

"You must be Mr. O'Toole. We're expecting you," she declared, suddenly brightening. "I'm Abby McIntire. I'm the Principal's secretary." She extended her hand as Jamie approached her. "Nathan will be back shortly. He just wanted to check on the gym renovations."

Jamie took a seat near her desk. The Principal's office waited beyond. 

"Care for some coffee?" she asked. "Please have some. I just made a fresh pot." 

Jamie saw that she was still smiling at him, but couldn't help thinking that her eyes looked tired and sad.

"Well, alright." He rose to serve himself.

"Stay where you are. I'll get it," she insisted as she bound to the coffee maker on the little table across the room. 

"Just black—thanks." Jamie would have gladly served his own, but acquiesced to her insistent hospitality. As she bent to reach into a cupboard Jamie looked at her more closely. He made her out to be about forty. She had a neat, tidy appearance, as a secretary should. At first he thought that she was not wearing any makeup, but on second glance he could see that she did, but in a subtle way that allowed it to do its work while remaining inconspicuous. 

"Here you go!" she said in a sing-song voice as she handed him the ceramic mug. "I'll just go back to my filing. Nathan will be here any minute." 

She pivoted around, causing her skirt to twirl and reveal a trace more flesh of her leg than it had beforehand. With nothing else to do Jamie watched her as she bent to her task. He noticed that her bare arms were thinly hewn, in keeping with the rest of her. He couldn't help it; he took a good look at her top, covered in cotton. A quick glance through the sleeveless armhole of the blouse yielded no information. Finally, he deducted that her chest was as slightly built as the rest of her. A large set of breasts wouldn't fit her well. 

She bent from the waist to drop a few folders into the lowest cabinet. Her back was turned completely toward him. Jamie wondered why she reached it that way, instead of folding herself down by bending her knees. At any rate, the a-line of the denim skirt allowed him to learn nothing new of her form. Nevertheless, once self-indulged to his perusal of her top half, it was easy to let his mind paint a picture of what might find waiting underneath the heavy fabric. He could see it in his mind's eye as clearly as if she were a dancer in a thong rotating on a pole and he had a seat along the stage. Of course he knew nothing of such venues, but he could see the slender thighs and smooth buttocks quite clearly.

Jamie's lascivious ogling gave him a guilty feeling. He forgave himself in the knowledge that it was only his silly fantasy, to be shared with no one. He had no designs on the female under his inspection, but was glad to find her. There would undoubtedly be others like her—and she didn't look bad. She seemed more his speed than the blonde Amazon he passed while jogging that morning. It was food for thought. He glanced at the clock and then around the room to be sure that another sudden pirouette wouldn't catch him in his partaking that which was not offered.

As he was running out of trivial things to take notice of he heard steps in the hallway. He turned to the doorway to catch sight of his new mentor entering.

"Hello, Mr. O'Toole," the man said. "Thanks for coming in. I'm glad that you're with us." He thrust out his hand and Jamie took it. 

"I'm glad to be here," Jamie replied. It was only a half-lie, if a polite one. He wasn't sure if he was glad to be there or not, but he was glad to start finding out the answer. Hearing himself called 'Mr.' O'Toole made him feel strange, however accurate. It had been 'Father' O'Toole for so long. 

He was motioned into the inner office by the older man. 

"Thanks Mr......" he started.

"Call me Nathan!" interrupted the Principal. "No need for formality here. You won't find that in a small town." Jamie carried his coffee into the room and the secretary placed one on Nathan's desk on cue.

"What do we call you?" Nathan continued.

"My nickname has always been Jamie." 

Nathan peered at him, as if expecting a further explanation of Jamie's answer. He paused several seconds, neither frowning nor smiling. He sat ramrod straight in his executive chair and took a sip of coffee, prolonging the pause even more. Jamie knew that he was displeased with his answer, but unable to understand why.

Nathan Smithling, Principal of the High School, starting his fifth year in the position, had been a teacher and Chairman of the Social Studies Department. He gave confidence to those who answered to him and those who appointed him. He had been tested many times for his constancy, adherence and knowledge of what was expected. He passed every test, as it was his job to do. His subordinates followed him because they wanted to be where he was. 

He was in his mid fifties, tall at six-four and slender. On this casual day before the start of school he wore jeans and a polo shirt, but looked like he belonged in a white shirt and striped tie. He had dark brown hair and glasses with black frames. Jamie had met him before when he interviewed for the job, but that had been on one of the Principal's trips to Rochester.

He leaned forward, looking Jamie in the eye and winced slightly. "Why don't we come up with a different name? It sounds a little too 'ethnic' for folks in these parts."

Jamie was startled at the frank demand and searched for a response. Nathan sat back in his chair and raised his hands in front of his chest, with open palms facing out.

"Of course, it would be your decision. It's just a suggestion. I only want to help you get to know the people easier. Why don't you think about it?"

"I—I guess that I'd like to think about it. I've always been called that—my parents gave me the name after my great grandfather in Ireland." Jamie pleaded.

Nathan nodded appreciatively.

"Let me just tell you where you stand," Nathan continued. "You're on temporary contract until the School Board votes to give you a 'tenured' contract. Then you will be in the teachers' union. Until then, they will bargain for you." 

"You mean the union represents me but I don't belong to it?" Jamie asked.

"Exactly!" Smithling replied, appearing glad that the student was taking to the lesson. "You pay dues just as though you belonged, of course. In the meantime, any decisions about your employment are up to me. Naturally, I consult with the union steward, since your goal is to join the union," he explained. "You see what I mean, don't you?" Jamie nodded that he did. 

"We have you slated to teach four sections this year," Nathan changed the subject. "Two of Trigonometry and one each of Geometry and Algebra. Our goal is to get the students to pass the State tests—or as many as possible, I suppose."

"I enjoy Trigonometry," Jamie declared.

"To be honest, not many of the teachers do. That's why you have it," Nathan confided. "It can be frustrating," he explained. "By the time they get that far most of the students wonder why they have to learn about sine and cosine just so they can graduate, when all they plan to do is work on the farm or get a job in the feed mill." 

"What about students who need it for college?" Jamie piped up. 

"Not many of them," Nathan admitted looking away. "For those that do, they hire the teachers as tutors for enrichment and extra help." 

"I think that's part of my job," Jamie asserted. "I'll do that for no..."

Smithling stood his hand up like a traffic cop. "No!" he interrupted sternly. "We have our system. The teachers look forward to that money. We have to respect the system."

Jamie sensed that he was making trouble and was sorry for the unwise assertion. "Okay," he weakly replied.

"Now," Smithling smiled and leaned forward across the table to the edge of Jamie's space, "how about that nickname?"

"I guess the 'James' would be alright," Jamie, now James, conceded in instant surrender.

Smithling sat back relaxed in his high-backed chair. "Good!" he drawled slowly as he grinned broadly. "I knew you'd see it once you had a chance to think about it. It will be for the best. It will help you to fit right in." Nathan remained leaning back in his chair. James wondered if he had pleased his mentor, but couldn't be certain.

"Now, I have something for you," Nathan grandiloquently announced as he reached into the top drawer of his desk and drew his hand out with a flourish, a white envelope attached to it. "I'm sure that you can use it. I arranged for an advance of a thousand dollars on your salary. They'll deduct it over the month of September." He handed over the check.

"Oh, thank you, Nathan," James exhaled, truly relieved. "This really helps. You were right. I'm a little short. I had to put up a security deposit in my rooming house and it just about cleaned me out." 

"I was glad that I could help out," Nathan continued smiling. "I think that you're going to do real fine here in Bates."

"Another thing," Nathan added, "about being a former priest. I wouldn't say very much about that. You never know how people will respond—and it's none of their business! I'm alright with it, but I'm more open-minded than some."

"What do I tell them?" James questioned. "People are bound to ask."

"Just say that you taught in that Catholic High School in Rochester and you decided to get into the public schools for the retirement plan and benefits." Nathan had obviously thought up the answer in advance. "See? You don't have to lie—that's the truth! You just don't go around telling people things that that aren't their business." 

"Now I'm going to turn you over to Abby out there. I have business outside of the school," Nathan said, rising from his chair. She has some forms and things for you to sign. After that she'll give you a tour of the school and show you the classroom where you'll be teaching."

James stood also, and shook Nathan's hand as he offered it to him. 

"Abby knows about everything in your file," Smithling told him. "Around here, anything that Abby doesn't know is not worth knowing, and whatever she does know she doesn't talk about. She and I are the only ones in the school who know your background. Of course the Board members and Superintendent know, too."

************* 

James sat at the side of Abby McIntire's desk. He filled out one form, then another. Abby took each from him when completed and inserted it in the correct file or envelope. It all had to do with taxes and benefits and was quite tedious. The only saving grace was that with the repetition James memorized his new address.

"What does the F-X stand for?" Abby asked idly about his middle initials as she checked a form.

"Francis-Xavier." Jim answered. Abby looked confused. "St. Francis Xavier was a founder of the Jesuit Order of priests," James explained. "My parents are very devout."

"And you're not?" Abby challenged.

"Well, I was—I should be. I'm just not very much right now." James was surprised that he uncovered himself to this person that he did not know. He felt strange—annoyance at the intrusion or relief in confession—he could not say which he felt. He ignored his feelings and went back to the forms.

"Would you like some more coffee?" she asked him as he completed the next-to-last form.

"No, thank you just the same," he answered politely. He decided to test his nerve. "Don't you want to know why I quit being a priest?" he asked. 

"No." was the answer. James breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't really want to tell her, or anyone at that moment. He did want to plumb the depth of her curiosity.

"Nathan wouldn't have hired you if it had been something bad," she said in a soft voice.

He handed her the final page. Abby put it neatly into an envelope and set her things at the side of her desk.

"How about that tour?" she asked.

It wasn't a full tour. It started in the faculty lounge, where she outfitted James with his own locker, and wound its way to the Math Department office and settled him into his desk.

The Chairman of the Department just retired so the position is vacant now," Abby informed him. 

Next, they walked down the hall to his classroom. James followed her lead down the hall and his eyes followed the sway of her hips under her denim skirt as he took up where he left off earlier in the office. With such a petite body her sway was more compact than many women, but it was there. Abby found the key and opened the door. James was at home for the first time in a while. Classrooms all seem to be the same. She pointed out the intercom and overhead projector. 




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 01



James walked over and looked out the window to the football field beyond.

"You'll have a hard time keeping their minds on their work until football season is over," she mused. 

"You can hardly blame them," he replied. "I was never big enough for football. I ran cross country."

"What do you do for fun now?" she asked.

"I've been so busy that I haven't gotten that far yet," James answered absent-mindedly. "What does everyone else do?"

"I don't imagine that you hunt or fish," she speculated. James shook his head. "Well, there are other things to do. Some like to go out to the bars." James winced slightly. "There are plenty of ways to spend time," she added apologetically, as though she thought it her duty to provide James with a diversion. "I'm sure that I'll figure something out," James agreed.

"Indoor sports!" she blurted out, but didn't blush or turn her head way as the words sallied forth and she raised her eyebrows.

"Huh—bowling?" a naïve James queried.

Abby stifled a chuckle at James' expense.

"Why don't you ask around at Nathan's Labor Day Party?" she suggested. "You're going aren't you?"

"I hadn't heard about it before now. He didn't invite me," James answered.

"You don't need an invitation!" she waved dismissively. "All the staff from the High School is invited. I'll be there with my husband. Just come as you are. I'll give you the address when we get back to the office."

********** 

That afternoon James cashed his check and performed all his errands. He thought how kind it was for Nathan to arrange for an advance. He drove to Corning and looked at television sets and other things, but decided to forego it, since he hadn't had the cable hooked up yet. He bought a clock-radio instead. Later, he reckoned that passing on the television was a good idea, since it would have conflicted with the reading that he wanted to do.

He did buy a bottle of Scotch and a few other items for personal diversion. Late in the afternoon he went shopping for food and learned what it was like in a grocery store, as he laid in a supply of food. He didn't know much about cooking, but figured to learn. For that night, though, he walked down to Main St. and treated himself to the Meatloaf Special at the Village Diner.

It had been a long and tiring day. James decided that Descartes could wait. He was too tired to concentrate enough to appreciate him. He stripped to his underwear, peeled back the covers on his bed and lay down, propped up by the pillows. He set his glass of Scotch on ice on the nightstand. He started to thumb through the Playboy magazine that he bought in Corning, but then set it down.

Instead, he thought about his encounter with the lovely blonde jogger early in the morning, wondering if she would reappear on the morrow to feed his fantasies anew. His time with Abby deserved some analysis, as well. He thought that she might be flirting with him but could not be sure. What she had meant by 'indoor sports', he could not be certain, and the strategic bending at the filing cabinet might have been completely unintentional. 

While the young, athletic jogger fueled his fantasies, James couldn't help wonder what the trim little Abby might have underneath that full denim skirt. He scolded himself for thinking about it—she told him that she was married and he had seen the rings, but he was entitled to wonder, now free of his vows. Something told him that whatever was under that skirt was worth the price of the view.

He took a sip of whiskey and realized that he had a full erection. The Playboy beckoned and he picked it up. He had never seen one. He pondered his lack of experience. He reached under the waistband of his briefs to adjust the insistent member. It was hard and James reckoned that it wasn't going to calm down anytime soon. He realized that, except for a few involuntary wet dreams of his youth, he had never ejaculated under any circumstance. 

As he touched himself, a tiny ripple of pleasure ran from his groin to his brain. He had never done that. He liked it and did it again, intending to stop before things went too far. He gently rubbed his thumb over the tiny slit and felt a thick, slippery fluid that had leaked out. He knew what it was. In a certain way, for the first time he saw himself as a man with this last part included. He slid his fingers along the underside of the glans and then the scrotum. The pleasure was new and to be savored.

He thought of the blonde runner, breasts bouncing, nipples protruding. Somehow, thinking about her while he caressed himself made the pleasure more intense. She seemed so perfect—except, of course in her disagreeable disposition. His thoughts shifted to Abby. He still couldn't figure out if she was flirting with him or not—but what if she was? His first vision was an ideal, but Abby was more within reach. She was closer to his age, an everyday person. He could paint a fantasy of her without embarrassment; she looked good even if she lacked model attributes. He could see himself and her together, and remain guilt-free, for he knew that she was married and he would never have her. Regardless, her image allowed an aspect of reality into his dream.

She could be standing before him at that moment, unbuttoning the waist band of that skirt, letting it slide to the floor. She would do the same with her sleeveless blouse, and then approach the bed to be with him. Then, she would stand still at the edge of the bed so that he could see her. It wasn't her curves, or even the anticipation of pleasure that was most exciting. It was her eyes, and the desire shining out of them, as she prepared to join him. It was desire of him, acceptance, understanding. Her petite body would fit perfectly against his, and at the right time he would help her out of that little bra, and assist her with her panties as she raised her hips. 

Her eyes would be burning; she would be as excited as he. She wouldn't wait long, but climb atop him and slowly sink down, impaling herself—and him—with pleasure as he entered her to the hilt. He would reach up and grasp her small breasts; she would purr with the delight of it. 

"Let me!" she would whisper in a husky voice as she rose up, preparing to impale herself on him anew. He waited for it; for his reinvasion into the warm folds awaiting him. She began her descent until...

James erupted in a groan of pleasure, sending semen into the air and landing on his chest, on the sheets beside him, even a small amount spattered on his forehead. It was his first conscious ejaculation of his life. It surprised him; it happened so fast and careened out of control so easily. He hadn't even been aware that he had slipped his underwear down around his knees, or grasped himself, or the stroking motion that he performed without thinking. It was intense pleasure. It quickly arrived, then flew away. He liked it; he wondered if it was like real sex. He got a wash cloth from the bathroom and cleaned up.

His tidying up complete he laid on his bed again, exactly where he started the evening. His penis was once again comfortably flaccid. In the darkness he wondered if he had performed an evil deed. He thought that he had not, but could not be sure. At any rate, he had done it. He downed the rest of his whiskey and felt better able to sleep.

************ 

TO BE CONTINUED...

Dear Readers,

Thanks for reading. I'm always interested in your comments and questions, either through the Public comments Section, or private e-mail.

Best regards,

Autumn Writer 



The Blameless Bystander Ch. 02



Chapter 2—A Ray of Hope

James was naked when he woke on Saturday morning. His bout of self-pleasuring the prior night filtered back into his consciousness. He had performed an act that he had vowed that he never would. It was a vow made only to himself. He had never broken his vows made to others, and to God, only this private one. As he lay in bed perusing the cracked ceiling he allowed that fact to rationalize the act, but the self-permission struck him as weak and he knew that he would struggle with it many times before final resolution.

It was time for his morning run. He dressed in running clothes and stepped out the door. The sunny weather was gone, along with his innocence. There was a drizzle that kept everything damp and it felt chilly. As he descended the stairway to the ground he wondered if the blonde goddess of the prior day would reappear. He stretched for a few minutes before starting out and looked around. No one was about, blonde or otherwise. 

He set off on his run, thinking about his route. Yesterday's run had been a good introduction to his new surroundings, but hardly satisfactory for a routine. He decided to circumnavigate the school grounds. That would extend his exercise to something more challenging.

It was the Saturday before Labor Day. He wondered what he was going to do with himself. He knew no one; had nowhere to go. Descartes could only keep one company for a limited time. Even the library would be closed. He thought about the difference between loneliness and solitude. 

He had thought that he craved solitude. He found all of it that he wanted. He thought that the difference was in the desire, or lack of it, to be alone. It was simple enough. He was finding that that there were deeper truths to be understood. There was a spectrum of the state of aloneness, wherein a person could find oneself drifting from red to violet without full awareness of the shift until it was too late. 

Solitude caused a person to think, learn, meditate and achieve understanding. A person could exercise a mind and a body. Improvements of all sorts were possible that could not be achieved in the company of others. Outside influences were a distraction. As one would approach understanding, the intrusion of exterior influences would invariably disturb the purity of thought, the perfection of reasoned truth. 

"Whew! I'm going bonkers already," James said out loud. 

He was contemplating the meaning of loneliness, too. He really hadn't had a chance to experience it. Since he had driven into town he had been often in the presence of others, either at the diner, the school office, Mrs. Wilkinson, in the stores. He wondered to himself if it was the expectation of loneliness that worried him, or if the contacts had been less than satisfactory. He feared loneliness, but understanding of it eluded him. He looked ahead to days of nothingness if he could not travel back to the sweeter end of the spectrum. Yes, it was tricky business, this state of aloneness. 

"I should have bought a television," he panted as he rounded a corner.

His blonde ideal did not appear. It might be the rain. Maybe she had peeked out at the gray sky and slid back into bed and snuggled up to whomever she had slept with. It was sure that she had someone to sleep with. The young and strong, the beautiful, those who were sure of themselves, never worried about loneliness. They could choose solitude or togetherness when and with whom they wished. He pictured her snuggling with her lover, or husband, or husband-lover, thinking about the next steps the snuggling might lead to.

After a while he rounded the final corner and stopped in front of his Victorian-style rooming house. He walked up the long driveway to cool his muscles down. He would put on some coffee and take a refreshing, hot shower. This morning he decided to try making some breakfast. Later, he thought that he would take a ride around the countryside and learn what he could. He reminded himself to buy some wine for Nathan's party Monday night. The run had been good for him.

******** 

During his solitary travels over the weekend James made sure to find out where Nathan's street was, based on the directions that Abby furnished him as he departed the school office on Friday. It was on a cul-de-sac on the edge of the village. It was unclear if it was inside the village or just outside within the Town jurisdiction. Its location allowed it to take on a village or country look at the choosing of the occupant. As James drove past at six in the evening on Labor Day it looked as Nathan had arranged a little of both.

It was a ranch-style house—all on one floor. It wasn't a starter house or a down-sizer, but large and sprawling. It appeared to have been built more recently than most of the houses in the town. It sat atop a knoll on a double lot. The grounds were neatly kept. The house was made of red brick with a large picture window the focal point in the center. Evergreen shrubs flanked it and the dark green blended nicely with the brick. It was an edifice composed strictly of right angles. There were no arches, curves, oblique or acute angles. That fact stood out because it imposed a tone of plainness on the place despite its size and quality of construction. All-in-all, it was nice, but meticulously without ostentation. 

The rainy weather of Saturday had given over to the comfortable sun of late summer. The driveway and street were full of cars. James finally found a remote empty space down the street and parked. He chuckled as he thought that the Nathan's house looked like a miniature of the school that he was in charge of. He grabbed his bottle of wine that had, unfortunately, warmed up and set out for the big house on the knoll. As he approached, the smell of a barbecue and traces of gray smoke rose from over the crest of the roof of the house. As he drew closer he could hear the cacophony of a dozen unconnected chattered conversations.

He didn't bother with knocking or the doorbell—just followed his ear to the source of the noisy crowd. As he entered the back yard James realized that it was the same scene that he had witnessed countless times during his teaching career. 

As he looked about he could see that he could classify most of the party-goers into one of three categories. Huddled in one corner of the patio were a group of women, each with a glass of white wine in hand. James identified them in an instant—wives of teachers. They chattered away about little. Each looked slightly uncomfortable; as well they should, since they would rather have been elsewhere. They were probably counting down the minutes on an internal clock, nursing their Chablis and explaining to themselves why Nathan's big house wasn't really that much nicer than their own, after all. 

In another corner stood a similar group, except they were the male counterparts of the first group—husbands of teachers. They were positioned around the keg, trading lies about fishing and golf. They looked a looked a little more relaxed than the women. They didn't care about Nathan's house and each knew how much beer remained in the keg. 

James looked around at a half dozen smaller groups—the teachers. Not all of the teachers attended, of course. Many had their own family commitments. They were divided by department or discipline. They were undoubtedly discussing the budget for the coming year and how their department took all the cuts while the football team got new uniforms. It wasn't that James was cynical; even in a private school the scene played out without end. He thought that he would try to guess the teachers' groups' subjects but felt a hand slap the back of his shoulder.

"There you are!" he recognized Nathan's voice and spun around to face him. James lifted the bottle of wine as his offering and Nathan took it with a simple 'thanks' and did not release his hold James' shoulder until he offered his hand to complete the greeting. It wasn't a strong, forceful grip that Nathan employed. It wasn't intended to be physical. The act and presence of it was enough to let James know that Nathan was in control. "Glad you could come. Let me show you around." 

"I was an idiot to forget to invite you the other day," Nathan went on as they filtered through the crowd. "Abby told me that she took care of it and I was relieved." They stopped at the keg and Nathan poured James a beer. He didn't ask if he wanted one—just assumed that he did. James accepted it from him and he took a gulp. 

"Just serve yourself when you want to eat," Nathan called out over the din. He pointed to a reserve of already-cooked hots and hamburgers and a bank of salads lined up on a table nearby. "This is our last barbecue of the year, so it has to be a good one!"

To James' surprise he was quite hungry and he loaded a plate with a hamburger and potato salad right away. Until that moment he hadn't realized how poorly he had fended for himself in his apartment. Nathan's eyes widened as he glanced at the heavily-laden paper plate.

"For me, cooking is still a learning process!" James confessed with a grin. Nathan laughed and said that he understood. 

"Let me introduce you around." Nathan offered. "I suppose that we should start with your own department." He led James to a group of three men and a woman. They stopped their conversation as Nathan approached and stood waiting attentively for him to start speaking. "This is James O'Toole. He'll be joining the Math Department this year. I thought that I'd bring him over so you could all get to know each other." With that, Nathan turned and left the group.

Each succeeding math teacher extended a hand to greet James. There were Bill, Ed, John and Doris. Each of the four appeared to be uneasy for an unknown reason. James felt that he would be fortunate if he could only remember their names. Doris appeared to designate herself to lead the questioning. She was a short, plump woman, about fifty. She had salt and pepper hair with streaks of blonde that made James suspect an abandoned attempt at coloring. Her face bore an aggressive expression, full of suspicion. James knew that they had never met, but somehow thought that he knew her. 

"Where are you from, James?" she started. "Where did you teach? Where did you go to college? Why did you come down here to Bates?"

James answered each interrogative as it was posed. On the last one, he followed Nathan's advice.

"I realized that I had to switch to the public schools for the retirement and benefits. The Catholic Schools just can't give those." There were traces of nods from the audience. "I'm not getting any younger," he added, laughing at his own joke. His audience politely laughed along with him.

"Did Nathan hire you as the Department Chair?" one of the men blurted out.

"No! I didn't know a thing about it until I met with Nathan a few days ago." James replied honestly.

With that answer his fellow teachers broke into smiles and relaxed their postures. The mood turned more cordial.

"What are you teaching?" Doris asked.

James told her and a silent groan emitted from the group, ruining the mood. 

"Four Sections!" Doris responded with disgust. James was confused. "We just got our load cut to three sections last semester. Nathan's trying to undo it through the back door. Of course, you had no way to know." James shrugged. In fact, in the Catholic school he had always been used to four sections, and took on a fifth on a few occasions when staffing was short.

"Sorry." he apologized. "I didn't ask for them. Nathan just told me the other day in the office."

The group of four rolled their eyes and seemed to accept his explanation. 

"Where are you living?" Doris demanded. James sensed the end of the inquisition approaching.

"On Whitman St.—in a big Victorian house." James answered.

"Oh! That's my mother's house. I grew up there." Doris piped up. She decided to release James at that moment. James got the feeling that she would be comparing notes with his landlady the next morning.

After that, the group melted away. Doris, and one of the men, collected their spouses and started to edge toward the exit. One of the men wished James good luck. It was then that James saw her.

She had been inside the house. She strode out to join a group of three male teachers. Each wore a polo shirt and khaki trousers. They all had thick necks and narrow waists. Each crisscrossed sinewy forearms over their chests like steel belts. There was no mistaking that they were the gym teachers. Attaching herself to the group was the blonde runner from Friday morning. 

She, herself, wore khaki cropped pants and a polo shirt. It fit so well, neither stretching the fabric nor allowing excess material to sag from her form. With her perfect, toned body, what else could she be but a physical education teacher, unless she was an athlete? Perhaps she was both. She assumed the center of attention of the group and obviously enjoyed it. She was careful to show a lot of teeth and come tantalizingly close to rubbing her perfect body up against that of one of her male colleagues, but never quite actually touching them. If she had recognized James she did not show it. He tried to convince himself to amble over and give himself another chance at her. But, he stopped. What chance did he have? After the rebuff of Monday morning he would only be inviting humiliation, especially as she was flanked by the polo-shirted Adonises from her department. He turned and headed for the door to go in the house. 

Against one wall was the usual lineup of ladies waiting to use the rest room. He decided to head in the other direction. In the living room there was a gathering of people having a conversation. In the midst of it he spied Abby. As she saw him, Abby motioned James over to their corner. 

"Listen, everyone!" she said in a happy voice. "This is James O'Toole. He's just moved down to Bates to teach math this year." 

There were introductions all around. It was a friendly group. The last to be introduced was Abby's husband.

"Bubba McIntire!" the big man thrust out a meaty paw and grabbed James' hand before he had a chance to offer it. "Well, it's really Edmund— so you know why I like 'Bubba' better!" At the joke the whole group broke into hearty laughter.

"Bubba's just in today from the road!" Abby informed James. It seemed that the rest of the group knew it already.

"I've got my own rig. I drive over the road." he proudly stated. "I was just in Texas carrying piping from Pennsylvania for oil platforms. I'm going back down south on Wednesday."

"Oh, no!" cried Abby. "I thought that you were going to be home for a while." It appeared that he was breaking the news to her and the group at the same time.

"I forgot to tell you; sorry honey." the big man confessed sheepishly. "You know how good the money is on these oil platform runs."

Abby fell silent. The others started chattering again. No one noticed James looking at her. He couldn't help it, and compared her to the gym teacher-amazon-goddess out in the yard. James started telling himself that Abby's breasts were a lot larger than he originally thought. Sure, the younger gym teacher had it all over any woman in looks, but Abby wasn't so bad. The two women were so different, and the similar too. The biggest similarity was that both women had the ability to fuel fantasies in lonely men. The widest difference was that the goddess was inaccessible on her pedestal, while Abby, on the other hand was not. 

She was older, a bit more ordinary, and flirted with him in the school on Friday. At least, he thought that she flirted. At any rate, when it was only a fantasy to be indulged James could make it flirting or not as he chose. She had called him into their group, a friendly act, which James knew would never have come from the blonde. 

James told himself to quit staring. Bubba was standing next to him, and he might not be quite as friendly if he figured out what James was thinking about his wife. It would be a high price to pay for the indulgence of a daydream. He excused himself to go outside and freshen up his beer. 

"I'll go with you—I need one too!" Bubba exclaimed, and James wondered if he had already been caught and the big man was going outside with him to set him straight. 

"I'm not that good at that long-term gabbing." Bubba told him. "I've got the idea that it doesn't suit you very well either." He slapped James on the back, and they made their way to the keg. "I've only got myself for conversation when I'm in the cab of my truck."

The crowd was thinning. The keg was almost empty. With full beers in hand, they turned back inside when a man called out Bubba's name and got his attention. He moved to the side to talk with his acquaintance. 

James realized that he didn't want to go back inside to stare at Abby again, to perhaps get caught and embarrassed. He aimlessly strolled round the yard. His stomach was full; he worked on his beer sip by sip. At the edge of the patio he stopped at a brick wall about waist high. He leaned against it while he looked out on the sun setting over the hills in the western sky. 

"Hi, there!" he heard a female voice behind him. James turned to find a woman standing beside him. She was in her late forties; could have been fifty. She had a kind of 'Dolly Parton' look. She was a little more made up than the other women. "You're new!" she exclaimed.

"That's right, I am," James answered. "I'm James O'Toole. I'll be teaching math this year." 

"I teach English, myself." she said. "I'm Victoria Morgan."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Victoria." James answered politely.

"You'd better call me 'Vicki'," she corrected. "Everyone does."

"Thanks, I'll remember that," James answered.

"Are you married, James?" she probed.

"No, I never have been." James answered, a little bit on defense.

"I was married once," she informed him. "But I'm not married any more. I'm divorced." 

She paused for a moment to let the announcement sink into James' consciousness with all its multi-faceted meanings. James stood still and silent, feeling pressure to respond—not knowing what to say. He took a gulp of beer, even though he didn't want it. Even the few seconds that he required to consume it would be a ploy for extra time. He wondered where Abby was and why he left the friendly group in the house that was so comfortable.

James lowered the cup from his lips. Vicki took a half step closer and leaned up against him. There was a considerable difference in their heights. She rose up on her toes and whispered in his ear.

"And don't you worry, honey. I don't want to get married again." As she lowered herself down she maneuvered her ample breast in the right angle crook formed by James' arm as it held the beer cup. The deposited breast created a strange, yet unmistakable sensation. Already on edge, James tensed and jumped away from her, just enough to break the contact. Vicki giggled at his reaction.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you spill your beer," she proffered the weak apology. 

"It's alright," James choked out the answer. "I didn't really want it, anyway."

"Oh, good," Vicki replied. "Nice sunset." She changed the subject, keeping him from running away.

James nodded, but made no other answer. They stood for a minute, enjoying the swirls of pink and orange in the sky. It was getting darker. It was almost time to go. Vicki turned and edged closer again.

"Is there anything that you did want?" she purred softly. "I could get it for you."

James drew in a breath and groped for an answer that he knew he would not find.

"I see that you two have met." It was Nathan who had come up behind them. "Are you having a good time, Vicki?" 

"Pretty fair, I would have to say. I haven't seen you all night, Nathan," she said as she turned around.




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 02



"I knew that I would have to find you before you left," Nathan said.

"Well, Nathan," she sighed, "you have found me and I am leaving." She turned to James. "I'll see you on Wednesday morning. Good night, all."

As she sauntered out of the yard James was saved. At least he told himself so.

"We've got one more day of vacation until school starts," Nathan said, putting his arm on James' shoulder. "How about a round of golf tomorrow?" 

"I'd like to," James replied. "The problem is that I haven't got my clubs here yet."

The truth was that James hadn't played in several years. The clubs had been collecting dust in his parents' house.

"No problem!" Nathan assured. "I've got an extra set. I'll loan them to you."

James had no excuses.

"I'll pick you up at ten tomorrow morning," Nathan said, not waiting for an answer.

"Alright," James agreed. "I'll give you my address."

"No need." Nathan said. "I already know where you live."

********** 

James had already taken his morning run, followed by a shower and breakfast as he waited for Nathan to pick him up for their round of golf. The weather was holding up. It was a perfect day for golf.

James knew the game. He played once and a while when he was a priest—not often enough to be good but enough to hold his own. He was rusty, not having played recently. 

He saw Nathan's SUV in the distance and it finally stopped where he was standing. "I've got a set of clubs in the back for you," he called from the driver's seat. "They're my son's, actually," Nathan explained as James climbed in the passenger's side. "He bought a new set when he graduated from college. He keeps this set at the house for when he comes home to visit."

"Thanks for inviting me, Nathan." James said as Nathan put the SUV in gear. 

"Glad to." Nathan shrugged. "The golf course isn't far from here—just on the edge of the village. It's nice enough, but not real challenging. It's convenient. The next closest is twenty miles away."

"That would suit me fine." James answered modestly. "I haven't played at all this year."

"I asked Ed Cassidy to join us today." Nathan continued. "Ed is the Business Manager of the Teachers' Union. Even though we're on different sides of the table at times, we're friends. We have been since we were in Bates High School ourselves."

"That sounds like a long time!" James made an attempt at a joke. Nathan laughed only a little. "I'm surprised that he wasn't at your party last night."

"It wouldn't have looked good in front of all the other teachers." Nathan replied tersely. 

"By the way, thanks again for the invitation. I had a nice time. Everything was great." James added, remembering his manners.

"It was our pleasure to have you," Nathan returned the courtesy. "It was a shame that you didn't get a chance to meet my wife, Jan. She would have enjoyed meeting you." 

Nathan pulled the SUV into the golf course parking lot and found a parking space. 

"There's Ed's car." Nathan said. "I'm sure that he's in the locker room changing. We'll meet him in there."

Ed Cassidy rose from the bench when he saw Nathan and James approaching his locker. He was a big, burly man, about Nathan's age, but not as tall and certainly not as fit. He had black, curly hair and a thick black moustache. 

"Hey, Nathan!" he called out as he stood up. He thrust out a huge, hairy forearm that ended in a meaty hand. He and Nathan shook hands.

"Ed, this is James O'Toole, the new teacher that I told you about," Nathan announced.

Ed thrust out his arm once again and grabbed James' hand. "Glad to meet 'cha!" he exclaimed as he shook it. "Welcome to Bates. I hope that you have good luck here."

"I hope so, too," James replied. 

Ed released James' hand. "Do what this guy says and you won't need luck." Ed pointed at Nathan.

The three men ventured out of the locker room and into the pro shop. James stepped to the cashier to pay his greens fees.

"That's not necessary, James." Nathan called to him. "Ed and I are members. You're playing as our guest."

James shrugged sheepishly and thanked them. "You can buy the drinks after the round." Ed consoled him.

"You might want to think about taking out a membership here next year after you're established in the community. Ed and I will sponsor you. Think about it," Nathan advised. 

James didn't play great, but respectably. Nathan was a low handicapper. Ed hit the ball hard but sprayed it around. It was a pleasant day to play golf and the men were enjoying themselves. 

On the fifth hole James' and Nathan's drives were in the left-center of the fairway. Ed had sliced to the right. As they sat in their cart in the fairway waiting for Ed to hit Nathan turned to James.

"Vicki Morgan is quite an 'aggressive' woman, isn't she?" he said.

"Yes, she took me a little bit by surprise, I'm afraid," James answered. Nathan nodded.

"It's important in this town that people don't get the wrong impression." Nathan answered. "I know that it's your business; you're single and all. If people start buzzing about you it could make things difficult. That's why I stepped in last night. I didn't want you getting off on the wrong foot."

"I guess that I'm inexperienced in these matters. I've never had much practice," James answered.

"I figured as much. Sometimes I need to step in, to keep things the way they ought to be. It's important for all of us. There are certain expectations. It's up to me to make sure that those expectations are met," Nathan pronounced. 

"I don't know what to say, Nathan. I was just having a quiet beer. It just happened before I knew it. Well—nothing really happened. I'm sorry," James apologized.

"Sometimes people get caught up in things and it takes them over. I was making sure that it didn't happen to you. I'm your friend," Nathan assured him. 

"Thanks, Nathan." James answered weakly.

"After you've been around awhile you'll get the hang of it. If you take up with a woman, be discrete, unless you have long-term intentions. In that case, be discrete in a different way," Nathan continued.

"I think that I'll just keep to myself for awhile," James conceded. "For right now I'll just concentrate on teaching my four sections."

"That's the spirit!" Nathan cried. After a pause he glanced at Ed finishing his struggles in the rough. "It's your turn to hit," he said.

************ 

"Let's go in the clubhouse and have a beer." Nathan suggested as they finished up at the eighteenth green. He shot a 78; James a 93. It wasn't Ed's day and he stopped keeping score after the twelfth hole.

They found a table away from the bar. A waitress brought them a pitcher of beer and three mugs.

"James taught at a private school where the standards are quite high—strictly college prep." Nathan remarked to Ed. "I hired him because I thought that we needed some of that experience."

"You'll find a different atmosphere here," Ed turned to James. "Most of the students look at Math as a necessary evil that they have to get through to graduate. Most of what they learn they'll never use again. I wouldn't expect too much."

"What about those that want to go to college?" James asked. "They need it for any science or engineering."

"They get private tutors." Ed replied. "It's worth it to them and it gives the teachers a source of extra income."

"I already explained that to him," Nathan said. "The priorities here are Shop, Sports and Social Studies—in that order."

"I understand the first two," James acknowledged. "I don't see why Social Studies comes ahead of Math, Science and English. Where I taught, it was the opposite."

"People here want their kids to come out of schools with the same view of life that they have. We do our part in the school in some things. The churches do the rest." Nathan instructed.

Ed nodded his head. "It's different here. We're set in our ways."

"Here's the issue." Nathan leaned forward, the tone of his voice more intense. "We can't be set in our ways anymore. We have a lot of pressure to upgrade our Math program. If we don't meet the new State Standards we'll get written up as a sub-standard school. You know what that means."

Ed shook his head. James was confused, as well.

"It means that our State Aid formula will be in jeopardy. That means less money. We'll have to increase taxes or cut salaries."

"Now, you've got my attention!" Ed conceded.

"Not only that; some of our graduates that have gone to college have come home saying that they can't compete with students from bigger schools because their math and science preparation isn't as good," Nathan went on. "They're competing with students like those that James has been turning out for years. People are starting to talk."

Ed nodded that he was starting to understand. 

"Without a good Math program you won't be able to do much with your science program, either," James chipped in. Nathan nodded his head in grateful agreement.

"We've worked together a long time, Ed," Nathan said.

"Ever since I was the left tackle and you were the Left End when we won the Sectional Championship," Ed replied.

"If we don't make some changes now, people will change us!" Nathan said. "They'll want new people in charge, and that means my job, and in time that will put pressure on yours, too."

Ed sat silently, a worried look on his face. "What are you suggesting?"

"We have to start upgrading the Math Department. I need a good person in charge. None of the current teachers can do it. I want to put James in charge after the Christmas holiday. It will mean that he'll be jumping over a number of teachers with more seniority. They all want to be the Chair. It means an extra ten thousand a year."

"You are giving me a lot of headaches, Nathan," Ed answered. "I can guarantee you that Doris will file a grievance, maybe others. James, here, isn't even part of the union contract yet."

"I know that, Ed. That's why I wanted to have this get together, first." Nathan replied, still leaning forward over the table. "We really need this."

"What would you do differently?" Ed turned to James.

"James didn't know what was on my mind until this moment," Nathan cautioned.

"I think that each teacher should take four sections." James volunteered. "That way there could be smaller classes. We should have advanced sections for college-bound students. Students and parents should be brought in at the start of ninth grade to tell them what they can expect. We have to set goals for the State Test. We..."

"Whoa!" Ed cried. "Nathan, you've got a real revolutionary here. I'm not sure that we're ready."

"Ready or not—we need it." Nathan asserted.

"And, I don't believe that teachers should get paid extra to tutor students who need help!" James finished his thought.

"You're really going for it all!" Ed chuckled. "Have you been to the Board about this?" he asked, looking at Nathan.

"You know that I never go to them until you and I work things out first." Nathan answered.

"Cut the Department Chair stipend to five thousand. Then everyone will want it less." Ed suggested. "Say nothing about your plans to the other teachers—that means you, too, James. We might have to upgrade the tutoring program as a wedge. Get ready for some unhappy times, but we'll work it out." 

"One more thing." Nathan stated, as they rose from the table.

"Oh, what's that?" Ed raised an eyebrow.

"It's the reason that James left his post at Catholic High School in Rochester. He was a priest and decided not to be one any more."

"Hmm!" Ed scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Any more to the story—you know what I mean?"

"No." James testified. "There is not."

"In that case, it's your business." Ed assured him.

James left a tip for the waitress. The three men left the clubhouse together. 

********** 

"It would be better if we kept our conversations in the bar to ourselves." Nathan admonished as he stopped in the driveway of James' rooming house.

James was naïve, but even he realized how volatile the subject would prove to be.

"I was serious, James. I have to get that Math Department in shape. You'll be a big part of it, if you stick with me, but you have to let me do it my way."

"I think that I'll just concentrate on teaching my sections—until you call me. Just let me know," James assured him. 

"Concentrate on keeping your nose clean, as well," Nathan warned. "With your background as an ex-priest, the people in the town will be less forgiving if something should come up."

"I haven't had a chance to get it dirty," James protested.

"You will!" Nathan assured him. "You're a prime target—a single guy, new in town. When they get wind of your being a priest, that session with Vicki last night will be just a warm-up."

"I get it." James answered, a little impatient.

"Sorry, James," Nathan backed off. "It's just that something like that will take down all my plans."

"Aright, no problem," James assured him. 

"Something like what?" James asked himself as Nathan drove off.

Late that night James sat in the dark with a glass of scotch beside him. It wasn't easy to get to sleep; he had plenty to think about. For one thing, he was taking on a new job in a new environment in the morning. He had always taught motivated students—or, at least students with motivated parents. From what people had told him, it would be different in Bates. He never had girls in his classroom. He knew how to handle young men. He wondered about the girls. He would have to find his way through all of it.

Nathan's insistence on managing his private life was annoying. He already sized his mentor up as a person who covered his bases, but this was going too far. He mused at how someone could interfere in something that didn't exist. 

His new job and Nathan's annoyances would not have been enough to keep him awake. It was something else that kept him piqued, his pulse a little more rapid, his expectations honed. For it, he would tolerate Nathan as overlord. It made the challenges of the coming days seem like stepping stones. It was what made him feel like he was in Guatemala again. 

He cared little for the extra money that came with the job of reforming the Math Department. They could cut his pay and he would still accept it. It was a chance for him to be a person that people needed to help them in a worthy goal. It had been so in his Central America years. It would soon be that way again. It would give him something that the priesthood could not. 

He knew that he could do the job. His skills had never been in doubt. He saw truth in triangles and parabolas. In truth was happiness. He would gain it for himself and pass it on to any person to whom he could. His priestly vows had been his chains. He had sensed it, but not known it. From the ashes of his doubts God's wisdom rose up to him like a phoenix. Best of all, James could believe in Him again, on his own terms, now that the salvation of his mission in Bates was delivered.

He drank the last of his glass of whiskey and shuffled back to bed. He thought about pleasuring himself, but decided not to. He needed no further relief; that which he had found for his soul was enough. Contented, he finally fell asleep. 

********** 

TO BE CONTINUED...

Dear Readers,

Thanks for reading. I hope that you're enjoying the story so far. If you have thoughts or questions about it, please send me a message, either through the Public comments Section, or the private e-mail service offered by this site.

Best regards,

Autumn Writer



The Blameless Bystander Ch. 03



Chapter 3—Beginnings

School commenced on the first Wednesday after Labor Day. James was ready to go. He took his morning workout and had a big breakfast. He chose to walk that day, his apartment being close to the school. After his first few classes, he reckoned that he had more energy than the sea of expressionless faces that he looked out over in each of his four sections. 

He was too seasoned to expect enthusiasm. Any expression, even fear, would have been preferable over nothingness. Could they really care so little for that which was so important to them? The only response that he could generate was a muffled groan as he explained the homework expectations. James tried to take it in stride. After all, the main activity of the day was passing out textbooks and outlining rules for homework and grades. Not quite enough to create excitement from teenagers.

Nathan saw James in the Teachers' Lounge and sauntered over to say 'hello'.

"How did it go today, James?" Nathan asked.

"It was like a science fiction movie." James answered. "Something like 'Teen-aged Zombies'," James answered, only half-joking.

"Don't worry," Nathan answered. "They're sizing you up. They know that you're new. Teen-agers never give away their feelings to adults if they can help it."

"It'll all work out," James agreed.

"You've already earned a reputation as a 'homework monster'," Nathan informed him. Several students tried to switch sections. I told the Guidance Counselors to tell them that all the sections are full—no changes."

"How much are you giving them?" a voice several feet away interrupted. It was Doris, whom he met at Nathan's barbecue two nights earlier. She was the senior teacher in the Math Department and coveted the Department Chair position. 

"About thirty or forty minutes a night." Nathan answered.

"They'll never do it," Doris asserted.

"If they want a decent grade, they'll have to," James argued.

"They're not going to like it. You don't know the lay of the land here. It's not the same as what you're used to." Doris was condescending and obviously perturbed.

"They'll like it better when they pass the State Test," James retorted. "By the time they get to those tests, they won't even have a doubt that they'll pass them."

"State Tests!" Doris muttered with disgust under her breath. "You'll find out," she said and then looked away.

"Call it as you see it," Nathan reassured him. "We need results, with or without homework." 

As Nathan moved on to visit the other teachers Doris leaned over to James. She moved close to him to whisper so that Nathan couldn't hear her.

"What are going to do with this homework, once you collect it?" she asked James sarcastically.

"Correct it and give it back." 

"Correct it WHEN?" Doris demanded barely able to keep her voice at a whisper.

"Right now would be good if I had some to correct," James replied, or I can take it home with me.

"You can't do that to us!" Doris spat out. "We don't live like you do—like a hermit in a boarding house. My mother told me that you don't even have a television set."

"You have three sections. I have four."

"That's another thing..." Doris was getting angrier and James cut her off. "Manage your class as you see fit. I never said that I thought that you should give up television," he needled her. 

"Soon Nathan will put pressure on us all to do it just like you." 

"Only if the students are getting good results," James said.

Doris heaved an audible sigh of disgust as she rose and stomped out of the room. In the corner of his eye James noticed Nathan observing the exchange. 

Doris had tried to discourage James, but accomplished the opposite. Here was confirmation of what he fathomed in his meditations the night before. It was a sign to him that he was meant to be in Bates, teaching Math to students who needed it and could not receive it without him. His excitement was purging the doubts that had only days ago had stifled him. Once again, he felt stirrings in his belly. It was like an old friend, coming to pay him a visit, bringing a potent elixir to awaken his latent soul. He had befriended the feeling in Guatemala as a young man, when imminent ordeal was a pathway to destiny. It was denied him many years ago. Here it was again. He knew that he was right in his approach. Doris' priorities were different from his. He could barely wait to prove himself. 

In truth, James knew that collecting and grading homework from four sections each day was impossible. His plan had never been more than to randomly collect it. He failed to mention that to Doris. He wondered if he had been unfair to leave that out of the argument. He decided not. He would have said so if she had asked. He would have said so if he she approached him in a different way. So be it.

********** 

James was walking home at a quick pace after his first day on the job. He had been thinking about shopping for a television set after dinner, but the scene with Doris changed his mind. Instead, he thought that he would lay in a supply of groceries. As he rounded the corner of Whitman St. he saw Mrs. Wilkinson in her yard. It wasn't usual to see her there late in the afternoon. She spent most of her time inside, but there she was.

"Good evening, Mr. O'Toole," she called out pleasantly. "How was your first day on the job?" It was a potentially disarming approach, and it would have worked if Doris had not poisoned the well with her comments that afternoon abouthis lifestyle, with his wizened landlady the only potential source.

"Hello, Mrs. Wilkinson," he called back in measured politeness. "It went just fine, thank you." James kept walking until he saw the woman start to follow him toward the back of the house, and then he stopped.

"Mr. Wilkinson, I need to discuss something," The woman wheezed as she hurried toward him. James stopped and waited for her to continue. She said nothing as she hitched along, waiting to get up close to him.

"I had to enter your apartment today," she announced. "I thought that we had an emergency."

"Really?" James was surprised. "What kind of emergency?"

"I thought that I heard the water running in your apartment. I thought that it might overflow. I had to check it out."

"Did I leave the water on?" James queried.

"No. Everything was alright—false alarm. Sorry."

James shrugged and turned to move on. He was suspicious. He decided not to press the issue. He could have argued with her and won, but it wasn't worth the bother. 

"I need to go up there with you to verify that everything is as you left it," she called after him.

"Not necessary, Mrs. Wilkinson. I trust you," James sain in a vain attempt to dismiss her.

"I insist!" she said. "I know that you think that I'm a fuddy-duddy, but I'm set in my ways."

James shrugged. It would be easier to accommodate her than to argue. He had nothing to hide, and if he did Mrs. Wilkinson would have already found it in her earlier foray into his quarters. 

When they got to the top of the stairway James let himself in. Ethel poured herself in right behind him. 

"Take a look around," she said, as if she were the one granting the privilege. "Take your time." She followed him into his bedroom.

James played along. He knew that he would find nothing amiss. She wouldn't put herself at the scene of the crime if there would be a crime to discover. 

"You sure got a lot of books in those boxes," she observed. James didn't respond. "What are you going to do with them all?" She tried again.

"When I get a chance I'll buy one of those bookshelves that you put together. Until then, they'll have to stay in the boxes," James answered.

"Have you read all of these?" she pressed on.

"Yes." James replied. "I've read some of them more than once."

"Is that what you do up here at night—read these books?" she asked.

"Mostly." 

"Why don't you ever go out?" she asked. "There are some bars near here. You could meet some people."

"I just haven't had a chance yet," James countered. "I just moved in." James knew that the conversation had evolved into an interrogation, but he was sure that he would parry her thrusts easily.

"What are they about?" she wouldn't give up on the books.

"Mathematics, mostly, and philosophy." James answered.

"I see that you've got a Bible," she announced her discovery as though it should please him.

"I do." James agreed. "I'm surprised that you saw it. It was way down at the bottom of the box."

Embarrassed, slightly, she struck back. "I saw your Playboy, too." 

"I'm over eighteen," James replied glibly.

"Well, what did you do before you moved to Bates?" she demanded.

"I taught Math at a High School in Rochester. I was there fourteen years." 

Ethel moved a step closer to James. She squinted, with her head pulled down into her neck as she leaned slightly forward. "Then why move to Bates? Did Nathan bring you here?" 

"No, we were never acquainted until I had an interview with him. I took this job so that I could get into the public school retirement system," he recited.

"It's pretty rare that someone moves from the city to this part of the State," she said. "We like to keep things pretty close in this town. It wouldn't do for outsiders to come in and take over. It would ruin the place! People are going to wonder why you moved down here."

"I needed a job—like I told you—and the school needed a Math teacher. Here I am." 

James was becoming impatient. He thought about elaborating; assuring her that he didn't want to take over anything—if he could. But, he decided not to. It wasn't really true, for one thing, and this scowling, bitter woman didn't even deserve the answers that he already gave her. 

The old woman remained motionless, her expression unchanging. The interrogation was over.

"Is there anything else that I can tell you, Mrs. Wilkinson?" he asked.

She shook her head and about-faced out the door. James closed it after her. It was sure from her questioning that Doris had called her after their spat that afternoon. It would have bothered James if the inquisition had been more of a challenge. Since it wasn't, he hoisted a skillet out of the cupboard. After a quick hamburger he would try his luck at the grocery store once again. 

*********** 

James pulled into a parking space in the lot of the Thrifty Mart wondering if he should have made a list in advance. He knew the answer, and also that it was too late to worry about it. His first bout in the market had been a rough one, a stranger in housewives' territory who eyed the intruder with contempt. On his second attempt he hoped to do better.

There was some improvement in that his expectations were more finely honed. Otherwise, the trip was as unsuccessful as his first try a few days before. As he guided his cart through the aisles of cereal and cake mixes, it was apparent that he couldn't go fast enough, or slow enough, to suit those around him. No matter where he might park his cart, it was in someone's way. No aisle seemed wide enough. 

It was hard to pay attention to the merchandise and the heavy shopping cart traffic throughout the store. For a moment he lost concentration as he ventured through the intersection of two aisles. He never saw the oncoming cart; he might have had the right of way, maybe not. In a second he collided with another cart belonging to a woman coming from the canned vegetable aisle. 

"Excuse me. I didn't see you!" James offered sincerely. "Did I break anything?"

A woman stood behind the cart who peered with disgust at the careless novice. "No, I don't think so," she answered abruptly. James tried to back away, but found that the two carts had become locked together in the collision. 

"I'll take care of this. It will just take a minute." James smiled sheepishly up at his victim, who in turn, looked at the ceiling and rolled her eyes. A small crowd had accumulated in the intersection because of the obstruction in the traffic flow. Finally the carts were disengaged and the woman stalked silently away. 

James moved the cart to the side and paused for a second to reset his bearings. It was shocking at how easily everyone became angry at him in this environment.

"You're new at this aren't you?" came a voice behind him. It was calm and pleasant, a welcome relief. James spun around. It was Abby, her cart half full of groceries.

"How can you tell?" James joked, happy to see her. She was dressed just like he had first seen her in her denim skirt and sleeveless blouse. This time, she had a light sweater draped over her shoulders to deal with the excess air conditioning of the grocery store.

"I would tell you, but it would take too long," she smiled.

"That bad?" James asked, already knowing the answer. "I don't think that I'm cut out for this."

"You'll get the hang of it," she assured him, chuckling. "Well, see you in school tomorrow." They continued their separate ways. 

After he loaded his cart with the staples, he thought that he needed to give himself a treat and headed for the ice cream freezer. There were many more kinds and flavors than he ever thought possible. He stood surveying the choices, wanting to make the most of his self-indulgence. He seemed to be out of anyone's way, so he took his time.

He felt a thump and heard a minor crash coming from his cart once again. He knew he was not moving, so he felt relieved to be a victim in a collision instead of the perpetrator. He looked up to see Abby laughing at him.

"Sorry, I was going a little too fast." she teased him.

"I think that you staged that!" James teased back. "Was it for the insurance money?" 

"You've seen me, so it won't be hit and run," she countered.

James had noticed it at Nathan's party, and again at that moment in the store, how pretty Abby's face was when she was laughing. She shed all traces of age. Her eyes crinkled at the edges. She traded reserve for spontaneity. James enjoyed the lovely sight, especially intended for him as it was.

"Actually, I hoped that I could find you before you finished your shopping," she told him.

James was surprised. What could she want from him?

"I have a problem at the house," she explained. "Bubba's on the road down south; he won't be back until Sunday. I need someone to lift something heavy. I was going to wait for Bubba; then I saw you here at the store tonight. I started thinking that you might help me."

"What would you want me to do?" James asked. "I'm not very handy."

"It's nothing very hard," Abby assured him. "It's my washing machine. It needs leveling—jumps around when it spins. If you could just tilt it up for me I could turn the leveling wheels. I could wait for Bubba to do it, but I have such a lot of laundry. I hate the Laundromat."

It was a simple request. James wanted to help her, especially after he discovered that he could make her laugh and uncover that smile that she hid under her reserve. There was tenseness in his gut that told him to think twice. He tried to. No reasonable excuse came forth.

"My house isn't very far," she pressed, ever so slightly. "It won't take any time at all. How about it?"

There it was again, that smile that so pleasantly unnerved him, and now he noticed that it was planted above her petite, compact little body."

"How could I refuse?" James replied with nonchalant gallantry.

"That's the spirit!" she smiled again. "Let's get to the check out."

"That's the spirit!" James repeated to himself. He noted that the secretary had picked up Nathan's favorite phrase. The tenseness in his stomach clarified. It was the echo of Nathan's advice to keep his nose clean. He had forgotten already. It was too late to renege. It would be alright. They would fix the washer and he would go. Nothing was intended—nothing would happen. It would be better to get it out of the way.

James pulled his cart into lane seven; Abby into lane eight. They finished almost simultaneously. James followed her in his car. As he drove he told himself how naïve he was. How easily it had all happened. How quickly he had forgotten the flirting session in the school several days ago. If they were found out Nathan would never forgive him. It was just to fix a washing machine, but who would ever believe that? 

Something like this happened once before when he was a priest, but he hadn't learned his lesson. The resident priests at the school helped out at the local parishes. A pretty, young bookkeeper at the church had a crush on him. While nothing happened tongues wagged. James was oblivious until it was too late. The truth was sorted out, but never the hard feelings. It was not his fault; why did he feel like it was? 

After driving five minutes they arrived at Abby's house. It was on the State Road outside of town. The house sat back on a large lot. James let out a sigh of relief. At least there would be no neighbors to spy on him. 

At the side of the driveway he saw a large turnaround that Bubba constructed for his semi. Abby waited in the driveway for him to park his car behind hers.

"You better put your ice cream in my freezer while you're here so it doesn't melt," she called out as James closed the car door. Abby's offer made sense, but it made a chill rush through him anew, because it implied that he might be in the house a longer time than he first expected. He was being drawn in—he could feel it—and didn't know how to stop. He obediently pulled the ice cream from the shopping bags and brought it with him.

"It's so nice of you to help me with this!" Abby gushed as they made their way to the basement. It was a nicely finished basement with a pool table and a little area with a sofa in front of a stereo and television. The basement was split in two. They went through a door into another room where there were the utilities of the house. The washer and dryer were set against the wall.

"If you could just tilt it backward, I can turn these leveling wheels," Abby said and she sank to her knees in front of the washer. James stood behind her and tilted the washer backwards. It was a simple task, requiring no thinking on his part, so it allowed his mind and eyes to wander to the Abby's form below him. He saw how tiny she was, with her hips flaring only slightly. She was dressed quite modestly, but it didn't matter. He thought back to Friday night when just her nude image in his imagination had brought him so much pleasure. Here they were, a step closer.

Abby scooted to the back of the washer. "Now tilt it forward, please," she instructed. He did and Abby bent to her task anew. This time she was facing toward him, so he had to be more careful on how and where he looked. He was hoping for his erection to subside before she stood up and saw it. He imagined how insulted she would be. What humiliation would she inflict on him when she saw it?

Abby abruptly stood up. James' erection hadn't gone down, but if Abby saw it, she said nothing. "I think that Bubba has a level over there by his tool box." she pointed to a darkened corner. "If you can get it, then we can check to make sure."

James was grateful for the momentary escape. He felt strange searching through Bubba's tools. It seemed like they should be private. He didn't know how to avoid it. He knew it was just a personal quirk. Still, it was an unpleasant feeling.

"Forget it, Jamie!" he said to himself. "You've just been searching through his wife's underwear—in your mind's eye. You can't do worse by handling his tools."

James brought back the level and set it on the washer. He bent over it and eyed the bubble between the lines in the glass. He turned the level at a right angle and placed it on a different part of the washer. It was perfectly aligned, as well. He glanced to the side. He was startled to find Abby's face was inches from his own, checking the level with him. He could see the details of her eyes and nose, the pouting softness of her lips and how they were slightly parted. He could kiss her if he chose. He was about to, but quickly stood up.




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 03



"It looks like we're going to do it!" Abby announced. James' back stiffened at the words and he gazed at her in shock. "Fix it, I mean," she clarified. She stood motionless, gazing at him. "You're handier than you think!" James remained silent, beads of perspiration collecting at his hairline.

"James, I didn't realize how heavy that washer must have been!" she lavished sympathy on him. "You're perspiring! I'll get you some lemonade. You've earned it." She squeezed past him, rubbing her body against his as she did so. James felt every protruding bone and breast as she passed him. His erection was returning, and along with it his fear of discovery. 

"No thank you, Abby. I really have to get going." James said clumsily. 

"Nonsense, you just sit in the TV room and I'll bring it right down." 

"No Abby," James protested. "I really don't want any lemonade."

"A beer, then! Bubba has some in the refrigerator. I'll have one with you." Abby brightened at the improved idea. 

A voice in James' brain was screaming "Get out! Run away while you can." James struggled to heed the advice, but his vocal chords and feet had turned to lead. Another voice vied with the first. "Don't be a jerk. Have a nice beer with the lady."

"Lemonade would be fine," James compromised. He sat on the sofa in the TV room while Abby scampered upstairs for refreshments. She returned quickly with a tray with two glasses of lemonade and a plate of cookies.

"I'm so glad to have the company." she purred as she set the tray on the coffee table. "I get so lonely when Bubba's gone—and it seems that he's gone all the time." James was sitting in the corner of the sofa. Abby took a seat in the center. "You know how it is to be lonely. Don't you get lonely every night in your apartment? You don't mind staying a while, do you?" She took a sip from her glass and peered at him from out over the top of it.

"Why don't you ask Bubba not to go away for so long?" James suggested. 

"He says that he has to pay off the semi while the economy's good," Abby replied. "You haven't answered my question. You know how it is to be lonely." She asked again.

"I guess so. I'm just getting used to it," James answered. Abby adjusted herself so that she was sitting sideways on the sofa. She kicked off her shoes and sat with her feet tucked under her. There were no lights in the TV room, only the one in the stairway. It shone from behind her, outlining her face and casting shadows that invited closer inspection. 

"Everyone needs company now and then," she whispered. "I'm glad that you could stay with me a while."

"Abby, I shouldn't be here," James confessed. "I should go."

"Oh please stay a while, James—just a little while. I know that you want to," she pouted.

"It's not that I don't like you, Abby," James protested. "It's just that..."

"Oh, I know that you like me, James. I saw you looking at me at Nathan's house. I know that look. I saw how hard you were a few minutes ago, too. I felt it when I rubbed against you. It felt—good." Abby leaned forward, sliding her tongue over her lips, slowly closing the distance between them.

"What about Bubba?" James cried.

"Bubba's in Texas," she answered as she drew nearer. She was so close to him, that as she softly spoke James could feel her breath caress his face. It felt soothing and nice. He tried not to, but he liked the warm softness. In a few seconds she would be on him, kissing him, he was sure. It would be the point of no return, because he would kiss her back, and then embrace her. It would naturally follow that they would make love on the sofa, if she would help him, for he had never known a woman.

He decided to let it happen. He was forcing Nathan's warning from his thoughts. As he closed his eyes he anticipated the feel of her softness covering over him. 

"What!" he heard Abby cry. James opened his eyes to find himself standing alongside the sofa, looking down at his temptress as she lay sprawled against the arm of the sofa where James had just been sitting.

"Abby, I just can't. You're so nice. I like you, and you're so beautiful. I just can't," he babbled out the best explanation that he could. Instinct had won out over logic.

"Oh, James, it could have been so nice. Why don't you just sit back down here and relax?" Her words, cloaked in her sweet voice were so convincing. James nearly complied.

"I've never done this before. I can't," James hoped for sympathy.

"I had already figured that out, James. Don't worry. I'll help you," she pleaded.

"But you're Bubba's wife—and Nathan's secretary," James countered 

Abby's cheeks reddened. "I understand!" was all that she said. He couldn't understand why, but his last words offended her. She led him up the stairs. They stopped at the refrigerator and she handed him his carton of ice cream that he put in her freezer. No words were spoken as James walked out the door.

It was a long drive back to James's apartment, even though the distance was only a few miles. His heart was pounding in the contemplation of what had almost been. He felt bad because he knew Abby was angry. 

It would be alright, though. After he unpacked his bags of groceries he would be with her again. No one would see them, not even the prying Mrs. Wilkinson, only separated from them by a single wall. They would go as one into his bedroom, take off their clothes, lie down together on the bed. She would wrap her warm, dainty hands around his hardened penis and then cover his thirsting body with her warm, inviting one. He would call her forth from his mind's eye. They would make love on his terms, safe from Bubba, Nathan and guilt.

******* 

The next day was a busy one at school. It was the first real day of instruction. James did not see Abby, although he silently wondered what would happen if he did. He wanted to be friends with her, to know that she liked him, perhaps even desired him from afar. 

It was after James' third section, just before lunch, that a young, pretty, blonde girl stood before James as he was packing up his books. She had been in the class that just ended, sitting in the back alongside a muscular young man. He was a little irritated that the pair was more intent on looking at each other than the derivation of the sine function that James so carefully placed on the blackboard.

James looked up. "Yes?" he acknowledged her.

The girl gave a sheepish grin. "Mr. O'Toole, I'm Becky Chandler." 

"How do you do, Miss Chandler." he answered. James waited for a second. He knew that she wouldn't answer. Teens always had trouble speaking to adults. "What's on your mind?" 

"My father said that I had to come and talk with you," she started, then paused. James waited. "I took this course last year and didn't do very well," she explained. 

"You failed it?" James probed.

"No," she corrected. "I withdrew, but I would have failed it if I hadn't. Now, I'm in senior year and I have to pass it to graduate. My father says that I can't cheerlead if I don't get extra help."

James was tempted to lecture on the folly of equating cheerleading with graduation, but passed the opportunity. She wouldn't have believed him.

"Help is available," James told her. "You know there is a system if you want to get a private tutor." 

"Yes, I know. Everyone knows about the tutor system. I was hoping that if I got a tutor I could do that in place of the homework." 

James shook his head. "The homework is to help you learn the material. You should do the homework with the tutor. I can't release you from the homework while the rest of the class has to do it."

Becky rolled her eyes. "That's a lot of work! I can't do it."

"It will only take you as long as it takes to watch one television program. You may not like it, but you'll enjoy passing the State Test," James admonished.

"But the tutor..."

"The tutor can only help you." James interrupted. "You have to learn it yourself."

Becky took a deep breath and started to stammer out a new protest.

"I'm sorry, Becky. That's the way it is," James sternly cut her off.

Becky let out her stored breath and her head sunk in disappointment.

"Can I sign up for you to tutor me?" she asked after a pause.

"You don't have to sign up with me," James said. "You can ask any Math teacher."

"All the other teachers know me," she replied curtly. "They don't like me."

"I doubt if anyone dislikes you, Becky, but if you want, I'll tutor you. Take this form home. Have one of your parents sign it. When you return it, we'll set up a time."

The girl took the paper from him without saying a word. She turned to leave. As she did, James caught a glimpse of her young man waiting just outside the open door. It nagged at James that he had seen the pair before, but could not place them. He shrugged. It wasn't important.

"See, I told you," James heard him cajole her as she walked through the doorway.

************ 

At seven o'clock that Thursday night the Reverend Ethan Chandler passed through the heavy doors of the First Baptist Church. It was one of the angry stone buildings in the center of town. It had a tall steeple that seemed to reach to the heavens. It could be seen from any part of the town and the farms on the hillsides. The Reverend didn't go into the sanctuary, but entered a stairway off to the side in the vestibule that led to the basement. There was a conference room there and he entered it and turned on the lights. 

He was early. He wanted a chance to be by himself, to get his thoughts together before the others on the Church Board arrived. Upstairs he could hear the choir practicing for Sunday Service. They were singing "Rock of Ages", his favorite. He found himself humming along with it, as usual. Although he was true to his custom, he couldn't give it the robust effort that was the norm. Other things weighed heavily on him.

His pondering was interrupted by the first of the Board members to arrive. It was Jarrod Morris. Besides being a Board Member of the Church, he was Mayor of the Village of Bates, and owned the largest insurance agency in town. He was born and bred in the town. He was a natural for the Board membership, except that his political office made him feel a little uneasy that someone might accuse him of a conflict of interest. At the same time, he was good at organizing and business. People weren't lining up for either the Village or Church offices, so he was safe enough. He was a large man, an athlete in his younger days. Now at the age of forty-five he retained his charismatic good looks. His voice was strong and when he spoke people listened to him.

"Good evening, Ethan," Jarrod hailed the pastor. Although the Reverend was not a native of Bates, the two men had known each other for years. Chandler settled in the town shortly after the First Baptist Church recruited him after his seminary days. The two men were quite different in appearance and outlook, yet were fast friends. They were about the same age. The Reverend was tall, as his friend, but his features were thin and reedy. The bones of his face, set atop a pencil-thin neck, formed cutting edges beneath his thinning blond hair and large ears. He had light-colored, hazel eyes that seemed to blunt any display of emotion. His lips were thin, too, and they poured out plenty of brimstone each Sunday morning. 

"The others should arrive soon." Chandler replied. There were three others on the board; Chandler and Morris would drive it. The others would discuss for a time, and then go along. They could be heard noisily clattering down the hallway.

"You would think that after Labor Day the weather would cool off." Mrs. Corbett complained. The corpulent woman was placed on the Board several years ago to keep her interested in running the Bake Sale. 

"I remember summers like this." An elderly, bespectacled gentleman replied. "Always leads to hard winters." Howard Jones was a retired Town Clerk. The fifth member said nothing. It was Hazel Ferguson, a Sunday School teacher.

Each of them sat around the conference table, trying to find a comfortable position. They knew that a long meeting was in store. The choir continued rehearsing, but the Board members barely heard them.

"We all know why we're here," Jarrod began. "It's because..."

"Ahem!" Ethan interrupted.

"Oh, I'm sorry Reverend. Please get us started," Jarrod excused himself. 

Chandler stood and the four others bowed their heads. "For our invocation tonight, let us join together in silent prayer, asking God to grant us wisdom as we deliberate." The Reverend stood silently while the others sat. After half a minute of asking silently for wisdom he uttered "Amen!" and sat down.

Jarrod wasted no time. "Like I was starting to say, we're here tonight to decide how to set our Church finances right."

"We started talking about this last week, but didn't get very far," Howard Jones spoke up. "Where do we stand, anyway?" he asked.

"Not quite making ends meet," Jarrod replied. "Tom Hawkins at the bank is helping us all that he can. He's supposed to put our mortgage into the 'delinquent file' but was able to delay it. He doesn't know how much longer he can do it. If an auditor shows up..."

"I think that we have too much waste," Mrs. Corbett interjected. "We need to cut waste." 

"Such as what, Mrs. Corbett?" Jarrod asked patiently.

"Why there are just so many things. The church bulletin, for example, is on two pages and..."

"I don't agree." Jarrod interrupted. "We can try to cut corners. We already are. What we really need is more money in the collection plates."

"We have plenty of members," Ethan added. "The problem is that too many aren't attending Sunday Services. Very few send in their tithe if they aren't at the service. We need to get more people in the Church."

"Where do you think they are, Ethan? Why aren't they coming on Sundays?" Jarrod asked.

"I think a lot of them have one spouse as members and the other belonging to other churches. Other denominations allow more leeway in their teachings. I think that there's some slippage to the Presbyterians," he answered.

"I know why." Hazel Ferguson offered. "A lot of the members are farmers. It's easy to put church aside after you've been up at five in the morning, milking and doing other things. If they don't feel a real need, they skip a few times, and then soon they skip more times than they come."

Hazel's observations made a lot of sense. The other four nodded in agreement.

"We've got to let people know where we stand financially." Jarrod proclaimed. "We have to get them to give more, even if they can't attend." 

"That won't be easy. I won't beg for money from the pulpit," Ethan stated.

"If you don't we'll be breaking up the pulpit for firewood," Jarrod warned. Ethan hung his head.

"I know what brings them in," Howard Jones told them. "Scandal. Remember when the Mayor who preceded Jarrod ran off with the Public Health Nurse? The church was packed. Everyone wanted to let God know that they had nothing to do with it."

"Well, we have no scandal to help us right now," Jarrod quipped.

"There is always scandal," Ethan brooded darkly. "It usually gets covered up, but it's always there waiting to be found out."

The Reverend's admonishment silenced the assemblage. Jarrod recovered.

"Let's do a letter campaign and personal visits to get the collections up," he said. 

The Board stayed until ten, their plan worked out. They prayed to God to send them money.

*********************** 

Classes were over on Friday afternoon and James was closing out his first week on his new job. Becky Chandler turned in her tutoring form to him after class, as had two other students, so James had three tutoring clients. He was glad for the extra income. It would help him pay off his brother for the car. He hoped to move to a nicer apartment, away from the prying Mrs. Wilkinson, and by nexus, from daughter, Doris. 

James sat in the Math Office at his desk, correcting homework papers. He was half-way through the stack and he wasn't encouraged by what he saw. He reluctantly admitted to himself that it would be a struggle to get many of the juniors and seniors through Trigonometry. He would do what he could. He would inform Nathan of the need to lay better groundwork with the freshmen and sophomores if progress on the State Test would ever be realistic. He was all alone in the office. The other Math teachers were long departed, or socializing in the teachers' lounge.

"I knew that I would find you in here," a voice behind him broke his concentration. James spun around in his office chair to find the speaker Vicki Morgan standing over him. "I looked in the lounge first. I should have known better."

"Hi!" greeted James. "I didn't hear you come in."

"I have to be very quiet," Vicki pointed out with a note of sarcasm. "Nathan might see me." She said, reminding JKames of the flirting session at the Labor Day barbecue.

"I was just correcting some papers," James explained.

"Oh yes, you're the homework man," she said, continuing her sarcastic tone. "Everyone is talking about how you love to give homework. I even hear it in the English Department."

"It's for their own good," James answered defensively. 

"It's not from the students that I hear it. Their attention span was spent after the first day," she corrected. "It's from the teachers. They're afraid that they'll have to start giving homework assignments, too."

"And what is the attention span of the teachers?" James asked derisively.

"Unfortunately, a lot longer than the students," Vicki answered truthfully.

"The students need repetition to master the principles of..." 

"The teachers understand all that. They just don't want the extra workload," Vicki interrupted. "You don't have to defend yourself. It makes no difference to me."

She paused and James did the same. Her answer satisfied him, at least as far as she had the power to do so.

"That's not the reason that I was looking for you," she continued. "I wanted to see if you're going to the football game tonight."

"Hadn't thought about it," James answered.

"Why don't you?" Vicki encouraged. "The game's against Dansville. Afterward, some of the teachers are going to meet at Shorty's for a few drinks. It'll be fun."

"Shorty's?" James asked.

"It's a bar down on the State Road. C'mon—it will help your image." 

"Sounds like a good idea," James agreed. 

"You'll find a group of us the stands at the game. It starts at seven. We'll head to Shorty's from there. 

James put away his papers. He decided to head to his apartment and grab a shower and a sandwich before the game. ******** 

The weather was nice that evening. As the sun started setting it was just cool enough for a light sweater, but not much else. When James arrived at the game he searched for the section in the stands with the teachers. The teams were going through their final warm-ups so he hoped to get into the stands before they played the National Anthem. 

"James—over here! Come sit with us." It was a familiar voice, but not Vicki's. He looked around. "James—over here!" He finally saw Abby in the middle of a section. Her friendly demeanor surprised him. After the session at her house on Wednesday night, he was certain that she would never speak to him again. He gave a sudden start when he saw Bubba sitting next to her. His first inclination was to beg off and find Vicki's group. Then he caught sight of Nathan sitting three rows above them. He headed up to where they were sitting. He waved at Nathan who nodded back approvingly.

"Sit right here, James." Abby slid over a little to make room so that she would be between James and her husband. 

"Hey, James. Nice to see you!" Bubba cried as he thrust his meaty forearm across his wife's chest to shake hands. "I just got in from Texas; thought that we'd take in the game. The team is supposed to be pretty good this year."




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 03



"I told Bubba how you helped me with the washing machine," Abby interjected. The hairs on the back of James' neck stood up. This scene was becoming too complicated for James to figure out.

"Hey, thanks for doing that," Bubba said. "I hope that it didn't take you too far out of your way."

"He wouldn't even take a glass of lemonade in payment!" Abby frowned in mock frustration. "I don't blame him. You should' a offered him a beer," Bubba commiserated.

"I was invited to go to a place named Shorty's for drinks after the game," James said, eager to change the subject.

"Great place!" Bubba assured him. "You'll find it on the State Road, next to the motel with the truck turnaround. The same guy owns both places. A lot of truckers stop there when they're up this way."

James nodded, grateful for the directions.

"They play a lot of Country Music there," Bubba continued. "Hey, Sugar Plum," he turned to Abby, "wanna go down there for a while and take a few turns around the dance floor?"

"Not tonight, Bubba. You just got home. We have...you know...other plans." Abby said in a soft coquette voice—at least as soft as she could and still be heard above the cheering of the crowd. Bubba laughed and put her harm around her shoulder. He bent down and kissed her on the forehead, and then returned his attention to the game. 

James had been listening to the husband and wife exchange. Abby turned to James and leaned close to him so that she could speak under the crowd noise. "I'll bet that I can get him to have a glass of lemonade with me!" She glanced up at James, straight into his eyes, and passed her tongue over her lips quickly.

At first James tried to force himself to look away, but could not. After a few seconds he did not try, relishing the connection. He burned it into his memory so that he could use it later. As quickly as the episode unfolded, it was over. Abby looked away, withdrawing the contact. 

James knew that she thought that she was denying him, but he knew differently. He had captured her look, burned into his brain. She didn't know that he had made love to her in his apartment, laid with her, felt her around him. She could not know, but it was true. It was a fact in another dimension created and controlled by the mind—his mind. It was a space in which anything could happen, where no one would suffer and all could be forgiven, if forgiveness was in order.

At the end of the game everyone was in good spirits. Bates won. Abby and Bubba were going home to lie together. As he drove to Shorty's Bar, James was thinking of them undressing one another. Bubba would lie naked on the bed waiting. Abby, nude, would slowly descend to lie upon him, painting her softness on his large body. She would be warm. She would make him feel stronger—as strong he certainly was. They would kiss. They would..."

Each time James would approach the rest of the act in his mind's eye he would stop, because he didn't know how to continue. It was so frustrating. He had to be missing the finest portion. His manhood was hard and he was panting. He had to calm down before going inside the bar, and it was just up ahead. He tucked away his inner vision for the moment. By the time he parked the car his raging body had cooled.

There was a three-piece band playing at Shorty's and couples on the dance floor. James stood just inside the front door and surveyed the tables. He saw a group that looked like teachers in the corner. He looked closer and saw Vicki waving to him and yelling something that he couldn't hear over the band. James weaved his way through the crowd to join them. 

Vicki introduced James to everyone. He already knew a few of them from Nathan's barbecue. It was a convivial group. There were about eight teachers, each with a spouse, except James and Vicki. A few danced to the Country tunes. James thought that a few of the women glanced at him as if they expected that he would ask them to dance, but James did not, although he considered it. He didn't know how to dance, or to ask a woman to do so. He had a lot to learn, he told himself.

Most of the couples limited themselves to two drinks and the number in the corner slowly dwindled. Finally, only he and Vicki remained. The band was on a break.

"Do you like Country Music, James?" Vicki asked. 

"I'll wait until I hear more of it before I decide," James answered tactfully.

"I'll take or leave of it," Vicki said honestly. "It serves the purpose. You can get used to it. It's better than silence."

"What about just sitting down and talking?" James asked.

"That's alright, but it can get old, too. When the conversation runs out you need something to fill the void. If you don't—that's probably what happened between me and my 'ex'." she mused in a resigned tone, and then snapped back cheerfully. "When the band starts again, I'll teach you to dance."

She saw the doubt in James' eyes. "Don't worry, we'll wait for an easy one." She assured him. She leaned closer, like she did at Nathan's barbecue. "Don't worry. Whatever happens, I won't tell a soul." 

The band came out and hooked up their instruments once again. They started playing "Behind Closed Doors", the Charley Rich ballad. "This is a good one," she exclaimed as she rose and took James' hand and led him to the floor.

"Hold me like this," she instructed.

James held her stiffly. Immediately Vicki closed the gap between them and they were swaying to the easy rhythm. James was taller than her by nearly a foot. As they swayed with the music their thighs rubbed together and pressed up against him. James felt her breasts. He was getting an erection, which he tried to fight off, but could not help. He was sure that Vicki could feel it, but she didn't say anything about it. 

"See, it isn't that difficult," she purred. James didn't answer, but kept swaying and allowing Vicki to press herself against him. He found that he liked it. He enjoyed the feeling and the excitement. It was so convenient. There was no one to see him, report back to Nathan, his landlady, Bubba or anyone else.

"I don't live far from here," Vicki whispered in his ear as the song was ending. "Would you like me to show you my apartment?"

For James, it was a big moment. He wanted to go; fear slowed him. If he agreed, it would be the point of no return. If he said no, he could wait for the next opportunity. Vicki tightened her hold around his shoulders and ground her breasts into him anew. She stepped one foot around his so that his thigh nestled between her two.

"Well?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered. He wanted it to be a more suave response but the one-word answer was all that he could muster. It was enough.

************* 

There was no doubt in James' mind that he had passed the point of no return. His virginity had hours, if not minutes of life remaining. Vicki seemed like an appropriate candidate to perform the initiation. She had such an easy, 'not the end of the world' attitude toward sex, or so it seemed to James. Lack of performance didn't seem to faze her, at least when they were dancing. He tried to figure out if he should tell her if was his first time, or if he should pretend that it wasn't. He couldn't decide, except that he would not decide. He hoped that the moment would show him the right way to go. James thought of how close it had been that Abby would have been his first lover and wondered how that would have been. He would have longed to please her, and probably could not have done well. Vicki seemed more a person who could break him in without being disappointed. James could tell that she was more experienced than Abby, her feelings less tender, expectations tempered. If James failed her, she would move on to another. Besides, Vicki was unmarried, as he was. There would be no breaking of rules, except Nathan's, and he need not know. There would be no guilt or remorse. Abby was where she belonged, nude in Bubba's arms. It would be better this way.

James guided his car into the parking lot of a large apartment complex, following Vicki. He was glad for the setting. It was more anonymous. Neither he nor his car would be recognized as it blended into the scores of others. He parked next to Vicki's car and they walked together to her building.

"This looks like a nice place," he said to her, making small talk. 

"It's alright," she answered. "I moved in here after my divorce eight years ago. I didn't want a lawn to mow and plumbing to fix. I don't have a man around enough to take care of that." She turned to James as she inserted her key. "And when I do have a man around I don't want him wasting time mowing the lawn," she added with a smirk.

"I wasn't planning on mowing the lawn." James replied, showing her that he understood the double meaning. There was a limit to his naïveté. 

"Can I get you something?" she asked after they entered the apartment. James shook his head. "Maybe afterward," she conceded. She opened her arms and James took the cue to embrace her. Vicki tilted her head upward and opened her lips slightly.

This presented James with a dilemma. He had never a kissed a woman, in a sexual way. He had not even done so on the few dates that he had in high school. He hadn't anticipated that his inexperience would be apparent to soon in the encounter. He had to try, at least, so he bent his head down and pressed his lips against hers. He depended on her take the lead.

Vicki relaxed into the kiss and opened her lips a little wider. James responded, finding it easier than he thought it would be. Vicki snaked out her tongue, searching for his. James was startled at first; he tensed and pulled away slightly, but then returned to the pleasant task. They continued for about a minute before Vicki pulled away, but held the embrace.

"Mmmm!" she purred. "You're a good kisser." She smiled up at him. James found solace in the flattery; deep-down he realized that Vicki's comments were no more than that. "You're a lot taller than me. It's a little inconvenient," she observed. "Why don't we go into the bedroom where we can lie down?" 

She didn't wait for James to answer. She took his hand gently in hers and led him through the living room to her bedroom. When they arrived she released him and turned down the bed covers. Vicki turned back to him and kicked off her shoes. James followed suit and waited for the next move. Vicki stood motionless, inflicting a sweet torture, making him grope for the initiative. He couldn't find it. "You're a shy fellow!" she whispered seductively. "I like that!"

James heart was pumping hard. His erection strained against his clothes. He stripped off his sweater, and then stood still, afraid to go on. Vicki's eyes pierced him, searching.

"Vicki, I need to tell you something," uttered James, trembling. He paused, hoping for an epiphany of the right words. Vicki's eyebrows furled in anticipation of what he had to say. He had to just say it. 

"This is my first time doing this. I've never done this before. I'm sorry," he blurted out, still shaking.

Vicki's face spread into a broad smile and she looked up at him sympathetically. "Why, I knew that," she consoled him. "It's alright. That's part of what I'm looking forward to—to be your first."

"How—how did you know?" James suspected Abby told her, but refused to believe it.

"I knew it since Nathan's party when I tried to rest my breast against your arm." She informed him. "You must have jumped ten feet," she giggled a little. "I bet you wouldn't do that right now." she said in a low voice as she pressed up against him. James nervously shook his head.

"Well, you'll get to do a lot more than that in just a little bit." she said in a sing-song voice. "Now, let me help you with these clothes." Vicki started unbuttoning his shirt. James started to lift her sweater.

"No, just let me take care of you this first time. Let me take care of everything," she ordered in a gentle voice.

Vicki finished with his shirt and he allowed her to push it off his shoulders. The air felt cold on the bare skin of his chest. Vicki let her hands roam all over it. She did it softly at first, and then pressed harder, testing the tone of his torso.

"Nice muscles," she purred, then clasped her lips around his left nipple, and stroked it with her tongue. She finished with a gentle bite. It was sensuality James had never known. An electric current seemed to pass from his nipple to his penis. His breathing became irregular and shallow. "You'd like to do that to mine, wouldn't you?" she queried in a husky voice. "Soon, I'll insist on it." The thought of it increased his excitement. 

Vicki turned to James trousers. She unbuckled the belt and released the waistband. She stripped them down, slacks and underwear together in one motion. She carefully slid the waistband over his erection. James was naked before her. She clasped a warm hand gently around his manhood. Some viscous fluid had leaked from James and was on her hand. She licked it off. "Nice!" she slowly said and raised her eyes up at him. She lowered her hand and cupped his scrotum. James gasped and struggled not to ejaculate.

Vicki nudged James backward slightly, his cue to lie on the bed, which he did. He quickly dispensed with his socks and watch. Vicki stood at the foot of the bed. They had not turned on the bedroom lamp. The only light was coming from the hallway. Vicki lit a candle on her dresser and stepped out to turn off the outer light. 

"Now it's my turn to lose these clothes." She raised her sweater, exposing the skin of her midriff. She paused a second, and then removed it. She had large breasts, encased in a lace bra. James drank in the sight of them. In the flickering of the candlelight he tried to make out the details—the nipples if he could. It wasn't possible. His eyes could only make out two large promises. 

Vicki shed her slacks and set them on a chair nearby. She had on lace panties that matched her bra. They were violet and contrasted with her fair skin and hair. 

"See," she said, "I wore these just for you."

Vicki was shorter that average, but she was not slender and petite. Her breasts were set on a frame to match. She was not fat, maybe one or two extra pounds in the middle. Her thighs were short and muscular, but the skin was smooth and sleek. She stepped slowly and silently from the head of the bed to sit next to where James waited anticipating.

She reached over and stroked him once again. James was leaking copiously, more each minute. She licked a drop from her finger, then reached again and lightly stroked his sack with the pads of her fingers. James gasped at the pleasure, and struggled to hold back. 

"You're really excited, aren't you?" Her question was more an acknowledgement. "You might go off like a rocket before we get to the good part." James quickly nodded in agreement. "I know how to take care of that.". She bent forward and kissed him. "Help me off with my bra." she commanded. James reached behind her and unclasped it. He took the shoulder straps in his fingers. Vicki rose back up; the bra stayed behind, still in James' hands.

Her breasts, now free, took on a natural shape. They rested comfortably on her chest, far more beautiful, in James estimation, than as prisoners in their harness. He dropped the bra on the floor and reached up to take hold of them. Vicki leaned forward a little to help him, and that enabled her breast to swing a little away from her torso. They were soft, but with firmness underneath. He rubbed his thumbs over the nipples and he felt their hardness. It was a pleasure to feel them. Vicki closed her eyes and tilted her head back, her breath quickened. James felt satisfaction at returning pleasure to her.

Suddenly, Vicki opened her eyes and straightened up.

"We'll do more of that later. First we have to get some relief for you." All at once she straddled James, sitting atop him. James felt his hardness pressing into the lace of Vicki's panties. The barrier confused him. Before he could ask she eased herself down his body, sliding her warm skin and breasts over him. When her breasts passed over his throbbing penis, he nearly exploded. Vicki moved on, lower. Finally she stopped so that her face was over his groin. She slid her hands under his flanks.  

"This will take the pressure off. It will help you later."

She lowered her lips to the crown of his penis, sucking gently. James gasped again, and tensed his buttocks muscles to raise himself up higher. He had never known such pleasure. Vicki continued, moving her head around slightly to make contact with each nerve. She flicked out her tongue to tease more. James knew that he was losing control. 

"Just let it come. Don't fight it and don't worry about a thing," she instructed as she lifted off him for a second. With that she opened her mouth wide and swallowed him completely. When he hit the back of her throat she started a gulping motion. James released himself and sent his seed hurtling down her throat. He issued out a loud moan as he did so. He pulsed a half-dozen times. Vicki kept him inside her mouth until he softened and she had taken all that he had to give at the moment. 

"Wasn't that fun?" she lilted as she climbed up to lay beside him. James was still panting, unable to speak. It didn't matter—Vicki knew the answer.

"We'll just relax a while until you recover."

"Vicki, that was ..." he started, but she placed a finger over his lips to silence him.

"Did you know that you're my first virgin?" she asked, propped on her elbow with her breasts draped on his chest. "I just knew at Nathan's party that we would get together one day. When Nathan chased me off, I thought that someone else would have you ahead of me. This all worked out so well."

James was lost for words. He softly caressed her breast as it lay on him. Vicki leaned forward and kissed him on his lips. It was a harder than their first kiss—more urgent. She thrust her tongue into his mouth and he tasted himself on her. It was hard to get used to at first, but Vicki wasn't ready to release him so he decided to get used to it. It was a small price to pay. James enjoyed the skin to skin contact that he had never felt before, her weight on top of him and the feeling of her small movements. 

Vicki rolled to her back. James shifted to lie aside her, waiting for instruction. 

"Suck on my nipples like I did on yours when we first came in." she whispered. James complied. He laved first one, then the other. He rested his head on her chest so that he could hold them. He tried different things and when she mewed her pleasure, he knew that he had done well. "Just keep doing that for a little while." she panted as he hit a combination of pressure and movement that she liked. She arched her back to deepen the contact. James enjoyed doing it, and recorded each item for future use.

After a while James let his free hand roam over her torso and thighs. The insides of her legs were soft and fleshy. He knew that he would be between them in due course. He just let his fingertips enjoy the feel of them. He sensed that Vicki liked it, too. 

"Help me off with my panties," she requested. James released her breast and knelt on the bed, straddling her. She raised her hips and James slid them off. An aroma escaped that James had never experienced, but he liked the scent and knew it was good. He lay back down beside her. 

"Just touch me gently down there," Vicki said. "Put a finger inside me." James complied. He found Vicki drenched in her own fluids. She bucked her hips up as his finger entered her. James moved his digit inside her, and then closed his palm over her hair-covered mound. "You learn fast, James," she panted at him. It gave him confidence.

"Put yourself between my legs." Vicki ordered after James had worked on her for a while. He was hard again, perhaps more so than before Vicki had worked her oral magic on him. As he positioned himself, Vicki bent her knees and spread her thighs open. James looked down at her in the candlelight. First he scanned her wet sex, then her wondrous breasts now laying flat against her chest. Finally he gazed at her face, eyes open and eager, her arms reaching upward in invitation. James sank down into them. He felt the heat from her body again. It was nice. He felt his manhood pressing somewhere against her, but couldn't find her opening.




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 04



Copyright 2006, 2007

Chapter 4—Suspicion

By the time that James returned from Vicki's apartment it was nearly noon. He drove into the driveway and bounded quickly from his car to the stairway. He ran up, skipping steps. He was sure that Mrs. Wilkinson was nearby lurking and he had no wish to answer her questions about where he'd been all night. 

He had already showered with Vicki; he was more used to an early morning run. He liked the effect of the cool morning air in his lungs and on his face as he made ready for the day ahead. He decided to change into his running clothes and go for a run just the same. It would clear his head—and a lot of clearing there was to do. After that, he would shower again, fix some lunch and correct the rest of the homework papers. Then he would be ready to go out and buy some wine and head over to Vicki's for dinner.

James usually did his stretching in the yard before starting out to run. He decided to stay inside his apartment, the better to avoid Mrs. Wilkinson's interrogation. When he finished stretching out he bounded down the stairs and out the driveway. As he left the big house behind him he heard a door slam. He dared not look back. If she called out to him he would pretend not to hear; but she did not.

As he settled into his pace he looked around. He saw the neighborhood differently than he had when he was by himself in the morning. Then, it resembled a ghost town, save a passing car or two. Approaching high noon, it was alive. Children played and rode their bicycles. Mothers called them in for lunch. A man he did not know was trimming his hedge and stopped working to wave at James as he trotted past his house. James waved back. It felt natural to do it—he did it without thinking. He realized that if he had thought it over he would not have done so. He was glad that he did. 

"All the world loves a lover," he quipped the cliché to himself and shook his head trying to understand the metamorphosis. Could his encounter with Vicki have changed him this much? He doubted it. It was just the time of day. Whatever the reason, he enjoyed feeling good.

"Ahh, Vicki!" he reminded himself of his newly found lover. She warned him about love. He would have to remember that. Sex was not love. It could accompany love, or stand by itself. He had learned that much. He would have to, at least, be friends with her. At least, he could like her. He admired her matter-of-fact casting off of hypocrisy. She disdained the coquette's pretense. She wanted sex; she gave and took it as it pleased her. What was wrong with that? 

"I've finally done it," he congratulated and wondered at himself. He had sex for the first time, indulged in the pleasures of the flesh and felt no remorse. Both parties had been willing; pleasure was had by all. By all that he had ever been taught or believed, he should feel guilty. He was not so removed from his priestly vows to feel nothing. Try as he might, he could not feel guilt, or accept the presence of a stain on his soul. If he had done it while still under Holy Orders, or gained access to her body through deception or other evil trick, it would have been different. But he hadn't, and his logic allowed no room for false contrition. Perhaps, he pondered, that trait was his undoing as a priest.

*********** 

As James was nearing the end of his run he saw Mrs. Wilkinson standing on her porch, undoubtedly waiting to intercept him. There would be no escape. He halted at the end of the long driveway as he always did, and then walked slowly toward the house, hands on hips to cool his muscles down.

"Mr. O'Toole, you certainly enjoy running!" the old woman called to him as she stepped off the porch to intercept him.

"It keeps me fit, Mrs. Wilkinson," he called back between heaving breaths. He kept on walking. 

"You usually run much earlier. I hear you go out, you know."

"I'm sorry. I'll try to be quieter."

"Of course you weren't here this morning." 

"She got to the point quickly," James said to himself. His guard was up.

"No, I wasn't." He kept on walking.

"Of course, you're a single man. You're entitled," she allowed. "You certainly move fast. You just moved to town." Her lips turned up in a sneer and she cackled like one of Macbeth's witches. At least, it seemed so to James. Nevertheless, he stopped walking and let her continue.

"I wouldn't have an objection if you brought her up to your room." James didn't answer. "I don't mean to pry. Do you think that it would be anyone that I might know?"

"You are prying!" James thought silently. "I don't think so," he said out loud.

"I do get worried when my tenants don't come in at night,." she tried the motherly approach.

"Don't worry about me. It was really a quiet night. It was just with some friends after the football game," he replied.

Owww! A big mistake! Now she had a clue that he had been with someone connected with the school. Doris would know within minutes, he was sure. 

The old woman started nodding that she understood. She seemed to lose interest in further questions. James knew he had slipped and needed to escape before any more damage could be inflicted.

"I've got to go, Mrs. Wilkinson. I've got some papers to correct," He waved and loped off to his private stairway. She didn't object and turned to back inside.

************* 

James arrived at Vicki's apartment just before seven. As she opened the door he saw she had already started preparing dinner. She took the bottle of wine from him and opened it right away, pouring each a glass. 

"To a fun evening!" she lifted a toast, smiling broadly. James followed suit and they drank down about half the glass.

"Why don't you go and pick out some music while I finish up a few things in the kitchen," she said and kissed him quickly on the cheek. "Pick out whatever you like. I have something of everything." 

James sorted through the CD's and found he had no idea about any kind of music. He just selected the one on top and bent to the task of figuring out the CD player. Country music started pouring out of the speakers.

"So you like Country Music, after all?" she exclaimed in surprise. "I wouldn't have guessed that." 

"I didn't have any idea, so I played the one on top," James admitted. 

Vicki emerged from the kitchen and stepped close to James. "Honesty! I like that in a man!" she whispered as she rubbed yourself on him. She stood on her toes and kissed him again. This time it was more sensuous and she slipped her tongue between his lips. James embraced her and kissed back. They held it for nearly a minute.

"Whew!" she gasped as she stepped away from him. "We better slow down, or we'll never have dinner." She let out a little giggle, signaling what might be for dessert. "Can you just watch that sauce simmering on the stove while I go freshen up a little? Give it a little stir every now and then." She turned toward her bedroom, walking with an exaggerated sway to her round hips. Before she disappeared behind the door she looked over her shoulder and winked at him. 

James poured himself another glass of wine and stirred the sauce as ordered. At first, he was patient waiting for her to return. After a few minutes he was patient no longer and wondered what could keep her in the bedroom so long. 

"Vicki, do you want me to turn down the heat on this sauce? It's thickening up," he yelled, hoping that she would come running to save her sauce.

To his surprise she remained in hiding and did not answer. At least, she did so for about another minute. 

"Turn down the heat on what?" She posed provocatively as the bedroom door creaked open. "Did you say that you were thickening up?" She sauntered slowly toward him and James took in what he saw, for it was a sight created just for him. 

She had discarded her everyday clothes. She wore a negligee of black satin. There were spaghetti straps at the shoulders that held up a bodice of lace that James could almost see through. The gown was floor length. Her ample breasts spilled over the low-cut top.

Vicki lit the candles on the table and turned out the lights. 

"I'll never be able to concentrate on dinner if you wear that," James warned.

"Then you want me to change back?" she teased.

"I didn't say that!" 

Then you like it?" she asked.

"Yes. I like it. I like the way you look in it."

"Well we are going to eat dinner," she admonished. "I spent a long time making this meal—and you're going to need your strength," she teased. She twirled slowly around, so that James could fully appreciate what she had put on for him. "There's a little peignoir that goes with it, but I decided to leave that behind so that you could think about what you might remember is underneath this." 

Vicki stepped to the CD player and changed the music—"Claire de Lune" by Debussy. James gave her a surprised look.

"I like variety," she explained. She stepped about the room turning off the lights, and then lit the candles on the dinner table. She sat at the head of the table, James at her right. 

"Variety in music?" James asked.

"Right," she agreed. "And in other things, too." Her answer made James feel a chill of insecurity. He couldn't be sure if she had intended her comment that way. He reasoned that he no choice but to accept it.

"This is very good!" James complimented her as he took a forkful of veal. 

"I love to cook for my friends," she answered.

"Then, we are friends," James declared.

"If you want to be," Vicki replied. "But you know what I told you last night."

"I remember," James assured her. 

"Then, being friends is enough?" she tested him. He nodded. 

"Well we'll get along just fine, then." Vicki declared, her tone suddenly brightening. "What else do you remember about last night?" she leaned forward with a teasing smirk.

"I just remember some drinks at Shorty's Bar. I must have had a few too many. It's all a blank after that, I'm afraid." James teased back. 

Vicki gasped in mock dismay. "I better change back into something more practical in that case. I was assuming that there was more intimacy between us."

"Just kidding!" James assured her. "I remember everything. It would be impossible to forget a minute."

"Awwww—too bad," Vicki kept up the tease. "I was thinking I would do it all over again."

"Let me think..." James was short one comeback in the friendly battle of repartee. He took a forkful of food. They ate for a few minutes saying nothing. Vicki took a sip of wine, and then broke the silence.

"How does it feel not to be a virgin anymore?" she asked, more serious.

"No regrets," James answered. "I had a good teacher."

"I never thought that I would ever have a chance to do it with a virgin." Vicki said wistfully, ignoring his compliment. "Especially at my age. I mean...I...would never seduce a boy just to say that I'd done it. I could if I wanted to. I teach them every day. I could teach them a lot more than English. I could bed one of those hormone monsters just like that," she said, snapping her fingers. "But I won't. I wouldn't want to be guilty of it."

James was unsure if Vicki was talking to him or out loud to herself. "Guilty of what?" he asked.

"Of making them believe that life is just that easy," she answered. "To let them think it for a while, and then toss them aside, which I would do. I've been on the other end. The feeling never goes away." 

"Is that what's going to happen to me?" James replied.

"I don't know, James," she said, her voice softening. "Not tonight, anyway."

"You were the perfect virgin," she went on. "You're old enough to know better. If you don't, I am not to blame."

"I have no guilt, either." James protested loudly and with great conviction. "I can't be blamed for having the feelings of a man. I have had opportunities, but turned them down. I was a bystander, waiting for the right moment for action, or avoiding it to escape blame. Sometimes, like last night, I can see that I have waited long enough. Other times, I can feel that life is meant for waiting."

"You've told me a lot, just now," Vicki replied. "That's an act of love—and I warned you about that. Let's just not worry about it and enjoy ourselves."

"I'm sorry," James hung his head. "I didn't mean to. I've been cooped up in that apartment too long."

"I think that you forgot that I wore this negligee just for you." she piped up, trying to brighten the mood.

James caught the hint. "I almost did forget, and I'm even sorrier about that. But I'm remembering fast!"

"That's the spirit!" she said joyfully.

"You sound like Nathan," he admonished. The comment made Vicki throw her head back in laughter. James laughed with her. 

They finished their dinner. James complimented her on the food again, and then offered to clear the dishes.

"Leave them until later," she ordered. "I made a dessert. I'll get some for you if you like, but I'm a little too full right now." James agreed that he was, too.

"It will be nice to have later. For now, let's go listen to some music on the sofa. What would you like to hear?"

"Play the same one again, Vicki," James suggested. "It was nice."

Vicki pressed the button on the player and the soothing notes filled the air again. James sat on the sofa in the corner. Vicki sat sideways, her back pressed up against his chest. She kicked off her slippers and rested her legs out on the sofa. James held her around the ribcage, just under the breasts.

They were quiet for a few minutes, listening to Debussy and enjoying the feeling of their bodies resting on one another.

"I like this music," he whispered. "It's soothing."

"I would call it sensuous," she answered. 

James took the spaghetti straps of the negligee and pushed them down Vicki's shoulders. She eased forward slightly in cooperation so that he could free her arms from them. He pushed the bodice of the gown down to her waist, baring her breasts. Vicki leaned back against him and relaxed.

"Mmmm" she moaned as James cupped them in his hands. He stroked his thumbs across the nipples and felt them begin to harden. It was an alternate soft stroking of the flesh and caress of the nipples. He gauged her reaction to find what she liked best. 

"Don't stop doing that for at least an hour." she murmured. James enjoyed it. The breasts felt good to the touch. He couldn't understand why. It was just soft flesh. One should grow tired of it. Perhaps it was because it was all so new, or, maybe because it was a personal part of her that she had bared to him. For sure, if she didn't take so much pleasure from his ministrations, it wouldn't have been as good.

They stayed like that, wordless, until the music came to an end. Vicki slowly rose up from the sofa, turned and kissed him lightly. Before she drew her face away from his she whispered, "Let's go into my bedroom." Then she stood up, not bothering to hoist up her straps, just holding the bodice lightly to keep it from falling.

She led the way, stopping to pick up the burning half-spent candle on the dinner table. James followed until she stopped at the side of the bed. She set the candle on the dresser, and then slowly turned to face him. She released the fabric from her fingers; the negligee fell to the floor. She had already turned down the bed. She lay down in the center looking up at him.

James was looking at Vicki, too. In the flickering light she lay calm and motionless, save her tongue slowly moistening her lips. There were shadows that suggested and James wanted to explore inside them. Her breasts, that he had come to know so well, began to heave up and down on her chest as her breathing deepened. She had bent up her knees and spread her legs. In between was one of the areas of shadows. An aroma emitted from her that mixed with the burning wax of the candle.

"Strip for me." she commanded in a husky, low voice. "...like I did for you last night."

James set his watch on the dresser and quickly discarded his shoes and socks. He undid the shirt buttons one by one. He finally let it slide off his arms. He peeled his undershirt away quickly. The pants were next. When they were gone, he paused.

"All the way," she husked.

He lifted the waistband of his underwear over his erection and felt her eyes all over him as the last of his clothing puddle around his ankles.

"Let me see you stroke it," she directed. "Nice and slow." 

After he had done so for about a minute she raised her arms to him. 

"Come to me now," she whispered. "Put yourself inside me right away. Don't wait." 

James climbed onto the bed between her open thighs. He stretched out onto his elbows and she locked her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his. He probed to find her opening, hoping that he wouldn't need his hands to guide it home. After a few seconds he found it; she was quite wet. She took in a deep breath as she felt him touch her. James pushed in and she thrust up her hips to meet him as she exhaled. He was fully inside her. 

Being inside Vicki had quickly become a familiar feeling to James, but he was not tired of it. A rhythm began as they read each other's movements. It was a faster pace than James had been introduced to the night before. He pushed into her and pleasure rippled through him, but that was not all. The feeling of Vicki pushing back gave a new dimension. At the same time, it was more difficult to hold back, to prolong the session, which he wanted to do. He found it impossible to release the abandon of the dance although he felt his climax boiling to the surface. They continued until James poured himself out inside her, groaning in pleasure as he released. After a while, they ate some of the dessert that Vicki made, as they recovered in her bed. They had sex again before drifting off to sleep. 

********* 

The next morning Vicki and James sat at the table together eating breakfast. "Two nights in a row!" James mused. "This will drive my landlady crazy."

"I take it you have a nosy landlady." Vicki said. "Anyone that I know?" James told her. 

"I know her daughter, Doris, better. We don't talk much anymore. Actually, I believe that she's in your department, James."

"Ethel gave me the third degree already when I got home yesterday. She tried to find out who I was with, but I wouldn't tell her."

"I don't care if you do or not," Vicki answered. "I know that if you do tell her she won't be satisfied, and I guarantee that she'll call Doris and report it to her just as fast as she can pick up the phone and get a dial tone." 

"I'm not going to tell her anything," James proclaimed. "I don't care what Doris thinks, but I know that it's a short space between her finding out and Nathan knowing it, too. She resents my teaching methods and would use whatever she knows against me." 

"Don't you pay no never-mind to Nathan. I can handle him. Nathan and I go way back. We...understand one another."

"I'm still not saying anything to Ethel," James stated with conviction. 

"Whatever you say," Vicki shrugged.

"No never mind?" James chided playfully, changing the subject. "Is that an English teacher who just said that?" 

"I grew up in the country—guilty as charged!" Vicki said, laughing.

************ 

Becky Chandler walked into the house at fifteen minutes before six. Her mother was in the kitchen preparing dinner. Her father was in the living room reading the newspaper.

"Why are you so late, Becky?" the Reverend asked.

"Cheerleader practice," Becky answered as she set her books on a small table in the foyer.

"But Cheerleader practice ends at four-thirty," her father countered. "Where did you go after that?"

"Really, father!" she gasped in exasperation. "I'm eighteen years old! Do I have to account for every minute?"

"If I ask you to—yes. I don't care how old you are. You still live in my house! If you have nothing to hide, you wouldn't sound so suspicious!" her father retorted. "Now tell me—where were you?"




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 04



"I was at my math tutor's office. I went in for help with my homework."

"Not likely!" roared the Reverend. "The teachers are all gone by that time."

"Not Mr. O'Toole!" Becky shot back. "He said that he would wait in the Math office until after Cheerleader practice. He's nice like that."

"And who is this 'Mr. O'Toole'. I've never heard of him." the Reverend's voice dripped with mistrust.

Becky rolled her eyes and answered. "He's my Math teacher. You signed my slip for tutoring. Don't you remember?" 

"Don't use that tone with me, Becky, and don't look at the ceiling when I ask you a question!" the Reverend raised his voice again. Becky ran to the table where she had left her books. She returned with an opened spiral notebook. "Look, here's my homework. He even corrected it already. That's what we were doing!" She thrust the notebook into her father's hands and he examined it with the marks in red pencil.

"This proves nothing. It could have been earlier." he insisted, but his voice had mellowed. "I've never heard of this Mr. O'Toole."

"He's new this year. He's better than the other teachers." Becky sensed that she had won this round. 

"Well, whatever's true, it's clear that you're doing your homework. I'm glad to see it. Keep it up." he tried to close the conversation with a conciliatory remark.

"Everything I said is true!" the frustrated girl shouted, protecting her winnings. She grabbed the notebook from her father and stomped up the stairs. 

"And wash off that lipstick before you come down for dinner!" he yelled after her. 

"Ohhh!" she screamed at the top of the stairs and then slammed her door behind her. 

The Reverend slowly shook his head, wondering why he couldn't understand his daughter. In the near stalemate, the daughter had narrowly won on points because she had brought her homework notebook home with her. 

********** 

Becky was subdued at dinner; she had wiped away her lipstick. "I have to go to school tonight," she announced as the dinner concluded. "We're having a meeting of the Homecoming Committee."

Her father glared at her, perhaps trying to intimidate, maybe to fathom something. 

"My homework is all done," she blurted.

"Help your mother with the dishes first," her father ordered. 

"Of course! Thank you, father," she said, suddenly cheerful. She jumped up, taking plates to the kitchen with her. 

"Be home by nine," The Reverend called out as she was half-way out the door. 

"The meeting won't be over until nine," she protested. "The girls talked about maybe getting a milkshake afterward." 

"Alright—ten—but no later!" conceded her father. He thought he might atone for his heavy-handedness before dinner.

"Thank you, I will!" she yelled, slamming the door behind her. 

Several minutes later two teens strolled hand-in-hand down the Main Street of the Village. They stopped in front of the First Baptist Church.

"Becky, are you sure that we won't get caught?" the youth whispered.

"Stop whispering, Brad," she chided. "I told you. They had to lay off the night custodian to save money. Nothing is scheduled for tonight. Now just walk up the steps like you belong here and no one will notice." 

They walked up the stone steps to the heavy front door. Becky took a key out of her jeans pocket and turned the lock.

"Where did you get the key?" the youth asked.

"I stole it from my father's desk this morning."

They slipped inside the heavy oak door and Becky locked it behind them. "We can't turn on any lights until we get downstairs." she warned. Brad stopped to look into the darkened sanctuary. "Not in there!" she scolded. "Follow me!"

The two descended the stairs to the basement, feeling their way in the darkness. They passed a number of doors in silence. Finally, Becky opened one and entered a room and turned on the lights.

"This is a room that brides use to get ready and wait until it's time to start the wedding." Becky explained. It was a comfortable room with carpeting and furniture. There was a dressing table with a mirror. Against the wall was a sofa.

"We can be alone in here," Becky smiled at her quarterback-boyfriend. "My father thinks that I'm at the Homecoming Committee meeting. I have to be home by ten."

Brad's face widened to a grin. "This is real nice. Why didn't you get us in here before?"

"I just found out where he keeps the spare key—and he made me so mad when I came home from school this afternoon."

"Time's wasting," The impatient young man interrupted her as he pulled her to the sofa. 

Becky lay down; Brad was soon alongside her. They started with kissing. Soon Brad's hands began roaming over her body. Becky felt Brad's erection and his heavy breathing told her of his growing excitement. She enjoyed the effect that she could have on him. She hadn't yet learned the art of raising or lowering it to suit her. Before long, he had her bra unfastened, and his hands fondled her breasts under her tee shirt. It was the limit of his previously earned allowance.

"Becky, take your shirt off so that I can see you." Brad urged, nearly a plea. Becky hesitated. Somehow, the removal of clothing seemed like a big step. "I have to see you, you're so beautiful!" he urged.

His words had the desired effect. Before she could change her mind she quickly sat up, raising the tee shirt over her head and casting it aside. Brad slid the straps of the unfastened bra down her arms. She was bare to the waist. Her not-quite-full breasts draped from her soft shoulders like unripe fruit. Her pink nipples hardened. With her pretty face and golden hair above, she was lovely. 

She searched his expression, longing desperately for approval. Brad reached out a hand and cupped one carefully. He let a thumb pass over the nipple. She let out a soft sigh at the pleasure.

"Oh, my God, Becky!" he gasped.

"Was it worth the wait?" she asked, expectantly. She didn't wait for a reply; she read it in his expression. "You, too!" she whispered, and began to lift his shirt. Brad grasped it and threw it off, exposing his athlete's musculature. Becky embraced him, feeling her breast crush against him, warm skin to warm skin. She pulled him back down atop her.

They went back to kissing. The touch of skin was new and inflaming. It was intimacy never before shared. It was an act of trust in her baring that part of her body which many say measures the desirability of a woman. She had done so and found approval in his touch, his desire for her. It was heady; it was pleasure.

She sank into the intimacy and only gradually felt his hand on her Mound of Venus, caressing her through her jeans. He had done it before, but this was so much better because of the bare skin warming one another. She felt him unbuttoning her jeans. She didn't stop him. It was something new that she allowed him. He drew down the zipper and slipped his hand under her panties.

He was clumsy, at first. "Gently." she softly admonished him. He did as instructed and made his way through the curls in her triangle of pubic hair. It felt much better. She felt his erected manhood pressing at her thigh. She knew that it was she who had made it do that. She considered touching it, but didn't yet have the courage. His fingers sank lower, into her folds. A new pleasure introduced itself to her. Brad was becoming more excited, too. 

Splashes of pleasure washed over her. Soon it wasn't enough. The encasement of her jeans was frustrating the process. Becky raised her hips and struggled to reach a hand down to the waistband. Brad took the hint and helped her push the jeans down to her knees. His hands were freed to do their task more properly. He pushed in a finger where nothing had ever been, save her monthly tampons. At first it was strange, then so good. She rose her hips up more, stretching her mound outward, intensifying the sensation. Something was approaching in the distance. She couldn't understand it completely, but knew that it was good. As she writhed under him, Brad took his cues and learned what pleased her. As his fingers probed her, Becky felt wetness spread to the outer edges of her sex and it made his fingers slide in and out with even more ease. 

She remembered her promises to him. She had told him it would be soon. He had been so patient, accepting little steps of progress. She recalled her anger at her father's mistrust. All of her friends had been enjoying this pleasure, and more, all through the summer. 

"Do you still have that condom in your wallet?" she whispered.

Brad did not answer. He quickly disengaged from her and pulled his wallet from his hip pocket. In another second the blue foil packet was in his hands. 

Becky sat up and pushed her jeans over her feet. The panties quickly followed. She didn't bother with the sneakers. Brad was nude before she was. His engorged penis pointed straight at her. A little clear fluid was leaking from the slit at the tip. It bounced a little as he stood there, panting in anticipation. It had not seemed as large or angry when she felt it pressing her thigh through his jeans or when they slow-danced at the after-game dance. 

Brad fingered the foil packet with indelicate fingers. It wasn't as shiny and crisp-looking as when he had shown it to her as they lay in the grove of trees on that late-August afternoon. It was wrinkled and beaten up after weeks of rough traveling.

"Are you sure that thing is still OK?" she demanded.

"Sure! Sure, it is Becky. Look—touch it if you want to." He ripped the packet open, pulling out the white circle of latex. Becky did touch it. It felt greasy. She rubbed two fingers together.

"It's lubricated," he explained, demonstrating the expert knowledge that he perceived in himself. He placed the circle of latex over the head of his penis and tried to roll down the sleeve. He realized that he had started it backwards. He reversed the condom and rolled it all the way down.

"Turn out the light," she murmured. She searched for that approaching feeling that Brad's fingers had been bringing to her. She couldn't find it anymore. She only thought about the huge penis about to plunge into her, rammed home by the massive body of her boyfriend. The foil packet was less reassuring in its worn condition. She wondered if it would have been better if she had just let Brad's fingers continue to pleasure her and save this last step for another night. 

She had promised him so many times. When she gave him a tie tack on his eighteenth birthday a few weeks earlier she had sensed his disappointment. Her friends were already far more experienced than she was. They were both nude, the condom was installed. If it wasn't going to be that night it would be soon, anyway. It was too late to stop.

"They say that it hurts a little the first time, Becky," Brad said softly to her as the light went out.

She had heard that, too. But, she knew Brad loved her and he would be gentle. As she felt him sink a knee onto the sofa cushion, she spread her legs apart to make a space for him. She raised her arms to embrace him. He climbed atop her, between her legs. She felt him probing with his penis at the juncture of her legs, not quite finding her opening.

"Would you kiss me first?" she pleaded as she took hold of the latex-covered shaft. It was the first time she ever touched him there. She expected a gentle, loving kiss, but he was hungry and impatient. She guided the shaft to her opening. He must have sensed the wetness and the yielding flesh. He immediately thrust forward. She felt herself break; the pain made her gasp. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. She felt his invasion deep inside her. She thought that he would split her in two. She was about to ask him to stay still for a minute, but he was already moving in and out inside her. As the jolt of sudden pain subsided she hoped to start feeling the good part. As she thought that she might feel it starting she felt him jerk. Another spasm followed and a few more of less intensity. She noticed that he was gasping. He rested on top of her, and he slowly calmed back to normal. He withdrew from her, leaving the condom behind, hanging from her opening. She felt it there and quickly pulled it out.

Brad stood up and turned on the lights. He immediately started putting on his clothes. Becky sat nude on the sofa, holding the condom in her fingers. It hung straight down, the receptacle heavy with Brad's semen. 

Put this on the dressing table while I get dressed. We'll dispose of it in the bathroom on the way out." She handed it to him. Brad took it gingerly in his fingers, as though it was foreign to him. Becky quickly dressed.

When she was finished she glanced down at the sofa cushion where she had been laying. Her eyes widened in horror at the wet spot with the pinkish fluid in the center. There was no mistake as to what it was.

"Quick, give me those paper towels on the shelf." She ordered. She blotted at the spot as best she could.

"Don't worry. It will dry by morning." Brad tried to soothe her.

"It's blood. It will stain." she barked back. "It's right in the middle. Everyone will know what it is." She kept blotting, then rubbing. She ran down the hallway to the bathroom to wet one of the towels. She came back and rubbed some more. The spot widened, but she hoped that in time it would dry without a trace. She could not be sure.

"Help me turn the cushions over." she said, but before he could she already had done it.

"They'll never know." Brad reassured her.

Becky glanced around the room to make sure that all was in order. She wrapped the spent condom in the used paper towels and turned out the lights. They groped in the darkness until they reached the bathroom. Becky paused.

"I can't put in the toilet," she deducted. "What if it plugs it up? We'll get rid of it somewhere else."

The two inched their way up the dark stairway and felt their way to the heavy door. Soon they were out on the street, the door locked behind them. No one noticed them walking down the street. Becky felt sore as she walked. Her friends had told her about that, too.

"Don't you ever leave that thing inside me again!" she scolded. "You better hope that none of it leaked out inside me."

"I'm sorry, Becky!" Brad apologized. "I don't think that any leaked out." He tried to sound sorry. Secretly he was congratulating himself. In her scolding was a tacit promise of a 'next time'." 

"We've got to get rid of this stuff," she said, referring to the wad of paper towels and the condom. There was an iron grate in the street for the storm sewer at the corner. She glanced around to be sure that no one was watching, and then squatted down and dropped the evidence in with the litter and refuse below.

If they started for home right away they would be just on time for her curfew. They turned in the direction of Becky's house. 

Brad reached down and found her hand as they walked. He glanced over to her, expecting to find her smiling, as he was.

"Hey, Becky! You're not crying, are you?" 

"No." she replied. "Something blew into my eye. I'll be alright."

****************** 

It was a rainy next morning. Becky had just left for school. The Reverend Chandler thought that she looked subdued and tired. He wondered if he had made a mistake in extending Becky's curfew. She obviously needed more sleep.

The Reverend had much on his mind. His daughter was only one item on his list. He had to start writing his Sunday sermon. He had appointments to visit recalcitrant church members. He had to find out about this new Math teacher at the High School.

It was the second task that he hated the most. Jarrod Morris was so much better at it than he, but he couldn't press too hard because of his position as mayor. In any case, he knew that in many cases it was impossible to send in a pinch-hitter for him, regardless how smooth Jarrod might be. He laced God and Christian Fellowship into the conversation, but no one had a doubt that he was looking money. It felt like selling God.

It was necessary, though. If the church couldn't quite make it through the summer months, the utility bills of a heavy winter would break them. As humiliating as it was to drive over the countryside 'selling God', closing the church would be worse. He wondered how the other churches in town made ends meet. If only he could find a scandal, like Howard Jones suggested. He wondered how large a scandal would be required.

He picked up the newspaper and took a look at the movie listings at the local theater. More times than not, they provided ready targets for a sermon filled with the promise of hell. He made a few notes. He saw one news article that appeared promising. The Episcopalians were ordaining a lesbian bishop somewhere in New England. He wondered if he could somehow equate Episcopalians with Presbyterians. He was certain that he was losing attendance to the Presbyterians. 

He thought that he would get the math teacher business over with before he turned to his sermon. He flipped through his rolodex to find the number for Homer Briggs, School Board Member and congregation member.

Chandler: Hello, Homer. It was good to see you in the congregation on Sunday.

Briggs: That was quite a sermon, Ethan.

Chandler: Some things have to be said, and it's up to me to say them, Homer!

Briggs: Ethan, I got that fund raising letter. I'll send you a check at the end of the week to make up my tithe.

Chandler: That's good, Homer. I'm sure that you will. That's not why I called you. I need something else from you.

Briggs: Of course, Ethan.

Chandler: There's a new teacher in the High School—an outsider, a Mr. O'Toole—what can you tell me about him?

Briggs: O'Toole? Oh, yes, Nathan hired him for the Math Department. He sets a lot of store by him. He hired him away from that Catholic Boys' High School in Rochester.

Chandler: What the ...

Briggs: Now, Ethan. I know how you feel about this, but Nathan says that this fella has a lot of ability. Nathan's just trying to improve the Math Department, now that Ben retired.

Chandler: For God's sake, he's my daughter's tutor!

Briggs: Well, she probably has the best tutor available, Ethan. 

Chandler: She came home late from school. She said that she was with him. 

Briggs: I'm sure that there is nothing to worry about, O'Toole being an ex-priest and all.

Chandler: Ex-priest! I can't believe it! Nathan hired a defrocked priest? 

Briggs: Ethan, I said ex-priest...

Chandler: What's the difference? What did he do? Why is he here?

Briggs: I'm sure that Nathan checked all that very...

Chandler: How can you be so sure? 

Briggs: Because I know Nathan!

Chandler: How do we know that he's not one of those pedophiles? Don't you read the papers? You never know. Usually, it comes out decades later.

Briggs: Ethan, there's no evidence...

Chandler: That's not good enough! I'll find out for myself. The Reverend slammed down the phone and pondered his next move. 

"A defrocked priest!" he mumbled to himself. "This is too much!" The Presbyterians irked him by stealing his congregation away with all their 'happy talk', but he hated Catholics. He despised their gold chalices and secret languages, kneeling before statues and the Pope in Rome. 

He mulled over what he would do about this offence. It had to come out into the open. Then his flock would realize how much they needed him, and his church. They had strayed. This would bring them back! It was what the majesty of the pulpit was designed for, and no one knew how to use it like he did.

********* 

It was lunchtime. James was walked into the Teachers' Lounge carrying a tray with a sandwich plate and a cup of coffee. He set the tray on his desk and went to the mail slots to check for messages.

There were several notices. One was to recruit chaperones for the Ski Club. Another had to do with options for the Employee Savings Plan. He tossed both in the waste basket. The third was a note from Abby.




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 04



"Nathan wants you to attend a meeting in his office at three-thirty this afternoon. Very important!"

James raised his eyebrows when he read the note. He hoped it was not about his weekend fun and games with Vicki. He thought that probably it was. Nathan had been very explicit in his advice, and it had been only three days before he had broken the unwritten law. He didn't know how Nathan would have found out. He had been discreet, as instructed. The only way that he would know would be if Vicki had spilled the beans. That surprised him. His impression was that she was experienced enough to keep these things to herself. Why would she put such a good thing at risk? Of course, there was a possibility that the subject could be something else. Whatever it was, he had just enough time for his scheduled tutoring session with Becky beforehand.

He chuckled to himself, thinking about observing Becky in class during the period just ended. As usual, she sat with her boyfriend, Brad, but the usual dreamy eyes didn't seem to be there. "B.A.D.D." he said out loud to himself, amused at the phrase he had just coined. 'Boyfriend Affection Deficit Disorder'. He hoped that the chill didn't cramp Brad's throwing arm. The team would need it for the game against Wellsville on Saturday afternoon.

He turned his attention to some pamphlets that he had collected. They were for various Bed and Breakfast Inns that were within driving distance from the Town—far enough away to be 'discreet', but close enough to drive to. He thought that he might like to go to one with Vicki on one weekend or another. That is, if the issue with Nathan didn't shut that out. He would have to bide his time to find out exactly what Nathan knew. It wouldn't be long. Then he would have a talk with Vicki. 

************* 

James arrived in the outer office a few minutes late because of his tutoring session with Becky. 

"Go in," Abby told him. "They're waiting for you." 

"They?" he thought to himself. "What could it be?"

As he walked in he saw Ed Cassidy sitting in one chair. Another man, whom he had noticed around the school but did not know, was sitting in another.

"Hello!" Nathan greeted him. "Bring in another chair and we'll get started."

"Sorry to be late. I just finished tutoring a student," James apologized.

"We didn't realize that you were late," Nathan answered, smiling.

"You know Ed Cassidy already," Nathan went on as James and Ed shook hands. "Let me introduce you to Henry Thompson. He's one of the Guidance Counselors." James shook hands with him.

Henry Thompson was average in height, an angular man. James guessed his age at about thirty. He had straight, black hair and dark eyes, high cheekbones and copper-colored skin. He was impeccably polite, but his face bore a stern, even unpleasant expression that puzzled James. From his Guatemala days, James knew right away that he was a Native American. 

It was clear that the meeting was about more than his weekend dalliances with Vicki. He regretted suspecting her of careless disclosure. They all sat down. "Anyone want coffee?" Nathan asked. The three men seated around the desk all shook their heads. "Let's get started, then."

"James, we're here to ask a big favor of you," Nathan started. "I could ask one of the other math teachers, but..." his voice trailed off. "Henry, why don't you lay it out for him?"

The young man took in a big breath before starting. "Before I tell you," he began, "let me assure everyone that I'm not asking this because he's one of my people."

"We know that, Henry. Don't worry," Nathan interrupted. "Henry grew up on the reservation in Salamanca," Nathan informed James. 

"There's a student here—a senior—named Raymond Jacobs. He's a nice kid—poor—father's in prison. His mother is white. He needs help if we can give it."

James nodded. He was intrigued. "Where do I come in?" he asked Henry.

"Raymond is one fine student," Henry went on. "I don't know how he's done it; he's at the top of the class in math and science. He wants to go to Engineering School and some big schools are ready to give him a full ride. Cornell, Carnegie-Mellon, Buffalo are all interested."

"Impressive!" James agreed. "Those are all first rate schools."

"Maybe he should be helping us!" Ed quipped. That brought a chorus of chuckles from the men, even Henry.

"The problem is that one of the schools, Cornell, advised him to get some enrichment in Math so that he'll do well when gets there. It's because of our school's low math rating. If Cornell says this, the others will, too."

"I would have to agree with that," James added.

"The trouble is his family can't afford the tutoring program. They're not making ends meet as it is. The father's in jail—two years for burglary—and the mother has six younger ones to care for. They live in a trailer outside of town."

"We're asking you to tutor him at no charge, James," Nathan summarized. 

"Who's his teacher now?" James asked. 

The three other men looked at one another. "Doris," Nathan said. "She has a section of advanced algebra."

"She won't like this," Ed warned.

"James, she doesn't have the ability to tutor at the level that we're discussing—and she wouldn't without the pay. You're the only one." Nathan looked him in the eye. 

"First, I'll assess his actual skills. That might help him decide which institution to choose," James announced. "Then we'll get into beginning calculus. All of his classmates will have it when he starts at one of those universities."

"That's it?" Henry asked in disbelief. "You're just going to do it—for an Indian?"

"Why not?" James answered, matter-of-factly.

"The times are changing!" Henry exclaimed, shaking his head. "Nathan, I can't believe this!" his somber mood instantly reversed. 

"I knew that he'd do it," Nathan answered. "You need to thank Ed, here, as well. He's okaying it for the union, and he's going to catch hell from Doris and the others."

"Don't worry about it," Ed downplayed the compliment as Henry alternated shaking hands with James and Ed. "There's a catch," Ed interrupted. "You have to do this off school grounds. I need that for cover."

"How about the Public Library?" Nathan asked. 

"Too busy—no private rooms." Henry countered.

"We can do it in my apartment," James offered. "All of my books are there."

"Are you sure?" Nathan asked.

"No problem," James replied. "I can't wait to get started."

"You can right now," Nathan said. "Raymond and his mother are waiting for you in the conference room in the Guidance Department."

************ 

TO BE CONTINUED...

*

Dear Readers,

Thanks for reading; I hope that you're enjoying the story. If you have any comments please send them to me. I'm always interested in your point of view.

Good reading,

AW



The Blameless Bystander Ch. 05



Copyright 2006, 2007

Chapter 5—The Church Speaks

It was a heady feeling that consumed James as he marched up the stairs to his apartment upon his return from school that day. He had already decided to pour himself three fingers of Scotch before making some dinner. It wasn't to make him forget, or to help him think. It was just going to be his private celebration.

Yes, it was a real breakthrough; it was all so perfect. Raymond was a shy, but respectful young man who seemed grateful, eager to start his adventure in Math. James was the Tour Guide and was certain that all would go well. Nathan performed admirably in his director's chair, in James' estimation, making it all possible. Henry Thompson and Ed Cassidy played their supporting roles brilliantly, too. James was the star, the central figure in the real life play. It was Guatemala anew—a second chance. He never thought it would come to him again, especially after he left the Order. He could see now that it was truly his destiny. The occasion deserved a Scotch—or maybe two. It couldn't be more than that. He had papers to correct. He didn't feel like working that evening, but the formula had brought him this far; no reason to jinx it.

He changed his plan a little. He put water on the stove to boil some pasta and started heating some spaghetti sauce in a little pan. He would have his celebration while his dinner cooked. He performed his kitchen chores and then clinked three ice cubes into a glass. He covered them with the whiskey and sat down to enjoy it.

He decided to draw up a plan for Raymond's tutelage after he corrected the homework, which he would do after he ate. For now, he wanted to relax and he couldn't help thinking about how events in his life had led to this moment. If hadn't given up his Holy Orders it would have been impossible. It didn't usually work that way; it proved out that phrase: 'God works in mysterious ways'.

He had no hard feelings toward the Church or the Order. It was just that the priesthood had dried him out. He never really practiced his priestly profession to the fullest. He had always been a teacher with plenty of priests around to perform the rites; the Church had traded the bestowal of Holy Orders for his adherence to vows that bound him to his service. He had become a shepherd without a flock, a missionary to believers. His vows hung from like a coat of chain mail, a protection from without and within.

"No hard feelings—no regrets," he said out loud. Did he say it to himself, or to God? He was not sure. He thought about making contact with the local parish. He hadn't confessed or received communion since he left the Order. That would be complicated, since he had to fit his activities with Vicki into that scenario. If he confessed it, he knew that a condition of absolution would be to cease committing the sin. He would not promise to 'avoid the near occasions of that sin' if he did not mean it. He would not omit it either, throwing little sins to the confessor like bones to a dog. Better to bear this sin than blasphemy. One can lie to oneself, but not to God. 

He thought more about his deeds with Vicki. Perhaps it was no sin—nothing to confess. It was like Nathan's admonition to keep his own business to himself. He would think about this and if he came to believe it he would confess and take communion.

The sound of his pasta water boiling over onto the burner pierced his introspection. He jumped out of the chair to turn down the flame. The water hitting it made the blue flame jump about with flares of yellow flicking out in many directions. It suggested to him that he was steps away from the gates of hell, daring them to open. 

************** 

Ireland is the Land of Saints and Scholars, it is often said. Like many clichés, it is not true. It is, rather, a place inhabited by tormenting, elfin, leprechaun philosophers. They disguise themselves as elder priests and migrate to America to torture their protégés, passing out lyrical dictums with Communion. The younger priests cannot understand, but know well that the cruel riddles are full of undeciphered wisdom. They tear open their souls and stuff the words inside. As they grow old, they pry out the meaning, in hopes that God will be revealed to them. One such Irish priest was Fr. Brendan McNulty, S.J. He was appointed rector at the school where Jamie taught. He had little to do with the operations of the school. Rather, he was in charge of the community of priests who resided there. He was a short, slightly built man with a square jaw and pug nose. His hair was silver; his age known only to him and God, and, of course, the Prefecture Office in New York City. He spoke with the brogue of the auld sod although he had been in America for several decades. James had heard him speak without it on a number of occasions, but the old priest always had the accent ready and used it whenever dispensing grace and truth.

There was intoxicating kindness in his voice. A listener willingly became immersed in it. Resistance to the Word would melt away. Too late, one would feel the hardness of the lesson underneath the velvet cloak until it descended upon the unwary soul. Yet, the disciples would be as grateful as though they had been present at the Sermon on the Mount. It was with the brogue that one warm day last summer he called James to him. 

"Jamie, come here into m' office right away!"

"Yes Father," Jamie answered as he stepped inside. Father Brendan was seated at his desk. The aroma of freshly burned pipe tobacco hung in the air of the small office like incense at High Mass. Indeed, the always-present pipe with the curved stem and large bowl sat in a glass ash tray at the side of the desk. It was the man's lone self-indulgence. A simple crucifix was mounted on the wall behind and above him.

"Close the door and sit, boy," The older man bade, not looking up from the documents that he held. Finally, he peered at Jamie over the top of his glasses. "Are ye sure that ye want to be doin' this. Yer mind's made up, is it?

"Yes, Father. It hasn't changed since we discussed it the last time," Jamie answered.

"Dat bein' th' case, Jamie, yer release papers are here fer ye to sign. Dey're right here in m' hands. I'll just get Fadder Mark to witness. Stay where y'are ."

The old man slowly trod out of the room. He returned after a minute. "He'll be here presently." The two men looked at one another in silence while they waited.

A young priest walked into the office. Father Brendan signed in several places. He turned the papers around and handed them to Jamie. "Sign here...and here and here, right next to where I did." Jamie signed without hesitating. It was anticlimactic. He had waited over six months for the release. The signing was a formality, yet Jamie had kept every vow—he would never break them until released.

Father Mark signed as the witness after Jamie did. "Good luck to you, Jamie. I'll miss you." The two younger men embraced. Father Mark bowed his head and shuffled sadly out of the room.

Jamie started to rise. "Just stay seated where y'are. We're not done yet—not by far!" Father Brendan ordered. Although Jamie was no longer a priest, and no longer under the older man's command, he obeyed him. Father Brendan sat back down. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his middle.

"I suppose ye t'ought dat I would try to talk ye out of it one last time," he said. "Well, I decided not to. Yer not cut out for the life of a priest, not at all. At long last, it's not the life for ye."

"Father, I obeyed every vow. I always did my best," Jamie protested. "There was never a reason to doubt me, except when the secretary at Holy Sacrament Parish accused me..."

"Ah, dat! A very unfortunate thing, dat was. Very sad, indeed, but t'wasn't yer fault, was it now?" Father Brendan interrupted.

"Yes," Jamie agreed. "But as I was saying, I was obedient...."

"Yes, Jamie! I know. Ye never committed any sins," the older man, now agitated, interrupted. He leaned forward, tore his spectacles from the bridge of his nose and pointed his finger at Jamie "But dere's a sin ye haven't yet learned of—the Eighth Deadly Sin. Yer've been committin' it, boy, as long as I've known ye. And 'tis the reason why yer not cut out fer the priesthood."

"Eighth Deadly sin?" Jamie contorted his face in confusion. 

"Aye, the Eighth Deadly Sin!" the old man shouted, pounding the tip of his still pointed finger down on the desk. "Yer been committin' it, boy, and not even knowin' it." He paused and calmed his voice. "Yer been committin' it all o' the time." He finished as he waved his hand in the air across his chest to emphasize the scope of Jamie's commission.

"Well, Father," asked a suspicious Jamie, "what then, is the Eighth Deadly sin? Tell me so that I can stop committing it."

The old man's ire started rising anew. He jumped from his chair, leaned forward on locked arms and clenched fists. "I'll tell ye what it is!" he growled. Then he sat back down leaned back in his chair and folded his frail hands over his stomach once again. He exhaled deeply. Jamie leaned forward, intent on hearing the answer.

"I'll tell ye what it is at a time of m' own choosin'," he said as he smugly stared Jamie in the eye.

The culmination of the exchange turned Jamie into a crestfallen challenger. The final riddle, the key to truth, denied once again. He was certain to never find it. He was tired of questions—always deeper, more difficult questions. He had enough of unanswerable questions, unsolvable riddles. Make it black or white! He wanted truth, plain and simple. He wanted it soon, before he was too parched for it to take root. 

"Now, Jamie," Father Brendan resumed, "though we're no longer brethren in the Order, we're still brothers in Our Lord. I bear ye no ill will. Ye must find a path fer yerself in the world. Find the truth that eludes ye, boy. Serve God in yer own way. Ye'll find out for yerself what is meant by the Eighth Deadly Sin, and when ye do, ye'll have yer truth, and more."

Jamie was beginning to feel sad as he knew that the final parting was soon to be.

"Stay seated, Jamie, and I'll give ye m' blessin' before ye go." He rose from his chair and placed his left hand on top of the younger man's head. With his right he hewed a cross through the air, "In nómine Patris, et Fili, et Spirítus Sancti." he recited.

"Amen." Jamie uttered and crossed himself.

"Now fer somet'in' else," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "All dat yelling gave me a tickle in me t'roat. I'll have one with ye fer the road." He reached into his bottom desk drawer and produced a bottle of Irish whiskey and two glasses. He poured an ounce into each glass. 

"God be with ye, Jamie." They both downed the dram and set their glasses on the desk. The old priest poured them another. "May the wind be always at your back. May the road rise up to meet yer feet." They downed the second dose.

"I know dat ye'll come back to see me one fine day, Jamie. Until ye do, I'll be t'inkin' of ye and praying fer ye."

Jamie stood and embraced his old mentor. "Thanks for everything, Father." He picked up his papers, and turned, and walked out the door without a further word. As he walked down the hallway, he wiped some wetness from his eyes. 

********** 

Ethan Chandler sat at his desk, staring out the window as the late morning sun pushed its way over the rooftops on the opposite side of the street. He was working on his Sunday sermon, and he had not progressed very far. He well knew that Jarrod Morris expected him to say something about the Church finances. It was a bitter pill. Begging for money from the pulpit was something that he had always promised himself that he would not do. It would be a cruel humiliation. He was a man of the cloth, not a barker in a carnival. 

He thought about weaving it into the sermon, not asking directly. It would take a lot of finesse to bring it off. Subtlety was not his strong suit. What would be the use of doing it, anyway? It wasn't those seated in the pews that he needed to reach. It was the empty seats that needed attention.

A solution dangled in front of him like a cluster of ripened grapes on a vine. It occurred to him that Providence had just tapped him on the shoulder.

"The Lord works in mysterious ways," he said profoundly to himself out loud. It was a confluence of words and events. Only the Almighty could have brought it all together. There was Jarrod's urging him to use the pulpit for fundraising. Howard Jones exhorted him to uncover scandal. Just as it all appeared to be idle committee talk, Becky brought him that which bound it all together in the form of this 'Mr. O'Toole'. 

"The truth shall issue forth on the lips of an innocent child," he pronounced to the empty room. He was making up his own Scripture, not worrying about the offence. What did Isaiah or Jeremiah have over him, except the advantage of time and place? Here and now he would take his place among them. But, did he dare?

"I am Ethan, the strong one," he proclaimed to bolster his nerve. God needed no evidence. By nexus, neither did he. He reasoned that it would come forth fast enough, once he laid the truth out in the open for all to see and hear. Truth was absolute. God was Truth. Truth did not come about because of evidence. Evidence would be gathered to lie like a wreath around the Truth to buttress the weak among the believers. It was all Black and White. He, Ethan the strong one, would be the hand of God; it was up to him to turn the screw.

Ethan rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. It felt a little fuzzy back there. He was overdue for a haircut. There would be just enough time for one before lunch. He put on a cardigan and walked the two blocks to Harvey's Barber Shop.

"Hello, Ethan!" Harvey called out as the Reverend opened the shop door. "I got up this morning and told the Missus, 'Ethan's about due for a haircut'." 

Harvey English was a congenial man, just turned sixty. He owned the town's only barber shop, unless one counted the farmhouse kitchens where wives hacked away on husbands and sons. Harvey grew up in Bates; he was acquainted with everyone, knew almost all of them. He was lanky with white, well-groomed hair and a trimmed moustache. Harvey loved a good story and a good joke as he went about his work. There were two bulletin boards in the shop. One hung on the wall where patrons would post things for sale or the poster for the next concert of the Town Chorale. The other was Harvey himself. One could tell him a piece of news and be sure that it got passed on. 

"Right you were, Harv. Just a little trim, if you please."

The barber shop was empty except for the two men. Harvey slapped at the leather seat with a towel and Ethan climbed in.

"Haven't noticed you in the congregation lately, Harv," Ethan said as the barber finished fastening the smock around his neck.

"Sorry about that. Ethan," Harvey said as Ethan put him on the spot. "It just seems that we're always tied up every weekend." Ethan wasn't Harvey's favorite customer. For one thing he never tipped. He was, moreover, a man who didn't appreciate a good joke, or an embellished 'remember when' story. 

"For example," he went on, needing to prove his point, "last Sunday we were up in Buffalo visiting my daughter and son and the new baby."

"Very nice, Harv. Everyone doing well?" Ethan asked as a courtesy.

"Fine, fine!" Harvey replied. "I wish that we could see more of them. Buffalo's not too far, though."

"Well, you'll want to attend this Sunday!" Ethan returned to the point. "I've got a special sermon prepared." 

"Oh?" Harvey's interest piqued.

"A revelation; a warning!" Ethan tantalized the listener.

"Who, what, Ethan?"

"I'll only say that it's something happening right now and it's about the school." Ethan replied.

Harvey rubbed his chin, trying to decipher what Ethan meant. If it was about the school, and Ethan thought it important, then it had to be about teaching Evolution. Ethan often had sermons on that subject, although it never seemed to sway the School Board. Or perhaps it was...Harvey decided to probe.

"Did you mean the Elementary School, Ethan, or the Middle School?" he asked cautiously.

"No, it's the High School!" Ethan answered tersely. Ethan knew that Harvey had swallowed the bait and he just had to set the hook.

Harvey thought for a moment. Of course, it was about sex. Little doubt, with all those young people coming of age, and all of the obscene material they could get at nowadays.

"What about the High School?" he probed. The hook was set. All that was left for Ethan was to reel him in.

"I've said too much already," Ethan answered. Harvey had finished the hair cut and removed the smock. "I hope that I see you on Sunday, Harv." Ethan knew that he would. Ethan paid Harvey (no tip) and went back home to have lunch. 

************** 

"Raymond, it's almost time for you to go, but before you do, I'm going to give you some reading on the Theorem of Limits. You have to master this to start Calculus," James said. 

It was nearly five o'clock. He and Raymond were sitting at James' kitchen table. It was the boy's first tutoring session.

"You mean you're going to teach me Calculus already?" the student asked.

"I didn't think that you would be so nervous about it, Raymond. We can slow down the pace a little if you want," James teased.

"No way!" Raymond shot back. "It's just that..."

"Just what, Raymond?" 

The student cast his eyes down at the page, trying to figure out whether to answer. 

"C'mon, Raymond, you had it half way out already."

"It just that whenever I ask the teachers in school to go faster they get angry," Raymond blurted out. 

"The teachers have a lot of students to worry about, Raymond. Here, it's one-on-one," James explained.

"Yes, sir," Raymond mumbled, sounding unconvinced.

"Why do you think so?" James queried. 

"My mother says it's because I'm half-Indian. She says that they don't want me showing up the white kids," Raymond poured out the truth. At least it was his truth. James made no judgment. 

"I don't know about that, Raymond. Here, at least, we'll go as fast as you can handle it." James looked Raymond in the eye. "Fair enough?"

"It sure is!" the youth said beaming.

Now here are the pages that I want you to read. Read them twice if you need to. Then do these problems. Don't forget the geometry and trig problems that I gave you earlier. And, most of all, don't neglect your regular course work." 

"No problem!" an exuberant Raymond assured. 

"We better get downstairs. I would guess that your mother is waiting in the driveway already," James said.

Sure enough, as they rounded the corner of the house Raymond's mother sat in her car, waiting to pick him up. It was a station wagon that looked like it had seen better days. James had met her several days before in the conference room at the school following the meeting with Nathan and the other men. 

Raymond's mother was about the same age as James. She carried a few extra pounds that gave her body a lumpy appearance. Her brown hair was unkempt, hinting that the day's travails with the children and overdue bills made her give up on keeping it in place. She was careful not to give away her thoughts, by wiping any expression from her face. Perhaps it was that, or because she was just tired.

"Hello, Mrs. Jacobs!" James called to her as they approached the car. "Did we keep you waiting?" She shook her head but did not speak. "Raymond did well. I gave him some assignments. I think that this will work out real well."

"I don't know why you're doing this for no pay," she uttered, avoiding eye contact. "We don't want charity, but we can't pay."

"Raymond needs this, Mrs. Jacobs, and I'm enjoying it," James countered.




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 05



The woman ignored his remark. "I made these for you—to pay something." she mumbled. She thrust a paper plate with a dozen cookies out the open window of the car.

"Thank you, Mrs. Jacobs. You didn't have to do this, but I'm glad that you did!" James accepted graciously.

"It ain't nuthin'," the woman mumbled, looking away.

"More than you think, Mrs. Jacobs. A single man like me doesn't get this kind of thing very often unless someone thinks of him," James insisted.

Well, alright then!" Raymond's mother answered, her tone brightened slightly. She rolled up the window and started backing down the driveway.

James watched the station wagon back down about thirty feet or so. Then he waved good bye and turned back toward the back of the house. As he did, there was something moving that he saw in the corner of his eye. It didn't surprise him. It was the curtain in the nearby window in Mrs. Wilkinson's part of the house. 

He knew instinctively that the landlady wouldn't like the tutoring sessions, but this was a point on which he would dig in his heels. He paused to see if the old woman would come waddling out the front door for one of her interrogations. When she didn't, he started walking slowly to his stairway. He would give her every chance to confront him, if she wanted to.

When Mrs. Wilkinson failed to venture from her lair, James considered the matter closed. He bounded up the stairs ready to get some dinner ready. He had some sliced ham from the Thrifty Mart and some eggs, so he decided that he would try that. That would give him a good base when he went out for his run early the next day. 

*********** 

James bounded out of bed the next morning looking forward to his morning exercise. He threw on his running clothes. As he stepped lively to the door he glanced at the scrubbed skillet and plate in the dish drainer. He congratulated himself on getting the eggs cooked just right the night before, and credited the meal for his feeling so good that morning. 

He was stretching in the yard looking up at the early morning sky. It promised to be a rainy day, but no sign of rain yet. As the days of September ticked away the mornings were getting chillier. He reminded himself that shorts wouldn't be enough. He'd have to get out his sweatpants. He finished his stretching and started on his route. 

The coldness of the morning air encouraged him to quicken his pace. The streets and houses had all become familiar landmarks as he loped past them. James found his stamina and muscle tone improving with the daily routine. At some point, he reckoned, he would have to expand his route. He wanted to get in as much work as possible because when winter arrived the snow might make it impossible to keep a daily schedule.

As he ran, he started thinking about his new charge, Raymond, and Mrs. Wilkinson peering at them from behind her curtain. He had expected a complaint or an interrogation from her, but received none. Maybe he was just imagining that he was to meet opposition at every turn. Why would the old woman even care?

"Why indeed?" he answered himself, pondering the obvious point of Raymond's social status. He didn't know if his assumptions were true or not. It was easy to assume, given his low regard for the unpleasant lady. He realized that it didn't matter. Only Raymond's tutelage and, of course, his part in it mattered. 

James was amazed that a young man in Raymond's circumstances could rise to the level that he had. He had decided on the spot during their first tutoring session to accelerate the lesson's pace. It was apparent that there was a lot of potential in the young student. It had been the right decision, because he saw the spark that he ignited in the pupil as soon as he did it. Raymond had every tangible factor arrayed against him. Most of the other students had everything going for them. Raymond stood where he did; his classmates—well, they stood lower.

The only possible explanation was that Raymond possessed an inner spirit that transcended the bounds of wealth and social standing. It told him that if he had faith, all would work out; fairness would win over injustice; optimism was preferable to complacency; better times awaited starry-eyed believers. 

"I hope that he never loses it," James said to himself. "It's what I felt in Guatemala; but it's too late to get it back now. I'm too old." He placated himself that he might be an instrument in preserving that good part of Raymond. That would be enough. "If only the student could become the teacher." he puffed as the running winded him. "I would be a willing pupil." Times were getting better for James, so he felt justified in allowing some good feeling to creep back into his outlook.

His concentration was interrupted by the front door opening in one of the small ranch houses that faced the end of the street that he was running on. It was at a tee in the road, where one street met another; the house sat opposite. As he approached he wondered who might venture out. The door opened wide, and then closed abruptly. James didn't think much of it. He turned the corner and ran on. 

After he had made his way fifty yards down the road a notion came upon him to try a different route. He abruptly stopped and turned to run the opposite way. The gym teacher, his blonde ideal, Amazon goddess, was just tuning from her driveway onto the road ahead of him. James had not seen her in quite a few days. Even in school she didn't seem to hang around the teachers' lounge and James never visited the gym. 

James was quite sure that she had seen him as he made the turn onto the street. He could only hope to match the pace that she set. He would never catch up. He wasn't sure that he wanted to. He was enjoying the view from behind just as much as he had the front. He did wonder what difference he would find in her perfect body, compared to Vicki's. He knew it was only a fantasy. He had slept with Vicki a grand total of two times, and he was already thinking of trading up—if trading up was indeed what it was.

Ahh, Vicki! He resolved to see what she was doing for dinner.

************ 

"Ethan, this is Jarrod speaking," said the voice on the answering machine tape. "I need to speak with you as soon as you get this. I've been trying to get you all morning. Call me at my office." It was the end of the message. The tape stopped turning. The red light on the machine blinked angrily. 

The Reverend Chandler returned home an hour later for lunch. "You've got a message on your answering machine," his wife said without looking up. She was preparing lunch for him. "I didn't play it. I just got in, myself."

Ethan strode to his study without speaking, and played the tape. He grinned smugly as he heard the Mayor's message. He picked up the phone and punched in the number that he knew by memory.

Jarrod: This is Jarrod Morris speaking.

Ethan: Hello, Jarrod; this is Ethan.

Jarrod: Ethan, you've got to fill me in on what's going on. This whole town's buzzing about something that you said to Harvey English yesterday.

Ethan: That's just what I was hoping for. You know how Harvey likes to pass on what he hears.

Jarrod: Well, everyone thinks that you're going to expose something going on in the High School.

Ethan: Maybe so.

Jarrod: Don't play games with me, Ethan. 

Ethan: It's not something for the phone, Jarrod.

Jarrod: Then stay where you are, I'll be right over.

Ethan hung up the phone. He called out to his wife in the kitchen. "Judith, Jarrod Morris will be joining me for lunch. Would you set an extra place?"

*********** 

James was carrying his tray with his lunch to the Teachers' Lounge when he saw Raymond Jacobs at his locker.

"Tell your mother that I liked the cookies," he called to him. "How are you doing with that assignment that I gave you?"

"It's a lot different than anything that I've ever had," Raymond answered. "I'm going to reread it, like you said to." 

"Don't worry, you'll get it. Just keep at it," James answered.

"You never stop, do you?" James heard a familiar voice behind him. It was Vicki. "Teaching, I mean. I heard about your 'off the record' student." Vicki had a tray in hand and she and James walked together into the lounge. They found two empty chairs in a corner. 

"How did you find out about Raymond?" James asked.

"Doris—who else?" she answered. "Let me tell you, she is mad as a wet hen. She says that Raymond is her student and she should have been offered the tutoring job first."

"I wonder how she found out," James mused.

"Her mother told her, according to her." Vicki answered. "I have to warn you. She said that if she found you tutoring Raymond on school grounds, she was going to force the union to do something. I saw you talking to Raymond, so that's why I butted in." 

"Thanks! I owe you one," James said. "I'll have to make it up to you."

"I'll think of a way," Vicki said, with a slight smile.

"How about tonight? Why don't we drive somewhere for dinner?"

"Well, there is a place in Corning that's nice. We wouldn't want to be seen together here in town. To tell the truth, I think that I'd like to stay in tonight. We'll save Corning for another time."

"Sure, no problem," James looked crestfallen. 

"I didn't mean stay alone," she laughed. "Why don't you come over at six and we'll have something simple."

"Hey, sounds like a plan," James said, sounding much happier.

*********** 

Jarrod Morris sat across the table from Ethan Chandler. He alternately glanced from Ethan to his bowl of steaming soup and back again. The Reverend sipped his soup and gnawed a piece of bread. While Jarrod looked nervous, Ethan appeared oblivious to any worry.

"Eat your soup before it gets cold," Ethan urged his guest. 

"Ethan, you've told me nothing about what you said to Harvey English," Jarrod nervously reminded him.

"I'll tell you everything—after we eat our soup," Ethan answered 

"I'm sorry, Ethan. I'm just not hungry," Jarrod retorted.

"Shame," Ethan said with an air of detachment. "It's good soup."

"C'mon, Ethan!" demanded the Mayor. "Out with it!"

"Nathan hired a defrocked priest from Rochester to teach Math in the High School," Chandler said calmly. 

"What?" Jarrod exclaimed incredulously. "Nathan isn't careless that way. Are you sure?"

"I got it personally from Homer Briggs," Ethan answered calmly. "He's in a position to know." Morris' face took on a look of consternation. "He could have been defrocked because he's a pedophile. Many of them are," Chandler continued. "I think that he is."

"What proof do you have of that?" Morris asked.

"So you think that Nathan is careful and I'm not?" the Reverend answered evasively. "Why else would there be all the secrecy from Nathan?" 

"You're not planning on exposing him on Sunday based on that?" Morris demanded.

"Why not? It's my duty, and the church is going to be filled to capacity waiting to hear what I've got to say."

You can't do that, Ethan. I've been running around the countryside on our financial campaign. Everyone will think that I've been beating the drum for you on this pedophile thing. If you're wrong, it'll blow up in our faces."

"I'm not wrong. I just know it," Ethan replied, not losing his calm. "What if I'm right? What will people say if you, the Mayor, stopped me from proclaiming it from the pulpit?"

"Look, I'm not saying to give up on it; just get more proof," Jarrod assured him.

"It's too late. Everyone is expecting..."

"That's your problem. If you come out on this too soon he could end up getting away with it. The law will be on his side. He'll sue you, the church and every board member. I'll be run out of office as Mayor. My insurance business will be ruined."

"What can I say ...?" the Reverend pleaded.

"You'll just have to finesse it." The Mayor said. "Just give them something, but no specifics and above all, no names. In the meantime, I'm going to pay a visit to Nathan."

"No, no. That will tip them off!"

"Alright, but remember—no names until we get some more information," Jarrod instructed.

"But Becky is in his class. He is her Math tutor!"

"We have to keep this secret. If you pull her out, it'll tip them off. Don't worry; pedophiles go for younger kids, anyway."

**************** 

James and Vicki were finishing their meal of meatloaf and baked potato. It was nice to have some company for the simple meal. They talked about James' tutoring Raymond Jacobs, and of Doris and her mother. A weekend trip later in the Fall to a Bed and Breakfast in the Wine Country was discussed, as well.

"That was good, Vicki—almost as good as the Meatloaf Special at the Bates Diner," he joked as he cleaned his plate.

"Any more 'compliments' like that one and you can forget about 'dessert'." she bantered back. "Unless, of course, you were hoping for something from the 'deep freeze'."

James held his hands in surrender. "Truce! I give up!" he said laughing. "What's for dessert, anyway?"

"Something 'tasty'." she hinted in a sultry voice. "Help me with these dishes and we'll see what we can find in the 'dessert room'."

Twenty minutes later James followed Vicki into the bedroom. She kicked off her shoes and quickly pulled her sweater over her head, leaving only her white bra covering her from the waist-up. "Let's just get naked as fast as we can," Vicki said nonchalantly. James willingly complied. In less than a minute they had shed all their clothes and Vicki turned down the bed covers. She quickly launched herself onto the middle of the bed on her stomach.

"Why don't you climb up here and give me a backrub?" she cooed up at him. James took a long look at her naked form below. Vicki had sunk her head down into the pillows and her arms were outstretched in a relaxed state. Although he had seen her nude a number of times, it was a different perspective. She looked seductive in that vulnerable pose, with a number of inviting creases and crevices exposed.

He mounted the bed and straddled her. He felt his scrotum resting against her buttocks. When he reached up to knead her shoulders the soft skin of the sack caressed her round cheeks and was caressed back, in return.

"Ohhh, that feels good!" she sighed. James agreed, and didn't ask her if she meant his loosening the muscles of her shoulders and back or the rubbing down below. "Just keep doing that for a while," she sighed again.

James' hands started working in twin circles, enlarging the radius on each pass. At one point he let them fall to the sides of Vicki's ribcage where her large breasts had squeezed out. He rubbed them a little, finding that they would be better attended later from the front position. He let his hands drift lower to the small of her back and to the top of the crevice between her cheeks. He began to wonder how to exploit the area as he sat atop her. 

He reached forward again, looking for something new. As he did his erection nestled in between the rounded globes of her buttocks. It lay in there lengthwise. It felt good, so he held the position for a few seconds. 

"You like that, don't you?" came the muffled voice from the pillows. Vicki flexed a little and it seemed to widen the gap. James nestled down even deeper. It felt as if a warm, gloved hand was gently stroking him. James rose back up to resume the massage. As he would reach forward he would lower himself and Vicki would allow to him submerge into that tender fold. They continued for a while, each enjoying the contact and stimulation. James left a trail of clear, viscous fluid on Vicki's back. He caught traces of the familiar, friendly aroma.

"Let me turn over now." she said languidly. James lifted up and she quickly spun around so that she was lying on her back looking up at him. James continued to straddle her, and reached forward to massage her breasts. "It's time for dessert," she announced. "Kneel on the floor alongside the bed."

James did as instructed, although confused, and Vicki turned at a right angle and maneuvered so that her center was at the very edge of the mattress. She placed her legs atop James shoulders. "Lick me!" she commanded. James was unsure where to start. He knelt before her, staring into her wet sex. "C'mon and lick me!" she repeated urgently, betraying her desire. She reached her hand to her labia and spread them open with her index and middle fingers.

When James enjoyed Vicki's oral service it had never occurred to him that he might be asked to return the kindness. He never wondered to investigate the source of the peculiar, musky aroma that signaled imminent sex, either. In the few moments, it had become quite clear and Vicki's instructions were very explicit. He didn't dare wince or hesitate. Vicki hadn't. He lowered himself so that his face was even with the target. He closed his eyes. He was too close to make out any details, anyway. He drew in a deep breath to inundate his nostril with her musk. He stretched his arms out to hold her around the hips. With his grip secure, he pulled his face close to her and snaked his tongue out between his lips. He tentatively tasted her—a small sample.

As soon as James' tongue touched her, Vicki clasped the back of his head and pulled him tight against her. The bridge of his nose slammed against her pubic bone. She bucked back at it. His tongue thrust as deeply inside her as he could reach. For good measure, Vicki wrapped her legs tightly around his head. She grasped his hair, moving his head so that his tongue hit the right spots.

She tasted a little salty. It didn't take James long to get used to it. He learned that there was a spot near the top juncture of the labia that made her purr out her pleasure the most. When his tongue hit it she pressed herself even harder against him. He concentrated on it. As he worked it harder, Vicki's breathing hastened.

"You're doing just fine, Sugar. Just keep that up for a while," she panted. James did as he was told. He was enjoying it, which surprised him. He thought that he understood better why she enjoyed doing it to him. He kept at his task, raising his head only for quick seconds to get a gulp of air. Then he would resume. Vicki didn't release her grip on his hair, or of her thighs enclosing his head. At times she would gasp or moan out her pleasure and James listened to it like a siren's song. He had no idea how long he performed on her, and he wasn't keeping track.

All at once the clamp with which she held him came loose and she backed herself away from the edge of the bed. She turned herself to resume her place lying in the middle of the bed. James remained on his knees on the floor. He waited for instructions.

"That was fine, James—real fine. Now, c'mon up here and finish me off," she breathed in a sultry, hushed voice. James remounted the bed as she spoke. "Finish yourself off, too," she added.

James wasted no time in bringing himself to her entrance. He paused to wipe the wetness from his face. "Leave it on! I like it that way." she whispered from below. James moved forward, entering her.

It felt good as he slid forward. It might even have been better than that first time. It was hard to tell—it was different. One thing that he did feel was that he was more deserving of what he received from her. He had reciprocated in advance, paid his dues. He would have no fear that he might be sated and his partner left unsatisfied. Of course, he spoke none of this, just stroked in and out. She seemed to like that, too. 

He thought that he would come right away, after being so excited when his manhood had rested in the crevice of her backside. He was wrong. He stroked long and hard, stretching himself a little more each time. With each stroke she squeezed him a little harder with the strong muscles inside her. The stroking provided a pleasure of its own, not just a path of ascendancy to climax. He was glad that it was lasting a while.




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 05



She must have sensed it when he was ready to finally explode. "Pour it into me!" she cried. He, again, did as she told him. In the end, their bodies were slick with sweat. Vicki's moisture had dried on James' face, leaving it with a sticky feeling. He rolled off to the side. They both panted from the exertion. Vicki rested her head on his shoulder and lay alongside him.

"You're a fast learner, James. That was very nice," she purred as she lightly stroked her fingertips over his nipple. "Soon you'll know all of my secrets."

"There's more?" he asked.

"Yes, there are more." she declared. "But I'll only give them up one at a time." She rose up a little and kissed him. "Let's take a shower together," she lilted in a happy voice. "Then you can go home to your own bed and leave me to mine. We've got an early day tomorrow."

************* 

It was mid-morning on Sunday. While James and Vicki made small talk at her breakfast table a quite different scene played out at the First Baptist Church. The Reverend Chandler had already led the congregation in prayer. The choir was turning in a fine rendition of "Rock of Ages", the Reverend's favorite. Below the choir loft the congregation sang along. It was a stronger voice than usual coming from the rows of pews. 

The increase in the collection was a welcome relief. There would be some extra to help the church get caught up on the mortgage. The Reverend stood looking out on the sea of expectant faces. It was satisfying to know that they had gathered especially to hear what Harvey English had told them he would say.

The voices of the choir fell to silence. The organ did the same after a few more closing chords. Ethan did not turn abruptly and stride to the pulpit. He stood still for half a minute, looking out again over the flock, as if he dared them to demand that he ascend the steps to the pulpit. The people looked back at him, wondering and waiting. Eyes were wide. Some jaws slackened and dropped open. Ethan sensed the timing and walked slowly. When he reached the steps, he mounted them as if he carried a heavy burden. His faced was etched in pain, as if it hurt to ponder what he was about to say to them. 

When he arrived at the top of the pedestal where stood the pulpit he grasped the lectern tightly with both hands, turning the knuckles white, as if bracing himself against the furies of heaven and hell. He stood ramrod straight, casting his eyes above, moving his lips in silent prayer. Ethan slowly lowered his head and began his sermon in a booming voice, aided by the public address system of the church.

"Hear, oh Israel! Thy children cry out for thy succor from the torment of Babylon. The Serpent of In-i-quit-y hisses at their feet!" he thundered out. He paused, allowing the assemblage to ponder the words and he gauged their impact on the hollow faces in the pews. 

"I'm so good at this!" he thought to himself. "They think that I'm quoting Scripture."

After a few seconds he continued. "How true those words were in ancient days when the Israelites were enslaved in Babylonia. Here we are—thousands of years later—in modernity. Are those words still true today?" A few 'yea, yea's' filtered forward from the crowd. "Yes, our society has become a modern-day Babylon, full of false gods and temptations of the flesh." Ethan looked down at Jarrod in the front pew. He looked nervous. The Reverend ignored him. "What father would not give all to save his son? To what ends would a mother go for a daughter?" he stormed, then spoke quietly. "Is it enough? Can it ever be enough? Inside our homes we fear the Lord. What about outside?" He shook his head sadly. 

"One needs only to pick up a newspaper, or view the evening news to know of what I speak. Cities rife with sin! Drugs! Sex! Brothels! Pornography! Can we be safe in our small town?"

"No!" a man cried from the midst of the congregation.

The Reverend stretched his long arm our straight and pointed a finger at the man. "You're right, Brother!" he answered. "One need only read the 'selections' at the Bates Movie House this very week." He waved a newspaper clipping that the assemblage assumed to be the movie listing. It served to verify his claim. It reminded them that all that he uttered from the pulpit was God's own truth.

The Reverend orated for the next fifteen minutes on a familiar theme. It was, in most ways, a sermon like countless others he had performed over the years. On this Sunday, the mood was different. The faithful were more easily inflamed. There was expectation, a promise of "warning and revelation" that he had delivered through his clarion, Harvey the Barber. It was a two act play, in which Act I was memorized by the audience, serving to pave the way for Act II. It was the second stanza for which they all came. The mention of children in the prelude kept them alert, because they knew that it was about something in the school. 

Soon enough, it came time for the Second Act. Jarrod Morris shifted in his seat. The worshipers sensed it coming. 

"Wolves are amongst us in Sheep's Clothing." he breathed out in an urgent tone. "Some claim to be servants the Lord, but their real aim is to lead our children to sin." A murmur spread trough the assembly. "I hold proof in my hand." He waived another newspaper clipping over his head. The congregation drew in a collective gasp. Some strained to make out the headline, but it was too far away. Jarrod Morris was wide-eyed and perspiring. 

Ethan fell silent for a moment, but kept holding the clipping over his head.

"Just concentrate and do this right and you'll have them." Ethan said to himself. 

Ethan slowly lowered his hand holding the paper to eye level and read the headline. "Lesbian bishop ordained," he enunciated slowly. "A woman of the cloth—flaunting her abomination under the approving eyes of her church. All their robes and pious words do not matter. It is still an abomination."

The assembly grumbled, showing God their displeasure.

"There is more; there are others. We have all heard about them. Do I need to remind you?" The crowd awaited the revelation in awe. "Defrocked priests!" Ethan shouted, ignoring the lack of connection. "Pedophiles, stripped of their ordinations, let out silently into the public, to commit their deadly sins over and over again on weak and unsuspecting youth." Ethan paused to let the point sink in. He leaned forward from the pulpit. His bloodshot eyes filled with hatred and rage. He was shaking. He spied Mrs. Corbett nearby. He pointed at her and directed his stare her way.

"One might be teaching in Bates!" he hissed.

The congregation drew in a collective breath. Mrs. Corbett let out a muffled wail, and then began fanning herself with her church bulletin (both pages) to prevent herself from fainting.

Ethan straightened up, placid and serene, as though the expurgation had exorcized the demon. "I'll say no more today," he said calmly, "except, that it is up to all of us to do the work of the Lord." 

He descended slowly from the pulpit. The final hymn was "Give Me That Old Time Religion". The choir shook the rafters with the strains of the old hymn. Ethan sang with them and clapped out the rhythm. The spirit infected the people in the pews. They felt Righteousness descending on them; who would resist?

It wasn't necessary for Ethan to lay out his evidence like a lawyer. He had implied that he had knowledge of something and the people wanted to believe him. It was enough.

Ethan had them.

***** 

TO BE CONTINUED...

*

Dear Readers,

Thanks for reading. I look forward to your comments in either the Public Comments Section or in private e-mail. Whichever forum you choose, you can do so anonymously if you prefer-or you use your member name which will enable me to respond to you.

Best regards,

Autumn Writer 



The Blameless Bystander Ch. 06



Chapter 6 -- Dancing Without Music

When the congregation started singing "Old Time Religion" Ethan descended from the pulpit and strode to the front and center of the sanctuary and sang with them. As the song ended and the organ silenced he raised his hand as he always did following a service.

"God Bless you all," he bade the congregation. "See you next week." His usual practice was to make his way to the front door by way of one of the side aisles so that he could greet the faithful as they exited the church. He started to do exactly that, but was detained by Jarrod Morris. They spoke privately as the congregation filed out.

"That was close, Ethan. I don't know how you pulled it off—but it was close."

"I was never worried," Ethan answered. "I've been doing this for a lot of years."

"We should just keep quiet about it, let the cards play themselves," Jarrod insisted.

"I don't play cards, Jarrod. You know that," the Reverend replied, jutting out his jaw.

"Don't play word games with me, Ethan," Jarrod retorted. "A false move will give us a lot of problems. We're already on thin ice. I've got this figured out. We can have our cake and eat it, too."

"How so?" Ethan asked, furling his brow, suddenly interested.

Jarrod drew closer to Ethan and answered. "News of your sermon is sure to get around. The School Board will be forced to react to it. Just stand fast and be cool. They'll give up the name for us. You won't have to do it. Once they do, the burden of proof will be on them, not you. It'll be a field day." 

The Reverend listened intently and nodded. Although he always gave the impression of independence, he was grateful that Jarrod was there to help him with things like this. 

"Render to Caesar..." he recited, with a faraway look, before Jarrod interrupted.

"What are you talking about, Ethan?" he asked, confused.

"...and to God the things that are God's," he finished his proclamation with a note of pomp and drama.

Jarrod shook him to reality. "You ought to go out and greet the people. They'll wonder why you're not there." The Reverend nodded and started toward the door. "Just remember, not one false word," he reminded him. "Then come back in and help me count the collection."

*********** 

Most of the attendees were on their way home, but a few people waited for the Reverend outside the church. They were abuzz over Ethan's veiled accusation. They gathered in small groups on the church steps and on the sidewalk in front.

"What do you think Ethan meant?" one man asked to the group he was in.

"I sounded pretty clear to me," one of the group answered back.

"Then, why didn't he give out names and specifics?" the man argued.

The question silenced the group momentarily. "He probably has to watch out for lawyers!" an anonymous voice interjected.

"He's just getting started," answered another. "There'll be a lot more to come."

"You're right, Brother!" came Ethan's booming voice from behind. The interjection startled them. The small groups broke up and came as one around the Reverend.

"Ethan, is it true?" several asked at once.

"I don't take such things lightly," he answered obliquely.

The crowd started buzzing. "What should we do?" the question could be heard above the chatter.

"Be vigilant; pray for guidance; above all, be true to your faith. I'll lead prayers for guidance at next Sunday's service. By then, more information might come out," Ethan pronounced.

As the crowd filtered away sadly shaking their heads, back to their hearths and homes, Jarrod Morris stood on the top step of the church entrance watching them. A wry smile was on his face. 

"That was perfect, Ethan!" he called out after the last of the crowd was out of earshot.

********** 

Bob Jackson was Superintendent of the Bates School District. He ran the District like a business. His customers were the parents and taxpayers; his product was students educated in the manner desired by his customers. He had many assets with which to churn out his product: every building, school bus, desk and chair was expected to contribute in some way to the production cycle. Not least of his assets were the teachers. They were the machine tools of production. They would take raw material and turn it on a lathe, drill it, and hone it until diploma-ready. All this was done to satisfy his customers, and he did so in order to receive a fresh supply of money and raw materials to repeat the process year after year. It was true; he was not much different from the President of General Motors.

On that Monday at mid-morning he was dealing with a public relations problem of the first magnitude. It was a reporter on the phone from the Valley Sentinel following up on a story. It was a weekly paper and the reporter was working against a deadline.

Jackson: Sorry, Miss Hardaway, our confidentiality policy does not allow us to discuss personnel file information without the employee's consent.

Hardaway: I'm just trying to give you a chance to make a statement for the record.

Jackson: All our employees are thoroughly screened by an independent investigation agency before hire, Miss Hardaway.

Hardaway: You're just giving me boilerplate! What is the name of the screening agency?

Jackson: No comment on that.

Hardaway: It's in your interest to talk to me. Sooner or later you'll have to respond to the accusation. 

Jackson: I have no first-hand knowledge of any accusation. My only information is what you've told me. I don't know what more I can say to help you. 

Hardaway: I've already spoken to Rev. Chandler. I have a tape of his sermon.

Jackson: Send it over, then, and perhaps we'll be able to comment.

Hardaway: Sorry, Mr. Jackson; nothing for nothing!

Jackson was used to fending off reporters looking for a scoop, but this time he was worried. He buzzed his secretary on the intercom.

"Get Nathan Smithling into my office on the double!"

The phone call from the reporter had not surprised him, except, perhaps, in the speed at which it arrived. Homer Briggs sat across his desk as he fielded the call.

"Geez, I'm sorry, Bob," Homer apologized. "Ethan took me by surprise. I knew that I made a mistake as soon as I said it, but I never thought that it would come to this."

"How could he go with something like this without anything to back it up? I just don't understand it," Jackson thought out loud. 

"If you heard his sermon on Sunday, you'd know that he really believes it—a lot of the congregation does, too," added Briggs.

"We've got to stonewall the press until we get our arms around it. I'll call the rest of the Board and let them know. I know the editor of the Sentinel. I'll try to get them to spike the story."

At that time Nathan arrived at Jackson's office. "I'll get out of your hair," Homer said. "Let me know if I can do anything."

"Come in Nathan, and close the door," Jackson glumly greeted his subordinate. "We've got a problem on our hands."

************ 

James was called to Nathan's office right after lunch. He had a section at that hour, so he asked Abby to reschedule the meeting. "No," Abby said. "Nathan said 'right away'." James assigned some problems from the new chapter and Abby found someone to watch the class.

James arrived promptly at Nathan's office. He found Nathan and Ed Cassidy already there.

"Close the door, James," Nathan said soberly.

James did and sat down. Nathan took a deep breath before laying out the facts.

"I've already told Ed the basics," Nathan began. "We've got a situation here—it's about you—and we've got to handle it."

"Oh, no!" James said to himself. "He's found about Vicki and me. I'll just tell him that I was 'discreet' like he said. I did just what Nathan said."

"It's really not your fault, James," Nathan brought James back to the present. James breathed a sigh of relief and waited for the rest.

"Someone let it slip to one of the local ministers that you used to be a priest and he proclaimed that we have a pedophile teaching in our school. He didn't name you, but we know that he does have your name. It's just a matter of time." 

James was surprised, but not stunned. He was more relieved that his secret liaisons with Vicki were still a secret, than he was angry. "It's not true—not even partly true," James protested. "I've never done anything like that, or even been accused of it." 

"Why do you think that he believes it?" Nathan asked. James related the story of the 'smitten secretary' at the parish where he helped out. "It's the only thing on my record," he assured them, "and that was cleared up. It was all just rumors."

Nathan and Ed looked at one another and shook their heads, chuckling. "That's not enough for him to hang his hat on—could even work against the pedophile angle. Do you think that Chandler is making it up?" Ed proposed. "He never gave any names."

"We're not even sure exactly what he said in his sermon," Nathan added. 

"Chandler!" James exclaimed. "Is that Becky Chandler's father? She's in one of my sections. She's one of my tutoring clients!"

"He didn't pull her out?" Nathan queried. "Something strange is going on here, Ed," Nathan said in a suspicious voice.

Nathan turned back to James. "You're going to read about this in The Sentinel when it comes out on Thursday. Bob Jackson is trying to get the story quashed, but he doesn't think that he'll be able to."

"I could take a lie detector test!" James offered.

"No! Not right now, at least," Nathan countered. "Bob wants us to play it cool. Don't even let on that we know about it until he says so. It may blow over after a week. Let's see how it goes."

"It won't blow over," Ed disagreed. "Something like this will get people really inflamed."

"We just have to pretend we don't know what they're talking about, for now," Nathan repeated.

Ed nodded in assent. "There's something else that we haven't discussed."

"What do you mean?" Nathan asked.

"James has that 'off-the-record' Math student in his apartment for his tutoring sessions."

Nathan slapped himself on the forehead. "Raymond Jacobs! I forgot all about that! We've got to get that changed!"

"I don't want to give up tutoring Raymond!" James protested.

"We've just got to change the place—but it can't be on school grounds," Ed declared. "I'm getting all kinds of heat from Doris as it is."

"Doris' mother already saw Raymond at my rooming house," James informed them. 

"If we move him now it will look like we're covering something up," Nathan said. "Just carry on like you have been, to show that there is nothing wrong going on." Ed took a deep breath when Nathan said it, showing his doubts. "Try to find a different spot, anyway, just in case," Nathan added.

Ed wasn't convinced. "Does Bob Jackson know about the arrangement?" Nathan shook his head. "You better tell him," Ed advised.

"He'll order us to cut it off. He'll cut his losses," replied Nathan. "It would be bad for the student, but even worse for us. I want James to send him out of here with flying colors to prove that we need to change our Math Department and that James is the one to do it."

"You can't keep this from Jackson," Ed insisted. "I know, I know," Nathan replied.

*********** 

James spent the next three days dreading the publication of The Sentinel, hoping that the story wouldn't appear, but resigned to the fact that it would. He started doubting Nathan's advice to keep his past to himself. If he had just come out with it, he reasoned, people would just dismiss the 'pedophile thing' as gossip because they would know him better. People were always fair if they have all the facts before them. He doubted the product of his reasoning, as well. Nothing was making sense. His mind shifted to and fro, with neither rhythm nor rhyme, but continuing the steps. 

It had all seemed so grand a few short days ago. He had everything he wanted: an appreciative boss who planned to promote him and who gave him special assignments; refreshment of his youthful missionary days; a female friend who seemed to want to go to bed with him at every opportunity. It was fulfillment, at least of certain parts of him. He began to see it all as an edifice built on sand. The wrong move could end it all.

James didn't run on Tuesday or Wednesday morning. He knew that he should have, but he was just too depressed. He didn't even think about trying to arrange any extra-curriculars with Vicki. She had warned him off, after all, when he poured out his feelings to her once before. What would change that now? He skipped meals, nourishing himself with Scotch and then drifting off to sleep each night. He stayed in bed until the last minute the next morning. Finally, on Thursday morning he decided to renew his running regimen.

He was hung over when he emerged into the brisk morning air. He figured that it was the price to be paid for his self-pity. He didn't feel great, but hoped that the heightened pumping of blood through his veins would cure all that. As he set out he felt the rust that had accumulated in his body. He welcomed the discomfort, a fitting penance for over-indulgence and self-pity. It appeared to be the only element of fairness left in his shrinking world.

Of course, he was well-acquainted with the crisis over priests involved in pedophilia. He reviled it as much as anyone—no, more than anyone—because he understood how a priest could abuse the trust of a vulnerable youth. He had never done it, nor knew of any priest who had, but couldn't deny that some had sullied the name of the many. 

Perhaps, he thought, as he pounded out the pace, that it was up to him to suffer for the sins of those wayward brethren. He vehemently rejected the thought as soon as it formed; no, that was Jesus' deed. He refused to put himself in His place, the ultimate blasphemy.

"Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for justice, for they shall be satisfied." He quoted from the Sermon on the Mount to himself and he thought that he heard words of truth coming from his inner voice. Hungry, he was to be sure; and there was little doubt about what was 'justice' in this case. Perhaps, all would be well in the end.

But wait! What about the precept recorded a little further down the page in the same passage? "Blessed are the persecuted for justice' sake; theirs is the kingdom of heaven." Which would it be? 'Being satisfied implied meant an earthly reward right now, or at least soon. Would it be, instead, a heavenly hope? Why should he wait when the promise of heaven had become, to him, a tolling of a distant bell? Conflicting promises in the same passage; questions begot by questions leading to even more questions; answers denied. It was so unfair to go to the Source for answers and receive more doubt as reward for the effort.

The whole interlude reminded him to be depressed. He had ventured so close to the gates of Uplifting Knowledge, only to find them locked against him. A few nights before he had ventured close to the gates of hell. As he pondered the paradox, he was fortunate to find cause to change his line of thinking. He was approaching the tee in the road wherein was located the house where lived is ideal voluptuous blonde. In the early light he saw a car parked in the driveway and a man emerging from the door. The woman stood behind him wearing a bathrobe. They kissed and the woman closed the door behind him. 

"That must be her husband," James said to himself as he drew closer. He saw that it was a large man, about the same age as he was, maybe a little older. James wondered at the difference in ages between man and woman and allowed that it could have been her lover, instead. He appeared quite comfortable to be there. He came out of the house and made his way to the parked car, not bothering to look about to see if he was observed. As the car drove away, James noticed that it was a Lexus, a luxury car. At least, that was one solved mystery. He knew that she would never have to sleep alone.

As he ended his run, James felt a little sense of accomplishment. His hangover was purged. He found no truth in his inner reasoning, but felt that he had approached it. It made him feel better.

************ 

"Jarrod, tell me again how you're managing to pull this off," the beautiful blonde quizzed her male guest. "I explained all that, Tracey," Jarrod answered. "I'm going to a Mayor's Conference tomorrow in Albany. My wife thinks that I'm driving there right now so that I can be on time for the first session. I'll go tomorrow and be a little late. I told them that I would be skipping the first session. If I leave here at seven, I'll be there by noon. Simple as that!"

"Mmmm!" she cooed. "Good thinking! What do you have in that bag?"

"Champagne for right now," he answered, pulling the magnum from a paper bag. "Something for later," he added. Tracey put on an improvised frown. "And something for you to put on right now." He handed her a gift box tied together with a bow. Tracey opened it and pulled out a black baby-doll style nightie. "Real silk!" he said, to make sure that she understood the value.

"I love it!" Tracey purred, holding it up by the shoulders and inspecting it. "I'll go put it on right away. First, give me a hint about what's for later," she prodded.

"Don't spoil the surprise," Jarrod chided. "—well, just a little hint—you're going to like it!" he teased.

"Ohhh! You're so cruel to me!" she teased back and chuckled with a sensuous laugh deep in her throat. "I'll be right back after I freshen up." She slipped into the bathroom, negligee in hand, and closed the door. 

Jarrod went to the kitchen to open the champagne. In a few minutes he was in the bedroom, ice bucket and two flutes in hand. There, he stripped off his clothes. He reached into a familiar spot in the closet and pulled out his own silk robe that he kept there for such occasions. He pulled down the covers of the bed and climbed in, waiting for his voluptuous temptress to emerge from her lair. 

He was half-finished with his first glass of champagne when Tracey appeared at the bedroom door. The short, black negligee was a simple design. There were panties that completed the ensemble, but she had left them behind. She needed nothing fancy to show off her classic lines. She reminded a man of a centerfold model, except that she was present in the flesh. All of her working out had paid off. She knew it and carried herself accordingly.

"How do you think I look in it?" she cooed from the doorway. The light from the hallway highlighted her form as he lay in the darkened bedroom. 

"You know the answer!" he said back. 

"Yes—but I love to hear you say it," she pouted.

"You look fabulous, like always," he complied. Her lips turned up slightly in a seductive smile, to let him know that his words had correctly registered. The familiar formula was being followed perfectly. She touched the fingers of one hand to her cleavage where the black silk came to a deep vee. She stroked the skin lightly and watched Jarrod watching her. She lifted the stopper from a perfume bottle on the dresser next to her and stroked the same place again. She dipped the glass knob into the perfume again and touched it to the inside of each sculpted thigh. 

"You should have put on some music," she chided. She turned on the small dresser light and then closed the bedroom door behind her. The CD player rested on a table across the room. Her cat-like movements made the short nightie show off her body even better as she moved. The hem lifted with each step, not quite enough to expose the tight globes of her buttocks, but there was no doubt as to their tightness. That was alright, because as her long legs flexed with each step, a man could trace the outline of each tendon and muscle under the smooth bronze skin, imagining them wrapped around him, emanating the scent of the perfume. The silk fabric shimmered slightly as her breasts moved inside it. She bent down to engage the player and before long a soft background of smooth jazz was filling the space.




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 06



Jarrod handed her a flute of champagne as she alit on the bed alongside him. She took a swallow and then opened his robe. 

"I know how to make you tell me your secrets," she whispered playfully, her fingers lightly playing with the hair on his chest. 

"Not a chance!" he answered, egging her on. Tracey took another swallow of the bubbling wine and then set it down on the nightstand.

"Are you sure?" she reached her hand to his crotch and lightly stroked the tender skin on the bottom side of his sack. Jarrod shook his head and cast to her a knowing, evil smile.

"Not even now?" she pleaded, as she formed the letter 'O' with her middle and index fingers. She encircled his shaft at the base, which had become hard and rigid, and slowly and gently traced her way to the top and over the crown. 

"Are you sure that you won't tell me?" she whispered in his ear as her fingers delicately repeated the journey. 

"Tracey," he gasped as pleasure took his breath, "I couldn't tell you now if I wanted to."

"Such tension!" she feigned sympathy. "You need relief!" She slid down the bed and lowered her head and captured his engorged knob in her lips. He yelped at the sudden sensation. As he started getting used to the encirclement, she lowered her head all the way down, impaling her face on him. Soon Tracey was swallowing all that he had to give.

Jarrod was panting, catching his breath. Tracey propped herself on her elbow alongside him. She waited until his breathing was normal. "Do you think that you can tell me now?" she giggled.

"I surrender. It's in the little box in my suit coat pocket." It was pointless to hold out further. He needed time to recover. 

She bounced off the bed to the closet where Jarrod had hung his clothes. Nimble fingers tore away the ribbon.

"Jarrod, I love it!" she squealed. She always loved the presents that he brought for her. It was always jewelry. "Help me put it on!"

It was a bracelet, this time. It was gold with pearls and little diamonds in the settings. It was always nice, but never too much. He wanted her keep trying harder.

"You know that your presents always make feel all warm, and...you know..." she purred.

"...cuddly?" he completed the sentence, stifling a smirk.

"No...," she purred. "You know the answer."

"I don't know, Tracey," he played along.

She bent her face next to his and whispered into his ear. "Tell me, Jarrod. How do your presents make me feel?" The scents of perfume and semen mixed in his nostrils.

"Horny?" Jarrod guessed, according to formula. 

"That's right!" she answered as he lifted the silk negligee over her head. She slid her long supple body over his. She took him on a trip to a place of dreams; her bed was the ship that carried them. In the morning they would awaken in the place from whence they started. Then, he would be gone—until it was time to do it all again.

Jarrod caught sight of the slender man jogging in the road past Tracey's house early the next morning. He didn't recognize him, which was puzzling because he thought that he knew everyone in Bates. It was his job, as Mayor, to do so. He pondered the doubt for a second and then forgot it. He climbed into his Lexus and started out on the road to Albany.

********* 

The Valley Sentinel was a weekly paper that was mailed to subscribers. The story of Ethan's sermon spread over the town gradually, like a slow leak from an oil can, as the postmen delivered it. In a big city the headline would have screamed out from newsstands. The reaction would have been simultaneous. That was not to be the case in Bates.

News started spreading by word of mouth. It was repeated by persons who had not even read the article. Like the oil from the leaking can, it made dirt stick to it wherever it spread out. With each repeated rendition, the story changed a little—or a lot. Versions were as numerous as cows in the pastures in the fields on the hills above the town. Discussion was most concentrated in the Village, rather than the farms, where the close proximity of the people facilitated the spreading of the story. 

In the school there was little talk of it at first, being isolated from the outside. Of course, in the District Office the phones rang non-stop. Callers were simply told that the district was aware of the story, but had no comment. It left most callers even more irate.

In the High School the news started getting around slowly. Most teachers took care not to discuss it with students. At lunchtime an actual copy of the Sentinel appeared in the Teachers' Lounge. Nearly everyone took their turn reading it.

Bob Jackson had not been able to completely suppress the story. His publisher friend agreed to submerge it on the bottom of page two. It was about three paragraphs long. The article merely reported what Ethan's tape had told them, and that the district refused to comment. 

Most of the teachers didn't believe the report. Few of them belonged to Ethan's congregation. 

"Why didn't Jackson deny it?" asked Pete Wendell, a chemistry teacher. Others around him nodded. Although they didn't quite believe the pedophile story, their natural distrust for management taught them not to give full support. Something must be amiss, their instincts told them. They were sure that something was bound to come out. It would be about one of their number; something heretofore hidden that someone wanted to keep secret. 

They started to glance around the room at one another, silently speculating; reminding themselves when this person, or that one, had said something strange, or done something out of step with what was expected for some unexplained reason. They swayed to and fro, silently, as they furtively resized-up their colleagues—people that they had recently known well. It was a dance without music; a careful stepping and tiptoeing to be certain to be placed in the right spot, and to make sure where all the other dancers stood. One never knew when the music might start.

********** 

James didn't take lunch in the Teachers' Lounge, preferring to correct homework papers at his desk in the Math Office. Nathan had seen him in the hallway and told him about the article. "Just stay with the Plan," he advised. "This will work out if you just stay with the Plan." James nodded and said that he would. The Plan was his only choice. He sat alone in his office and was midway through his papers when Vicki entered the office looking for him.

"Why don't you come for dinner at my apartment tonight?" she asked.

James hesitated. He really didn't want to go, and didn't know how to refuse.

"Are you afraid that I'll cook meatloaf again?" she kidded.

James shook his head. "I don't want to be any trouble." 

"What trouble?" she hooted. "I was just going to get a pizza. Bring a six-pack."

"Is that an order?" he asked.

"Call it a firm request," she called over her shoulder as she closed the door behind her.

****** 

Vicki and James lay in bed together, just finished having sex. It was that interlude that follows the act when the bodies are relaxed, having released their built-up tension, but the senses are wide awake. 

James, at first, was an indifferent sex partner that night. Vicki changed that with the skills she had accumulated over many years and many partners. She showed him how the woman could be on top. James went along, and then found that he liked it. He could grasp her breasts as they did it, and he did. As she bounced up and down he held them like the reins of a horse. Vicki rode him and milked him and squeezed him until she dissolved his lethargy. Then he thrust back; he pushed—she pulled. Before long he lost control until they landed together in this period of relaxation and awareness. 

They lay together silently. She let her fingers play with his wet, now-flaccid penis. 

"You were a Catholic priest before you came to Bates," she said. "You're the one Ethan Chandler was talking about." It wasn't an accusation, or even a declaration of discovery. She was just telling him that she knew it.

"Yes, I'm the one," he admitted 

"It all adds up. You're single; no past; a virgin with no other reason to be a virgin."

"I'm not guilty of what they're saying. I'm innocent of anything like that!" he uttered, half in hope that she would believe him, half in anger.

"I know that, James," she said tenderly. "I would have seen it in you before now, if it were true. We've been naked together, after all."

"I think I remember that," he quipped, starting to feel better.

"I know the part that you remember," she answered, "but I don't mean just without clothes." "That would be an interesting character reference," he said sarcastically. "Is that why you asked me to come here tonight?"

"Sure," she said cheerfully. "I knew that you'd be down and I thought that I'd help you take your mind off it for a while." 

"Mission accomplished! A true act of 'friendship'," he answered, meaning it, remembering their rules.

"Now I feel better, too," she lilted. She rested her head on his shoulder, her fingers still at play below.

"So, why did you quit being a priest?"

"I was just burned out—going through the motions. I didn't want to do it anymore when I didn't think that I was accomplishing anything," he explained. Vicki shrugged, issuing no judgment on the pronouncement.

"Are you saying that you don't believe in God anymore?" she asked.

"When I first arrived in Bates I was almost sure that I didn't. Then I got the assignment with Raymond and some other things; I started changing my mind," he confessed. 

"What about now, after Chandler's attack?" she queried.

"Maybe I had the right idea at the start," he grumbled.

"James, it sounds like you believe in God when things are going your way, and not when things are against you," she said squarely. James was silent for a while as he thought over what she told him.

"Maybe you should have been the priest," he mused.

"We were Methodists," she countered.

"That would explain it," he laughed.

Vicki's hands were still at play below, but he was no longer flaccid. He turned over atop her. They spent the last of their energy in a lively round of the Missionary Position.

************* 

As James was running the next morning before work, he thought about his old mentor, Father Brendan, and a sermon he gave one day to the assemblage of priests at the school.

"What do ye ask fer when ye're prayin'? What ae're ye teachin' yer young charges t' pray fer? Do ye ask fer success; beg fergiveness; an end t' one sufferin' or another? Do ye t'll God dat if He would only grant ye dis or dat ye'll be grateful and devout fer the rest o' yer days?"

"Do any of ye t'ink dat God cares a whit if a football game is won, or if all of yer boys pass deir exams or any sich t'ing. If He sends sufferin' to ye, is it not fer a reason? Who might ye be t' ask Him t' end somethin' dat he has sent ye? And if ye say 'O, T'ank ye, God, for all o' dis sufferin', does He t'ink dat ye mean it?"

Father Brendan paused while the group of priests pondered the weighty questions. He drew a deep breath before he continued.

"What should ye be sayin' to Him when yer prayin'?" he posed as he leaned forward and peered into their faces through his thick lenses. Again, he let seconds of silence drown out their consternation. He leaned forward, preparing to give the answer. The young priests leaned forward to hear it.

"Ye young lads just t'ink about dat," he said softly, then descended from the lectern and resumed the Mass.

************* 

TO BE CONTINUED...



The Blameless Bystander Ch. 07



© Copyright 2006, 2007

Chapter 7—Strategies

"You're kidding, of course!" Bob Jackson sneered as Nathan winced as they sat together in the closed-door office.

"It all seemed so innocent at the time—it still does in a way," Nathan answered. "I never saw this coming, Bob."

"I know, I know!" a tired Jackson sat back in his chair and sighed deeply. "So you were trying to back-door the tutoring program fees and got Ed Cassidy to run interference for you on the behalf of the union?"

"That's about the size of it, Bob," Nathan admitted.

"Right motive—wrong method, Nathan," Jackson scolded. "If you had come to me I could have gone to the Chamber of Commerce or the Rotary Club. Someone would have come up with the fees."

"Sorry, Bob. It seemed so easy at the time and O'Toole was happy to do it. The student's placement was important, too. It's my fault; I should have thought it through better!"

"Alright, alright!" Bob replied. "Breast beating session is over. Now we have to figure out how to manage this. I can't go out to my sources now. This thing with Chandler is too controversial. Everyone would avoid it like the plague. Besides, if I tried that it would be only a matter of time before O'Toole's name came out, and the student's name along with it. We can't have that."

"O'Toole offered to take a polygraph," Nathan added.

Jackson thought for a moment, scratching his chin. "Interesting! It's premature, of course. We'll let Chandler get himself out on a limb and then put O'Toole on the machine, and that will be the saw that cuts the limb off behind him."

"Good thinking, Bob!"

"You're sure that O'Toole is okay—we checked him out and everything?"

"I told the agency to be extra careful on any sign of this kind of problem, just on account of his quitting the priesthood," Nathan assured Jackson. "I can have Henry Thompson monitor the student. Henry's smart and I trust him to be confidential." Jackson nodded again. "If there are any doubts about O'Toole I want him dropped like a hot potato," Jackson warned. "...and I mean yesterday!" 

"Bob, this new guy, O'Toole, is really good. He's the answer to the Math Department that we need. His Trig classes are two chapters ahead of all the other sections. His tests are more difficult, but his students' scores are much better—and he doesn't curve. I've checked this out personally."

"Impressive! That's why we've got to protect him on this Chandler thing—if we can." Bob replied.

"Sure enough, Bob!" Nathan agreed.

"Nathan, keep Cassidy on your side on this issue. You may need him at some point. Do any thing you can to keep it all under wraps," Jackson ordered.

Nathan stood to leave. "I understand, Bob," he said

"And one more thing, Nathan," Jackson ordered as Nathan was about to open the door to leave. "Get that kid out of O'Toole's apartment!"

************* 

Nathan returned to his office right after his meeting with Bob Jackson. Abby was at her desk.

"I need to have a meeting with James O'Toole and Henry Thompson as soon as you can put it together," Nathan said as he walked past her on his way to the inner sanctum. "See if you can get Henry in about fifteen minutes ahead of O'Toole."

"I'll get on it right away," she answered calmly. "While I do that, I suggest that you take a look at the Sentinel. It was just delivered. Look at the editorial page."

Nathan's eyebrows arched in sudden interest. He picked up the newspaper and carried it into his office with him. He turned to the editorial page. He didn't have to look hard to find what Abby was talking about. The featured op-ed piece proclaimed the headline. "Oh, Brother!" Nathan thought to himself as he read it.

MINISTER AND SCHOOL MUST COME CLEAN From his pulpit, Reverend Ethan Chandler, pastor of the First Baptist Church of Bates, has made scurrilous, yet vague, accusations about the personnel teaching in Bates Schools. If his claims prove true, it presents a clear danger to our children. Yet, the Reverend has been curiously silent on details. If he knows something specific, this paper urges him to bring his information fully into the public eye.

Bates School officials, on the other hand, have done nothing to answer Chandler's charges. If there is nothing to hide, then they should say so publicly. Yet, Bob Jackson, School Superintendent declined to comment when this paper gave him the opportunity. If they are hiding a sexual predator, then shame on them. If the charge is false, they should be happy to let the truth come out. The controversy is ripping at the seams of our close-knit community. In the opinion of the editors, both Rev. Chandler and the School Board owe the people some answers. This paper stands ready to afford either party the opportunity to allow the public to know the truth.

Nathan finished reading the short piece and let out an exasperated gasp. "Freedom of the Press!" he muttered to himself sarcastically. He called out to Abby, who was making calls at her desk. "You better get Ed Cassidy in here, too," he sighed.

Just then Nathan's phone rang. "I'll get it, Abby," he called out to her. "I'd bet a month's pay that it's Bob Jackson." Nathan's hunch was correct.

Nathan: I just read it, Bob.

Jackson: This changes all our plans!

Nathan: Not necessarily—at least not right away. I think that I can get Ed Cassidy to help us.

Jackson: I'm listening!

Nathan: I'll get him to have the union insist that confidential personnel files remain sealed. You can insist to the press that it's paramount to protect the identity of the student.

Jackson: I like it, Nathan. It won't stop them for long.

Nathan: Every day that it does is a win for us.

Jackson: What about that tutor in the apartment problem?

Nathan: I'm taking care of it as soon as we hang up. 

Jackson: Good! Keep me posted.

************ 

Harvey English's Barber Shop was full of patrons. It was always good for business when there were big doings in town. Harvey's shop was the center of Bates' political and philosophical debate. 

"Ethan has been around a long time," Harvey argued to Brice Barlow, a local lawyer, as the listener sat in the chair and Harvey clipped away. "He's part of us."

Charley Hancock, Village Police Officer chipped in. "All I know is that I haven't received any sex offender notifications from the State."

"But you have to be convicted to get on that list," Barlow objected. "A lot of these guys are never caught."

"See?" Harvey seconded the point.

"Still, we've only got Ethan's word for it," Barlow jumped to the other side of the fence.

Bert Hodges operated the Feed Mill. "Like the paper says, they should all just lay their cards on the table. The truth would come out one way or another."

"Ethan should go first—he brought it up." Charley asserted.

"Ethan's pretty stubborn about what he will or won't do. He figures that he's got...you know...the Man Upstairs on his side," Harvey reminded them.

"The School Board is an elected body," Barlow chimed in. "If the public demands it, they have to answer."

Augie Reiss owned a farm on one of the hillsides overlooking the town. "Did anyone ever think that Ethan's just making this all up?" He rose from his chair and spat out tobacco juice from his chaw into Harvey's sink. "He was at the farm a few weeks ago trying to get us to give more money to the church. He said that the church is 'financially strained'—which I took to mean 'broke'. He might be stirring up a lot of hysteria to get the collection plate filled up better." 

"Oh, no!" Harvey sternly answered. "Ethan wouldn't do that! He's been a man of the cloth in this town for years. Everyone respects him." The rest of the men murmured in agreement against the farmer, clad in overalls.

"Oh, yeah? I'm not so sure." Augie spat another dollop of brown elixir into the sink.

"If I go against Ethan, I go against the Church!" Harvey pleaded. "I won't do that!"

"My wife goes to the Presbyterian Church," Augie stated, dismissing Harvey's oath. "I've been thinking of switching, too. In fact, I just decided to." 

"You've gotta do what you've gotta do." Harvey shot back.

"Harv," Augie answered. "I've got to get back to the farm. I'm giving up my place in line."

"Whatever!" Harvey looked away, getting in the last word as Augie closed the door behind him.

"Someone ought to straighten that guy out!" said a voice; no one was sure who said it.

************ 

Henry Thompson sat across from Nathan. Nathan had just disclosed that James was the subject of the Reverend Chandler's tirade.

"He is a former priest," Nathan explained. "He left on his own accord. His record is clean as a whistle—in every respect."

"Those bastards!" Henry cursed. "They have to ruin every good thing that comes along, no matter how big or small."

"They haven't ruined it yet, Henry, just calm down." Nathan tried to soothe the hot-headed young man. "We can save this, but you've got to help me."

"Anything!" Henry vowed.

"I'm not worried about O'Toole, but I can't take any chances," Nathan began. "I need you to monitor Raymond. Take him under your wing. He can't know it. Just get close to him and let me know if you think that O'Toole is trying to teach Raymond anything except math formulas—you know what I mean." 

"I'll do it," the younger man agreed.

"You've got to do it without anyone knowing it," Nathan continued. "Not Raymond, not James. No one!"

"I'll do it," Henry repeated.

"I'm sure that it will come to nothing, anyway. Like I said, I can't take any chances."

At that moment James knocked on the door. "Come in!" Nathan called out and James entered and took a chair. 

"James," Nathan began, "I just filled Henry in on the situation with Chandler. He'll keep it confidential."

"Raymond's doing real well..." James started. Nathan interrupted him.

"Bob Jackson said that your apartment is off limits for the boy." 

James hung his head and shook it sadly. "They're going to win and I've done nothing to be blamed for."

"You've got to see Bob's point of view." Nathan admonished.

"Put me on the machine!" James insisted.

"I mentioned that to Bob today. He said maybe at some future time, but not right now." 

"So, I'm just a bystander while this all plays out?" It wasn't really a question that James was asking, except, possibly to himself. "The more things change, the more they stay the same," he lamented.

"What are you talking about, James?" Nathan scolded. "We just have to find another location, that's all. I was thinking about the den in my house.

"That'll buy you plenty of trouble with the union!" It was Ed Cassidy, who was just walking into the office. "I assumed that it was about this tutoring thing. I read today's editorial."

"Jackson said that we have to change the venue," Nathan brought Ed up-to-date.

"Can't blame him!" Ed commented.

"Is there a room in the Union Offices that you can loan us?" Nathan asked.

Ed shook his head. "I'm catching it already from the teachers. That would drive them over the edge."

"I know a place," Henry Thompson said in a subdued tone. "I thought of it after our last meeting, but it seemed that James' apartment was working out so well that I didn't want to upset the apple cart. I should check it out first. The person doesn't know that I'm suggesting it."

"Give! Give!" Nathan insisted. "We don't have time for formalities, Henry."

Henry hesitated briefly, glancing at the other men around the room. He took a breath and let it out. "We should ask Raymond's sister if we can use her house."

"I don't understand," Nathan queried, "I thought that Raymond was the oldest."

"He's the oldest of the children by the current marriage. He has a half-sister. Raymond's father had a daughter before his marriage to Shirley."

"Sound's promising!" Ed exclaimed. "Does she live in town?"

"She works in this school—it's Tracey Jacobs," Henry revealed.

"No kidding!" Nathan exclaimed. "I never put it together."

"Tracey knows that James is tutoring Raymond. I mentioned it to her. She was happy to hear it, but wanted to stay in the background. Tracey and Raymond's mother don't get along very well," Henry explained. 

"What's her job in the school?" James asked.

"She's the Girl's Phys-Ed teacher," Nathan answered.

"Everyone knows who Tracey is," Ed remarked before breaking into laughter. Henry and Nathan joined in.

"She lives in my neighborhood," James added. He started to mention the man he saw exiting her front door early one morning, but he thought better of it. Tracey's liaisons weren't his business, and he was taking no chances on spoiling the solution.

Nathan turned to Henry. "This is perfect! It's a family connection, a watchdog, an education professional. Henry, you've got to work this out. I'm leaving this up to you."

"I'm sure that Tracey will do it. It's his mother that worries me. There's bad blood there. I don't know the reason. I'll see that it gets done one way or the other," Henry promised.

************ 

Deer Season was coming soon to the hills of the Southern Tier. It was never said out loud, but whispered in certain circles, that bagging a trophy buck was even more important than winning the Sectional Football Championship—but not by much and it depended on to whom one spoke.

If they could afford it, many townspeople bought small plots of land in the hills, deep in the woods, and built small cabins on them that they used during hunting season. Few had electricity or indoor plumbing, but they had wells and propane stoves. Some used wood. They were normally vacant for most of the year, except in Deer Season. 

Jarrod Morris summoned his son. "Brad, I want you to go up to the hunting camp on Sunday and get it cleaned up so that it's ready for Deer Season."

"Dad, that's a lot of work!" the young man protested. "It will take up my whole Sunday." 

"I can't help it, Brad. I'm planning on taking some clients up there on Deer Day. I can't have it looking like a pig sty," the elder Morris insisted. "Look! There's twenty bucks in it for you if you promise to do a good job."

Brad realized that any effort to argue his way out of the assignment would be futile, and could put his twenty in jeopardy, as well. "Dad," he proposed. "Can I ask Donny Harmon to go with me to help? We could get it done faster."

"I guess so," Jarrod answered. "No drinking! Those roads are narrow and it gets dark early. You can take the SUV."

"Not a problem, Dad," the son answered, "but I would have to share my twenty with Donny, and twenty isn't that much..."

"Alright—twenty each!" conceded Jarrod, reading the tea leaves. 

"If it's alright with you, I'd like to go up after the game on Saturday and stay overnight—so we can get an early start cleaning up!" 

"Only if Donny's parents are okay with it, and remember—no drinking!" Jarrod firmly laid down the law. "You'll have to take some food with you. There should be some propane left in the tank for the heater and the stove."

************ 

Becky Chandler had just helped her mother with the dishes after the evening meal. She was on her way up to her room to do her homework, but stopped first at her father's study. He was working on his Sunday sermon and she approached on tenterhooks. Finally, Ethan looked up. 

"What is it, child?" 

"Mother said that I had to ask you," she began tentatively. 

"Yes?"

"I wanted to ask you if I could go to Karen's sleepover party after the game on Saturday afternoon," she blurted out. "Everyone's going to be there." 

"Everyone?" Ethan asked sarcastically. "I'm someone and I don't plan to be there—unless this is an invitation. Am I invited? If not, it won't be everyone."

"No!" she laughed nervously. "I meant all of the cheerleaders."

"And what about boys?" he demanded.

"Oh, no!" she vowed adamantly. "It's just for the cheerleaders. Karen's parents will be there!" she added hastily.

"Just the cheerleaders—no boys?" he double-checked. 

"Right!" Becky assured him.

"If one boy, one cigarette, or one bottle of alcohol appears, you're to come straight home. Is that clear?" her father commanded imperiously. "No exceptions!"

"Yes, father! Don't worry!" she promised. Becky bounded up to her room. "We're going over to the school to take apart the Homecoming Floats on Sunday, so I won't be home until later," she called out as she ran up the stairs. Ethan had already gone back to working on his sermon. He heard what she said, but wasn't listening.

The pang that Becky felt at having lied to her father didn't last long. She knew that she could never tell her parents about Brad. They would make her cut the relationship off. They would tell her that she was too young for such things. She wasn't, of course, at least in the way she saw it. He had, after all, 'made a woman' of her. 

Deep down, she loved her parents and wanted them to know how she had won the attention of the most prized 'catch' of the Senior Class. It wasn't just that he was the quarterback. Soon that distinction would be ancient history at the end of the season. He was the boy that all the girls wanted—and he was all hers. That made her the girl that all the boys wanted, but couldn't have—Brad had claimed her. She wanted her parents to know of her triumph, and she couldn't tell them.

So, she lied to them. It was, as she saw it, fitting.

*********** 

Jarrod Morris sat in Ethan Chandler's study in a chair near his desk on a brisk autumn afternoon. Ethan was at his desk, looking pale and nervous. Morris was relaxed. The Valley Sentinel lay on the desk, folded open to the Editorial Page.

"It looks like I'll have to come out with O'Toole's name on Sunday," he announced soberly.

"Why so glum about it, Ethan?" his friend asked. "It wasn't long ago that you were chomping at the bit and I had to hold you back."

Ethan nodded to acknowledge Jarrod's point. "It's different now," he admitted. "The School Board will be forced to reply. They'll protect O'Toole. It will be according to the Sentinel's dictates. We're not ready yet—we could lose. I wanted it to be according to my timetable."

"If you recall, that was my advice when you started this," Jarrod reminded him. "And, by the way, you should change that 'we could lose' to 'you could lose'."

"But you said..." the Reverend started to say, but Jarrod interrupted.

"Do you want my help or not?" 

"I can't afford to lose," Ethan blurted out. "This church is my life. I can't start over now."

"You won't have to," Jarrod assured him. "We'll make this a 'separation of Church and State' issue. We'll make it look like the Sentinel is siding with the School District and forcing you to be subservient to them. You'll refuse to disclose anything further because you won't allow the Church to be bullied by their 'conspiracy'."

"Yes, yes!" Ethan agreed. "I see it!"

"The congregation will rally around you even more closely," Jarrod explained further. "We'll just keep it up until the School District spills out the name."

"I'll do it!" Ethan vowed.

"You'll be carrying the Bible in one hand and the Flag in the other!" Jarrod cheerfully assured him. "How can you beat that?"

Just then, Ethan's wife, Judith, entered the study with a tray set with coffee cups and pastries. The men ceased their conversation as she set down the service.

"Judith, you're too good to us!" Jarrod complimented the dour woman. 

"It's nothing at all, Jarrod. Glad to do it," she answered, in a voice devoid of expression.

Judith was a woman who always looked sad. She could have been attractive, but she wouldn't allow herself to be. She was tall, like Ethan, with ashen-blonde hair dusted with gray. She wore it in a tight bun at the back of her head. She was slender, but her figure was always hidden by her shapeless clothes. Mostly, she was known by her taciturn demeanor that kept people at a distance. 




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 07



"Anything else, Ethan?" she asked. Her husband shook his head.

"In that case, I'll leave you two to your business," she said. Jarrod and Ethan watched her as she paced slowly out of the room.

Ethan took a sip of hot coffee and then set the cup back on the saucer. "Life is less simple than it used to be," he thought out loud.

Jarrod continued with his coffee, pausing long enough to ask, "How so, Ethan?"

"It's everything!" Ethan answered. "We never needed so much money to keep the doors of the Church open. People would never think of being short on their tithes." Jarrod nodded and shrugged. "They would never dream of switching churches, like they do now. There were beliefs set in stone that everyone shared. No one questioned. It would only be necessary to keep repeating the lessons. People would keep listening. They had respect for the Word."

"You don't have to give up the old truths," Jarrod replied. "We just have to repackage them."

"I'm glad that I have you to help me," Ethan admitted.

"We make a good team, Ethan," Jarrod said. "We have to be careful on this 'School thing', but we'll make it work for us in the end."

"I never wanted to be anything but a preacher," Ethan confided. "I always knew that I had the calling to speak for God. My voice is His voice; my hands are His."

Jarrod did not answer, realizing that it sometimes took extra thinking to decipher what Ethan meant when he spoke.

"What we're doing is really for the good of the School, for the kids, in the long-run, Ethan," Jarrod finally broke his silence. He didn't notice that Ethan had closed his eyes, and turned his face toward the ceiling.

"Suffer the children and forbid them not to come unto me..." Ethan mumbled.

"What was that, Ethan?" Jarrod called out loudly.

Ethan opened his eyes and shook the cobwebs from his head. "Nothing, Jarrod," he said. "A passage just came into my head."

"We're doing well with the collections," Jarrod changed the subject. "We were able to catch up a month on the mortgage. That will keep the bank off our back for awhile."

It was time for Jarrod to return to his office. 

"You look tired, Ethan," he advised his friend. "Why don't you try a catnap for a little while?"

"I'll just ask Judith to brew some more coffee," he answered. "I'll be alright." 

"Just remember the plan we agreed on," Jarrod reminded as he opened the door to leave.

************** 

The smell of sex hung in the air; the marijuana smoke was quickly covering it up. Brad sat cross-legged on the floor. He took a deep toke, and then passed the joint to Becky. Across the room on a sofa Donny Harmon and his girlfriend, Allison, did the same.

"My father told me 'No Drinking'!" Brad exclaimed after he finally exhaled, and then fell backwards laughing. "Thanks for the advice, Dad!" He began laughing again and the others joined him. 

"My father told me that if I saw a cigarette I had to go straight home!" Becky giggled.

"It's not a cigarette, it's a joint," Donny corrected from across the room. 

"I didn't know that," Becky played at sarcasm. "Brad always calls something else a 'joint'!" The four young people dissolved into laughter once again.

A great day for them was closing out. It had been a Homecoming win for Bates on the gridiron. Brad scored two touchdowns and passed to Donny for another. The Mantle of Invincibility was infectious. After the game they followed through with their plot for a lovers' tryst in the remote cabin. They paired off as soon as they arrived. Donny and Allison took the bed in the upstairs loft; Brad and Becky the fold-out sofa bed downstairs. After a round of sex the boys went out to dispose of Brad's used condom; Donny hadn't used one. They returned with their stash from the glove compartment of the SUV. 

The sex on this night was, by far, the best that they had ever experienced. For one thing, it was the first time that they actually had done it in a bed. There was an element of comfort; a sense of not being hurried; an aspect of adultness that the girls enjoyed. For their partners there was the taboo of doing it within earshot of another couple doing the same thing. It was just a little kinky—and that meant exciting. There was the marijuana. Even better, the young men proved to each other that past boasts were true.

Brad and Donny needed some time to 'reload' so they had taken a little break for a touch of cannabis. It was Becky's first experience with it. Between the sex and the marijuana, they were all feeling pretty good.

Becky and Allison got up to go outside to the 'Ladies' room', which was really an outhouse about thirty yards away from the cabin. Brad and Donny stripped off their clothes and got back into bed. As the girls reentered the cabin they split up to their assigned places.

Becky quickly peeled off her clothes. She had dispensed with her underwear when they had taken their short break, so the process was quick. The moonlight streaming in through the nearby window outlined her lovely silhouette. Becky was tall and slender, like her parents. Her youthful, supple form was classic. Brad smiled to himself at how he had gone 'top shelf'. He wondered if Donny, above in the loft with Allison, was looking down at Becky, too. Brad found himself wanting to see Allison in the same way. 

"An eyeful for and eyeful," he quipped the adulterated adage to himself. His thoughts shifted quickly as Becky slid into bed alongside him. From the loft above he heard moans and purrs as Donny and Allison intensified their foreplay.

Becky snuggled up against the length of Brad's body. She was in a mood to be loved and cuddled. That wasn't Brad's plan. He wanted something more exciting and daring, although he wasn't sure what that might be. He went along with what Becky wanted. In his short experience as a sex partner and boyfriend he had learned how a mood disruption at the wrong moment could lead to coitus terminus. He used the time to plan how he wanted to choreograph the final dance.

As was always the case, after a while Becky was ready for the next step. She reached down and grasped him softly. Brad thought about asking her for oral sex, but decided to put that off until her period arrived. He turned her on her back with his powerful body. Becky spread her legs for him. 

"Brad! You're forgetting your condom!" she warned from below. 

"I don't have any," he answered in a whisper. "I used my last one. I forgot to buy new ones."

"Brad, we can't do this! I have no protection!" she pleaded.

Brad paused, unwilling to stop, searching for an answer. "I timed your last period. I think that you're safe."

"No, Brad!" she scolded.

"Hey, you two!" Donny called down. "Are you gonna talk about it—or do it?"

"C'mon, Becky!" Brad exhorted. 

"No, Brad!" she insisted.

"Becky, you're embarrassing me in front of Donny and Allison," Brad accused.

"Ask Donny if he's got a spare condom." Becky suggested.

"I thought you guys were gonna cut the chatter!" Donny called out again. Allison giggled.

"Becky, c'mon. Allison's on the pill. Donny doesn't need a condom." Brad retorted. "This is so humiliating!" He moved forward slightly, probing at the outside of her folds. 

"I'll take it out before I come," he promised. "Please, Becky. Donny and Allison are listening."

"Please be careful, Brad," she whimpered. As soon as she said it Brad pushed into her. It was another first. Brad was careful to make it last a long time. He knew that Donny and Allison were still listening. Finally, Brad felt himself ready to ejaculate. He remembered that he had to pull out, but he wanted to time it so that he did at just the moment before he erupted. 

He thrust once more deep inside Becky and that sent him over the edge. He withdrew himself from her. He was fairly sure that the first spurt came just after he cleared himself from her. Semen spat against her labia. He lifted up to finish and she felt the warm fluid covering her belly. She welcomed the sensation; it reassured her that Brad had done as he promised. She felt the poorly aimed spatter, too.

"Get me a towel, Brad—quick—before this stuff gets inside me," she pleaded. Brad was glad to comply, since Becky was quite a mess. "That was close, Brad. You should have pulled out sooner."

"Relax, Becky! The initial burst doesn't have any sperm in it. I learned it in biology," he assured her.

"I never learned that," she protested. 

"Maybe it was Health," he mumbled.

At that point Donny and Allison descended from the loft. Donny wore only his jeans. Allison had a blanket wrapped around her. She shuffled to the bed where Becky was sitting nude. She had pulled the sheet up to cover her breasts. Allison hugged her and kissed her on the cheek.

"You finally did it without a condom," she said and kissed her again. "I hate them! I think they should outlaw those things."

"Yeah!" Donny agreed. "Natural contact is so much better."

"But you're on the pill," Becky protested.

"You can be, too," Allison replied. "There's a clinic in Hornell. You're eighteen. They can't tell your parents if you don't want them to. We'll go together next week."

"Thanks, Ali," Becky said softly, finding new bonding with the girl that before that night she knew only slightly.

It was warm in the cabin. Brad had put on a pair of gym shorts and gotten out of bed. Becky threw on her sweatshirt and panties. She went to the water pump to wet the towel and she washed herself off better. 

"It's only eleven," Brad said. "Why don't we fix something to eat?" 

*************** 

The four teens were finishing the makeshift meal that the girls prepared. They had already had sex twice, smoked marijuana in between and confided in one another while they ate their meal. It was all so nice in their little hideaway, if only for one night and a day. They sat about in various modes of undress, free to do and feel as they wished. It was like being Tarzan and Jane, in stereo. 

When the food was gone Brad took out the rest of the marijuana. He rolled it in a paper, lit it and passed it around. It had a mellowing effect. Inhibitions melted away.

For Becky, the new sisterhood with Allison allowed her to be more at ease with her sexual relationship with Brad. She often wondered if she was quite ready for it. Here was a new-found sister who was even more experienced than she was and gave her encouragement to soothe her nagging doubts. She forgot her worries about the condom-less sex with Brad a short time earlier.

Brad and Donny were close friends for a long time, bonding on the football field. It had been Donny who educated Brad on the ways of sex when Becky became 'ready'. When Becky finally allowed Brad to take her in the church basement, Brad told Donny about it before anyone else.

Donny had an athlete's body, but was quite different from Brad's. While Brad was broad and powerfully built, Donny was lean and built for speed. Brad's chest was smooth and hairless; Donny's a thin forest. Becky caught herself looking at it and wondered what Brad would feel like if he had hair on his chest like Donny. Her nipples hardened as she thought about them coursing over the silky strands. Donny was looking at Becky's long slender legs, descending down from under her sweatshirt. He viewed their full length, as she wore only her panties and sweatshirt.

Brad gazed at Allison. Though covered in a blanket, he knew that she was nude beneath it. That blanket could be undone easily enough, he knew. Donny had regaled Brad many times with stories about how wild Allison was when she was turned on.

Allison, perhaps the most sophisticated of the four, watched the other three, deciphering the gazes and body language.

"We have a lot of work to do in the morning." Brad broke the silence. "We have to get the smell of the weed out of here before we leave. We can build a fire in the wood stove. That should cover it up."

"It won't be too bad if we all pitch in," Becky added. "

"It will be worth it. This has been really cool," Donny said. "Brad you should stop at a hardware store on the way back and get a copy of the key made."

"Owww! That sounds interesting," Allison cooed.

"We could come up here all the time, until we go away to college next year," Donny said. 

"It will be our secret!" Becky gushed.

"I feel like doing something special tonight," Brad blurted out. The other three said nothing, waiting for him to continue. "Donny, why don't you sleep with Becky, and I'll sleep with Allison."

Wow!" exclaimed Donny, and said no more, leaving his eyes and jaws gaping open.

"What? Not me—no way!" Becky protested. "Brad, how could you even think such a thing?"

Allison moved closer and sat down next to Becky. She thrust an arm out from inside her blanket and wrapped around her confused friend. "It will be really nice, Becky. We'll be sisters and share our men. It will show how close the two of us are. It'll be our secret—just the four of us," she consoled her.

Becky looked at Donny and his forest of silky chest hair. She saw him looking back. "He'll take it out before he comes, just like Brad did," Allison promised. "Won't you, Donny?"

"Oh, sure," he said, eloquently.

"We'll just try it this once, and if you don't like it, we'll never do it again," Allison vowed.

"Promise, Ali?" Becky asked. "I don't want to spoil our being friends."

Allison nodded and kissed her on the cheek. She stood, took her by the hand and walked her over to Donny, whose arms were outstretched. He embraced her, and rubbed her back through her sweatshirt and down to her sculpted buttocks. 

In the meantime Allison made her way to Brad and they climbed together into the loft. 

The two rematched pairs stayed together until morning. Donny pulled out of Becky as he promised and ejaculated on her belly. Donny was different, in some ways better than Brad. Becky listened to Brad and Allison in the loft. She wondered if Brad grunted and moaned as loudly with her as he did with Allison. It was a different experience. Becky couldn't be sure if she was glad, or regretted it. She sensed that from that night her life would be different.

************** 

Ethan couldn't know of his daughter's exploits the prior night. He believed her story about the cheerleaders' sleepover at Karen's house. It vexed him that she wasn't present for Sunday service. He accepted it because he had learned that an absent teen was far preferable than one in attendance who wished they could be anywhere else and wanted the world to know it.

He looked out over the congregation filling every pew. It was an easy change to get used to, and if he could keep it up the church's financial troubles would be old news. The editorial in the Sentinel had cooperated quite nicely in Ethan's plan to fill his church with attentive listeners. Everyone assumed that Ethan would proclaim, as urged by the Sentinel, the name of the demon threatening to defile their children. A Sentinel reporter was in the congregation, tape recorder at the ready. Jarrod Morris assumed his customary front-row seat—a sentinel in his own way.

On this Sunday Ethan abandoned his trademark 'fire and brimstone style'. He was subdued and pensive. It was the right approach because the congregation absorbed the weightiness of the subject matter that had so quickly become the focal point of their spiritual existence. Ethan had just finished leading them in a prayer for guidance. The choir was singing "A Mighty Fortress". The faithful were being prepared to gird themselves for battle. The mood was somber and inspiring. The hymn concluded and Ethan took the pulpit to start his sermon.

"Friends, we have prayed for guidance, and guidance we have been given," Ethan began soberly. "Once, we thought that our way was simple—to expose sinners in the midst of our children." 

A few 'yeas' and 'amens' rose from the midst of the seated crowd.

"God has altered our mission," Ethan continued. "We have His calling. We cannot refuse HIM." The assembly murmured as Ethan paused. "Will you take up God's mission with me?" he humbly asked. 

The congregation sang out in unison. "Yea! We're with you Ethan!" The organist played a four-beat chord for emphasis. The Reverend smiled at the answer, for his flock had committed themselves before learning the essential question. Ethan resumed his somber tack as the assembled worshipers quieted.

"I had intended to disclose today, the identity of the sinner in our High School. It is a sinner whose sin is so great that we can barely ponder the reality of it. Now, I cannot. Something of great import has happened. It is for us to shoulder the burden for all—not for only our church—but for all churches in this town." Ethan's words were softly spoken, but the commandment thundered in the hearts of the multitude. He held them in his hand with his sober oratory. 

He was Moses descending from the mountain. They sat in fear that Ethan would hurl down the sacred tablet and smash it to bits on the hardwood floor of their sanctuary. They dared not challenge him; they sat, frozen, in fear of a bolt of lightning and a clap of thunder that would signal their damnation if they even harbored a secret doubt. 

"Our School Board, elected by us, makes demands of me—and that means they demand of the Church—and God. They have seduced the newspaper to do their evil bidding. Shall I tell of their demand?

The crowd erupted. "Yes! Yes! Tell us, Ethan!"

Jarrod Morris, in the front row chuckled to himself as they begged Ethan to tell them, for all had read the editorial in the Sentinel. 

"They demand that I give up the name of the sinner to them. I will not do it. This Church will not knuckle under to the commands of government. It is the principle carried across the perilous ocean by the brave Pilgrims. It is why our great nation was founded." The church erupted once again as Ethan basked in their adulation. When he was satisfied, he quieted them by lifting up his arms.

"Bob Jackson believes that he is king," Ethan proclaimed. "We will not bow down to this self-proclaimed king. It is a principle of Separation of Church and State. I defy Bob Jackson and all his newspapers and court orders." Ethan paused while the crowd cheered him yet again. He raised his hands for quiet and then resumed.

"We demand that Bob Jackson give up the name," he continued. "Let it be printed in the Valley Sentinel." He pointed an outstretched finger at the reporter seated in the back pew. "Tell them that Miss Hardaway!" The assemblage erupted anew. All of those present in the church turned and focused gaping scowls at the lone young woman. They barred their teeth like angry Dobermans. She grabbed up her equipment and fled the church.

Ethan descended from the pulpit and the choir began singing "God Bless America." Ethan sang the loudest and the people joined in. 

When all the people were gone Jarrod Morris met Ethan as he came back inside the church. "What court orders were talking about, Ethan?" 

"I had a vision into the future," he answered.

"Ethan, you have to be careful when you talk like that. Some might not understand." Jarrod warned. 

"That is not important," Ethan replied. "It is only important that I understand my visions. I receive them from the Father."

Jarrod looked into Ethan's eyes and tried to read what was in his faraway look, but could not. "This whole thing has been a strain on us all," Jarrod consoled Ethan and himself. "I'll be glad when the Holidays are here."

*********** 

TO BE CONTINUED

*

Dear Readers,

Thanks again for reading. Please send me your comments or questions, either anonymously or by member name. Either way, you can use the Public Comments Section, or the private e-mail function that this website provides.

Best regards,

Autumn Writer



The Blameless Bystander Ch. 08



© Copyright 2006, 2007

Chapter 8—Interlude

On Sunday night James took Vicki to dinner at a restaurant in Corning. It was nice to relax out in the open, unconcerned about being observed. They spoke a little about James' worries over Reverend Chandler, but not much. Anything said would have expressed would be 'preaching to the choir'. 

They did make some preliminary plans for a weekend trip into the Wine Country at one of the Bed and Breakfast Inns that dot that area of the state. There were many to choose from between Seneca and Cayuga Lakes. School would be closed on Veteran's Day, so they thought they would take advantage of the long weekend.

It was an Italian restaurant, small and friendly with candles on the tables casting a glow on the otherwise darkened room. It was on the street that sidles up to the Chemung River, not far from the Museum of Glass. The veal and eggplant covered in sauce, splashed down by Chianti, was excellent, if filling. They were going to pass on dessert, but the owner persuaded them to split a cannoli. They had coffee with it.

"This dinner is going to go right to my hips," Vicki said in mock complaint. 

"I know what you mean," James replied. "I think that I just neutralized a week's worth of running—but it was worth it."

"At least you have a way to work it off!" she rebutted. She lowered her voice and demurely asked, "Would you like to help me work some of it off in my apartment tonight?" 

"I was afraid that you weren't going to ask," James replied.

"What time have you got, James?" Vicki asked.

"Exactly eight o'clock," he answered.

"It's still early," Vicki said. "Let's have another coffee."

"Let's go to your place and make some," replied James, only half joking.

"It's so early," Vicki insisted. "Let's just have another cup of coffee here."

"Cold feet?" asked James. "That's a new one for you."

"No, I don't have cold feet," Vicki whispered seductively. "I'm going to show you another one of my secrets—so now you can think about that a little longer." Her promise made James shift restlessly in his chair. "Order me an espresso while I powder my nose."

**************** 

The couple returned to Vicki's apartment at nine fifteen. James had been there earlier when he picked her up, and something looked different—like someone had been there while they were away.

"Something doesn't look quite right, Vicki," he warned. "I think that someone's been in here while we were gone."

Vicki looked quickly in the kitchen and around the living room. "Seems alright to me," she assured him.

"What about the bedroom?" James queried.

"You're always trying to get in my bedroom," she feigned a protest in a sultry tone. She embraced him, and waited for him to kiss her, which he did. James forgot his suspicions and let his senses fold into her. She peeled away his jacket and tossed it on a nearby chair. Next, she loosened his tie, and lifted the noose over his head. James started unbuttoning her blouse.

"Save that for later," she ordered, and then snaked her tongue between her lips and through his. Before he could respond she pulled away. She took him by the hand and led him to the closed bedroom door. "I thought this is where you wanted to go," she teased as he tried to analyze what was happening. James abandoned resistance, sensing something special in the opening stages.

Vicki put her hands on the doorknob. "Close your eyes," she whispered the instruction. James obeyed. He heard the door creak open and allowed her to pull him through the doorway. "Open them!" she bade him in her soft voice.

As James tried to adjust his vision to the darkness, he peered toward the bed. He barely made out a figure there, and wondered how Vicki had got on it so fast when he thought that she was standing beside him. The hiss of a striking match broke the silence. The glow of a newly lit candle pierced the room. It all happened too fast for James to realize that he was confused.

With the new light a new vision appeared, kneeling on the bed, the covers turned down. She wore a bright red negligee with little straps and a lacy bodice. It descended to the middle of her thighs. She remained motionless, allowing James to view her. Finally, her tongue wet her lips—two plump, red ribbons—and they broke the silence.

"You're a little overdressed, James," Abby said in her petite, laid-back voice. She looked back at him with that sweet smile. James gazed at her more closely, comparing what he saw in the flesh with what had been emblazoned in his mind's eye so many times. He tried to see through the thin, shiny material, but couldn't quite manage it. 

Her small, compact body was as he always envisioned it; yet, the newness of the revelation made it into a magnet for the eye. There was the lean, but soft limbs, the bare shoulders delicately sculpted. Her collarbone connected them with gracefully curved lines. The pale skin, which he knew would be so smooth to the touch, glowed in the candlelight. He could see nothing of her cleavage, just lacy suggestions begging discovery.

"But Bubba..." he stammered.

"Bubba's somewhere in Pennsylvania," Abby replied. "He got on his way after dinner," she added as she arose from the bed and walked toward James.

"That's why we needed that extra cup of coffee in the restaurant," Vicki explained, standing beside him. "I wanted this set up just right. I promised you another of my secrets. Tonight I'll show you one of my best."

"But..." a confused James blurted.

"Let's have some fun!" Vicki interrupted. "Don't worry about Bubba. I guarantee you— he won't mind a bit."

James wondered for a second how Vicki was able to speak for Bubba, but it seemed like it was permission enough; he was aroused and it was approval that he was hoping for, regardless how thin the veneer.

Just as he was wondering how—or what—to get started, Abby and Vicki surrounded him. "Just let us take over now, James," Vicki spoke into his ear from behind him. James liked the idea. He placidly delivered himself into the hands of the two women.

Abby unbuttoned James' shirt. Vicki reached around him, unbuckling his belt and undoing the hook in the waistband of his trousers. James gasped at the sensual overload, unable to keep track of the four hands working in unison. The women switched tasks. Vicki peeled off the shirt and lifted the tee shirt over his head. James raised his arms in cooperation without even thinking. Abby pushed the trousers over James' hips and they puddle at his feet on top of his shoes. Four hands grasped a corner each of his boxers and pulled them down, too. Abby was careful to lift the elastic waistband over his erection.

"Go ahead and stroke him a few times," Vicki said softly to her partner. Abby reached out with her open palm turned toward the ceiling. She gently grasped James' full length, holding it motionless for a moment. James moaned at the warmth and feminine softness encasing him. Abby slowly slid the skin back and forth. James was under her spell.

"He likes to have his balls caressed," Vicki instructed from behind. She had taken hold of his arms in a gentle, but firm way. Abby tenderly stroked the underside of his sack with undulating fingers. The pleasure brought forth some clear fluid.

Abby saw the glistening droplet hanging from the end of his penis. "Should I suck on him while I do it?" she asked.

"No, he can wait for that," Vicki answered. "Let's get him on the bed."

The women nudged him slightly and James shuffled backwards, his pants still around his ankles. When the backs of his knees touched the edge of the bed he allowed himself to fall onto the mattress. He slid to the center and lay down.

"You get his shoes and socks. I'll get his watch." Vicki removed the watch from James' wrist, while Abby pulled off his loafers along with his trousers and socks. To James, it seemed like they were taking care of a few details until he felt some sort of strap replace the watch band on his wrist, and then quickly the same on his ankle. He instinctively tried to pull his arm back, and found that except for a few inches of slack, he was unable to. The same was true of his ankle.

"Relax and go with it, James," Vicki instructed as she and Abby completed the second pair of restraints. Abby was quietly laughing. "We won't hurt you."

"Maybe just a little bit," Abby teased, which set the women laughing harder.

"No, we won't," Vicki insisted. "We won't if he's a good boy." The joke brought another round of titters from the two females.

James craned his neck to look at the straps holding his arms outstretched. They were attached to the headboard. They were loose enough and had enough slack in them so that he could be comfortable. They were made of leather, coated with a soft material. Those on his ankle were the same. Their purpose was not to hurt, just to restrain. His passive role in the play was clear enough. He went along without protest—as if protest was on his mind or if it would have come to anything.

Vicki and Abby stood on either side of the bed. Vicki was still fully clothed; Abby looked seductive in her negligee.

"He's truly a nice specimen," Abby observed. 

"Look how hard he is!" Vicki pointed out.

"It's standing straight up," Abby exclaimed in a cheerful, lilting voice. "It looks like a popsicle."

"It tastes nice, but I wouldn't call it a Popsicle. It's not nearly cold enough to be one," Vicki corrected jovially. Being ogled by the ladies made James eager to find out what was in store for him. He gave himself over to whatever their plan turned out to be.

The inspection of his naked body, bound as it was to the four corners of the bed, sent a shiver of excitement through James. The uncertainty of it all, his totality as receiver, made him nervous, yet eager. He saw the women eying him, completely exposed. James thought that they looked eager, too.

"Let's take off these clothes," Vicki directed. She met Abby at the foot of the bed as James watched them. They embraced and kissed, letting their lips linger sensuously. The moist tips of their tongues danced over each other and their parted lips. James was mesmerized; he watched as they taught him what women desired.

Abby worked the buttons of Vicki's blouse. She opened them one by one and then pushed the garment off her shoulders. Vicki stood motionless as Abby walked behind her and released the hook of her bra. She stepped to the front and gently pulled the straps from her shoulders and carefully peeled away the cups so that the large breasts weren't pinched or bounced. To James, the nipples looked like hard rosebuds. Abby bent her head down to capture them in her lips. James couldn't tell if she kissed or suckled them. Vicki moaned in pleasure.

Vicki's skirt was next; soon it lay on the floor. Abby knelt at Vicki's feet. She grasped the waistband of her panty hose and pulled them slowly off her hips and down her legs, and then off her feet as Vicki lifted them. 

Abby leaned forward and kissed Vicki's mound though her silk panties.

"You smell good, Vicki," she said softly. Then, she gently pulled them to the floor. 

James could see that Vicki was panting heavily. It was as excited as he had ever seen her. He noticed that she did smell good, as Abby said. He wondered how often the scene that he was witnessing played out. He hadn't even known that they were friends.

Abby stood. Her red negligee was the final garment. Vicki smoothed her hand down its length, pressing the outline of her svelte body within. James watched closely, wishing to see the first instant of the unveiling. Vicki toyed with the thin shoulder straps. Abby started breathing harder. Vicki paused. She glanced at James on the bed and then turned Abby slightly so that he could see the two of them in perfect profile. 

"Are you ready?" she asked Abby.

"Yes—yes! Please do it now!"

Vicki lifted the shoulder straps slightly, and then pulled them gently down Abby's thin arms. The negligee fell away, first to the small woman's waist, then to the floor. Abby stood nude, arms at her sides, her head turned up slightly. She faced Vicki. The aromas of the two women mixed as James appreciated their contrasting forms. He had seen Vicki before. He had only imagined Abby in the channels of imagination. Her tiny, heaving frame, only a few feet before him, was a vision that he would not forget.

Her nipples were hard and swollen. As they pushed themselves out of the small, round breasts they made the flesh appear even smaller and more petite than it really was. Abby's flexed her firm buttocks cheeks. She struck a perfect silhouette.

"Touch me! Please touch me!" Abby quivered as she begged Vicki. 

Vicki paused, delaying the answer. The pace of Abby's breath increased as she waited. "No, we'll save it for James." Abby remained motionless as Vicki went the few steps to her dresser and opened the top drawer. James couldn't quite make out what was in her hand. "Abby, can you help me with this?" They picked up a heavy leather-upholstered reclining chair and set it at the foot of the bed.

Vicki sank down into the leather with her feet on resting on the footboard not far from where James' restraints were secured. She adjusted the back of the chair so that she sat back in comfort, but could still see James as he watched her. 

Abby had taken a place at the side of the bed, breathing hard, waiting patiently.

"Go ahead and get on the bed with him," Vicki ordered. Abby set a knee on the mattress. James saw her wide-eyed anticipation. "Straddle him," Vicki whispered. James took a last look at Vicki and saw that she was holding a pink imitation penis, made of some sort of plastic. It was about eight inches long and true in detail. It appeared that it had heft and firmness, and also some flexibility. The knob at the end looked formidable. He watched Vicki raise it to her lips and wet it with her tongue.

The next instant Abby was straddling James. She was on her hands and knees, not yet in full contact. "Kiss him!" James heard Vicki order, and Abby's sweet lips encompassed his own. They were soft and pliable; gentle as they caressed him. He had thought of them often. It was his first contact. If the session had ended then, to James it would have been worthwhile—but it wasn't ending. 

"Tongue!" Vicki called out. Abby complied by adding her tiny, moist tongue to the kiss. It lasted over a minute. James felt it dance over his lips and own tongue. James wished that he could embrace her.

"Stop!" Vicki commanded. As quickly as the kiss began, it was at an end. James waited for the next instruction. There was a pause. Vicki could be heard moaning as she worked herself with the dildo. 

"Dip your nipple into his mouth!" James tasted Abby's flesh as she lowered her chest to his lips. He lashed the bud with his tongue. He heard Vicki moaning in the chair and Abby purring her pleasure above. "Switch nipples!" Vicki called out after a minute. Abby immediately obeyed. James struggled to swallow as much of her breast as he could.

"Move down!" Abby slid down between James' spread legs. She waited for her next direction. Vicki, preoccupied with her own throes, moaned louder, mixed with little squeals. Abby remained motionless. James struggled to look past her. Vicki was working the tool hard with the knob just inside her labia. Her eyes were open, staring at the pair on the bed.

"Take him in your mouth—just the crown" Vicki finally gasped. Abby slowly lowered her head to James' groin and formed her lips to encompass him. James anticipated the moist, warm pleasure.

"No—no!" Vicki abruptly sighed before Abby's lips made contact. "Sixty-nine!"

Abby's face broke into a slight smile. She pivoted immediately. James stared upward at her vulva, inches away. 

"Just the crown first!" Vicki repeated, struggling to issue the command through her own pleasure. "Lower yourself onto him." James took a deep breath as Abby's wet sex descended onto his face. He savored the musky aroma; as she came into reach he craned his neck up and thrust out his tongue to meet her. At the same time he felt her lips encircle his glans. As she worked him her body rubbed on his, she adjusted her position so that he would hit all her right places. It was hard for James to keep the cunnilingus going, restrained as he was and with Abby fellating him. The combined sounds of Vicki's and Abby's pleasure played a symphony.

"Deep throat!" Vicki shouted out in a husky, labored voice. Abby's response was immediate. James felt himself hit the back of her throat. The movement made Abby move forward so that her sex was no longer planted on James' mouth. He gasped for needed breath while he enjoyed the pleasure. 

"Don't let him come!" Vicki ordered after a minute or two. "Pull off—straddle him again. As Abby moved to the command, James saw Vicki tilt her hips up slightly and insert the pink implement fully into herself. "Ahhh!" she groaned in relief, as she finally filled herself. She began humping her hips up at the dildo, nearly forgetting her charges.

"Mount him—put him inside you—all the way—put him in hard!" she gasped loudly. Abby did as commanded. She impaled herself on James and he looked up and saw her mouth gape open, as though screaming out her pleasure with no sounds coming forth. With Vicki's desperate cries in the background she rose up and down on James. James found her rhythm and met her as she bottomed out on him. He felt himself deep inside her, enclosed by her flesh, bumping her back wall on each thrust. Abby began to lose control of her breathing as each thrust pounded the air from her tiny chest. She planted her palms on James' shoulders for stability. She cried out as pleasure overtook her. 

All at once, she sat upright, fully impaled, and tensed every muscle. She let out a high-pitched moan as her orgasm took control of her mind and body. James stopped his movements and watched her in amazement. He had never seen or felt anything like it, not even during his best sex with Vicki. Abby's climax crested and began to subside. James sensed that it had drained her. 

"Finish him!" Vicki rasped. Abby started moving up and down atop James again. James resumed his counter strokes. It wasn't long before he felt the approach of his own climax. When it finally came he raised his hips as much as he could and allowed the spasm to release his flow into her. Although he doubted it, he hoped that his own pleasure matched that which he saw her experience minutes before. Whether it did or not, he would never know, but he knew it was good. Abby collapsed on James chest, spent for the moment.

"Ahhh!" The sound of Vicki's own loud orgasm, nearly forgotten in her chair, broke James' train of thought.

Although he was, by this time, softened, James still rested inside Abby. The three remained motionless for a few minutes. Vicki was the first to finally get up.

"That was a good one!" she sighed as she began releasing James' restraints. Abby reluctantly lifted off him and helped undo the straps on the other side of the bed.

When they were done James kept his place in the center; each woman rested her head on one of his shoulders and their warm bodies against his side.

"Yes," James thought to himself, "That was a very good one." 

*************** 

The satisfied threesome lay together on Vicki's bed. They had the contentedness of relaxing bodies and memories playing back whatever had been best for them during the sex that they just had. James made a mental note to rationalize it all later. Most of what he had seen and done in the previous hour was new to him—even to his imagination. For the moment, all he could do is bask in the aftermath of the event.

For Vicki and Abby, there were no apparent second thoughts. As they leaned up against him, they made little mewing and cooing sounds as they reminded themselves of the pleasure and sensual release of it all.




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 08



Vicki's hand started stroking across James' chest, as it usually did as the afterglow started subsiding. James felt Abby's slender fingers testing him below, but he had not yet recovered.

"I can't remember when I've gotten off so well," Vicki commented.

"We owe it all to James," Abby replied. "He was so willing."

"Yes, he was perfect!" Vicki agreed.

James was happy to receive the praise, especially since it signaled a chance at a reprise. He wondered, however, why the women spoke to each other across his body as if he were not there.

Abby reached her hand across James' body and lovingly caressed Vicki's large breast as it lay peacefully on James' chest. At the same time she crossed her top leg over James' own and began to rub herself against his thigh. Vicki propped herself on her elbow. Her breast draped down from her chest. Abby kept hold of it. She rose up on her own elbow. The two women met, hovering above James in a passionate kiss. James watched as each tongue laved the lips of the other woman, and probed inside the lips for its counterpart. He was in awe as the prolonged kiss excited them—and him. He wondered when it would be his turn to share in the banquet.

"James," Vicki said softly, as she and Abby broke away from each other. "Abby and I need some time alone together. We'll see you in school tomorrow."

James was stunned at the dismissal, but it seemed definite, so he didn't appeal. 

"Don't be hurt, James." Abby consoled.

"That's right, Sugar. You were wonderful." Vicki added. "We'll get together again soon." The women parted a little further to give James some room to rise off the bed. As he put on his clothes the two remaining bed partners resumed their attentions to one another. A fleeting thought in James' mind was that he wished that he could sit in Vicki's leather chair and watch them, but his dismissal was final. He would have to wait for another chance on another day.

As he drove home in the darkness James pondered the events of the day in disbelief. Less than four hours ago he had been seated in an Italian restaurant, happy that he finally was able to take Vicki somewhere for a nice time together. At the end of the night he was reliving things that he had done and seen that he had never even thought possible. He was sure that there was a sin committed at some point that would need confessing, but at that moment he could only remind himself how much he had liked it. He wondered if perhaps the sin was in the unabashed enjoyment of it.

He would figure it out later, after he slept. Only a single added question nagged him, which he asked out loud. "How could Vicki say that wouldn't Bubba not mind a bit?"

************* 

Henry Thompson and James O'Toole sat side by side at the long table in the conference room. Shirley Jacobs sat opposite with a clenched jaw. She slouched in the fabric-covered swivel chair, arms folded across her chest.

"Shirley, James will be there whenever Raymond is at Tracey's. There doesn't seem to be a chance of anything bad happening," Henry stated calmly.

"Why can't we leave things as they are?" she repeated her question. 

"I told you already, Shirley, Superintendent's orders," Henry explained patiently.

"But why?" she insisted. 

"Just a precaution. It just doesn't look right for a young boy to be..." Henry started to explain, but Shirley interrupted him.

"It's because of what that preacher said in the paper!" Shirley exclaimed loudly. "I've known it all along. The one he's talking about is Mr. O'Toole! I just wanted you to say it to me—but you didn't have the nerve. You think that folks like me don't read the paper—that we can't figure things out. You've got it all wrong!"

Henry sighed. "Nothing's been proven, Shirley. It's very unfair..."

"Don't you think that I know that?" she replied angrily. "Raymond told me that everything is alright. He likes Mr. O'Toole. I believe Raymond."

"Raymond has a lot of potential," James butted in. "He could go far. He needs the Math that I'm teaching him. When he goes away next year all of his classmates will have it. We can't let him start out behind the others."

"I know..." Shirley sobbed, although her arms remained folded across her chest. 

"Why are you and Tracey at odds with one another?" Henry asked.

Shirley only sobbed harder and shook her head.

"Why don't you tell us, Shirley? Maybe we can help," Henry probed again.

Shirley's eyes opened wide. She sat forward, barring her teeth. "Because she called me 'trailer trash'!" she spat out angrily. "More than once! She shoved her expensive car and jewels in my face, too. She told my husband, Melvin, that I'm a slob."

"Maybe you could make up with Tracey," Henry interrupted.

Shirley wasn't finished. "Maybe she should try and not be a slob with seven kids!" she shouted in a rage. She sat back in her chair, looking away from the men, wiping away a tear that descended down her cheek. Her lower lip jutted out, defiantly. She exploded again. "And, I can tell you how she got all those fine things. I should tell that to Melvin." 

"It's for Raymond," James reminded her. "Maybe you could sacrifice this one thing."

"Why should I sacrifice? I'm always the one to sacrifice," she hissed through clenched teeth, staring into the men with bloodshot eyes.

"Mr. O'Toole's sacrificing his tutor's fees," Henry reminded her.

"Good for him!" Shirley spat out, recrossing her arms over her chest, staring at the floor. "That's none of my business!"

Henry hung his head, unable to respond. James paused, allowing the anger hanging in the air to disperse. When he answered his voice was calm and kind. 

"Because he's your son, Shirley, and you love him. How much have you sacrificed already? It's just one more time, and this will mean a lot."

Henry was startled. He jerked his head around and stared at James with his jaw hung open. Shirley hung her head, not saying a word. She sobbed once, then dabbed her eyes with a tissue.

"I could do it at your trailer if you can keep the kids quiet for an hour." James offered the mock ultimatum.

A thin smile broke over Shirley's face. "Alright, you convinced me," she said. "I've got no answer for that one." 

After the meeting, Henry and James were walking down the hallway to Nathan's office to let him know Shirley's decision. "You're quite a man, James. It's a good thing that you were there."

"Forget it, Henry." 

"How did you know to say that—about the sacrifice and everything?"

"Because I knew that it was true," James replied. "You did, too. I just said it before you had a chance to."

************ 

"Ethan Chandler is a respected leader in this community, Miss Hardaway," Jarrod Morris said as he leaned back in his leather office chair. He eyed the pretty, young Valley Sentinel reporter who had come to his office seeking the Mayor's slant on the Town's raging controversy. 

"Then you agree with his stand about pedophiles teaching in Bates Schools," she leaned forward to make sure that her words were captured on the portable tape recorder that she had set on Jarrod's desk at the outset of the interview. She turned the head of the microphone to put it the best angle to capture the Mayor's response. She really wished that he wouldn't lean away from the device like he was, but she couldn't find the words—no, couldn't find the nerve—to make him sit up straight so that he could be heard properly.

"I certainly agree that if pedophiles are in the school it would be a horrible situation, and if they are there, they have to be found out," the Mayor replied.

"But the question, Mayor..." the young woman summoned her courage to contradict the intimidating older man, "...the question is, do you agree..."

"As Mayor, I cannot have an opinion on that, Miss Hardaway," Jarrod calmly interrupted. "I do agree with the Reverend on the Separation of Church and State."

"But..." she started to argue.

"It's obvious, don't you think?" he interrupted again.

"You're a member of that Church. I saw you there on Sunday," she took an alternative tack. "What about..."

"Freedom of Religion is one of my most cherished beliefs, Miss Hardaway." 

The exchange left the young reporter in confusion. Jarrod sensed the consternation and an opening.

"As I was saying, Ethan Chandler is one of the most respected religious leaders in this community. Let me tell you in what condition he found the First Baptist Church when he came here in 1982. By the way, did I tell you how the First Baptist Church got its name? Well, in 1846..."

Jarrod continued with his soliloquy until he saw the young woman's eyes glazing over. As she realized that she had lost track of what Jarrod had said she shook slightly as she returned to being fully awake. She decided to give a last try at gaining some useful information.

"What do you say about the School District refusing to...?" 

Jarrod interrupted again. "Bob Jackson is a much-respected leader of this community. Let me tell you how Bob found the schools when he first came to Bates in..." 

She lost conscious track of the words again. She was resigned that nothing important would come of the interview and that the most important thing she could do at that moment was to save the batteries in her recorder. 

"You've been most kind to grant me this interview, Mayor Morris," she said politely, finding an opportunity to cut in between breaths as the Mayor paused in his long oration. She turned the recorder off and began to pack up her things.

"I haven't had the opportunity to meet you before, Miss Hardaway," the Mayor probed as soon as he knew he was off the record. "How long have you been with the Sentinel?"

"About two months," she answered. "It's a part-time job. We just moved here. My husband just became the Assistant Quality Control Manager at the Cheese Factory."

"Then it's Mrs. Hardaway," Jarrod interjected. "You should have corrected me." The petite, young woman blushed as Jarrod made her feel guilty for oversight.

"Just out of college?" Jarrod asked. The pretty strawberry blonde nodded.

"A young couple just starting out always needs extra money," Jarrod proclaimed the axiom as she rose to leave the office. "Have you ever thought about trying Insurance Sales on the side?" he asked as she reached for the doorknob.

"Think about it!" he added with a grin as she turned and exited the office.

**************** 

"Peggy, it's going to be hard to write much of a story with what you've got here." It was Roger Blair, Editor and Publisher of The Valley Sentinel, chastising his cub reporter over the interview tape she brought back to the office. "You let Jarrod run you around the maypole, I would say," he continued.

"I know, Mr. Blair. I knew it while it was happening. I just didn't know how to stop it."

"You've got to make them understand that it's in their interest to come clean with you," her mentor answered. He saw her nodding with that empty look in her eyes that made him know that her nod was only for courtesy and saving face.

Roger Blair had lived his whole life in the Southern Tier corridor that began with Dansville in the north and ended in Corning in the south. On the east were the Bristol Hills and the Keuka Lake. His newspaper office was in Hornell, the County Seat which bounded the area on the west. He was a lifelong newspaper man, having taken over for his father who was a lifelong newspaper man. He knew the people. 

"What I mean is that if Morris had understood that it might be possible..." he checked his pupil's expression to make certain that she was keeping up, "...if he thought that your take on the story had him included in a way he wouldn't like, he might open up to make sure that he got his two cents in."

Although the years were catching up to Roger, he still gave an impression that bade people pay attention to what he had to say. He stood tall, pushing six-four. His frame was gaunt, so he looked even taller. Some likened his nose to the beak of a hawk, others to a can opener. Light reflected from his bald pate, and sometimes he propped his reading glasses on it. He did that when he thought he needed to learn something from someone else. When he thought that a listener should take lessons from him, he would leave the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and peer over them at his target. He was in the later posture as he spoke to his young subordinate. There was really a lot of kindness in the man. A reporter needing to learn a hard lesson or two would realize it while reflecting on the session a few weeks later. 

"What interest has Morris got in this whole thing?" he quizzed the young woman.

"He's a member of Ethan Chandler's Church," she answered.

"What else?" Roger demanded. Peggy shrugged. "Who's on the Church Board?" he hinted to her. She gave another shrug. "He is, for one!" the older man said pointedly. 

"I didn't know that," Peggy answered meekly. 

"You should have found it out!" Roger answered mercilessly. "He's also the Mayor of Bates and owns the biggest insurance agency around. That means that he's got position, power and money to protect. He stonewalled you because he didn't want you getting close. Maybe he's just cautious—maybe not," he speculated. "This won't fully play out until Jarrod's part in this is known."

"I thought that the people in the church were going to tear me apart on Sunday!" Peggy confessed, changing the subject.

"That's what they wanted you to think, but they wouldn't have. People like to get up in arms about things, but when you put' em to the test there's basic decency in most folks," Roger admonished. "Well, go write your story," he ordered.

"I thought that you said..." Peggy began, but Roger held up his hand to silence her.

"Use what you have. Just write it so that it ties Jarrod to Ethan Chandler. Get a file photo of Jarrod and put it with the story."

"Whew!" she exclaimed. "This is getting complicated."

"A little different from writing for the college gazette, is it?" Roger asked, chuckling. ********** 

James went through the motions of getting Tracey's address from Henry. Although he knew the exact house where she lived, he didn't want to let on that he had been noticing her, even at a distance. He arrived at her small ranch-style house right on time at four. Raymond was already there and let him in the front door. As James walked into the living room he saw Tracey sitting on a sofa.

"Hello, I'm James O'Toole."

"I know," she answered blandly. "I've seen you around school." She rose and extended her hand. James grasped it gently. "I saw you at Nathan's party, too," she added.

James glanced over to the kitchen table and saw Raymond's books already opened on it. "It's nice of you to allow us to use your house."

"Think nothing of it," she answered, in a voice that lacked conviction. "I'll just read here in the living room while you two work at the table."

To James, the pieces were falling into place. The bronzed skin, high cheekbones, and angular features told of her Native American blood. The blonde hair was the disguise. As beautiful as Tracey was, James pictured her with her natural raven color and liked it better. 

"I've seen you jogging around the neighborhood a few times," James blurted out, hoping perhaps, for an invitation.

"Yes, I saw you, too," she replied, without looking up from her magazine. 

James realized that he would have more luck introducing integrals to Raymond than in making time with Tracey, so he sat at the table and started the lesson.

Forty-five minutes later it was clear that Raymond was well on his way to mastering the rudiments of integration. 

"I gave you some problems for next time," James told his student. "Be sure to read the explanations; don't just jump right to the problems. You've got to understand why you're doing it." 

"Okay," Raymond conceded, in a way that was a virtual admission that he was prone to jump right to the exercises.

"How are you doing in the rest of your courses?" James inquired. "They are important, too." 

"I like Physics the best; they're all fine," he answered. "I was wondering...." He started asking and then hesitated.

"What is it, Raymond?"

"I've applied to Cornell, Mellon and Buffalo. I don't know where I want to go," Raymond asked.

"You should be asking Mr. Thompson," James replied.

"I did," Raymond said. "He said that I could ask you if I wanted to."

"I guess that would depend on what kind of engineering you want to study and where you want to live and work when you're done with college." James answered. "I have a friend who is an Engineering Manager at a company in Rochester. I could arrange for him to talk with you," James offered. 

"That would be great!" Raymond shouted. He grinned and his eyes lit up. 

"Raymond, I just saw your mother pull into the driveway," Tracey called out from the living room. Teacher and pupil gathered their books together to prepare to go home. 

They walked out the front door of the house as Shirley opened her car door. She handed James his customary plate of cookies. "I ran out of chocolate chips," he apologized. "I had to use raisins instead."

"Mrs. Jacobs, your cookies would be excellent if you used thumb tacks instead of chocolate chips," James quipped. Shirley was confused and gave James a funny look.

"He means that your cookies are always good no matter what, Ma," Raymond explained. "That's right; I appreciate them very much," James corrected himself, looking a little embarrassed. Shirley smiled slightly, acknowledging the praise. 

Shirley looked quite different than usual. She was wearing a pleated skirt with the red on black Black Stewart Tartan and a coordinating red sweater. Rather than her sneakers, she wore black hose and shoes. Her hair had obviously been tamed a few minutes earlier. 

"Hello, Shirley," came Tracey's voice from behind them. "I like your skirt." It wouldn't have been Tracey's choice of style. She was putting her best foot forward. 

"Thanks," Shirley replied, with a cautious look in her eye. "Melvin bought it for me last Christmas."

The two women paused, unsure what to say next. Shirley reached into the car.

"I made some cookies for you this afternoon," she blurted out and then reached into her car to scoop up her currency. "It's for letting Raymond use your house." She held the plate in outstretched arms and walked a few steps forward. Tracy took two steps in Shirley's direction to close the gap.

"I'll put some coffee on and we'll have some!" Tracey offered.

No—got to get going. I've got to get the kids' dinner," Shirley retreated.

"Maybe next time," Tracey replied. She went back into her house. Raymond and Shirley packed themselves into the car and backed out of the driveway. 

As night fell James walked the short distance to his rooming house. He felt good. The brisk night air was refreshing, and there were other reasons, too.

******************** 

It had been a banner week for James. It began at Vicki's where Abby joined them for—he wasn't sure what—but he knew he had enjoyed it. He saw a different side of Vicki that he couldn't quite decipher. He had known from the start that there was a hard shell surrounding her core. He thought that he had seen it opened up just slightly once or twice. Perhaps, knowing the new side was the key.

He was most happy in what he accomplished with Raymond, and his mother. He did something good, he thought; or maybe he was just a catalyst that enabled Shirley's goodness to come out. Either way, he had shucked away his role as bystander. He took action, gained little for himself, and had been confident of his course in the doing of it. Thinking again, he reckoned that his gains were greater than he originally calculated. 

The biggest riddle was Abby. He had craved her since the first day; a fact he freely acknowledged. He had thought that his own private world would be big enough, and real enough, to capture her essence—for the purpose for which he needed it. For a time, it had sufficed. It allowed him self-denial, as after he followed her home from the supermarket. Self-denial was at the heart of all he had been taught, at the seminary, and in his early years when nuns gave the children tiny mite-boxes to fill with coins for the poor. Self-denial built strength against all the near occasions of sin—so he was taught and once believed. Yet, with the taste of Abby on his tongue, he felt a gnawing hunger. 




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 08



Why, then, had he given in at Vicki's on Sunday night? One reason was that he was tied up, nude, on Vicki's bed. Vicki had assured him that 'Bubba didn't mind', as if he believed it. Vicki was giving the orders—it wasn't his fault. 

He stopped kidding himself. "I did it because I wanted to; because I couldn't help myself. It was wrong and I did it anyway. I should be sorry, but I'm not!" he said to himself as he turned into the driveway of his rooming house. "I just can't be sorry," he repeated. "...or at least sorry enough."

And so James found himself lurking around the Principal's office on Friday afternoon. He waited until he saw Nathan leave for the day. Abby sat at her desk. He knew Bubba wasn't due in until Saturday night.

"James, I haven't seen you since Sunday night," Abby greeted him in her lilting voice and smile as he approached her desk. "Wasn't that a wonderful evening?"

James didn't answer; he just hovered over her.

"Nathan's gone for the day," she informed him in a voice that told James that she knew that he really wasn't there to see the Principal. She said no more, just sat placidly, looking up at him; waiting for him.

"I saw him leave," James stammered. He paused, creating an uncomfortable silence. He knew he had to come out with it, couldn't avoid it. He had come too far; he felt flushed as the gates of hell swung open.

"I just wanted to ask..." he stopped short, looking for the right words. "Are your appliances alright?"

"Why, I think so, James," she answered and gave him that smile as she tortured him. "I think that they're all fine. Thank you for asking. Were you hoping to fix them?"

"Well, I was thinking..." James became lost for words again. He opened his mouth to speak, unsure what words would sally forth; Abby rescued him.

"Maybe you think too much, James. If you're suggesting that you would like to come to my house for sex tonight, come around at eight."

James nearly fainted as the deal was struck. He managed to stay on his feet in front of her desk.

"Is that what you wanted to ask, James?" 

He nodded his head in a stuttered yes.

"Shall it be eight, then?" James didn't answer and she didn't insist on one. She went back to her typing and James about faced and marched from the office.

*********** 

When James was a priest, the Order practiced self-denial during the season of Lent. They led an austere life all during the year. Lent was special. They would deny themselves all but subsistence rations of food. Water was rationed to that which a man needed to live. There would be no drinking, or smoking. Television, radio and music, except at liturgy, were off limits. Recreation of all sorts halted. A blanket was removed from each bed. Rising time was moved from five to four in the morning. All the while they would carry out their duties as teachers, or as assigned to them by Father Brendan. All of them did it, young and old suffering silently, as long as they were fit enough to stand the forty days' rigor. It made them happy because of the shared suffering with one another, and the martyrs.

On Holy Saturday night they would confess—clean their souls. On Easter Sunday morning, there was Mass and Communion. After that, they put all but necessary work aside. In the afternoon they would celebrate the breaking of their Lenten penance with a big dinner that all the priests and brothers enjoyed together. Spirits would always be high with the communal satiation of body and soul. 

Following one such occasion Jamie was in his cell, sitting at his desk, reading his vespers, allowing his dinner to settle before going retiring for the night. His door was open, signaling his availability for conversation with anyone so inclined. Father Brendan walked in and sat in the chair beside Jamie's desk. 

"Have ye had eno' o' self-denial fer the time bein', Jamie?"

"I must admit, Father, that ham dinner tasted pretty good," Jamie acknowledged with a smile.

"Aye, it did!" the old priest agreed. "A right and true banquet it was, all provided t'us by Himself," he said as he pointed and cast his eyes upward. 

He leaned forward, his elbows propped on Jamie's desk. Jamie felt the old eyes bore into him from behind the thick lenses. "Why do we do it?" he demanded through his clenched jaw, as if angry. "Why do we put 'erselves through dis heartless mis'ry each and ev'ry year—and we'll do it 'til we die, I assure ye." He ceased speaking and kept staring at Jamie, letting him know that he insisted on an answer.

"To remind ourselves of the suffering of Christ on the..."

"Tish—Tosh!" The old man dismissed Jamie's memorized answer with the mild oath and a violent wave of the hands. "Come, Lad! I'll have more than catechism from ye, if ye please."

"Honestly, Father, that is truly why I thought we did it, and to share the suffering with the brethren of our Order." Jamie answered truthfully.

"Aye, Jamie! Well enough ye know it, I can see," his mentor conceded. "But ye've not got the truth of it, boy." He paused, waiting for Jamie to probe further.

"Tell me, Father, then why?"

Father Brendan answered as he rose and gave Jamie a brotherly slap on the back of his shoulder, "We do it fer the enjoyment of dat ham dinner at the end of it all." He turned and left Jamie to his vespers.

*********** 

TO BE CONTINUED...

Dear Readers,

Thanks for reading. If you have comments or questions, why not drop me a line? you can do so anonymously, if you prefer. If you give me an address to reply to, I'll be sure and answer.

Good reading and best regards,

Autumn Writer  



The Blameless Bystander Ch. 09



Chapter 9 — Out With It!

At seven-thirty James was driving his car to Abby's house. He was very early, and embarrassed to be so eager, like a schoolboy on a first date; yet there he was, unable to contain his energy in his tiny apartment. As he got closer, he realized just how early he was and detoured away from Abby's house in order to use up some time. 

As he drove his circuitous route he purged all the conscience pangs and second thoughts from his mind. The adultery was Abby's responsibility, he reasoned. "Am I my brother's keeper?" he said out loud in the car. He snickered as he shook his head 'no'. He had trouble enough being his own keeper, and if could do that, it would be enough. It was an attitude that didn't set quite right, but it would do for the next twelve hours or so.

As he pulled into Abby's driveway he saw her and Bubba's cars parked on the side loop usually reserved for the semi. James was about to park his car with the others when he saw a light in the garage come on and the overhead door slowly going up. No one was lifting the door by hand, so it had to be Abby operating it from inside the house. He took the hint and pulled into the garage. As soon as he turned off the engine the door started closing on its own.

James got out of the car and stood in the silent garage. Aside from the overhead door, there was only a single exit, a doorway that he presumed led to the house. He stood waiting for a short time, expecting Abby to open the door and greet him. When she didn't appear he entered on his own.

The door in the garage opened to an anteroom, a passageway to the main part of the house. Beyond that was another door leading to the kitchen. James tested the doorknob and found that it was open. He decided that he would just keep opening doors until he found her. 

The kitchen was dark. Only the lights from the living room beyond served to light his way. James stepped carefully to the source of the light. There, he found his first clue. Hanging from the baluster he found Abby's skirt. Her blouse lay on the fifth step. James caught on to the game. 

A pair of pantyhose beckoned him at the top of the stirs. The little, empty feet hung over the final stair riser to ensure that he wouldn't miss it. James gathered up the wayward clothing. As he topped the stairs he found a discarded bra, signaling a turn to the left toward a dimly lit area. He looked to the right before proceeding. It was dark, but he could barely make out a large room and bedroom furniture. He obediently went left. He picked up the final article, Abby's panties at the open doorway of a small bedroom. 

"I see that you've been able to follow my trail of breadcrumbs, James." 

He stood in the doorway and found her lying in bed, the covers pulled up to her neck. Her head rested on two pillows, propped up slightly. She lay still, not moving, serene, with a small light casting shadows from a nightstand next to the bed. Her arms lay at her sides outside the blanket. He could see her shoulders peeping out from the top of the blankets, too. They were bare, showing no signs of sleeves or straps. James assumed that she lay nude underneath her sheath, but nothing about Abby was ever for sure. 

"I picked up some things for the 'Lost and Found'," he quipped..

"Just set them down in a pile, James, and add your own to it." Abby was finished with repartee.

James kicked off his loafers and then bent to remove is socks. He unbuttoned his shirt. It joined Abby's clothes in a growing pile. Abby watched him without moving, her expression unchanging. It was James' Rite of Passage, dues he had to pay for his initiation to her private club. Finally only his boxers remained.

"Stop!" she called out firmly, but softly. "Let me!" She threw off the bedcovers, exposing her nude body. Of course, James had seen it before, but this seemed different. It was because it was only the two of them. During the threesome with Vicki, James saw Abby's nude body as an alluring sight to behold. It was smooth and lithe, offered to his eyes as a delicious cup to drink. 

As they formed a twosome she was a palette—he the artist. He wanted to dab brushfuls of her and work them onto the waiting canvass. He was stepping beyond his apprentice role. He hoped that Abby felt so, too, because he wouldn't mind if she dabbed some of his pigments to mix with hers.

Abby didn't hesitate to lower his shorts and expose him completely. She reached a hand down to his erection and ran her fingers gently along the whole length of the underside. She repeated it, time after time. Every now and again, she broke the rhythm, cupping his scrotum or running the tip of her index finger lightly over the top of the glans.

For James, the pleasure was so intense that he nearly forgot to respond. When he did he reached his hands to her tiny breasts, easily covering them. He tenderly rubbed his hands over the nipples. He kept trying new pressures and directions until she began to purr her approving delight. 

At long last Abby detected some viscous fluid leaking from him. Without saying a word she dropped to her knees. Her tongue extended from between her lips as she captured the clear drops. She didn't swallow it right away. She allowed it to roll about on her tongue in order to detect every possible taste. Finally, she tilted her head up at James. She closed her eyes and smiled. The movement of the muscles of her slender throat told him that she was swallowing. The smile said that she was glad.

"This time we won't stop," she told him as she opened her eyes. James flexed his buttocks forward as she buried him in her mouth. She took on the artist's role, swallowing him at one moment, nibbling the glans the next. She used her hands to caress and ease him and to urge his orgasm forward. From time to time she would glance up at him to capture his expression. James didn't see her; he was lost in his sensations. When she decided that it was time for him to do so, he let go and she swallowed all that could send to her. When she had taken all his semen and his penis softened, she stayed on her knees, hugging her face to his groin.

James tugged slightly at her arm as a signal to stand. It was only then that they noticed their difference in height. He bent to kiss her; he tasted himself and didn't care. "Abby, you were wonderful. Now, it's your turn." He lifted her easily, holding her in the cradle of his arms and set her on the edge of the bed facing him. Just as Vicki taught him, he had her lie back, draping her spread legs over his shoulders.

He sent his tongue straight into her. It caused her to cry out and push back against his face. He withdrew his tongue and licked the inside of the labia. He probed all around until he found the spot that brought the strongest response. His face was drenched in her essence. She held it against her with her hands. He reached up with his and clutched her breasts. He squeezed the nipples between his thumb and fingertip while lashing her clitoris with his tongue. Abby cried out louder. James increased the pressure on her nipples just slightly and sucked her bud between his lips. It was enough to bring her to the crest. James felt her shudder, then cry out. She shuddered again and pressed herself against his face harder. At last she let out a great sigh and relaxed. A few seconds later she slid to the center of the bed and James climbed on next to her.

"James, that was even better than Sunday night!" she exclaimed, already recovering her energy. "Just think—it was just a warm-up!" She reached down to James' groin to test his hardness. He began to stir. She threw a leg over his thigh. James reached his long arm to her molded bottom and pressed her a little harder against his thigh. He felt her wetness on his leg as she started a rocking motion of her pelvis. She wrapped her hand around him. He pushed back. Soon, he was erected again.

By the time he rehardened, Abby was excited again. Perhaps, she never ceased being in the state of arousal. When she judged him hard enough she nudged him slightly as she rolled to her back. James straddled her and bent his head to suck one of her nipples. She however, pulled him forward with her tentacle fingers that she had buried in the flesh of his buttocks. He took the hint and moved forward. Abby wrapped her legs around his. He probed for a second, found her opening and pushed into her. He looked down at her briefly, and then thrust in all the way. Abby thrust back as hard as she could.

For a while, James led the way. He bore into Abby with long, decisive strokes. Abby, below, let him know that she enjoyed the pounding from her gasps and moans. With each thrust he sensed that her pleasure gradually transformed from a contented filling to a desperate climb to the top of a peak.

After a little while Abby whispered to him, "Hold still! Let me take over." James propped himself on his elbows and knees to allow Abby some freedom of motion underneath him. He felt her tighten the grip of her vagina and the wrap of her legs around his hips.

Abby thrust up as James held still. She adjusted her position so that James made contact with her in just the right places. To James, it appeared that Abby was taking care of her own climax, leaving him for later. Rather than feel neglected, he savored the process, as he was allowed to observe her final ascent. 

With each new thrust Abby cried out louder, in a high pitched voice. She held her mound against him a little harder at each pass. As James' confidence grew, he found himself better able to absorb pleasure while holding off ejaculation. As he felt her approaching her moment he paid closer attention. When he thought that she was on her final thrust he pressed back powerfully into her as she rose up. 

He was correct in his timing. She collapsed under him. "Oh, James!" she shouted out. James kept himself pressed into her to the hilt, felt her tense and tighten around him, enjoying her climax that he brought to her. He was nearly ready, himself. He thrust a few times. As she was about to begin her decent from orgasm, his organ expanded, and then let go of its semen as he sent his flood inside her. She cried anew as an afterwave of release crested over her as she felt his release.

*********** 

They were lying nude in the bed in the aftermath of sex. 

"We'll do it again later," Abby announced as she peeled back the covers. "I'm going to freshen up in the master bath. There's a guest bathroom next door if you want to use it." She walked naked out of the bedroom and turned right and walked down the hallway. 

James lay back, relaxing, before rising to wash up. As he exited the bathroom she saw Abby walking toward him, this time wearing a robe. "I'll be right back," she assured him as she descended down the stairs.

A few minutes later she returned carrying a tray with two snifters of brandy. She set the tray on the night stand and then shed her robe before handing a brandy to James and rejoining him on the bed.

"You're wondering why we're using the guestroom," she said after taking a sip of the tawny-colored drink. "That other room is reserved for Bubba and me." James said nothing, just sipped his brandy, and listened. 

"You have to understand," she went on to explain. "I love Bubba. I love sex, too—I love all kinds of sex. It's separate. When Bubba's here, I'm his and no one else's. But Bubba's gone a lot."

"Does he know?" James asked.

"When he comes home tomorrow night I'll be wrapped around him. I won't let him think about it or anything else," she answered obliquely. "I'll be thinking about him when he's inside me—I won't be thinking of you," she warned. "There isn't always someone available like you," she explained. "I have to take advantage of it. We can have our own time. You're very good, James, and we have a lot more to uncover." James didn't answer, tried to understand what she told him. He was sure that Abby was a great partner for sex. Beyond that, he was unsure of much else. It wasn't the time for wondering about such things. He told himself to figure it out later.

Abby dipped her finger into her brandy and placed a sticky droplet on each newly stiffened nipple. "Lick them clean!" James wondered if she issued a plea or command. He didn't ponder that question very long, either. 

*********** 

The clock mounted on the classroom wall told the students that the class period was ticking down its final moments. James didn't have to look at the clock. He read the telltale signs of students gathering up books, preparing to bolt to the cafeteria.

"Becky Chandler, I need to see you before you go to lunch," James called out, just in the nick of time as the bell rang just after he said it.

As the students filed out of the classroom Becky remained at her desk. She looked particularly dour as she stared out the window. James closed the door and took a seat at the desk next to hers and turned it so that it faced her. That didn't help because Becky wouldn't turn her face away from the window.

"Becky, you missed your second tutoring session in a row yesterday," James began. "I waited an extra fifteen minutes, but you didn't show." Becky shrugged her shoulders—not the response that James was hoping for. He decided to press on. "Why didn't you show up?" 

James thought that it had to do with her father's thinly-veiled attacks on him. He'd been wondering if Becky realized that he was his target. He understood that she might be embarrassed. If she would give him a chance, he would tell her that he wouldn't hold her father's actions against her. He tried to find a way to break through. "Becky, this conversation is going in only one direction."

"What does it matter?" she mused, still not turning to face him. 

"What does it matter?" James asked back incredulously. "You were doing so well! I'm sure that you were headed for at least a C, probably a B in this course. In September you thought that you couldn't pass. Now you're sure to get your diploma in June—if you stick with the program."

"I doubt if I'll be here in June," Becky answered back, and James noticed her eyes welling with tears.

James knew the girl well enough to see that more was troubling her than a problematic father. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "Care to tell me why?"

Becky sobbed a few times. She turned to James and blurted out, "Because I'm pregnant, that's why!"

James was momentarily stunned. His experience was in teaching boys, so he hadn't anticipated Becky's announcement. He gathered himself, realizing how hard it was for her to confide it to him, hoping to know what to do.

"Are you quite sure about this?" he asked.

"I missed my period," she explained.

"There can be other reasons why that can happen," James reasoned. "Have you ...?"

"I'm pretty sure," she interrupted. "I know when it happened, too."

"Have you spoken with your parents?" James asked.

Becky rolled her eyes. "I just can't!" she sobbed.

"Give them a chance, Becky. They won't be happy about it, but they'll always be your parents. They'll help you. You're going to need them" 

Becky shook her head. "What if I tell them and I'm not pregnant?" she resorted to wishful thinking.

"Your Guidance Counselor?" James suggested hopefully. She shook her head.

"You're going to need medical attention before too long, Becky," James reminded her.

"I know that!" she protested through her tears. "I just don't know what to do."

"At least, buy one of those pregnancy testing kits in the drugstore. You've got to find out for sure".

"Oh, no! I couldn't do that," she pleaded. "Everyone in town knows me. They would tell my parents!"

"The School Nurse..." James thought out loud.

"No!" she cut him off.

"What about the young man?" James asked. Becky shook her head. "Don't tell me who it is—I think that I know, anyway," he sighed.

"Mr. O'Toole, the only person that I trust is you!" she blurted out.

"Me?" cried James incredulously. Becky nodded, staring at the floor.

James let out a big sigh. "Becky, if I buy you a kit during the lunch hour do you promise to use it, and if you test out positive will you tell your mother and father?" he demanded.

Yes!" she sobbed.

"Come back at three this afternoon and I'll have it for you." 

*********** 

At three that afternoon Becky sheepishly entered James' classroom. He handed her a small, brown paper bag with the drugstore logo emblazoned on it.

"Here you are," he said, handing the bag to her. "I'm not sure how they work. I know that there are supplies for two tests in the box. Use them both to make sure. Space them out by at least a few hours. Find somewhere private. If it's bad news you won't want the whole world to find out at the same time that you do."

"Thanks, Mr. O'Toole," Becky mumbled and took the bag from him. She turned and disappeared out the door.

Later, at five o'clock, Becky was waiting for Brad outside the gym door as football practice was letting out. He was with Donny Harmon and several other players. They were talking about the upcoming playoff game against Livonia. 

"Brad, I have to talk to you," she called out as the group walked by. Brad hadn't seen her standing off to the side. He stopped walking and put his hands on his hips. "Can it wait, Becky? I'm a little tied up here." 

"No Brad, it's important," she insisted. The young athlete heaved a big sigh. "I'll catch up with you guys later," he said to the group. They walked on and he ambled to where Becky was standing.

"Brad, I have to tell you something," she said, waiting for Brad to put his arm around her, claiming her, like he always did. It was funny that this time he didn't. She thought that it was because he was aggravated that she had called him away from his friends, but she had too much on her mind to worry about it at that moment. 

"I have something to talk to you about, too, Becky," Brad said as he got close to her. Becky started to speak but Brad interrupted her before she could utter a word. "Becky, I think that it would be better if we were just friends," Brad announced. "I think that we should see other people."

"Why, Brad?" she blurted out in shock. "I thought that you loved me!"

"I do, Becky—as a friend. It's just that I want to try...new experiences," he offered the euphemistic explanation.

"Brad, I gave you... everything!" she pleaded.

"Now, Becky! That's blackmail," he accused her. "I'm going to pretend that I didn't hear it."

"Here's something that you better not pretend that you didn't hear," she retorted angrily. "I'm pregnant! How do you like that?"

Brad was taken aback as the 'p' word hit the air. He quickly recovered. "What would that mean to me?" he asked glibly.

Becky's eyes widened. Anger, fear and disbelief battled in her. "It's your baby, too!" she blurted out. 

"How do I know that?" he asked, keeping his cool.

"It happened in the cabin after the Homecoming game," she recounted incredulously.

"Oh, no! We took care of that, remember?" 

"No, no!" she insisted. "You didn't pull it out in time. I remember!"

"You made it with Donny that night, too," he pointed out.

Becky stood frozen. What she thought had been real turned out to be a mirage; that which seemed so impossible was reality. She felt many things, but couldn't speak further. Firm ground and quicksand seemed to be one and the same. 

"Becky, what's the big deal?" Brad asked. "You know what you have to do. You're eighteen! They have a clinic in Hornell. Get Allison to drive you."

Brad looked down the street to see if it was worth it to try to catch up to his friends. He looked back at his former lover. "It would be better if we kept this to ourselves, don't you think?"

*********** 

Nathan Smithling and his wife, Janet, were in their bedroom packing up for a weekend getaway over the long Veteran's Day weekend. They were nearly set to go, each with a small suitcase holding enough for three nights away from home. 




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 09



"You haven't packed so much in here that I won't be able to lift it, have you?" he joked as a way to see if she was nearly ready to go.

"No more than usual," Janet replied, smiling a little at the question that he asked before every trip. She walked to where Nathan was standing and draped her arms around his neck. "I think that we both need this little mini-vacation. This semester has had more than its share of stress." She kissed him lightly on the lips. 

"True enough!" Nathan answered. "When we get back home we'll have our batteries recharged. Did you pack the new negligee that I bought for you?" Then, he returned the kiss. When their lips parted, she nodded that she had.

Janet Smithling was a very attractive woman as she entered her fifty-fourth year. She was tall, like her husband. Any wrinkles that might have crept in alongside her brown eyes or her forehead only served to bestow character on her face. She wore her hair shorter than most women, in a modern style that swept it to the side. The color was quite close to her original light brown.

Janet and Nathan had been married thirty-two years—had three grown sons. Despite the travails of motherhood, she kept her slim figure. From the back, it was impossible to tell her from a woman in her twenties. She was the perfect diplomat, welcoming all of Nathan's charges, yet yielding nothing of Nathan's secrets that he felt at ease in confiding to her. Janet Smithling was the ideal wife and the perfect blend of youth and age. 

They piled into their car and backed down their driveway. They were on their way to Ed Cassidy's house. "I hope Ed knows that we're on our way over," Nathan thought out loud. "I didn't bother to call him as we were leaving the house." 

Ed Cassidy had been Nathan's best friend since their days in Bates High School. He was an all-around good guy, but less lucky in marriage than Nathan. After number three, he decided that he wasn't cut out to be a spouse. Ed was a good friend; Nathan and Janet included him in as many of their activities as they could.

"I'm really grateful to you for going along with this every three months," Nathan continued. 

"Don't be silly!" Janet replied. "Ed's so nice to be with. He's almost like family. I've come to look forward to these excursions!"

"Whatever!" Nathan answered, "It means a lot to me, just the same."

They pulled into Ed's driveway. Nathan saw him waiting for them in the doorway. 

"Hi, Ed!" Nathan called out. "I hope that you're ready for a great weekend." He marched from the car to the front door and the two men shook hands. 

"I know I am!" called Jan, who was right behind Nathan. Ed held the door open as his guest stepped inside the door.

"I thought that we'd stay here tonight. I made reservations at a hotel in Niagara Falls near the Casino for two nights. We'll get on our way tomorrow," Ed explained.

"Sounds like a plan!" Nathan said optimistically. Janet nodded in agreement.

"Let me get the luggage!" Nathan said, and ran back out to the car and opened the trunk. When he returned to the house Janet and Ed were on the couch, locked in an embrace. Her tongue was probing inside Ed's mouth, looking for his. Ed had his hand full of one of her breasts. 

They broke off for a second. Janet turned to her husband. "Have a nice time, Nathan. Don't forget to use your condoms." She turned back to Ed. Nathan turned to walk out the door and be on his way.

*********** 

Gouged out of the earth by retreating glaciers during the Ice Ages of long ago, the Finger Lakes region is a quiet place. The sun bakes the steep hillsides standing as sentries over the deep, narrow lakes. In the soil left by the ancient ice rivers grow the grapes. A couple on holiday can station themselves at a quaint Bed and Breakfast Inn located in a small town and spend days traveling to the many small wineries, sampling wines, brandies and scenes of blue lakes stretched below verdant hills. That was the plan that James and Vicki made. It was a ninety minute drive from Bates to Romulus, and it was a good time for conversation.

"I was looking for you the other day," James said to her as they turned onto the state road. "Something happened at School and I needed your advice."

"You've got my attention now!" Vicki answered, surprised. "I can't imagine what it would be."

"One of my female students confided with me that she's pregnant." James revealed. 

"Oh, dear!" Vicki shook her head sorrowfully. "It's always so sad when that happens. Don't tell me who it was. What did you need me for?"

"When she told me, I asked her if she had told her parents about it, too," James continued. "Of course she said 'no' and I told her that she should."

"Right!" Vicki agreed.

"Well, she wouldn't," James answered. "She wouldn't even go to see a doctor. She wasn't even a hundred percent sure that she was pregnant."

"Sounds like a job for the Guidance Office," Vicki advised. "I couldn't have done anything about it."

"Well...," James began to explain.

"James, what did you do?" Vicki was alarmed.

"I bought her one of those testing kits and made her promise that if it was positive she would go to her parents," James completed the story.

"James, that was a big mistake! You should have told her Guidance Counselor, or maybe Nathan!" Vicki admonished. "I wish that you had found me. You can't take that on yourself."

"It was just a testing kit," James protested. "She wasn't doing anything about her condition. I thought if she had the kit it would get her off the dime. Do you think that I'll be in trouble?"

"It probably depends on the parents," Vicki answered. "You didn't tell her what to do with the baby or anything like that, did you?" James shook his head. He purposely didn't mention the fact that the father was the infamous Reverend Chandler.

"You've done everything that you can. If she comes back to you, tell her to get to the Guidance Office, if she's afraid of her parents," Vicki advised.

They drove along. If it had been daylight they could have looked at the hillsides in late autumn. Instead, they had each other for conversation.

"There's something else that I need to tell you," James broke the short silence.

"You're full of news tonight," Vicki quipped from the passenger's seat.

"Well...uh...I don't know how to tell you this, Vicki," he began.

"You slept with Abby last Friday night," Vicki answered for him. "She told me. Did you think that she wouldn't?"

"After what happened at your apartment between the three of us..." James began to explain, but Vicki interrupted.

"You don't need to explain, James. I told you once that I like variety. If I do, then I would expect you to like it, too. Abby and I figured that you would probably try for her. I told her to go for it!"

"Oh!" James answered, not sure what else to say.

"We have no hold on each other, James," she continued. "If I spend a night with you or anyone else, it's of my own free will. The same goes for you. Besides, Abby and I like to share a lot of things."

Vicki had set James straight on where he stood. He drove the car in silence for a while, pondering his status. Vicki broke the spell by placing her hand on his thigh and moving it up toward his crotch.

"Abby told me that you two had quite a night," she informed him, passing her tongue between her lips. James shrugged and grinned sheepishly, which didn't fit, for he was, by no means, embarrassed. 

************* 

Vicki and James went to bed soon after they registered and were up bright and early on Saturday morning. They started the day with a big breakfast and then a tour of Cornell University, only about an hour's drive from their inn. Most of their time was at the Art Museum. They skipped lunch and were on the road back to the wine region in the afternoon. They only had time to tour one winery, so they stopped at a small one not far from where they were staying. They felt hungry, but planned a late dinner, so it seemed like a good idea to take a break for a snack in the small bistro attached to the winery. They finished their tour in the tasting room and then made their way to the small restaurant. 

James sat at the table while Vicki visited the Ladies' Room. A waitress came to their table and James ordered them both a glass of chilled Chardonnay and blueberry turnovers. Their table was near the window and overlooked Cayuga Lake. James gazed absent-mindedly out at the white caps on the windy gray Fall afternoon. He spotted Vicki browsing in the Gift Shop; he watched the various customers come and go.

One of them was a man about his age, or perhaps a few years younger. He seemed to be waiting for someone. He was shorter than James, and slightly built. He had pale skin and fine features, including his blond hair that he combed up and away from his shiny forehead and atop his head. He wore a yellow cashmere sweater and white slacks.

He was browsing in the Gift Shop amid the jars of jellies and souvenir teacups. James noticed that Vicki was no longer in sight, and assumed that she was on her way back to their table. He was correct; he saw her approaching from a side door. The blond man left the Gift Shop and joined another man at the Hostess' Desk, presumably to secure a table. His companion was much taller, but James couldn't see his face because of a banner that strategically hung down and blocked his view. 

The blond man sidled up to the taller body beside him. James watched his reach behind the taller body and the headless man gave a start.

"You, vixen!" James heard a voice that was familiar, but could not place.

James turned his attention to Vicki, who had nearly reached their table. All at once she froze. An unexplained expression of horror stuck to her face.

"Nathan!" she cried in a hush that betrayed the shriek that she just barely stifled. She buried her hands in her face. The body stepped from behind the banner. Nathan's face betrayed confusion and fear. He looked at Vicki, and then at James. Nathan peered at him as though he was a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that belonged in a different box. The younger, blond man seemed amused by it all. 

"I had no idea, Nathan," Vicki whispered. "I'm so sorry!"

"Yes, I see," Nathan quietly answered Vicki. He turned to James. "Well, James, now you know. You see—we all have our own secrets."

"Only a few people know about this, James," Vicki admonished. "It's an 'understanding' that Nathan has with his wife. He does this every three or four months. His wife, Janet, gets to go where and with whom she wants to. I've slept with her a few times, myself."

James nodded, unsure what to do or say. Nathan stood hovering over them, wearing an unpleasant expression. His young friend had joined them while Vicki spoke.

"James, if anyone in Bates ever found out about this it would be very bad for Nathan," Vicki pleaded.

"No one will hear about it from me!" James vowed.

"Thanks, James," Nathan acknowledged. His voice had a suspicious tone. He turned to his companion. "This is David," Nathan nodded at the younger man. "He's an Assistant Professor at the Architecture School at Cornell. I'm staying at his place for the weekend."

"We'd invite you, but it looks like you two have plans." the younger man said in a monotone, unconvincing voice.

"I think that we'll be going," Nathan announced, and the two turned and left.

"To think that I used to be afraid that Nathan would find out about the two of us!" James mused to Vicki when they were gone.

"I told you not to worry about him," Vicki answered.

"I should have listened," James admitted. "I promise that I'll never tell anyone."

"I know, James," Vicki said, "but you have to feel for Nathan, always wondering when the wrong person will see him and worrying about being found out. In a place like Bates, he would be ruined. It's really not fair."

"All we can do right now is to forget that we even saw him," James suggested.

"Right you are, Sugar!" Vicki sang out and then raised her wineglass to her lips.

************* 

The School Board reserved the third Wednesday night of every month for its regular meetings. They were open to the public, except the executive sessions. Sometimes the meetings were not very exciting as the Comptroller reviewed monthly vouchers and the Principals reported on things like the Homecoming Parade or the Grammar School Halloween Party. On some occasions the meetings drew much interest, such as those sessions devoted to discussing bond issues, budgets and taxes. Although not an elected member of the Board, Bob Jackson ran the meetings because he was far more skilled at it than anyone else.

On the Wednesday night following the Veteran's Day Holiday there was nothing more exciting on the official agenda than the Principals' Reports, yet the room was packed. The Board anticipated it because of the 'pedophile controversy'. Jackson looked out at the crowd waiting for him to open the meeting with the Pledge to the Flag. He sized up the players on the field.

Leading off, on First Base was the Teachers' Union Business Manager, Ed Cassidy. He was guarding the line against extra-base hits by the opposition. Playing Second and Short were the Principals of the four levels of schools of the District, prepared to field stinging, hot shots up the middle. The outfield was populated by a bevy of faceless teachers and townspeople positioned to field fly balls and throw them back to the infield, lest they be forgotten. At Third Base were the members of the School Board. It was the position with the most unpredictability, capable of spectacular, unbelievably good plays, and then unexplainable errors.

The catcher was Jackson, himself, who caught the pitches and tried to move the fielders to the proper spot on the field. There were times when he would direct the Pitcher as to what to throw. On those occasions everything would go so smoothly. This night was not going to be one of those smooth ones.

Pitching, of course, was the Reverend Chandler. He sat at the end of the first row, facing the Board. He had two pitches in his repertoire: a blazing hot fastball that he threw dangerously close to the batter; and an inscrutable curve that he would hurl when least expected. Jackson gazed out over the playing field with a feeling of dread, recalling happier days when he actually enjoyed baseball.

The umpire was in attendance, too, in the person of Ms. Peggy Hardaway, a reporter for The Valley Sentinel. 

The assemblage seated themselves after the pledge to the flag. Jackson saw them fidgeting and mumbling. He pounded his gavel for attention.

"I see that we have a large turnout tonight," he coyly observed. "I propose that we dispense with the reading of the Minutes and Old Business. There's nothing on the Agenda to create such a large turnout, so I would guess that that there's something else that you folks want to talk about."

Jackson's words brought about a crescendo in the mumbling. "We'll recognize anyone who wants to speak. Just get in a line behind the microphone," he called out to the throng. "State your name and address and then your comment or question." An attendant tapped on the device to test it and it gave out a gentle 'thump-thump'. It was on a stand, facing the Board, just a few feet from where Ethan sat.

Bob Jackson thought that Ethan would take the stage from the start, but he was wrong about that. The shepherd sent his flock forward to get things started. An elderly woman approached. She glared at the offending electronic device. The attendant lowered it to her level.

"Mavis Holcomb, 283 Washington Street," she enunciated. She lowered her eyes to a three by five card from which she read her statement. "Pe-do-philes are a danger to our children. We should get all of them out of our schools." She about-faced and returned to her seat.

"Randall Baker, 62 Jefferson St.," the next speaker declared. "My wife and I have three children in Bates Schools. We deserve assurance from the Board that our children are not in danger from such persons. Nothing can more important!"

There were at least twenty speakers, each proclaiming the same message, with a little different slant. The final speaker was a pretty young woman, small and petite. She looked like she belonged in a TV ad for cookies or chocolate milk. "Virginia Mills," she squeaked.

Bob Jackson interrupted. "Ma'am," he said, "you'll have to speak up. Not everyone can hear you."

The little woman approached the microphone and cleared her throat. "Virginia Mills," she said in a clear, but demure voice. "40 Maple Lane." She paused until the buzzing of the audience ceased. "We want the School Board to give us the name of the pedophile. We want the name of the man that you're hiding—we want it now!" her voice rang out loud and clear.

The crowd, except for the teachers in the back of the room who remained silent, started a chant: "We want to know!" They sang it out over and over again. Jackson pounded the gavel, but the crowd wouldn't stop. Reverend Chandler stood and raised his arms, and the chanting ceased. 

He drew a breath to speak, needing no help from the microphone. "You see, the people have spoken!" He lowered his arms and the chant began anew. The members of the School Board were the targets and it alarmed a few of them. 

Jackson worked the gavel until Ethan raised his arms again and the room was finally quiet. "Does any member of the Board wish to say anything? One member, Harriet Jones, raised her hand.

"I don't know why we can't give them the name," she uttered. Jackson looked at her in shock as her statement inflamed the crowd anew.

"I see Ed Cassidy in the room," Jackson called on his last resort. "Ed, what would be the Teachers' Union's stand on this?" Bob asked.

The room hushed. The crowd knew that support from the Teachers' Union would turn the tide. Ed rose slowly. He cleared his throat and spoke in his best bureaucratese. "The contract clearly says," he began, "that Personnel Files are to remain sealed from the public, except with the written, notarized consent of the party in question, or by enforceable court order," he recited, and sat back down. 

The pronouncement brought a smile of relief to Jackson's face and renewed anger from the crowd.

"Well, that ties our hands!" Bob said, barely containing his glee. 

Ethan rose again. "This is collusion!" he shouted.

"You seem to know so much, Reverend Chandler," Jackson retorted. "Why don't you just tell us, yourself?"

"You're trying to subjugate the Church!" Ethan fought back. "We believe in the separation of Church and State!" he shouted back. The crowd cheered him on.

"That's silly!" Jackson declared. He stood and pointed at his opponent. "I'm calling your bluff—tell us what you know."

"I will not!" Ethan insisted and lifted his head indignantly to show his resolve.

Silence spilled over the room and covered it with a pall as the two men stood and glared at each other, neither conceding; neither able to move forward. Hate poured from their eyes. Their chests were heaving, as though preparing for battle. Every person fixed their attention to the two combatants. There was a pregnant silence as everyone waited for the next move.

"It's James O'Toole!" a voice called loudly from the teachers' group in the back of the room. In fact, it was Doris, James' colleague, but no one was sure who said it.

Jackson slumped back into his chair; his efforts wasted. He looked at Ed Cassidy and shook his head.

Ethan turned to face his followers. "James O'Toole—James O'Toole!" they chanted. 

"We've done it! We've done it!" Ethan cried, raising his fists into the air. 

An anonymous man could be heard shouting over the din, "Who is James O'Toole?"

************* 

TO BE CONTINUED

Dear Readers,

Thanks for reading. I hope you've enjoyed the story so far. I'm always interested in your comments and questions. I answer all of them that furnish a reply address.




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 09



Autumn Writer



The Blameless Bystander Ch. 10



Chapter 10 — Mid-November Vignettes

"No, I was not defrocked," James answered in a strong voice into the microphone of the tape recorder. He had already recited a short bio and counted off his degrees and teaching experience. 

It was Thursday afternoon. James' identity as Reverend Chandler's target was public knowledge, thanks to Doris' shouting it out during the previous evening's School Board Meeting. The unauthorized revelation changed all the rules of the game. Peggy Hardaway, inspired to improve her prior week's lackluster performance, took full advantage of the opening.

She called James at the school early in the morning and requested an interview. Roger Blair called Bob Jackson to smooth the way. So, during his free period James found himself speaking into Peggy's microphone with Ed Cassidy sitting silently by his side as unofficial witness.

"Well, are you still a priest, then?" the reporter followed up.

"No," James prepared to explain. "I requested a release from my vows and Holy Orders. It's like resigning from a job, except for me it had many spiritual implications." 

"Care to elaborate?" she asked, attempting to pour some concrete into the mold.

"When a priest has doubts about his faith, he can't lead others to it unless he clears up his doubts. I couldn't, so I quit instead of pretending." James paused after the answer, wondering if he said enough. He glanced at the young reporter who seemed to wear an unsatisfied look on her face. "To go into it further," James explained, "would be rather personal and not very interesting to your readers." Ed nodded approvingly. The reporter wanted more but was sure that she had all that was available.

"What has been your experience with young children?" she asked.

"None," James answered. "I've only ever taught at the high school level. That was even true during my missionary days in Guatemala." Peggy raised an eyebrow, signaling a follow up question, so James elaborated. "It was for two years when I was in my twenties—when I was first ordained."

"Wow!" Ed exclaimed. I didn't know that.

"Have you ever been involved in any form of child molestation?" she asked.

James was relieved; she had finally arrived at the crux of the interview.

"No!" he replied emphatically. 

"Ever been suspected of it? Sex with an underage person?" she probed.

"Absolutely not!" James asserted. "...to both questions."

"Ever cover up for someone that did?" she dug deeper.

"No to that question, too!"

"Then, Mr. O'Toole, why does Reverend Chandler say that you are guilty?" she asked pointedly.

"I don't know the answer to that," James admitted.

"Reverend Chandler has never given any evidence that anyone in our schools is guilty," Ed Cassidy broke his silence before James could speak. "He's only provided innuendo. The Union's position is 'let's see some facts!'."

"Let's discuss your teaching techniques, Mr. O'Toole," Ms. Hardaway expanded the scope. Mr. Jackson said that you've been very successful where others haven't been."

"Why don't you save that question for the follow-up interview?" Ed suggested.

**************** 

Peggy Hardaway left for Hornell and Nathan and Ed were in Bob Jackson's office talking about James' interview. 

"I would say that he did pretty well," Ed told the others. "Right to the point—nothing to hide. It all worked out. We even left some cookies in the jar for a follow-up."

"Let's hope that she writes it that way," Jackson cautioned. "There's always something lost between the spoken word and the ink on the page."

"Who let out the name last night?" Nathan asked. "I know that it was from the back of the room, but my back was to the direction it came from. The voice sounded familiar, but there was a lot of noise, so I couldn't quite make it out."

"I didn't see who it was either," Jackson admitted.

"Same with me," offered Ed, "but Doris gets my vote if I had to point a finger."

"That makes sense to me," Nathan agreed. "She is nasty enough to do it, and has the most to gain."

"What do you mean by most to gain?" Jackson asked.

"She wants the Department Chair and she has to know that James is most qualified. She wouldn't mind if he was out of her way," Nathan explained.

"Make sure that you don't give it to her." Jackson ordered.

"I'll keep chairing it myself before she would ever get it," Nathan agreed. "She just wants it for the money and she's against working to bring the department up to standard." 

At that point James knocked and entered the office. Nathan introduced him to Bob Jackson. 

"Ed says that the interview with Peggy Hardaway went well," he said. "This has been a tough time for you—for all of us." 

James nodded. 

"Of course, you heard that your name was revealed at the Board Meeting last night," Bob continued. 

"Oh, yes!" James confirmed. "Most of the teachers are avoiding me. They gossip about me when they think that I can't see them. The students in my class are having a hard time concentrating."

"Don't be surprised if a few parents request transfers out of your class," Nathan cautioned.

"One important thing that no one said last night," Ed reminded everyone, "is that all the speculation about James is false. All anyone was worried about was 'who knows what'; and 'what is his name'. We've got to back this guy up." 

"I couldn't deny anything when the name wasn't on the table." Bob explained. "I was hoping that Chandler would come out with, but he got let off the hook. After the name came out it was such a mess that no one could say anything. We've got to work together to get through this. For one thing, I want all Press contacts cleared by me."

"Right—good idea!" Nathan agreed.

"I can't do that," Ed protested. "I can't give the impression that I'm coordinating with you. The Union is supposed to be independent." "Good point!" Jackson allowed. "Nathan and James coordinate through me. Ed, keep me posted as well as you can." They all nodded.

"I want to take a polygraph test," James insisted.

"That might happen," Jackson replied. "Timing is everything. We'll let Chandler insist that you do, and then he'll be banking everything on it. Everyone will be watching. You'll pass and this whole thing will die the death that it deserves." Bob snapped his fingers to make the point. "If you do it now, nobody will be paying any attention and they'll think that it's a put-up job."

"Do you really think that you can get him to do that?" Nathan asked.

"Chandler's impulsive, but he's got Jarrod Morris whispering in his ear," Ed pointed out. "And Jarrod is far from impulsive."

"Wouldn't you want me take a private one first to make sure that I'm being honest?" James asked.

"We believe you, James," Nathan assured.

"Wait, Nathan," Jackson cautioned, "James might have a good idea." He saw James expression as he contradicted Nathan's vote of confidence. "Just to make sure the machine is calibrated and everything—we'll let you know" he added, his embarrassment showing.

"The Union will have something to say if any polygraphing takes place," Ed cautioned. 

"Okay, Okay! We'll get into details later," Jackson ordered. "Now, let's discuss the Mayor's interview in this week's Sentinel." He threw the paper on his desk, folded to Jarrod Morris' photo.

"That's the Mayor?" James asked as he saw the picture.

"Why, what of it?" Nathan questioned.

"It's just that I saw him coming out of Tracey Jacobs' house early one morning."

"That can't be!" said Jackson. "Morris lives way over on Elm."

"Think a little harder, Bob," Ed suggested sarcastically.

"Oh, I see!" Jackson replied with a sheepish grin. He quickly recovered. "That's beside the point. What do make of this interview?"

"It's obvious that he's straddling the fence," Nathan answered.

"Any chance that he'll land on our side?" Jackson asked.

Ed shook his head. "He's a member of Ethan's church and on their Board. He can't turn on them. He'd be turning on himself."

Besides, Jarrod always straddles, no matter what," Nathan added. "And no one has ever knocked him off his straddle."

"From this interview—and knowing Jarrod a little bit—I'm not sure that he's completely confident of Chandler," Bob speculated.

"Knowing Jarrod, there's some self-interest there," Ed advised. "He usually likes to push the buttons."

"It would be nice if we could find out what he's up too," Jackson said. "He could be the guy to hold Chandler back. On the other hand, he might be egging him on." 

************* 

"We could have used you last night, Jarrod. It was rough! Bob Jackson was looking for a showdown." 

"Ethan, if I was there I would have had to say something, and that would spoil all our groundwork," Jarrod answered. "Anyway, one way or another we've got our name."

"We've got to find out more about him," Ethan ventured.

"No, no, no!" Jarrod corrected. "Let any information come from them. They'll be forced to prove it. They'll be on the defensive on a permanent basis."

"But, if we find out that he's a pedophile..." Ethan started to make a point, but Jarrod interrupted.

"Ethan, you don't really think he truly is a child molester, do you?"

"Well, of course, Jarrod, don't you?" Ethan challenged back, incredulous.

"I have no reason to think so, Ethan," Jarrod countered. "All you have is that he's a former priest. What of it?"

"But you've supported me all though this," Ethan exclaimed.

"We had to hold things together after you started it, Ethan. There's a side benefit to all this that you've forgotten. What's crucial is the size of the Sunday collections!"

"Well, Jarrod, I do believe it," Ethan insisted.

"Believe what you want to. Just don't give Jackson anything that he can definitively refute. Once he does, it's the beginning of the end," Jarrod commanded. "Play it cool and we'll be in the driver's seat! They'll never be able to disprove a negative."

"Where will it all end?" Ethan asked.

"At the end of the school year O'Toole will quit. He'll be fed up. He'll get a job somewhere else and move out of town—not much skin off his nose. We'll never hear from him again. Everyone in town will forget the whole thing, or be grateful to us for getting rid of him," Jarrod prophesied. "Either way, we win."

As he was becoming more prone to do, Ethan closed his eyes and turned his head away. "As you shall know the truth, the truth will set you free," he intoned.

"What's that, Ethan," Jarrod asked.

Ethan turned his face toward his friend. He opened his eyes, but it wasn't certain that he was looking at Jarrod, or even saw him. "Before Abraham was, I am," he annunciated clearly. Ethan's face was pale and had no expression, his eyes wide open and bloodshot. He had spoken as though his words were not intended for Jarrod's ears, but for a Being, perhaps himself, existing in another dimension. 

"Ethan, wake up!" Jarrod yelled to get his attention. Ethan gave a small start. Jarrod could see his eyes focusing on him once again. Ethan did a slight double take on Jarrod, as if he was surprised to see him sitting in his study.

"Are you alright, Ethan?" Jarrod asked in a loud voice. "You look like you don't feel very well."

"So many worries!" Ethan mumbled in a tired voice. "Pedophiles, the Church, my daughter."

"What's wrong with Becky?" Jarrod asked.

"Judith and I can no longer reason with her," Ethan answered. "She's just an innocent child, but so avoids our protection."

"I know what you mean," Jarrod agreed. "Brad's the same way. I sent him up to my hunting cabin a few weeks ago to clean it up. It's obvious they had one big party up there."

"Party?" Ethan asked, still appearing dazed.

"I'll confide in you as a friend and a man of the cloth, Ethan. I found a spent condom out back, and I think that I smelled traces of marijuana."

"Condom?" Ethan asked in the dazed monotone.

"Well, I spent a few myself when I was his age," Jarrod confessed with a chuckle and some pride. "Brad went up there after the Homecoming Game." 

"Becky went to the Cheerleaders' Sleepover!" called out a stern-faced Judith who had entered the study at some point in the conversation. Ethan nodded, remembering that his daughter had absented herself from Sunday Service the next day.

'Cheerleaders' Sleepover' sounded a bit odd to Jarrod, but he wasn't eager to parse facts with Judith. He thought that he'd better change the subject. Before he could do so, Judith spoke again.

"It's hard these days to keep children out of trouble," she spoke, more an announcement than an invitation to the men to engage her. "Has Brad been 'seeing' anyone, in particular?" she asked.

"Brad? No, not him," Jarrod said in a cautious tone. "He's too busy with football—and studies of course!"

"Then he spent a condom at your cabin after the Homecoming Game with a casual acquaintance?" Judith accused. 

"I didn't say that!" Jarrod squirmed.

Judith gave a condescending nod and walked out of the room.

"I didn't come here to go into that, anyway," Jarrod quickly changed the subject as Judith left. "It's time for monthly review of the finances," Jarrod announced. "The by-laws say that another board member has to perform a review each month with the Treasurer. I was doing it with Howard Jones, but he's visiting his brother in North Carolina.

Ethan agreed, and they bent over the ledgers. Ethan pointed out deposits and vouchers and they reviewed the bank reconciliation. Ethan did it because he had to, but it was apparent that he wished the task was over. With the collections picking up, he had less to worry about in that regard.

"What's this 'Bank Transfer' that you have recorded here?" Ethan asked as they neared the end. 

"You remember that!" Jarrod exclaimed. "You know—it's the 'Insurance Funding Account'," Jarrod answered. Ethan shrugged.

"We set it up last year to make sure that the policies didn't lapse. Each week I transfer in a certain amount and pay the various policies' premiums with the funds. It's like a savings account with a special purpose."

"So it has its own checkbook?" Ethan asked.

"Right!" Jarrod answered. Ethan kept looking at Jarrod in a quizzical way. "I didn't think that you'd be interested in it, Ethan. I can go back to my office and pick it up if you like."

"No, that's alright," Ethan answered, satisfied by the offer. "We'll catch up with it next time." Jarrod smiled and nodded. 

"Whatever you say, Ethan!"

Jarrod started packing up his papers and ledger books. "One more thing, Ethan. Since O'Toole's name is out, you better call the school and tell them that you want Becky out of his class. If you believe that he's a pedophile and leave your kid in his classroom, it kind of spoils the credibility."

**************** 

Tracey Jacobs was driving back to Bates on the Interstate in the early evening. She glanced over to the passenger's seat at her step-brother, Raymond. He had not stopped talking since she had picked him up after his visit to Pender Industries in Rochester. In the dark he couldn't see the smile creeping over her lips. As she listened it reminded her of a child convinced that Santa's reindeers' hooves had been clattering on the roof.

"I'm more confused than before I started!" the excited lad exclaimed. "Mr. Kendig told me a lot about all kinds of engineering. He's a Mechanical Engineer. He went to Cornell."

Matt Kendig was an on old friend of James'. He met him when he taught his son some years ago. Matt was the Vice President of Engineering at Pender. Every so often James took promising students to talk to him about their careers. James asked him to host Raymond for such a visit and when he recited Raymond's story, Matt jumped at the chance.

"You sound happy for someone who's confused," Tracey observed. 

Raymond ignored his sister's point. "I got to see the CAD Room. They let me go right in! I've never seen anything like it. After that, we went on a tour of the plant. They showed me how the designs become machines." 

Of course, James would have enjoyed taking Raymond himself, and visiting with his old friend. With the accusation standing against him, a trip to Rochester with a young male was out of the question. He persuaded Tracey to take the day off and drive Raymond, instead. Raymond's mother had her hands full with Raymond's brothers and sisters. Tracey dropped him at Pender's front door and then went shopping at the local malls. It had taken the whole day and they were on their way home. 

"What kind of engineering do you think you would like to study?" Tracey asked.

"That's why I'm confused," Raymond answered. There are some kinds that I never thought of, like Metallurgy; there's Chemical Engineering and Ceramic Engineering, too."

"I've never heard of a lot of those things," Tracey admitted. "What's 'Ceramic Engineering'? It sounds like clay pots and vases."

"Me, neither, until today," Raymond answered. "It's not pottery. It could be fiber optics, or heat shields for space ships, or many other things. If I want to study it, I'll have to apply to Alfred University. I think I might, because I could work at the Glass Works in Corning and then I wouldn't have to move away. I could help Ma out."

"Oh, Raymond, don't get trapped!" Tracey warned. "This town will swallow you up. You'll give all you have and get nothing back. One day, you'll look around and see that you're drained, with nothing left to give. You'll regret all the things that you never did, places you never went, people you never met. Don't kill your dreams before they have a chance to live. Ask your mother—she'll say the same thing."

"I don't get it Tracey," his youthful exuberance temporarily curtailed.

"Raymond, it's just that you have so much potential. Whatever happens, do it because it's what you want, not where you want."

"Is that what happened to you, Tracey?" It may have been a tactless question, but it was sincere and born of Raymond's youth. 

In the darkness Raymond couldn't see the tears welling in his older sister's eyes. "They took you to lunch and everything?" she asked, groping for a change of subject. 

"Yes," Raymond answered. "Mr. Kendig sent me with three of the younger engineers in his department so I could ask them what it's like. They were good guys. They said that engineering school is tough—a lot of studying. Then I told them where I had offers and they argued about which place is best."

"Who won?" Tracey asked, chuckling.

"No one," Raymond replied, laughing along with her. The only thing that they agreed on is that they all have terrible football teams. I don't think that Carnegie-Mellon has one at all."

"Do you have to decide what to study right away?" Tracey asked.

"For Ceramic and Chemical I would have to decide right away. For others, I would study for two years first, and then choose."

"You have a lot to think about," Tracey said. "You should tell Mr. Thompson about your trip."

"Mr. O'Toole, too," Raymond insisted. 

"Of course!" Tracey acknowledged. "You owe him a lot! Not many teachers would take this extra trouble for you."

"Mr. Kendig said that if I stuck with Mr. O'Toole I would have plenty of math under my belt when I go away next year. He said that Mr. O'Toole is better in math than any of the engineers in his department. No offence, Tracey, but I wish that he could have taken me," Raymond confided. "Why are they saying those things about him?"

"I don't know," Tracey shook her head sadly. "I don't believe it. I've watched him working with you and around school. I would need a lot more proof to believe it, and I haven't heard any."

"Some kids do, others don't. Most think that he's going to be fired," Raymond said.

"I sure hope not!" Tracey said.

"Ma says that they're doing this to him because they want to keep outsiders from having a chance."




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 10



"Your mother is smarter than most people realize." "Ma is thinking about inviting him for Thanksgiving," Raymond announced. "She's not sure because she says that the trailer is run down and she doesn't want to be embarrassed."

"I think that she should," Tracey advised, "if she wants to." 

"Do you think that he'll come if she asks him?" Raymond's enthusiasm was returning.

"Maybe," Tracey mused. "Mr. O'Toole is full of surprises."

********* 

"He certainly answered all of your questions, didn't he? It's a lot better interview than you brought back from Jarrod Morris' office," Roger Blair commented as the interview tape completed. "I wish that you could have done it without Ed Cassidy there." 

"He said that it's union policy for him to sit in," the young reporter told him. 

"I don't believe that!" Roger exclaimed. 

"He didn't interrupt or contradict O'Toole until the end. I don't think that his answers would have been any different if he had been one-on-one with me."

"Let's test him," Roger commanded. "Call him in a couple of days and tell him that you need a photo for the story. If he has a problem with his past he won't want any photos of himself showing up in the paper. There would be a big risk that they would be seen on the internet by one of his victims—if there are any."

"I can do that," Peggy replied. "I really think that he's telling the truth."

"Maybe so, but until I'm sure it's going to be strictly arm's length," Roger insisted. 

"And what will you do if you do decide to believe him?" Peggy asked.

"That'll depend on what's going on out in the field," he answered. "The whole thing might die away as fast as it got going. I'm sure that most readers had a major yawn when they read Jarrod's interview today."

The young reporter blushed. She wrote the article and was embarrassed because he knew that Roger was correct.

"That's okay!" Roger explained. "I wanted people to see that Jarrod was just giving the runaround when we were trying to get him to talk about something very important."

"So you still think that the Mayor is at the bottom of this?" she wondered out loud.

"I've got that feeling in my bunions," he answered. "It's either Jarrod or my gout acting up."

"If O'Toole turns out okay, then we have to look at Reverend Chandler," Peggy insisted. "I just don't like him."

"Look at him—sure. I dislike him, too but we'll need a lot more than dislike to go after him. For now, we'll just let the facts speak," Roger warned.

"I asked him for an interview, but he refused," she reminded her boss.

Peggy started packing up her recorder. It was getting a real workout lately. 

"Write your story," Roger instructed before she left is office. "Be careful to give equal space to Jarrod's and O'Toole's interviews."

Peggy had packed up. She nodded that she understood as she exited the office.

"Even the same size picture!" he shouted to her out in the copy room.

************ 

When James saw his picture that accompanied Peggy Hardaway's article in the Sentinel he wasn't very impressed. He rubbed the back of his head and realized that he was truly shaggy, just as he looked in the picture. "Even I've heard of 'Photoshop'," he complained to himself out loud, but deep down he realized that his morning self-trims weren't doing the job. 

He knew that Harvey English's Barber Shop was nearby and the only one in town. Normally on Thursday he would be busy tutoring after school, but Becky Chandler had dropped him at her father's insistence. So, on a Thursday afternoon in November James found himself pulling into a parking space in front of Harvey's.

"Hi, have a seat, Mister!" Harvey called to him as James walked in the door. Harvey didn't look up, preferring to concentrate on getting the back of Charlie Hancock just right. "You're next—don't mind these other guys—they're all done and just hangin' around."

Several men adorned the chairs in Harvey's shop. James looked around and realized that he didn't recognize any of them. He nodded politely and they nodded back. The subject of the day was deer hunting. They all agreed that it was a lot easier to take one today than years ago, what with the deer coming in close to feed on the farmers' corn stalks, and since more city folks were coming down to hunt it was a lot more dangerous out in the fields than it used to be, and remember when...

Since they all agreed on everything it was hard to keep much of a conversation going, and it died of natural causes. Two of the men sat silently in the chairs. They were considering making an exit. Brice Barlow picked up the newspaper and his face disappeared behind it. James sat waiting patiently.

Barlow slowly lowered the paper and peered at James for a few seconds, then slowly raised it back up again. He lowered it again, and after another long look folded the paper and walked to Harvey, still working on Charlie Hancock.

"It's him, Harv," he quietly spoke. "It's him; look—here's his picture."

"What are you talking about, Brice," asked Harvey, a little annoyed. He set his scissors on the counter and looked at the picture, then read a little bit. Then he looked at James and read a little bit more.

James figured out what was happening. They were giving him the same look; the same quiet words passed among them; the same treatment as he had received from his fellow teachers at school since his name had been revealed at the School Board meeting. He braced himself. He would rather get up and leave, but knew that it would be the wrong move. Acting guilty would make people sure that he was guilty. Being treated as if he was guilty was such a burden. It was tiring him out—wearing him down. He would have never thought that it would drain him. A few moths before, he might not have cared. 

"Are you really this fella?" Harvey asked. 

"My name is James O'Toole, if that's what you're asking," James answered. "My picture was in the paper today, so, chances are that the answer is 'yes'."

The shop fell silent until Brice Barlow scratched his head and whispered, "Well, I'll be..."

The two men who had been thinking of leaving edged their way to the door and one of them slipped his hand around the doorknob. "See you next time, Harv," one of them called out as they slipped out the door.

"Well, what are doing here?" Harvey asked in a challenging tone.

"I came in to get a haircut," James answered.

Harvey's face bore a confused look. "Why here?" he asked.

"I need a haircut. You're the only barber shop in town." 

"Well, you're not getting a haircut in this shop!" Harvey declared. "Not today—not in a million years."

"Didn't you read the article?" James asked. It's there in black and white. I've done nothing of what I've been accused of. Don't I get a fair shake?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mister, but I know you're trying to trick me. I don't want you in my shop. I think that you better leave." Harvey answered. 

"Don't you want to hear the facts?" James asked.

"Don't tell me about facts!" Harvey shouted. "We have facts—all the facts that we need. Do you think that we'd take the word of a stranger over what our pastor told us in our own church?" 

"I'll leave," James said, "but I'm telling you that I have no blame in this. Someone made it up. I'm just a bystander in the wrong place and wrong time."

"You're in the wrong place, alright," Harvey retorted, becoming angry. "This man, here, is a Town Police officer. He'll get you out of my place if you don't leave on your own."

"He's right," Charlie said matter-of-factly. "He can tell you to stay out of his place if he wants to." 

"On the other hand," Brice Barlow added, "The Civil rights Law says..."

"I just came in to get a haircut," James interrupted.

"Your kind makes us sick!" Harvey panted.

"Really, O'Toole," Barlow reasoned, "after all that's been said just now, do you really want to stay and get a haircut?"

The answer, of course was 'no', but James wouldn't give the assemblage the satisfaction of hearing his answer. He left without saying more. He decided to drive to Corning on Saturday afternoon and find a barber shop there.

********** 

It was Saturday morning and James sat in a barber's chair in Corning as the clippers gradually corrected his shaggy appearance. The barber didn't turn out to be a conversation-style barber, the kind that engage customers in conversation about any subject, from the latest football scores to free advice on marital problems. It was just as well, because James' life was getting more complicated by the day and he had a lot to think about.

He was tired of thinking about Reverend Chandler and the pedophilia charges against him. They weren't really charges, he reminded himself, not even allegations, but rumors with no base. It was pointless to turn it over in his mind yet again. The only remaining questions were 'why' and 'how much longer', and he knew he had no chance to answer either question. It would better to turn his energy to other matters.

'Other matters' meant understanding his dual, sometimes cross-connected relationships with Vicki and Abby. Several days beforehand he spent the night with Abby and enjoyed her many charms. Tonight it was to be with Vicki. In fact, the two had driven together to Corning. They split up temporarily; Vicki to go shopping, James for a haircut. They made plans to rendezvous later for an early supper at a casual restaurant. After that, it would be back to Vicki's apartment for the night and more of her lessons in one-on-one.

He realized that his was a situation for which most men would be supremely grateful. Neither woman was jealous of the other, actually cooperated in the sharing. There was no one with pretenses or higher designs on the relationship. It was understood that sex was always on the agenda. Each woman brought her own style to their bed. James' greatest question was why he was questioning anything at all. Still, aware of his inexperience in such matters, he was careful.

Abby was so hot in the performance of sex. James thoroughly enjoyed having her tiny body and driving her to climax. They never spoke about anything important, although she was pleasant to be with. It was something that they did when Bubba was away. There would never be a chance for any activity outside the safely hidden confines of Abby's house. The sex was great, but outside of it, there was little to share. 

Although Abby was closer to James' age, he enjoyed being with Vicki more. Vicki was two women. There was the 'bedroom Vicki', his first, his teacher and sexual mentor. At each session it seemed that Vicki would teach him something new. She even told him of ways to please Abby that he would never have come up with on his own. 

There was also the other Vicki, who James considered a friend, who was the ideal companion at dinner or on a trip through the wine country. She was always interesting, never dishonest. She had warned James about love, but there were times that he felt that she cared for him. He had to admit that he felt something for her and he took a risk by ignoring her warning. Still, there was a gap, something missing that James hoped he could correct. It was hard to explain what more he wanted from her; surrender of reserve, lovemaking without holding back, confession of feelings. He skimmed the edges of his dilemma, missing the center of his target, but ready to try to fathom the depths again.

So, it was eight in the evening as the pair unlocked the door to Vicki's apartment. There was little doubt about James spending the night in her bed, so they proceeded immediately to the bedroom after taking off their outdoor clothing.

Vicki lit the customary candles on her dresser. James noticed that she had refreshed the spent candlesticks, showing that she had planned the evening the same as he had. She turned to unbutton his shirt, but James gently took hold of her hands and pulled them to her sides.

"Let me this time," he whispered. He took the top button of her blouse in his fingers and slowly undid it.

"Well, alright, James," Vicki conceded. James noted the slight discomfort in her voice at the change of routine. He refused to allow it to bother him, with the intent of the pupil to impress the skeptical teacher. 

After releasing the buttons one-by-one he slid the blouse from her shoulders. Her white bra pushed her breasts out at him. James thought for a second and decided to pass it up for the moment. He unbuttoned her skirt and slid the zipper down. It fell to her feet. He knelt on the floor in front of her, inches from her shiny, white slip. She had already kicked off her shoes. Vicki stepped out of her skirt and James tossed it aside. He glanced up at her looking down at him with an expression that told him that she was wondering why she was still wearing her bra. 

James reached under Vicki's slip, placing a palm softly on each knee. He allowed his hands to slowly slide up each thigh, feeling the flesh and form, higher and higher, both hands in unison. She spread her feet apart just slightly more as he did so, telling James that he was pleasing her. His hands finally reached the tops of her legs, but he didn't stop. He pushed his hands onward; he felt them pass over her hipbones. When he reached the waist band of her pantyhose he stopped and hooked his fingers under the elastic. He pulled them off her as he began the slow journey to her feet. As he passed her silk panties he paused for a second, to let her wonder if he would take them on the journey, too, but he passed them by and inched the hose ever slowly downward until they lay around her ankles. He nudged a foot, and then the other, removing the nylon from her feet.

With the pantyhose removed, James repeated the procedure with Vicki's panties. As he did, he thought that he heard her let out a little gasp. So sensing her anticipation, he was careful to avoid touching her skin at all as he slid the panties down her legs, allowing anticipation to do its work. He remained on his knees for a few moments to let her wonder what he would do next. 

James stood and Vicki reached for the buttons on his shirt. "I thought that you were going to let me do this," he admonished. He reached behind her, unclasping her bra. He brought it forward tenderly, allowing the breasts to escape the cups without pinching or bouncing them. James remained still, watching the nipples harden and Vicki's breathing deepen. He did so as an act in itself to admire the breasts, and the beauty that the held. He could see that Vicki expected him to touch them, or hold them, or rub his thumbs across the tender buds, but he didn't. He chose, instead, to allow her to think about what he might do, because it allowed her to experience all those possibilities in her mind's eye.

James returned to his knees at Vicki's feet. James put his hands once again on Vicki's thighs. Her little gasp let him know that she expected them to creep upward. James had other plans. 

He bent his head low, close to the floor, below the hemline of the slip. He grasped her legs to hold her still and slipped his head under the undergarment. He inserted his head between her thighs and felt her hands on his head, trying to control his movements, but she couldn't through the slippery fabric. He spread her legs apart more with his hands and was glad when she willingly complied. Vicki's scent under the little tent was intoxicating. He pushed his way higher up. She spread her legs even more—this time on her own. In the darkness his face encountered her moistened flesh and wispy pubic hair. He assaulted her slit with his tongue, prying it between the labia. It didn't go in all at once, and he pressed his mouth forward more and more. He finally felt her jump a little and a hardened bulb where he expected to find it—where it had been many times before. 

James lashed it with his tongue and suckled it with his lips. He was usually gentle when he performed such acts, but that time was different. He pressed ever harder, pursuing her ecstasy that seemed to hiding just around the corner. He felt her press back and smiled inside with the knowledge that she was taking pleasure from him.

"That's so good, James," she gasped, as she bucked her hips against his tongue. "I think it's enough now. "Let's take your clothes off and get on the bed."

"Not yet!" he called back as he paused his oral quest and took a breath of air. He pressed back even harder, smelling and tasting her, gripping her buttocks and pressing her into his face. After a few more minutes—when he was convinced that he had tasted every bit of her—he stopped, emerged from under her garment and stood.

"James, you surprised me. I felt so good," she praised his efforts. Vicki reached again for his shirt buttons, but he stopped her.

"Let me see you lying on the bed," he ordered. Vicki pulled down the covers and climbed into the center in a half-sitting position. "Lie on your back and spread your legs so that I can see you waiting for me." Vicki obeyed. She bent her knees as she spread her legs to form the cradle that he was to lie in when he came to her. She exposed her sex, wet from her fluids and his, unabashedly to him.

James quickly peeled off his clothes as she watched him. When he was nude, except his under shorts he paused. Vicki brought her hands to her center and started working herself.

"Take it off!" she pleaded. James slowly lowered his shorts down and let them fall to his feet. He stroked a few times for her to watch, and then climbed onto the bed. Vicki stretched out her hands, moistened with herself to welcome him. James felt her slick fingers grasp him around her shoulders. He positioned himself in her cradle and entered her all the way.

Vicki moaned in pleasure. "After all you did, you deserve something special," she whispered to him as he let his penis rest inside her. "Hold still and let me take over."

"Next time," he answered back in a clear voice. "I want to do this."

James withdrew almost all the way out and then thrust back in. It wasn't hard or rough, but strong and decisive. He made love to her with his whole body, not just his penis. He felt all of her; breasts pressing up into his chest; arms and legs wrapped around him; her face alongside his perspiring from heat and exertion. He repeated over again, many times. Vicki labored under him to keep pace. A few times she could not, but she kept trying.

He felt his orgasm starting to rise and wanted to put it off. He changed the pace to a gentle rocking. He heard Vicki's purrs of delight and looked down at her face. Her eyes were closed and she wore a smile that betrayed pleasure and contentment. 

After a short time she looked up and said, "James, this is so good. Do me hard again."

He obediently returned to his strong thrusting. As he stroked inward he heard her exhale her pleasure sounds. She tightened her vagina around him. It made his orgasm rise again, and this time he knew there would be no retreat from it.

"Cry out my name!" he screamed, but only to himself. He climaxed before she had a chance to.

*********** 

James and Vicki lay side by side in the aftermath of sex. It had been good: sensuous, innovative, and filled with pleasure for both. Nothing is ever perfect, however, and some things James resolved to try again later. 

"James, that was good," Vicki complimented him. "It appears that you've been doing some practicing with Abby."

"No, Vicki, I save all my firsts for you," he answered.

"You've never taken charge like that before," she continued. 

"It was one of those 'variety' things that we always talk about," he answered, and Vicki noted the sarcasm in his voice.

"Something wrong?" she queried.

"Not really—maybe just one thing," James replied. "When Abby and I are together she...you know...at the end...she seems to..."




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 10



Vicki propped herself on her elbow and looked down at him. "You mean climax?" she interrupted. "Forget it, Sugar. I never do—at least with a man inside me. I'll never give up that last little bit, at least not ever again. I learned my lesson a long time ago."

James kept silent, but knew that in her defiance she had finally answered his burning question. To have the answer displeased him, for it only told him how high and impenetrable was the fence around her soul, and he was convinced right then that it was where he wanted to be. If he could gain entry, he could return the favor and let her into his own. It was plain that it would not happen soon.

She must have sensed his sadness. "Don't be disappointed. It's just the way it is. I really enjoy sex with you. It's just that one little thing. You give me a lot of pleasure, and I know how to give it to you."

On that final point, James had to agree. They rested a while longer and had sex again and then went to sleep. In the morning they showered together and had sex then, too. After a nice breakfast, James was on his way back to his rooming house."

*********** 

TO BE CONTINUED

*

Dear Readers,

Thanks, once again, for reading. Don't forget to send your comments.

AW 



The Blameless Bystander Ch. 11



© Copyright 2006, 2007

Chapter 11—Winds of Change

In Irish families a certain custom looms over hearth and mantle of every home. It is more important in some families than others, and is an oft-broken tradition. It is, then, the existence more than the practice of the tradition that quickens the Irish heart.

It was largely because of this reason that James was grateful for his invitation to take Thanksgiving dinner with Shirley Jacobs and her family. It was a good excuse that he could use to turn down his parents' invitation. There weren't hard feelings between them. He only he wished to avoid the looks of sadness that he saw painted on their faces when he last stayed at his boyhood home.

In the Irish tradition, it is the duty of every family to give one son or daughter to the service of the Church. James—Jamie back in those old days—had been that chosen scion, the fulfillment of the familial obligation. When James announced to his shocked parents that he was forsaking his vows, they were more devastated than Father Brendan. It was a renege on their gift to God. They assumed the fault and guilt, profligate with the flesh of their flesh. James was sure that they still felt the same, expected probing in the vain hope that he would beg the Order to take him back. He loved his parents, but the physical distance between him and they served a good purpose.

In James' Guatemala days the priests were invited to the celebrations on Christmas, Easter and applicable feast days. They were always welcome, surfeited with food and drink by the faithful who longed for closeness to them. As guests, they brought blessings and Communion to bestow on the villagers and it was more than enough. As the hour became late, they prepared to leave, and the people were grateful for that, too. The presence of the priests chilled, as well as warmed, the fiestas. With their departure, the real festivities began. James wondered if a teacher at Thanksgiving dinner would have the same effect.

James made a list of things to buy that he could bring with him to the dinner. Of course Shirley had refused all offers, but James wouldn't show up empty-handed.

"If you're gonna be all alone, you may as well come eat with us," Shirley blurted out, after retrieving Raymond after his most recent tutoring session. "You don't have to bring nothin'—just yourself."

James gratefully accepted on the spot. "It won't be too fancy!" she warned after he said 'yes', as though she was saving that part until he committed himself. Raymond handed him a note with the directions the next day at school. 

James went to the grocery store with more intentions than plans. He had already bought some wine for the dinner table, a Riesling produced not far from where he and Vicki stayed a few weeks before. He bought a box of chocolates for afterward and some flowers for the table. Something for the children came to mind. A sack of large navel oranges did nicely, and a few bottles of grape juice that looked like wine were the final touch. 

********** 

James was sitting in a chair in the living area of the Jacobs' apartment nursing a beer while Shirley finished preparing the dinner. Raymond wanted to visit with him, but as the oldest had to help his mother in the kitchen. James offered his services and when he did Shirley handed him the beer instead. He had no kitchen skills, so any attempt to contribute to the turkey dinner would have been risky, at best.

He sat quietly reading a magazine. Before long he noticed that he was under observation by a miniature face with straight black hair, matched with two tiny, round, dark-brown eyes. James assumed it to be Raymond's youngest sister. He pegged her at five or six years old. When the little girl realized that he had spied her she ran away as would a wary rabbit to a place of safety behind her mother's skirt and apron. From there she peered out, fathoming the tall stranger with the thinning red hair and pale skin.

"What is it, Lucy?" her mother asked, sounding only slightly annoyed. She bent low and Lucy whispered in her mother's ear, and her mother whispered something back. She ran out into the room, abandoning her defensive position, and then disappeared into the bedroom area. 

A short time later the girl reappeared, tiptoeing out of the bedroom, clutching a piece of construction paper. She approached James, slowly at first, and then covered the balance of the distance with a burst of speed as if to prevent herself from changing her mind. She stopped at his chair and thrust her hands out to James with the construction paper attached.

James took the hint and took the paper from Lucy's hands. "Did you draw this, Lucy?" he asked her in a voice that portrayed amazement. She nodded her head. "I really like it. I think that it's the best drawing of a turkey that I've ever seen!"

James' praise made the child beam with pride. She did a little jump in place, an outlet for her excitement. She quickly about-faced and scurried back to her mother who was busy at the stove. Shirley bent low once again, and Lucy whispered something. 

"Lucy wants you to have the picture, James," Shirley called to him from the kitchen.

"For me?" James cried out. "That's very nice of you, Lucy. Bring a crayon over and print your name on it, so that when I hang in up everyone will know who drew it." Lucy sprang back to the bedroom, emerging shortly with a brown crayon. "Not too big," James told her. "We don't want to cover up his beautiful feathers."

Lucy was able to print her first name slowly. To help her print "Jacobs" James wrote the letters on a piece of newspaper that he found nearby and the child copied it. 

As she finished the last letter one of her siblings shrieked "Tracey's here!" The household gathered at the door. 

"Glad you could make it," Shirley greeted her grown stepdaughter cautiously.

"I wouldn't have missed it. I was surprised when you invited me!" Tracey answered. She handed Raymond a covered pie plate. "I brought dessert," she announced. Tracey glanced over to see James standing in the background. "Raymond told me that Shirley was thinking of inviting you," she said. Back in the kitchen, a wry smile formed on Shirley's face. Tracey made her way to help Shirley with the cooking, but it wasn't easy. The children swarmed over her. 

As Shirley's family and James gathered at the table, Shirley seated James and Tracey next to one another. James and Tracey secretly gave one another embarrassed, knowing looks.

"Well, my man's not here," Shirley started after all ten people found their seats. "If he were, he would say the grace," Shirley said apologetically. "I guess that would mean that it's up to you to say the grace, James."

James paused for a second, uncomfortable at his ascendancy. "With his father not here, don't you think that Raymond should say it in his place?"

James' pronouncement startled Raymond. At first his chest puffed with pride. Then his face lost expression and his jaw dropped. "I've never done that before," the youth protested. 

"Everyone says that once in their life. Go ahead, it's easy," James admonished gently. Raymond shrugged his shoulders. "Just tell God what you think that everyone is thankful for," James added. 

"Everyone's got so much to be thankful for it's hard to begin!" a re-inspired Raymond exclaimed.

"You see?" James said, "You've said it already. Your job is done." 

When they finished the main course they decided to allow an interval of time before serving dessert. The children, tired of sitting still, left the table. The adults, including Raymond remained, finishing the bottle of wine. 

"Raymond had a wonderful time at his visit to Rochester," Tracey told James. 

"He certainly did," Shirley agreed. "He told me all about it, but I didn't understand much of it."

"Raymond has much to think about in these next months," James said. "It was a good idea to see what it was like in person."

"Most of the engineers who I met there were Mechanical Engineers," Raymond added. "I liked being in the factory." 

"Do you think that he belongs in a university like Cornell?" Tracey queried.

"I've seen many good students in my years of teaching Math. Raymond can more than hold his own," James assured them. "Did you tell Mr. Thompson about your trip?"

"Yes," Raymond answered. "He said that he would read up on the universities that I applied to."

"Don't let him do all the work," James said. "Read up on them, yourself." Raymond nodded. 

"If it weren't for you, things might not be going so well for him," Tracey blurted out.

James was embarrassed. "It's a lot of fun for me to do it. I love math, and I enjoy being around other people who do, too. I don't know what I'll do when Raymond is away next Fall." It was Raymond's turn to be embarrassed. 

They were quiet for a few seconds, until the children came running to the table cajoling for dessert.

As James drove home later, Lucy's turkey drawing was on the seat next to him. It was hardly a Picasso—it was far more valuable. To James, the affection showed him by the small child vindicated his innocence of all of what others had accused him. He cemented the conversation at the table into his memory. What he said was true; he enjoyed exercising his math skills with his able student, and he liked Raymond and his family. He hadn't told it all, though, because he knew that they would never understand him.

"If I ever become a good person, I'll owe it to Raymond," he said out loud to...himself...or perhaps, to Someone else. 

********** 

As was his custom, James placed an envelope with his rent check in Mrs. Wilkinson's mailbox on the last day of every month. His rental agreement was on a month to month basis, so a few days after Thanksgiving he covered himself for December. Every month he wondered how many more months he would remain in his tiny rooming house flat. The facilities were good enough for a single man who never had guests. The location was ideal—he could walk to work if he chose. It was a perfect neighborhood to form a number of potential routes for his running. And speaking of that, he always looked for Tracey as he made his early morning rounds. She was appearing less often, lately. 

The only drawback to James' apartment was the presence of his landlady, whom he never managed to like, but learned to tolerate. She had been less prying of late, although he wondered a few times if she had made a few of her inspection tours while he was at work. Mostly, the price was right. He was just finishing paying his brother for his car and was trying to sock away a rainy day fund. 

James returned home later that day. It was raining, a lazy kind of drizzle. He glanced up to the sky to gauge the dark clouds, wondering if it would get cold enough to snow. A drop of a few more degrees would do the trick. He picked up the mail from his mailbox as he passed the row of boxes. He didn't look at it right away, preferring to get out of the weather. He did see Mrs. Wilkinson in the window peering at him with that suspicious squint that she always seemed to have affixed to her face.

James entered his apartment and placed the mail on the table and tossed his coat on a chair across the room. He felt like a Scotch. It hadn't been an easy day at school. It was review time with midterm exams around the corner. The students, just returned from the Thanksgiving holiday, were restless, and reviewing old material isn't very exciting for young people in a holiday mood.

He dropped several ice cubes into a tumbler and poured in the scotch. It was a stiff one, but would last him the whole night. Before he would get to the end, the melting ice would dilute it to highball status. He turned his attention to the pile of mail on the table.

One item was the phone bill; there was some junk-mail, as usual; not much else. The final item was an envelope that had been placed in the box by Mrs. Wilkinson. He recognized her handwriting scribbled across the front. It was probably his receipt for December's rent, he thought, but it was odd because she seldom used an envelope, just stuck the receipt loose in his box. It was probably because of the weather.

James tore the envelope open and was treated to a rude surprise. "Notice of Rental Termination" was the heading across the top of the single page. It was a Photostat of a canned form wherein she had filled the blanks. The rest of the letter didn't say very much, just that he had to be out by the end of the month and leave the propane tank full.

James hadn't expected the notice. Now that he had it, the surprise wore off quickly. With his identity revealed, his presence no longer served Mrs. Wilkinson, and by nexus, her daughter, Doris. Inside scoop had become public information. He had heard rumors that it was Doris who shouted his name out at the School Board meeting. Now, he was sure of it; at the same time, he didn't care.

He thought about running down to confront the nasty old hag. He was about to, but thought better of it. She would be waiting for him—that was sure. He decided to let her stew until morning. He decided to read for a while and correct some papers. At any rate, he stopped worrying about it. He had a glassful of scotch going to waste.

In the morning he completed his run. He decided not to speak to her until he returned home from school that afternoon. He'd ask a few people in school if they knew where he could find a good place. He had lunch with Vicki in the Teachers' Lounge.

"You might find it difficult at this time of year, especially being known as you are." Vicki warned. "Doris' mother was smart. The law says that a tenant gets a full month's notice to quit an apartment. By doing it on the last day of the month she gave you the shortest time possible."

"You mean, if I had paid my rent a day late I would have gotten an extra thirty days?" James asked.

"Probably so," Vicki answered. "It would be different if you had a lease. Where were you thinking of looking?"

"I don't even know where to start," James admitted. "It looks like I'll have to learn fast. The problem is that it has to be a furnished place. I don't have any furniture."

"You'll find someplace. Just keep looking," Vicki assured him. "You can spend some time at my place, but we need to be careful. Once people know that you're kicked out of your apartment, they'll start watching to see if you're shacking with anyone. I'd rather not face that."

"How would they find out?" James asked.

"You've forgotten all about Doris," Vicki reminded him. "She'll spread the word like wildfire. In fact, we better break this up before she shows up and sees us. Come to my place tonight and we'll go through the paper—and we'll do something later that'll take your mind off your troubles." After she made the date, Vicki picked up her tray and shuffled off.

When James arrived home he strode past his landlady's front door, but she called to him and James walked to face her on her porch where she was standing.

"Did you get my notice?" she demanded as she squinted at him.

"I sure did," James answered. "I plan to be out by the deadline."

"I won't have child molesters living on my place!" she declared. 

"I'm not that, but it doesn't matter to me if you believe it or not," James answered back.

"I saw you take that Indian boy up there," she retorted. 

"I was tutoring the boy in math," James replied with some anger. "For the record, I deny doing anything wrong. Other than that, I don't want to discuss it with you."

"I don't want any Indians on my place, either," she hissed as James turned his back and walked away. "He wasn't even a full Indian, just a half-breed," she mumbled to herself as she turned toward her door. "Just be sure to out on time!" she yelled at James as he disappeared around the corner.

In the next days James found much difficulty finding a place to live. He was determined not to impose on Vicki. He sensed her discomfort well enough and he wasn't sure if he was ready for co-habitation either—even for a short time. Staying overnight for fun and games was much different than learning to leave the toilet seat down and having the television on when trying to read. 

There were only a few openings for furnished apartments. Several landlords with openings refused to rent to him because of his notoriety. A few landlords were willing, but their places were only fit for the rats which had already claimed them. James finally settled for a furnished trailer in a trailer park about three miles outside of town. It was quite similar to that where he had taken Thanksgiving dinner not long before. It would do until Spring.

************* 

Ethan Chandler peeked into his daughter's room after dinner, expecting to find her busy with her homework. She had been staying in at night lately, and that suited him fine. If he could, he thought that he'd have a father-daughter chat and see what her thoughts were about her college applications. To his surprise, she wasn't in her room, although the desk lamp was turned on. He glanced across the hallway at the closed bathroom door and light leaking out the space between the floor and bottom of the door. He shrugged, being accustomed to the women in the house monopolizing the bathroom. He would come back later.

As he passed the door on his way to the stairs he heard a noise that made him stop and listen harder. He heard it again, and realized that it was Becky inside the bathroom sobbing. He froze in place and heard her once again.

"Becky," he spoke loudly to be heard through the door. "Is everything alright in there?" His voice carried little alarm. In his experience, tears in the bathroom meant an outbreak of pimples, or the gain of a few extra pounds.

Becky didn't answer, but cried louder.

"Becky, what is it? Are you sick?" he yelled. By this time, Judith had joined him, alerted by the commotion.

"Becky, let us in!" the mother called out. "You can't stay in there forever." She wiggled the locked doorknob for emphasis. 

"What could be wrong with her?" Ethan asked his wife.

"I think I know, but we'll find out soon enough," Judith replied. The mother's words must have been heard, because there was a click of the lock and the bathroom door swung slowly open. Becky stood at the sink fully clothed. Her face was red from crying and she hung her head. Her blonde hair fell unkempt in front of her face.

"Oh, no! I thought it was this," her mother whispered.

"What is this?" a confused Ethan asked loudly. On the sink he there was a mini beaker filled with urine. A little stick lay along side, stained blue at the end. "What's all this stuff? Is this a drug test?"

Becky slowly shook her head and let out another sob. "Tell your father," her mother commanded. Becky didn't answer, just kept her head hung low. Judith turned to her husband. "It's a pregnancy test kit. That blue stain on the stick means that she's pregnant."

"Pregnant?" the father roared. "It can't be!"

"I'm afraid that it is, Ethan," Judith answered. "I knew that she missed her period; I've noticed some other things about her appearance, too. I was hoping so much that I was wrong, but I knew deep-down that I wasn't."

"With whom hast thou sinned, child?" the father asked sternly, adopting a biblical tone. 

"It doesn't matter who the father is," Judith said calmly. "You're forgetting that she's not a child—at least in years. She's eighteen." 

"Tell me who it is!" Ethan demanded, his anger growing. "You've brought shame upon this house!"

"No—I can't," Becky blurted out between sobs.

"How can I preach to my flock when they know that mine own abode is stained with transgression?" Ethan picked up the empty text kit box. "Where did you get this contraption?" 

"Mr. O'Toole got it for me, but..." she began the answer.




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 11



"O'Toole!" Ethan screamed. "Him again! He had you when he was supposed to be tutoring you? He despoiled you in the school?"

"No—no!" Becky cried. "You've got it all wrong." 

"Don't deny it, harlot!" Ethan yelled back. "I'll make him pay for this!" 

"No!" Becky pleaded through her tears but her father was already stomping down the stairs and her mother was pulling her away, into her bedroom.

"Mother, it wasn't Mr. O'Toole," Becky swore as she and her mother entered her room. Judith closed the door.

"I know it wasn't him," her mother informed her. "You're father is angry now. He isn't listening. I know who it was—Brad Morris. I found the stain on the sofa cushion in the Brides Room in the church basement in September. You took him down there. You lied about the cheerleaders' sleepover."

"I thought Brad loved me. When I told him about the baby, he dumped me," Becky pleaded through her tears. "He told me to go to the clinic in Hornell."

"Brad is not the right boy for you—I never liked him or his father," the mother advised. "Don't ever tell your father that it was Brad. If he believes you, he'll make the two of you get married. Then you'll be stuck with him—maybe for the rest of your life. Would you really want that?"

"But Mr. O'Toole was trying to help me. He didn't do anything," the young girl protested.

"Your father will never prove that the baby is O'Toole's, and he'll never stop hating him," he mother explained. "Mr. O'Toole will be alright. He can hold his own against your father. We have to think about you right now."

At that point Ethan returned, bursting into the room. "I've figured out what we'll do," he announced. "I'll report O'Toole to the school. They'll have to pay for this. People will see that he led an innocent astray. You'll be an example—like the Prodigal Son. Each week the people will see the pain of your guilt and your repentance. You will sit in the front for all to see. When the baby is born, we'll put it up for adoption—casting out the work of the devil. "

"Ethan, you can't do that to her," Judith fought back. "She's our daughter; she's hurting. She needs us."

"She owes us this for the shame she has brought down on us. In the end, I shall forgive her for her sin," Ethan pronounced.

"Only God can forgive sin," Judith reminded him. "Do you think that you're God?"

"You blaspheme, woman!" Ethan yelled back. He stood glaring at them with arms crossed over his chest. The two women looked back in fear. He waited for a response from them. Hearing none, he abruptly left the room, to take solace in his study. 

Ethan remained there into the early hours of the morning. Judith and Becky stayed upstairs. He stared out the window, searching for the meaning of the night's events—if they were the dissolution of his whole life, or a sign from the Father of yet more important things to come. 

At four in the morning Ethan heard the padding of steps on the stairs. His mood brightened. They were Judith's steps—he knew their weight and pace. For sure, she was making her way to beg his Forgiveness. He would give it, but not easily, for her defiance was a transgression that he would not suffer lightly. In the end, he decided, he would turn the other cheek as he had always preached to those who followed him. 

Ethan could tell by the sounds of the footsteps on the stairs that Judith was coming down barefoot. It surprised him because the weather had turned toward winter and the floors were cold. He waited patiently, preparing to mete out justice tempered with tough love. 

"Woman, cover thyself!" he cried at her as she entered the room. She was naked, arms at her side. Her form was slender and nicely curved, as it had always been. Her face was naked of expression, too. If she had chosen to, she could have turned her nakedness into seduction, but she hadn't done that for so long and it wasn't her purpose in that moment.

"Cover your own god dam self, Ethan," she retorted bitterly. "Oh, sorry! I see that you're already covered up; and isn't that the way you always are, Ethan? You're always covered in every way."

"I don't understand you, Judith," Ethan said.

"Covered in virtue and scripture," she explained. "Not one shred of human weakness or feeling."

"Judith, you're not making sense," he protested.

"I thought that I would treat you to one last look," she answered. "You've ignored it long enough. I didn't want you to forget it."

"Judith, this is unlike you," Ethan said weakly.

"How do you know?" she spat hate with her words. "Maybe I've been giving it out it all over town. Haven't you ever thought of that? It's not a bad looking body, is it?" She roughly lifted her breasts in her two hands and held them up to show him. 

"What's this all about, Judith?" he asked meekly.

"Ethan, I wasted my youth on you. We could have been happy, but you always had something against that. It's my fault, actually. I always went along—but not now. Becky's involved, and I can't let you destroy her with this plan of yours."

"Judith, I've never suspected..."

"Maybe you should have, Ethan. How do you know that I'm not a harlot, like Becky? How many men do you think I've been with? Who would enjoy sucking on these?" she asked through barred teeth as she lifted her breasts at him once again. "Who do you think?" she taunted him. "What other man has seen this?" She let go of her breasts and bumped her hip out at him, her triangle of pubic hair highlighted against her pale skin in the semi-darkness. "Maybe it was Jarrod—maybe O'Toole!"

"Judith, stop this at once!" he shouted.

"I am stopping, Ethan. It was just a last look for you and food for thought. I'm leaving now. I'm taking Becky. We're going to my sister's home in Indiana. Think about what I told you." 

She turned and left the room and ascended the stairs. Ethan watched her shapely buttocks flex as she disappeared up the stairs. Fifteen minutes later she and Becky were at the front door with their suitcases. 

"Judith, we're all under a lot of strain," Ethan said as he approached her.

"Don't try to stop me, Ethan. My mind's made up. I can't allow you to torture Becky like you said, and this is the only way that I can stop you."

"We can discuss it." Ethan offered.

"No, Ethan. I know you. You would promise and then go back on it later. I know you too well." Judith answered.

"What will I tell the congregation?" he asked helplessly.

"Whatever you want," she replied. "Try the truth. I know that Jarrod will help you say just the right thing." She paused and Ethan's face lightened in hopes that she was changing her mind. "Tell Jarrod that I said 'good-bye'," she added. "You'll be back one day," Ethan said. "Until then, I'll pray for you. I'll forgive you."

"Pray for yourself, Ethan. You need it more." She picked up her bags and turned to her daughter. "Let's go, Becky." They were the final words that she said. A minute later Ethan watched as the car disappeared down Main St.

************* 

Wednesday was the day that James tried to arrange for a rendezvous with Abby for later in the evening. It was a day that worked quite well for a couple of good reasons. For one thing, since it was in the middle of the week, it was a good bet that Bubba would be on the road. The other reason was that it provided good spacing between Abby and Vicki. James wanted to be at his best for both bed partners. Like an ace Pitcher, he needed a few days rest. He was becoming a little cocky about his sex life, and he knew it. He had, after all, good reason for feeling that way. He knew that his situation couldn't last forever, so he didn't want to spoil it with humility.

It was late on Wednesday afternoon when he arrived at Nathan's office, under the guise of delivering a copy of the upcoming mid-term Algebra exam. He didn't have much time. He had a tutoring student scheduled in ten minutes. Abby was at her desk, as usual. James craned his neck to see if Nathan was in his inner office. 

"I can't do it tonight," Abby anticipated his question. "Bubba didn't take the semi on the road this week. The truck's in the shop with transmission trouble." She smiled when she saw James' crestfallen expression. "Don't worry, though. He'll be on the road twice as much after this to pay for the repair." She looked around the room to make sure that no one was listening. "When that happens," she added, "you'll be wearing out your own crankshaft," she warned as she gave him a little wink.

"Fair enough," James said, laughing at the off-color quip. He turned to leave.

"That's not all," Abby called after him. James stopped and turned to face her. "Bubba's going to call you tonight to give you an invitation of sorts. Say 'yes' when he asks you."

"What kind of an invitation?" James asked. 

"He wants you to be a sub on his bowling team," Abby explained. "He heard about all your troubles and he wants to help you get to know some folks better. Bubba's really a good guy and he likes you. Besides, his team needs a sub real bad." 

"I'm not a very good bowler," James entered a mild protest.

"They don't care," Abby said. "They'll give you a handicap. Just be a good sport and buy a round of beer on your first night."

"Doesn't it make you nervous, Abby," he asked. "The whole idea kind of gives me the creeps."

"You mean because you and I sleep together when he's out of town?" Abby asked back. She shook her head and smiled up at him. "Not a bit. I think that it's exciting! It makes me feel tingly. I'll be thinking about it when Bubba and I are in bed together tonight."

James shrugged his shoulders, wondering at the tiny brazen woman. "Whatever you say," he called to her as he left for his session with his student.

The next night was Thursday, the regular night for Bubba's team. James rolled three games totaling four-twenty, and he had warned Bubba not to expect much more than that. The two men sat at the bar nursing their third beer. Most of the other bowlers had left.

"We're lucky to have you on the team," Bubba told him. "You should plan on coming every week, even though you're a sub. With eight guys on the team, there's always a need. I'm absent more times than not, myself."

"Thanks for inviting me," James replied. "It's a good group of guys, and I had a good time." The two men clinked glasses. "Do they know about my troubles with Reverend Chandler?" 

"Who in this town doesn't?" Bubba answered. "The guys don't care about that stuff. None of them goes to his church, and I doubt that any of them believes him."

"It's not true, you know," James felt the need to assure his new friend, and felt surprised that he cared enough to do so.

"I already told you not to worry about it, James," Bubba assured him. "If you bring it up again, I'll make you buy another round."

"I'll buy one, anyway," James offered.

"Good!" exclaimed Bubba. "While we drink it, I'll lay out a proposition for you."

The bartender brought them another round and took the money from James' pile of bills on the bar. "This has to be my last one. I'm feeling no pain as it is."

"I need a helper over Christmas," Bubba declared. "I'm taking the rig down to Florida to get a load of citrus—oranges or grapefruit, depending on the prices and orders. I have customers in Maryland and Pennsylvania—small grocery stores in small cities and towns. With a helper I could save a lot of time handling the crates. Otherwise, I have to sit in line waiting for the store employees to help me. If you come along, I can squeeze in at least one more, maybe two more, trips." 

"So you want me to ride along?" James asked. 

"Right," Bubba continued. "I'll give you a fifth of what I make, after taking out for expenses. If we get in three trips, you'll be in for fifteen hundred. You'll be on Christmas break, anyway." James hesitated. The offer came as a surprise. "What do you say?" Bubba urged. "You're in good shape, single. You can get out of the snow for a week. I'll do all the driving. What have you got to lose?"

"It's a deal," James agreed, clinking glasses with Bubba once again. 

"I'll fill you in later," Bubba said. "Right now, I've got to get home. Abby will be climbing the walls. When I'm home she likes my full attention in the evening—if you know what I mean," Bubba informed him with a laugh. He tossed down the rest of his beer and left James at the bar finishing his.

As he finished his drink James thought how well he understood Bubba's comment about his libidinous wife. Then he started wondering if he had made a mistake when he agreed to the Florida trip with Bubba. 

"A little less beer," he thought, "and I would have thought it over more." He shrugged. "Oh, what the hell—I'm into it now." He gulped down the last of his beer and picked up his money. He left a tip for the bartender and headed for his apartment.

************* 

Raymond and James sat at the dining room table in Tracey's house, pouring over the related rates problems that James had assigned. For the first time he saw Raymond struggling with a concept. 

"Don't be discouraged. You've handled more difficult things in calculus. Draw it out in a graph first. Be careful to start with good equations for your derivatives," he advised. "You can't skip over it; it's used too much in the sciences."

"There's just something about this..." Raymond complained.

"Try this problem. You've got just enough time for it while I write out your assignment for next week."

Tracey entered the room stretching as though she had nodded off to sleep in her living room during the Calc lesson. Since they had Thanksgiving dinner at Shirley's house she had let her guard down more when James was in her house.

Part of James was grateful for Tracey's display of her form as Tracey extended her arms over her head. She was, after all, a woman who had plenty for a man to see. Part of James wished that she wouldn't, because it only gave him ideas that he knew were out of reach. He hadn't forgotten the mental picture of the Mayor exiting her house in the early morning. James had Lexus taste and a Chevy wallet.

"I'm going to get ready for something that I'm going to do tonight while you boys finish up," she informed them. "Let yourself out when you're finished. You'll probably be done before I am. Just lock the door behind you." With that, she disappeared down the hallway.

James half listened. "Okay, sure," he mumbled. A short time later he heard her close the bathroom door. A short time after that he heard Shirley knocking at the front door to take Raymond home. James answered the door while Raymond packed up.

"Where's Tracey?" Shirley asked.

"In the bathroom, getting ready to go somewhere tonight," James answered. As he said it they heard the water running. 

"Okay," she answered. "Tell her I said 'hello'. Here's your cookies."

"I doubt that I'll see her. I'm just going to pack up my things. She said to lock the door as I left. I'll only be another minute." Shirley nodded and turned to go. Raymond walked out with her. "That was a very nice Thanksgiving. Thanks, again—and thanks for the cookies," James called after them. Shirley turned and smiled to acknowledge his thanks. James went back inside to pack up his things.

He was ready to go a minute later except that he couldn't find his scarf. "That's funny," he said out loud. "I always keep it right with my coat." He wanted to ask Tracey if she'd seen it, but beyond, in the bathroom, he heard the shower running. He continued searching. He wondered if Raymond had picked it up accidentally. He didn't think so. As he kept searching he heard the shower shut off. He quickened the pace of his searching. If Tracey found him running around for a simple scarf, he thought, she would really be sure that he was a loser. Still, his mother had knitted the scarf for him, and it would be sad if he lost it without even using it for a season—so he kept looking.

He must have been distracted, looking under furniture and rechecking the pockets of his coat. He was on his hands and knees checking under the table when he got that feeling of someone watching him. He looked up and saw Tracey hovering over him, standing not more than two feet from where he was. 

James jumped up instantly. What he saw made him take a big gulp. She was wearing a long, sheer robe, made of silk. It was of a deep burgandy color, and tied at the waist. It hugged her form, showing off the outline of her ample breasts and hips flared under a miniscule waist. James started to harden, which reminded him of his adventures at Abby's house fixing her washing machine. 

"Uhhh...I was just packing up," he blurted out clumsily.

Perhaps it was the suggestion, rather than the actual view of anything that excited James, because the robe wasn't transparent and it extended from neckline to the floor. James knew that Tracey had just emerged from the shower, so he knew that she couldn't have much, if anything, on underneath the robe. 

James, feeling guilty for no reason other than his thoughts, averted his line of sight away from the desirable target. He looked high and low, left and right, avoiding that which he knew was forbidden, and the same time so inviting. His eyes kept darting about, until they met hers, and he found that they were watching him with a quizzical look. At that point, temptation overwhelmed him and he glanced down to steal a last look at that perfectly molded body under that deep, dark, burgandy robe. When he did, to his surprise, he found that she had loosened the belt and allowed the robe to drift apart while he wasn't looking. It was then that he saw the matching camisole underneath; the same deep color; same rich fabric. The lacy bodice just barely hid her breasts. Her sculpted legs extended below.

"Looking for this?" she asked in a sultry voice, producing the wayward scarf, wrapping it around the back of her neck.

"Yes," he answered obediently. "Where was it?"

"It was in my bedroom," she answered in the same sultry voice.

"Your bedroom?" James' voice was getting hoarse; his mouth was dry. "How did it get there?"

"I took it off your coat and put in there," she replied in a soothing voice, "so that you'd be here looking for it when I got out of the shower." 

"I thought that you were getting ready for something you were going to do tonight," James reminded her.

"I'm doing it now," she answered softly.

She took the scarf from around her neck and looped around his, as if to symbolize her capture of him. In doing so she stepped closer to him, and it was then that James noticed her perfume. She noticed James' nose wrinkle as he took in the scent. "Do you like my perfume?" she asked. "I put it on for you. Everything I put on is for you," she whispered to him, and her breath tasted of mint. 

"I like it," he said truthfully. "I like you, Tracey." She smiled and purred a little to show her pleasure at his remark. "But why me?" he asked.

It wasn't a real question, because he had already decided to allow the seduction to follow its course. It was just one of those questions that nervous people throw in between important statements to fill in perceived gaps. As unimportant the query was, Tracey didn't take that way.

She tightened the looped scarf around his neck and leaned up against him. Her face was inches from his and her eyes bore into him. "Because you're special," she whispered into his face. "You're a nice man—not like most. You helped my brother; I like you. Because I want to make love to you all night long." She paused for a second, waiting for James to respond. 

He did by wrapping his arms around her and kissing her on the mouth. It was gentle, but sensuous, meant to play back what she had said to him. When she felt him do it, she gave back in kind. Then she broke away for a bit because she had more to say. "And it's because you never expected it from me to do it, but gave me respect just the same. Now I'm going to give you what you deserve but never asked for." They kissed again, a repeat of the first. They broke it off. She stepped back and tugged him gently with the scarf still draped around the back of his neck. She led him down the hallway to the bedroom. 




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 11



"I can't wait to have you inside me," she said as they entered the bedroom.

*********** 

James saw that Tracey had turned down the covers on the bed and the lights were out, except a dim one on the dresser. They stood alongside the bed about four feet from one another. Tracey opened the robe and let it fall off her shoulders. She was lovely in the soft light. She was the most beautiful woman that James had ever seen—that many men had ever seen. James was getting more excited. As alluring as she was in the camisole, he knew that there was much more to come.

"You have to catch up," she said softly. She was right; James had on all of his clothes.

He kicked off his shoes and quickly stripped off his socks. Those out of the way, he lifted off his sweater and shirt soon followed. "Kind of a wiry build—interesting," she remarked at his upper physique, licking her lips. 

He thought that she might step forward and attack his belt buckle, but she remained in place watching him. He undid the buckle and zipper himself and his trousers fell to the floor. He picked them up and folded them and placed them on the chair with his other clothes. "Neat—very unusual in a man!" she giggled but not in a girlish way, but sensually from deep in her throat. It signaled anticipation rather than humor. 

Tracey's eyes flashed as she looked at James. Without ado, she took the bottom hem of her negligee and raised the garment up over her head and off. She stood before him, unashamedly nude. From the look in her eyes, James could see that she was enjoying him pour over her body from head to toe. She remained still and let him do it, not raising her hands to her hips or to cover herself or turning to obscure the angle of vision.

James was in his shorts. They were tented out as his erection was pushed out against the fabric. He knew that it was his turn to reveal himself, and he did so without delay. His hard penis pointed straight out at Tracey. A droplet of clear fluid glistened at the tip. He was more abashed as she was, and barely managed to stand still as she looked him over. 

"Nice," she said softly, her eyes glued to his manhood. She approached and cupped it gently in her practiced hand. Her fingers danced sublimely on his scrotum. As he was about to return the favor, she stepped forward and kissed him. She broke it before he could kiss back and hopped onto the bed, finding the middle and lay down on her back.

"Come here and take me," she whispered. 

He climbed on with her. They lay on their sides kissing for a while. He clasped a breast that he never dreamt he would see, let alone hold as he pleased. As they their tongues caressed each other he rubbed his thumb over the nipple and felt it harden. She let him know that she liked his technique through her mews and purrs and pressing her breast harder into the palm of his hand. He let his hands roam all over her, from her back, down to her buttocks cheeks and back to her breasts again. He felt her thighs pressing his as they lay together embracing. Mostly, he felt himself hard, pressing against her belly, and he knew that she must have felt it, as well.

After a while he turned her onto her back and straddled her. He bent his lips to a nipple and captured it, tenderly at first. He propped himself on his elbows until he felt her thrust her pelvis up in an attempt to press against him. He lowered his body down so that it rested on her. He rubbed himself back and forth and she pounded her vulva against him. They were panting, sweating, exciting one another. He left her breasts temporarily and trailed his mouth down her body. He reached her triangle of hair and rubbed his face in it. She grasped his head with her hands, pushing him harder against her. He dove lower, bathing his face in her warm crevice. He tasted her. She moaned loudly with pleasure, He pressed in—she yelled out. 

He forced his face away from her center. He kissed and nuzzled his way up her body, stopping at her navel, each breast, even her shoulders. He continued slowly up her throat and finally her mouth. Tracey threw her legs around him. As she did, he entered her, driving all the way to the hilt. She cried out once again, thrusting up to him to meet his every stroke. 

Soon, she couldn't keep pace with him. Her voice became higher, letting out a sound—between a gasp and a moan—as he pressed onward. "James!" she cried, as she climaxed. He felt her orgasm, the vagina in spasm contracting around him, the arms and legs around him in a death grip, the short puffs of breath. It was all that he had hoped for. Realizing it, he let himself go, releasing deep inside her. "Tracey!" he murmured as he finished.

********** 

They were lying together, regaining energy after their orgasms. It was still early, and neither had anywhere else to be. 

"I never expected this," he admitted. 

"I planned it while I was driving home on Thanksgiving night," she answered. "At first, I wanted to do something nice for you because you've done so much for Raymond and been so nice to Shirley and her family. If it hadn't been for you I would have never been invited to Thanksgiving. Shirley and I would still be feuding."

"What do you mean 'at first'?" James asked.

"Then I realized how much I wanted it. It wasn't just for you. It was for me, too." She rested her head on his chest. "I've been in bed with so many men, for so many reasons. I just wanted to do it with a man I liked him for a good reason."

"I don't know what to say, Tracey," James said. "I like you, but I'm not sure..."

She placed her fingers over his lips to silence him.

"Don't say anything. Don't ruin it by thinking too much. We have lives to go back to after tonight. We may never be like this again, so let's enjoy it while we can."

************** 

TO BE CONTINUED...

Dear Readers,

Thank you, once again, for choosing to read my work. I welcome your comments and questions.

Best regards,

Autumn Writer



The Blameless Bystander Ch. 12



Chapter 12—Turning Point

James woke up next to Tracey early the next morning. He was surprised to be so wide awake because they were up into the small hours making love to each other in every way that they could think of. Lying still in the half light of morning, he mulled over the complications of adding a third lover into his life, and thinking how worthwhile that would be. Tracey's voluptuous body was only a small part of his motivation. Her high-energy lovemaking style was a factor, too; the biggest reason was what she said as she seduced him. 

Tracey was sound asleep; James' mouth was dry and he felt like washing up. He slipped out of bed and crept down the hallway to the bathroom, guessing that the movement would wake her up. When he returned she was stretching herself awake. James got back in bed, knowing that he had only thirty minutes before he had to leave.

"Good morning," she said softly as she kissed him lightly on the cheek. "That was some night, I would say." She draped her arm over him and snuggled down to rest her head on his chest. 

He didn't answer. He wanted to say something nice, but couldn't find the right words. 

"You're a good lover," she purred into his ear.

"It was you inspiring me," he answered. "I'm not very experienced at this."

"Good lovemaking is always a matter of inspiration," she said. "Experience means little."

James stroked the bare skin of her back and she purred in contentment. She sighed and said, "We have to get up soon."

"Give me a rain check?" he asked.

"Maybe," she replied, "but let's not make any plans right now. My life is more complicated than you could ever know."

It was hardly the answer James was hoping for. She sensed it and explained herself. "I always take things a day at a time. I just wanted to give you something and I did. You gave me something, too. Let's be glad for that." 

********** 

Late in the afternoon James found himself in Bob Jackson's office. Nathan and Ed Cassidy were there, too.

"I don't believe this," Jackson spoke as he stared down at his desk, his fingers massaging his temples. He looked up at James. "What in the devil's name were you thinking?"

"What was I supposed to do?" James asked. "I started out asking her why she skipped her math tutoring and she ended up telling me that she was pregnant."

"You already told me all that!" Jackson replied. 

"You should have brought it to me," Nathan said sternly. "That wasn't a job for you."

"Twenty-twenty hindsight!" Jackson interrupted. "Our problem now is how to handle it. I can tell you that the public isn't going to like this at all."

"Because I bought her a test kit?" James asked in amazement. 

"No, James," Jackson corrected, "because Reverend Chandler says that it was you who got Becky into her condition in the first place."

"That's ridiculous!" James insisted.

"Don't you see what Chandler's doing?" Ed pointed out. "If he can make people think that it was you, it takes the blame off his daughter. He'll say that you lured her into your trust and then seduced her."

"A pretty girl, minister's daughter; single teacher—not to mention your run-in with him on the pedophile thing. People will put two and two together," Nathan explained.

"That should be easy enough to disprove." James said.

"Sure, we can—nine months from now. It'll be too late; the damage will already be done," Jackson explained. "People will make up their own minds long before that. If they're proven wrong by some blood test, they'll just dig their heels in harder. They'll assume the test is bogus because they won't want to give up their assumptions."

"The facts will speak," James stated glibly.

"You don't get it, James," Nathan said. "If they give up one assumption they'll be on a slippery slope. It might mean giving them all up. They'd prefer living with one mistake to preserve everything else."

"Nathan's right," Jackson agreed. "We've got to cut this off in the bud." 

"I once told you to keep your nose clean," Nathan added.

"Maybe we can interview the girl," Ed suggested. "If she comes clean on who the father is, we can put this to rest right away."

"Good idea, Ed," Jackson answered sarcastically. "The problem is that the girl's not here. Chandler says that she is so hurt by James that the mother took her out of state for the duration of the pregnancy." 

"Do you believe that's really why the mother took her away?" Ed queried.

"It makes no difference. So, you see now that we do have a problem," Jackson continued. "And with the other accusations, the public will eat this up with a spoon."

"But it's all untrue," James protested. "And pedophilia has nothing to do..."

"It doesn't matter," Nathan butted in. "Where sex is concerned people don't analyze and parse details."

"He's right," Ed agreed. "It's not fair—but he's right."

"So what do we do?" James asked.

"If I were in my right mind, I'd fire you," Jackson answered. "I would, except that it would open the School District up to all kinds of trouble. We'll look guilty. For now, I've arranged to have a blood sample taken from you and put in the custody of the County Social Service Department. The school nurse is coming over to take it and the County is sending a social worker to witness it and take it back to the Social Services Department for safe keeping."

"What about the press?" Ed asked.

"That's all we need!" Jackson said in an exasperated sigh.

"I think that James made some headway with that woman reporter a while ago. It might be better to get out front with this." 

As the men pondered the question there was a knock on the closed office door. "Come in!" Bob Jackson yelled.

The men stood as two women entered the office. One was Edna Baxter, School Nurse. The other was unknown and they all assumed that it was the social worker from the County. 

"Hello, Edna," Nathan greeted her. 

"Connie Martin—Department of Social Services," the stranger blurted out.

"Can we do this here in my office?" Jackson asked the nurse. "We don't need an audience."

"No, problem," she answered. "Give me a minute to set up."

Connie Martin was a plain woman. She was in between tall and short; in her late thirties—neither old nor youthful. She wore a black suit that negated any features of her body. She had shoulder-length, straight, black hair and olive skin. Her hair was held in place by barrettes and swept back from a face that bore no traces of makeup. Her glasses had thick lenses and black frames. She had no jewelry of any kind. More than anything, her expression gave away nothing of her thoughts or mood, not even a courteous smile. 

"After we get the sample I'll need to get some information," she announced, pulling a yellow pad from her satchel. 

The nurse drew James' blood into a vial. She affixed a label on it. There was a duplicate set of papers for her to sign, as did Miss Martin and James. There was a special holder for the vial for traveling and Miss Martin stowed it into her satchel with one set of the papers and gave the other set to James.

"Let us put those in the safe for you James," Jackson offered. James handed them over.

Edna left and the remaining five people sat around Bob's desk.

"I usually do this one-on-one with the subject," Miss Martin said.

"I thought that since we were the ones who called you, we could sit in," Jackson pleaded.

"If you insist," she replied, "but I might need more later."

After some preliminary details, she asked James to tell his story. There wasn't much to tell except the story of the pregnancy testing kit. Beyond that, he knew nothing except that he had been accused. 

"I need to see the Teachers' Lounge at the High School," she said after James concluded.

"Why do you need to see that?" Nathan asked.

"That's where Reverend Chandler says you performed the impregnating act," she answered, retaining her deadpan expression. "I called him before I came here."

"Impregnating act?" Ed asked, amused. "We're all adults her, Miss Martin."

"It's because we're all adults I thought that we could use that phrase," she answered back.

*********** 

"Jarrod, I don't know what to do," Ethan pleaded to his friend. "I don't know if Judith is ever coming back. And Becky...; how could this happen?"

"Judith will come back. Just give her time," Jarrod answered. "You say you went to the High School and accused O'Toole?"

"Yes; of course they denied it."

"And Judith and Becky are in Indiana?" Jarrod probed further. Ethan nodded. "It's probably good that they stay there a while."

"What will people say? What will I tell the congregation?" Ethan lamented, holding his head.

"You have to make sure that they understand that it wasn't Becky's fault—or yours," Jarrod advised. "Let the people see you suffering. They'll get right into it with you. By the time it's over, O'Toole will be happy to get out of town in one piece."

Ethan leaned forward and buried his face in is hands. "Father, if thou wilst it, remove this cup from me." He sat motionless for about a minute. Jarrod waited, staring aimlessly out the window. He had become accustomed to Ethan's ways. "Thy will be done!" Ethan finished. He looked up and Jarrod was gazing idly out the window. "Why did you not pray so that you would not be tempted?" he asked sternly. "The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak."

"Ethan, you're worrying me more and more. You should try to take it easy or you'll have a nervous breakdown," Jarrod warned.

"Before the cock crows three times thou will deny me!" Ethan mumbled. 

"Ethan! Ethan! Snap out of it," Jarrod yelled.

Ethan shook his head slightly and his expression changed. "I'm sorry, Jarrod. It's just that the scriptures give me comfort at times like this."

"If you say so," Jarrod conceded.

"Judith said to say 'good-bye' to you. What do you think that means?" Ethan asked.

"I...I don't know," Jarrod stammered. "The more I think about it, I'm convinced that Becky and her mother should stay in Indiana until the baby's born."

"You're a good friend, Jarrod" Ethan confessed. "What would I do without you?"

************** 

Ethan walked slowly to the pulpit to deliver his sermon during Sunday service. For the first time in many years he had nothing prepared. He was drained by the events of the past week. There were rumors about Becky's pregnancy, so as he stepped forward to begin speaking, the people in the crowded pews hushed to hear him. 

He closed his eyes and lifted them toward heaven, searching for comfort, or perhaps forgiveness—or to forgive. It was all the same; a swirling of essences summoned forth for justification or exoneration—a fine point of difference that he cared not to parse. It was his personal agony in a private garden of the mind. All he could offer was some scripture that he knew by heart, and blended it into his own story.

"And they smote him on the head with a reed and did spit on Him," he quoted. "And when they had mocked Him...led Him out to be crucified." 

"Brothers and sisters," he went on, "I stand before you in humiliation. Shame and sadness befalls my house." Ethan paused, nearly unable to continue. He blinked and wiped some wetness from his eyes. He took a deep breath and continued. "You can see that my wife and daughter are absent this morning. I must tell you that they will be gone for many more months until Becky completes her pregnancy." Ethan hung his head and then slowly shook it in bewilderment as the congregation gasped. He spotted Jarrod seated in his usual front seat nodding in approval. "Please pray with me in my grief," he mournfully added.

He slowly dismounted the pulpit steps and made his way to the center of the sanctuary and nodded at the organist to begin playing. The choir sang "Amazing Grace". The organist played more slowly than usual; the choir fell in, turning the comforting hymn to a dirge. 

As the organist concluded, Ethan made his way to the front of the church as usual. It was his congregation and he had to face them if he wished to save them.

"Such a beautiful child," he heard one woman sigh. A man patted him on the shoulder silently as they walked by. 

Another man asked, "Who's the father?" Everyone who heard it stopped in their tracks and turned to Ethan, waiting and hoping for the answer. Ethan hesitated.

"Is it James O'Toole?" a man's voice called out loudly from the back of the crowd. Ethan knew that it was Jarrod's voice.

"Is it, Ethan?" a hundred voices asked in demanding whispers. 

Ethan nodded his head. "Yes; yes it is."

"James O'Toole! James O'Toole!" the name spread from one alarmed face to the next like a prairie fire.

Jarrod stood away from the others, allowing himself a small, nearly imperceptible, contented smile. 

*********** 

"Hey, James," Bubba yelled over the growling engine. "Can you fill me up with some more coffee?"

James poured out the steaming liquid from the thermos into Bubba's travel mug and set it in the holder. He filled his own mug, too. Bubba reached back into the jacket pocket draped over the seat behind him and pulled out a pack of cigars and took one. He thrust the box out at James. "Sure you don't want one?" he offered.

"I would, Bubba, but with these hills and all, it might get my stomach doing some flip-flops."

Bubba retracted his arm and replaced the half-empty box in his jacket pocket. "Then I guess you better not have one!" he shouted, and then burst out laughing. James pondered the possibility of his upchucking in the cab and he started laughing, too. Bubba kept one hand on the wheel and handled the cigar with the other. He tore off the cellophane wrapper with his teeth and shoved the stogie between his teeth. "I'll just chew on it a while," he said. "I know that you don't like the smoke."

Actually, James had become accustomed to the clouds of cigar smoke billowing from the driver's seat. He tried one of Bubba's cigars on the way down to Florida on their first trip and did throw up in the cab. Bubba took it in stride. It became the standard break-up-the monotony joke they used as they put mile after mile behind them. 

He had become accustomed to Bubba in more ways, too. Although James held a minor stake in their 'Citrus Venture', Bubba never made him feel that way. They shared everything, including turns in the sleeper cab, while the other propped his feet on the dash and slept as best he could. They ate, worked and rested at the same time. Bubba introduced him to all his trucker friends that he met along the way. When work was to be done they always shared it, even though it was James who was hired on as a helper. It was his only contribution because he didn't have the license required to drive the semi.

"Does it bother you that I was once a priest?" he asked once as they passed through Georgia. "Don't you want to know why I quit?"

"Naw!" he drawled in an accent that James couldn't quite place. "Do you want to know why I quit my job as foreman in the Cheese Factory?"

"No," James chuckled. And so, they accepted each at face value. 

A few miles passed by. "I'll tell you anyway," Bubba declared. He paused to increase the drama of the moment. "It's because I was lousy at it!" he yelled out in boisterous laughter. As serious questions were dealt with, Bubba liked to cast them aside with some sort of joke and James only wondered if he was really paying enough attention to the road as he enjoyed the stage. 

James looked out at the Blue Ridge Mountains as they cruised north along I-77, keeping a lookout for the I-79 cutoff. They were on their way to Pittsburgh, towing a refrigerated trailer loaded with fruit that Bubba bought at the groves and wholesalers around Orlando. It was their third of three trips. They'd been on the road since six that morning. It was nearly six in the evening.

"Whaddya say we stop over in Charleston for the night?" Bubba asked. "I'm overdue for a rest on my logbook. Even if we made Pittsburgh tonight, there'd be no one to take in the produce, anyway." 

"Sounds like a good idea," James agreed.

"We'll get a hotel room tonight. Charleston's a great town. I know some good places to eat and have a few drinks. 

*********** 

It was past ten that evening in a bar; country music was blasting out of the juke box. Bubba was working on a Jack Daniels; James nursed a scotch. They were lucky that the bar was across the road from their motel. 

"How are we doing so far?" James asked.

"The fuel prices nicked us some," Bubba answered. "We'll do alright. I thought that you'd clear fifteen hundred. It might only be eleven or twelve."

"I can live with that," James replied. "It's found money for me. If you hadn't asked me along, I'd be reading in my trailer right now."

"So you're glad you decided to come along?" Bubba asked. "I'm glad that you did. You're a good worker. If I had done it alone, I would have only done two trips." 

They touched glasses at the success of their partnership.

"You've been good company, too," Bubba commented. "I would rather have had you to talk to than singing country tunes to myself the whole way."

"You did plenty of that, anyway," James ribbed his friend, taking on Bubba's habit of deflecting serious talk with humor. 

"So, you think that I'm not ready for the Grand Ole Opry?" Bubba retorted.

"You said it, not me!" James answered. "Whose turn is it to buy?"

As they waited for their fresh drinks to arrive Bubba became quiet, listening to the soulful ballad from the female voice singing inside the jukebox. He turned his gaze away, staring at nothing. When the bartender returned, he shook himself back to the present.

"Favorite song?" James asked.

"Naw, just thinkin' of home. We'll be there in two more days if everything goes right—three if we get delayed. The little gal singin' that song reminds me of Abby."

James nodded. His conscience sent him a little ping. He had almost forgotten about his clandestine trysts with Bubba's wife. If he were not on the road with Bubba, he might be with Abby that very minute. James wished that he had the right joke ready to ward off this conversation, but his brain wasn't working fast enough. "It's been a long trip," he said 

"When we get in, she'll be waitin' for me," Bubba declared. "It won't be to feed me dinner, neither." Bubba elbowed James in the ribs. "No matter how tired I am, I won't refuse her. Not that I'm complainin', but that woman has one big appetite for sex. I can't give her all she needs. Even if I were home all the time, she'd wear me down."

"Bubba," James said nervously, "I don't think..." 

"She gets more from other men—I know it. We never talk about it, but I know it. She needs it. When I'm home, she belongs to me. I don't take it personally—I accept it. It's enough for me."

Bubba swallowed down a mouthful of whiskey and turned to James. "I know that she's got her eye on you," he said, punching his finger into James' chest. "Maybe you've already been with her a time or two—maybe not." He paused and cast an eye on James, who looked away. "I knew it when she told me about the thing with the washing machine. When we're talkin' about you she get's that hungry look in her eyes."

James could have lied to Bubba. He refused to do it. He hoped to escape without an answer, but knew that his silence was all the answer Bubba needed.

"If you do, it's okay," Bubba told him. "In fact, I hope that you already have. I'd feel better knowing it was a friend takin' care of her. And I know that Abby can do a man some good when he needs it most."

"Bubba, this is tough to talk about," James pleaded. Bubba ignored him.

"It's not her fault. She's got itches that need scratching. I give Abby her freedom because I love her. It ain't perfect—I know. She needs more than one man can give her. I'd rather see her satisfied than have to settle for less. I love her with all my heart and there's nothin' she could do to make me change my mind."




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 12



"It has to be tough on you," James answered.

"Sometimes," Bubba admitted. "It hurts a little, but then I feel better knowing that I did it for her."

"C'mon, let's drink up," James said. "We've got a long day tomorrow and we're half-way in the bag as it is."

************** 

It wasn't pleasant getting on the road at five the next morning. "If you wanna dance, you gotta pay the fiddler." Bubba moaned.

"It's not a fiddle that I hear in my head," James answered. 

"There's a breakfast place just before the onramp for the interstate," Bubba said. "We can get something to eat. That always makes me feel better after a night with Jack. We can get the thermos filled up there, too."

"Just promise me—no cigars for a while," James replied, holding his head.

"Hey! Good one, James," Bubba laughed. "I feel better already."

James had to admit that he did feel better after breakfast. They climbed into the cab of the semi and got onto the interstate and on to Pittsburgh. James looked out over the West Virginia mountains.

"You're kinda' quiet today, James," Bubba said. "I know what you're thinkin' about. You're askin' yourself if I really meant what I said about Abby last night at the bar, or if it was the whiskey talkin'." James didn't answer, sorry that the subject came up again. "You don't have to say nothin'. I understand. What I said, I meant—and that's all I'm gonna say about it." Bubba looked away, gazing out over the road.

And so, James pondered his dilemma. Bubba had neatly punched his ticket for his periodic joyrides with Abby. In doing so, he added a sour taste to them. James never considered his liaisons with Abby as innocent, but he had thought them harmless. Bubba, then, was a virtual stranger in a semi-trailer who existed temporarily in Abby's house and then disappeared down the interstate. James took sex from Abby, but nothing else. She seemed happy with the arrangement and Bubba would never be hurt because he would never know. 

That was all changed. Bubba knew, endured and accepted. James marveled at Bubba's love for Abby; wondered what it felt like to have so great a feeling. He and Bubba had become friends and that was a love of a different sort. Abby's sweet sex in the guestroom bed beckoned him, but another force that he couldn't name held him back. It made for confused feelings and it would be a difficult task to reconcile them.

They made it to Pittsburgh at mid-morning and spent two hours making three stops, selling half their load. "Let's skip lunch and get moving to Erie," Bubba said. "I've got two customers there and one last delivery in Jamestown. We have to get there before they close their receiving dock."

It was just six when they unloaded the final crate. "One more stop in Rochester to return the trailer to the leasing company. I don't want to get charged an extra day. Then, it's home to Bates." 

At ten, Bubba pulled the semi into his driveway. He had called ahead to Abby, and when she heard him downshifting she turned on the outdoor light and stood in the doorway. James saw his car off to the side, covered with snow. 

"I'd invite you in," Bubba said, not quite containing a grin "but, you know..." The two men had one last laugh together. The trip was over.

************* 

The day after James returned from the trip school was in session again. When Vicki saw James she invited him for dinner and a home-cooked meal. James was glad to accept on account of the food and the company.

"I brought you a present from Florida," he announced as she opened the apartment door. He held up a sack of navel oranges. 

"For me? I thought that you might bring some warm weather, but this'll do," she said, and then gave him a kiss on the cheek. 

She turned to go back to the kitchen, but James grabbed her, pulling her to him and kissed her hard on the lips. "I missed that more than your cooking," he said as he released her.

"I guess you must have!" Vicki exclaimed, catching her breath. "You're worse than a sailor in port."

"Sorry," he said. "I just wanted to show you that I missed you." 

"You can show me later," Vicki replied. "We'll have dinner first. It's nearly ready."

Vicki prepared a nice dinner—pork chops with a sauce and baked potatoes. It looked good to James, who hadn't eaten since breakfast the day before. Vicki was quiet at first, watching James devour the fare. After a while, she smiled and broke the silence.

"So you'd rather sleep with me than Bubba?" she asked.

"Wouldn't you?" he asked back.

"It could get old," she answered wistfully.

James looked up. "No, it couldn't, not with you," he said. He continued looking at her, waiting to see if his words hit their mark.

"Well, that's good, James, because if you ever did get tired of me you wouldn't have any obligation to..."

"Vicki, what's the trouble? Did something happen while I was away?" 

"No, just making sure of things," she answered.

"It's not just going to bed with you, Vicki. I like being with you, too. You're the only person in Bates I feel close to."

"Why, that's not true," she insisted. "There's that Jacobs family, and Abby. I know that Nathan likes you. What about Bubba?"

"Nathan's my boss," he reminded her. "I like Shirley and her family, but they don't understand me like you do."

"You're close to Abby," she said.

"With Abby, it's just for sex. She's nice enough, but we never talk about anything more serious than who'll be on top."

Vicki looked away from James. She took a deep breath and turned to him with a smile.

"Let's not talk about these things right now. We can some other time. Let's finish dinner and then be together."

James shrugged, a little disappointed that Vicki cut off the subject. At least, he was a little closer. 

"And who usually get on top most of the time," she asked with a grin.

"Me," he answered.

"I would have guessed that," she said. 

"You're like Bubba," James observed. When she furled her brow he explained. "You always use a joke to end a serious conversation when you don't want to talk about it anymore."

They spoke little as they cleaned up the dishes. When they finished they looked at one another and knew it was time to start.

"Do you remember the first time that we had dinner here?" she asked. James nodded. "We listened to music after we ate. Let's do that again for a while before we go into the bedroom."

While James looked for the Debussy disk Vicki kicked off her shoes. By the time he had finished with the machine she was sitting on the sofa waiting for him, bare to the waist. James sat behind her, leaning back against the arm of the sofa and some pillows. She eased back into him and he wrapped his arms around her. 

From behind, James caressed her forehead and temples. As her arms dropped to her sides, he slid his hands down her shoulders, along the outside of her bare arms and finally, to her breasts. He just smoothed the soft flesh at first with long gentle strokes. Eventually he cupped one each hand and tenderly traced the nipples with his fingers and thumbs.

"Mmmm," she purred languidly. "This is the part I wouldn't ever tire of. It's so relaxing; it feels...good." James kept up the massage, eager to please. She leaned back against him a little harder. Every so often she would make soft noises in her throat, reminding James that he was doing a good job. Her nipples had stiffened nicely. Every now and then James would give one of them a small pinch. The bud would deflate for a second, and then harden almost immediately 

As the music neared its midpoint she placed her hands on the triangle at the juncture of her thighs and pressed down. She drew a deep breath, and then whispered. "Don't stop!" James obeyed. Vicki released the hook and zipper on the front of her pants. She raised her hips up and slid them, with her panties, down her thighs. Her fingers dipped inside the folds of her labia and she began to press her pelvis up harder. James held her closer, continuing his part. Her breathing deepened and she let out little cries of pleasure. The sounds became louder and the pace of breaths quickened. 

James felt her muscles tense and she let out a loud cry as she climaxed. She held it for several seconds, not allowing it to escape. Finally, she relaxed; it was over. James still held her breasts in his two hands.

"Thank you James for doing that for me. It was the best that I've had since that night when Abby was with us." 

"This was the first time you came while I was touching you," James told her.

"Yes, I guess that it was," she agreed wistfully. She lay still for a few seconds more. Her mood suddenly changed from dreamy to playful. "Let's go into the bedroom now. How would you like it? I could give you some head."

"That sounds tempting," James replied. "I think that I'd just like to be inside you."

"Then you shall have it!" she declared.

********************* 

When James woke early next morning he heard Vicki in the shower. When she came out she was wrapped in a bathrobe. 

"Your turn," she announced. "While you're in there I'll get some breakfast together."

After his shower James dressed himself. Vicki had made French toast. She was still in her robe and they sat down to eat. "I'll have plenty of time to get dressed after breakfast," she said. "You need to get back to your place and change clothes before school.

They dove into the food and washed it down with coffee. When James had almost cleaned his plate she cleared her throat to get his attention.

"James, last night was our last time together...at least for a while."

James dropped his fork, and looked at her in disbelief. "Why, Vicki? I thought that we were getting closer."

"That's the problem, James," she answered. "We were getting that way; we forgot the rules. We should have just kept it fun—a roll in the sack once or twice a week. What would have been wrong with that?" Vicki's eyes were glistening. 

"But, Vicki..." James started to protest. 

She put her finger over his lips to stop him from speaking. "It's not your fault," she said. "It's not mine, either. You see, I missed you while you were gone, but I thought I'd fought it off. Then you came and said that you missed me, too. It made me feel things that I didn't want to feel."

"Vicki!" James cried in dismay.

"I refuse to fall in love with a man again, James. I have a special place for you, but I'll never let it be love. It just has to be this way. Maybe we can get together again when all this wears off."

James shook his head. "Are you sure? Don't you want to think it over?"

"I'm sure," she replied. "I'm going into my bedroom to get dressed now. Finish your coffee and let yourself out when you're done—okay?" She disappeared behind the bedroom door. 

************

It was a long, slow day that James plodded through to get to the final bell. He took lunch at his desk in the Math Department office, instead of the Teachers' Lounge. He wanted to avoid running into Vicki. Moreover, the suspicious looks cast upon him by his fellow teachers were wearing down his patience. He wished that he were still on the road with Bubba.

He felt badly about his breakup with Vicki. He realized that he pushed her too far, too fast. Of his three sex partners, she was least talented in bedroom arts. It was the before and after that he would miss. He had spoken the truth when he said that she understood him better than anyone.

It wasn't so much loneliness as isolation that hurt James the most. He learned that loneliness was an accidental—or possibly self-imposed—condition that deprived him of contact of others. Isolation was something different altogether, an unwanted, imposed deprivation. 

One bright spot was that that he had his regular tutoring session with Raymond at Tracey's house that afternoon. It would be interesting to see how much his student could do on his own. Before leaving for Florida with Bubba, he had assigned several chapters to Raymond without any related problems. "Just master them," was all he said. It was a test of Raymond's initiative as much as aptitude. As usual, James and Raymond worked at the dinette table while Tracey read on the living room sofa. James hoped for a hint that she wanted him to stay later. She did nothing to give any sign of what she was thinking. James decided to drop the matter until Shirley took Raymond back home. He just needed a reason to tarry at the house a while longer.

James was mightily impressed with what Raymond had done over the vacation. He had mastered the material that James gave him and worked all the problems at the end of the chapters until he performed them correctly. Best of all, he had questions about the material that were beyond the scope of the textbook. James answered all but one, which he promised to look up. 

"Raymond, I'm really impressed at what you've done. It confirms what I was thinking. You're more than fit for any school that offers admission to you. Just don't lose your attitude about learning and you'll be better than okay."

"I'm thinking about going to Cornell if the financial aid is good," he said.

"It has a great Engineering School," James replied. "It's not far from here. Have you ever been there?" Raymond shook his head. "Maybe your mother or Tracey can take you sometime." 

"Raymond, your mother's in the driveway," Tracey called out from the front room. 

Raymond started packing up and Shirley was soon standing inside the front door. She gave James his usual plate of cookies. Raymond was soon ready and Tracey and James were alone.

Before he moved to pack up his own things James eyed Tracey sitting on her sofa. She didn't look back. "I thought that we could share these," James offered, holding the plate of cookies forward slightly."

"No thanks," she answered tersely. The rejection was plain enough and James was disappointed. He walked slowly to the able to pack his books. As he closed his briefcase he looked up and Tracey was standing a few feet away looking at him.

"I know what you're getting at," she declared. "I'd like to, but I just can't."

"Busy tonight?" James asked, hoping to save face.

"No, I'm not doing anything tonight, but I can't sleep with you. It would ruin what we had last time, if I gave less than everything—and I can't give that right now." 

"I don't understand," James said.

"I know you don't. Just trust me. Someday, things might change. I hope that they do"

As James walked dejectedly to his car he couldn't have known what had happened to her earlier in the week to cause the refusal. 

*********** 

Jarrod and Tracey lay in her bed in the aftermath of one of Jarrod's long lunch hours. School was still on Holiday Break, so Tracey had nowhere to go. Tracey snuggled up to him.

"Thank you for the gold necklace, Jarrod. It's beautiful!" she purred. 

"You deserve it, Tracey. I'm sorry I couldn't give it to you on Christmas. You know—a lot of family commitments during the Holidays."

"That's alright," Tracey conceded. "I knew I would see you as soon as you could manage it. Did you like your pen and pencil set?"

"Of course—but you didn't have to," Jarrod said. "You give me plenty already." He stroked her bare back for emphasis.

"You look like you've got something on your mind, Jarrod"

"Actually, Tracey, I do. Maybe you can help."

"What is it?" she purred as she lightly scraped her nails along his chest.

"I've got a friend who needs help," Jarrod began. "His family just broke up. Not only that, he's under a lot of pressure from his job. He's so depressed; I can barely reach him anymore."

"Sounds sad," Tracey said. "I don't know where I would come in."

"I thought that you might know someone who could get him grounded again," Jarrod explained. "You know, take his mind off his troubles—like you do for me."

"You mean sleep with him," Tracey corrected.

"I mean, give him such a screwing that his toenails would pop off," Jarrod clarified. "I know that it would be just the thing that would help him. Otherwise, I think he's headed for a nervous breakdown. I can't let that happen. Besides being a friend, he's very important to my business."

"I don't know, Jarrod. Who is this poor soul?"

"Ethan Chandler," Jarrod answered.

"Ethan Chandler!" Tracey exclaimed. "The one and only Reverend Chandler? What kind of woman are you trying to find?" 

"One who know her way around a bed, and how to get a man into one. It won't be a set up. He'll have to be seduced," Jarrod replied. "I'm going to take a shower. Think about it while I'm in there and then we'll talk about it some more."

Tracey ran down her list of friends, narrowing it to those who might be willing to take on such a task. She narrowed it further to those able to complete it. Finally, she eliminated all the names. She hated to disappoint Jarrod. He should have given her more warning.

"Did you come up with anyone?" Jarrod asked as he threw on his clothes.

"No, Jarrod! What you're asking is nearly impossible."

"You did say 'nearly' impossible," he said. "That's okay. I thought of someone already. I just wanted to see if you would come up with the same name I did."

"Who might that be?" she asked incredulously. "I hope you're not talking about my stepmother. She would never do it. She's waiting for Melvin."

No, no," Jarrod chuckled. "I'm talking about you. Just go visit Ethan this weekend and do what you do best."

"Me!" she cried, springing nude from the bed. "You're kidding!"

No, I'm not," he answered calmly. He finished pushing his tie to his collar and turned to her. "You're perfect for it."

She strode up to him, her face reddened, eyes widened. "Just what kind of whore do you think I am?" she shouted.

Jarrod was a powerful man and she never saw the blow to her face coming. There were spots in her eyes and her nose started to run a little. She felt the stinging on her skin as she began to realize what he' done. She was strong, so the blow doubled her over but didn't knock her off her feet—and she didn't cry. Jarrod stood silently over her, waiting for her to regain her senses.

"The kind who likes jewelry!" he sneered down at her.

The words hurt as much as the hard slap. Tracey drew her arms up over her breasts to try to cover whatever of herself she could.

"C'mon, Tracey. I don't want to hit you again," Jarrod followed up in a patronizing tone. "Let's not fight over this. It will mean a lot to me—and to Ethan. It'll probably be just once. Think of yourself as a therapist," he said with a laugh.

He put on his overcoat. "After you do it, I'll make it up to you with something special." He fingered the new gold necklace on Tracey's dresser, and gave her a knowing glance. Then, he turned and left for his office.

************ 

James pondered his sudden misfortune. It had not been long before then when he tried to sort out a balancing of three lovers. He had been quickly reduced to a single one. Still, she was a good one.

When James returned to Bates with Bubba after their Florida trip, he wondered if he should continue to see Abby. True, Bubba had supplied the permission as they drank in the bar in Charleston, and confirmed later in the truck. He couldn't help but think that it hurt his friend to do it and James felt himself contributing to that pain.

Things had changed. With his stable depleted, James decided to let Bubba's permission stand on its own. If he had someone to fall back on, he might have thought differently. He hated to admit it; he had to take care of himself, or no one would. It still bothered him, but he was sure that he'd get over the regret as soon as Abby wrapped her sweet little lips around his erection. 

With a picture of a nude Abby in his mind's eye, James was hanging around the office area, waiting for Nathan to leave for the day. He knew Bubba was on the road for a rare weekend trip. There was little doubt that Abby would be receptive.




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 12



At last, Nathan left and James stepped into the office with practiced nonchalance. 

"Nathan left for a meeting with the Superintendent," Abby said.

"I came to see you," he replied, and she gave back a knowing, little smirk. She put on the expression each time he approached her and she knew that the game was about to begin. It was his turn to speak, and he knew it. The words caught in his throat.

"It's been a long time since we've been together, James," she said in that soft, sweet voice that he found so alluring.

"Yes—yes it has," James answered.

"Would you like to make it around seven?" she asked in the routine litany of question and answer that they had developed.

"No," said James in a surprise reply.

"Too early? Do you want to make it eight?"

The fear of self-loathing overtook his instinct to pursue self-interest. He made the shocking decision in an instant. He blurted it out before he could reconsider it.

"No, Abby. I came to tell you that I can't go to bed with you anymore. I can't do it to Bubba. We're friends now."

"Get off it, James," Abby answered. "Bubba will never know. He never has and he's no worse for it. You can still be friends with him." "No. I just can't do it. 

"You mean 'won't'. Did Bubba put you up to this?" she asked, the anger rising in her cheeks. 

"No, he said to go ahead if I wanted to."

"So you see, it's okay," she lilted joyfully.

"It might be alright with Bubba, but not with me," James replied.

"Vicki told me that she split up with you. I don't know how you think you're going to get laid. You're not the most popular person in town, you know. You need me."

"I'll figure it out later," James said.

"What about me?" Abby cried. "I have needs. What am I to do?"

"Maybe Vicki has some ideas," James answered. "Or save it up for Bubba."

"No one dumps me," she spat out angrily. "You'll regret this." 

James turned and slowly walked away.

********* 

Once, when the priests were on retreat, Father Brendan and James sat together contemplating spiritual questions. 

"What, do ye t'ink, is the nature o' sin, Jamie?" the mentor asked.

"It's an offense to God," he answered by rote. "It's turning away from God."

"Aye, aye; dat's of'n said of it," the old priest agreed. "Might ye t'ink dat any good ever comes o' sin?"

James thought for a moment and shook his head. "No," he avowed. "It's a product of our imperfection—of Original Sin."

"When ye commit a sin, what, den do ye do?" Father Brendan continued the riddle.

"Confess it—seek forgiveness." James responded quickly.

"And do ye not t'ink about God's fergiveness; search yer soul to wonder if ye'll ever find it? Do ye not struggle t' tarn yerself back to Him?" 

"Well, yes—of course!" James agreed.

"A babe is born blameless—without sin or knowin' God," the elder priest explained. He squinted through his lenses and leaned forward to his charge. "It's sin, boy, dat brings ye t' Him. T'ank God fer yer sins; dey help ye tarn yer soul inside out, searchin' fer Him—and fer who ye are. One day ye'll stand at heaven's gates with fergiven sins; yer soul will be just as clean as if ye never committed a one—an' ye'll know God better." 

********* 

TO BE CONTINUED...

Dear Readers,

Thank you for reading. I appreciate your sending your comments.

AW



The Blameless Bystander Ch. 13



© Copyright 2006, 2007

Chapter 13—Seduction of Satan

Tracey never truly doubted that she would bend to Jarrod's will and try to seduce Ethan. She was angry, but not hurt. There had never been any illusion that her relationship with Jarrod was anything more than value for value. They cuddled together and said nice things in the aftermath of sex. It was a facilitating cover for what was, in the end, an arrangement of exchange. If Jarrod had taken the trouble to use the smooth approach, she might have taken the assignment as a challenge instead of an insult.

"If only I had met James sooner," she thought wistfully to herself several times following her night with him. Once, during the Holiday recess she called him, to no avail. She found out from Shirley that he was in Florida on a truck with Bubba. "Some things are meant to be, and some aren't," she thought. Jarrod called her later that day. Old patterns bled through the layers of new paint.

It was the first time Jarrod had struck her. She had seen his flashes of temper many times, but was always able to tame it with a feminine wile. She let things get away from her and it served her right. Probably, that time with James—when she lost herself as feelings became passion—had dulled her instincts just enough to let Jarrod get out of control.

She had been with many men. It was always value for value, except when she was young and not yet schooled in her worth to men. Even her night with James was a thank you of sorts. Jarrod, Ethan; what difference did it make? Seducing Ethan wouldn't be easy. Jarrod would pay a lot for it, and extra with an 'I'm sorry' bonus to make amends for the slap. With luck, Jarrod might even become jealous of Ethan. Maybe she'd give Ethan a few extra 'therapy sessions' just to give Jarrod some food for thought. She remembered that Insurance Agents' Seminar in the Virgin Islands in March and how Jarrod promised to take her. 

"Do what I do best," she said to herself, chanting back Jarrod's words. "Jarrod can be a bastard, but he can be so right at the same time."

************ 

Tracey was surprised to find out how easily the dropping of Jarrod's name would get her invited to Ethan's study at the manse. On a Friday afternoon she parked her car on the street, a block away. It was best to keep such matters private. After a check of her makeup and hair in the rear-view mirror, she reached inside her coat and sprayed a puff of perfume in her cleavage. 

"If I can get him peeking in there," she thought, "the chase will be but over." Had men become easier, or was her skill perfected with so much practice? She waited for a snowplow to pass by and stepped out of her car. She locked the door behind her, unsure just when she might be returning.

Ethan showed Tracy into his study. "Just set your coat on the extra chair, Miss Jacobs. Can I get something for you—coffee or tea?"

"Tea would be wonderful," she cooed. As Ethan shuffled into the kitchen to prepare the refreshments, Tracey checked herself in the hallway mirror. 

She wore demure clothes, intended to set the Reverend at ease. Her soft, gray-flannel skirt was hemmed just above her knee and her pink satin blouse with the wide-opening collar, drew attention to her bust line without flaunting it. The final touch was Jarrod's gold necklace. It played with the topmost fastened button of her blouse. As she moved it ducked in and out from behind the satin, getting glimpses of what lay beneath it—a reward for audacity.

"Oh, Reverend," she called out to Ethan, who was still in the kitchen, "I just have my boots with me, and I would hate to track snow on your carpet. Would you mind if I left them here in the foyer?"

"Whatever you want," he called back. "Make yourself at home."

Tracey waited for Ethan, absent-mindedly perusing the appointments in the room. He shuffled into the study, carrying a tray with a teapot and two cups, and other fixings. "I thought that I would have some, too," he said.

"I was hoping you would," she answered as she smiled at him. Ethan set the tray on a coffee table facing a settee. A set of chairs flanked it.

"Is this a picture of you?" she asked, pointing to a black and white of a young man standing in shirtsleeves on a summer's day. 

"That's me at the seminary just before graduation."

"Very handsome!" she commented, giving him an expectant look.

Ethan cleared his throat. "That was a long time ago," he mumbled. "Let's have our tea before it gets cold." Tracey claimed one of the end chairs, leaving the settee to Ethan.

"Let me pour," Tracey offered as she reached out ahead of his. Her hand brushed his momentarily. Ethan pulled back quickly. "I'm so sorry, Reverend," she purred and lifted her head to make eye contact. "This is a job for a woman." Tracey filled both teacups.

Ethan nervously cleared his throat once more. "You see, my wife is in Indiana with our daughter. Normally she would do this. I'm afraid I'm not very good at...."

"It's not a job for a man," she assured him. They took a sip from their cups. "You have more important things to do—haven't you?"

Ethan paused; he didn't answer the question. "You told me on the phone that you want to use the church's property on the lake for a summer girl's camp." Ethan said. 

"That's right, Reverend Chandler," Tracey answered. "It will give them a chance to be outdoors; out in nature."

"Yes, yes," Ethan harrumphed. "This is really a matter for Mr. Morris. I leave all business matters to him."

"Oh, I see," she pouted. "I just wanted to tell you all about everything. I've wasted your time. I'll go now."

"No, no," Ethan consoled her. "Don't go just yet. At least, finish your tea. We can talk about the camp if you want to."

"Well, I feel so silly now," she purred. 

"Talk about anything you want," Ethan suggested.

"Let's talk about you," Tracey said, almost in a whisper. Ethan didn't see her do it; she deftly pulled her skirt higher, showing him just enough thigh as she crossed her legs. 

Ethan glanced at the revealed leg. She was bouncing her shoeless foot as one knee rested atop the other. He looked away, afraid to be seen stealing the view. "I'm not important enough to talk about," he said. "I'm the mere Voice of the Lord."

"You must have to know so many things," she said, and leaned forward. She saw Ethan watch the end of her necklace play hide and seek in the opening of her blouse. "And understand so much," she added before he had a chance to answer. 

"Yes, you know..." Ethan started, but she interrupted him. 

"Like what motivates men—and women," she said softly. Ethan leaned closer to hear her. Tracey edged toward him, looking into his eyes. "I so admire men like you," she whispered and he felt her breath on her face.

Ethan froze for a second, and then pulled away, pressing his back to the settee. "Really, Miss Jacobs! We shouldn't be alone like this. I'm old enough to be your father."

Tracey stood and moved in front of him, trapping him in his place. She gripped the top rail of the settee with both hands on either side of him. As she leaned forward her blouse fell open slightly; the vapors of perfume escaped. Ethan drank in the feminine scent and watched the necklace as it hung swinging. His eyes ventured beyond—he saw promises of breast, encased in a flesh-toned bra. He sucked in a deep breath. 

"I want you," she breathed into his ear. "I can't help myself. I'm so lonely—do you ever get lonely?"

"I can't—we can't," Ethan stammered, but made no effort to move away. 

"Don't you get lonely?" she repeated softly. She let her lips graze his earlobe as she whispered it.

"Yes, but..." At that moment, the phone rang, granting Ethan a reprieve from desire. Tracey waited for the second ring, wondering if her efforts could recover from the interruption. She moved aside and Ethan ran to answer it.

"Ethan Chandler," he spoke into the phone and Tracey watched him. As he sat at his desk to converse with the caller, Tracey slowly walked to where he was sitting. "Just a minute...," he took the phone away from his ear and covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "I have to take this call. It's important," he meekly said. "Perhaps you could see your way out?"

Tracey placed her fingertips on his cheekbone and slowly guided them down to his jaw, lifting it a little. She shook her head slowly and mouthed the word "No", holding her lips in the 'o' shape for a few seconds.

She turned and inched herself away, trailing her fingertips across his face as she did. Ethan watched her walk across the room, leaving her overcoat behind. At the bottom of the stairs she stopped and looked back at him. He was still seated, holding the phone with the mouthpiece covered. She slowly unbuttoned the satin blouse and took it off, hanging it on the newel post before ascending the stairs.

When she was halfway up she heard Ethan resume speaking on the phone. "We'll have to make this conversation a quick one. I have to attend to an unexpected guest." 

************ 

By the time Ethan finished talking on the phone and ran up the stairs Tracey was in his bed waiting for him. She heard him arrive at the top of the landing. 

"Miss Jacobs—Miss Jacobs! You can't stay here. You have to leave." She was amused that he seemed to look in every room before entering his own bedroom with her satin blouse in hand.

"You brought my blouse; how thoughtful," she said, looking at him from under the covers with only the tops of her shoulders showing. "Would you put it with my other things?" 

Ethan glanced at the chair in the corner of the room and saw Tracey's clothing neatly folded there. "What are you doing?" he asked with alarm.

"Waiting for you," she replied. "I was waiting for you to come upstairs. Now you're here. I'm waiting for you to get undressed and come to me." She pulled her bare arms out from under the blankets and stretched them out in a welcoming gesture.

"No!" he yelled. "Who are you?"

"I'm a woman," she answered. "I'm a woman who wants you."

"I can't have you. It is forbidden!"

"Don't you find me just a little bit attractive?" she asked in a coquette voice. "Why don't you just take off those clothes and come in here? You'll be glad; I guarantee it. I can do many things for a lonely man."

Ethan stiffened and his eyes glazed over. They were pointed at Tracey, but she could see that they weren't focused on her. 

"Thou woulds't lead thy Lord to sin?" he shouted. He stretched out his arms toward her, fingers spread; his eyes opened wider. "Begone, Satan! Satan, begone! Thou shalt not live by bread, alone. Thou shalt not tempt me!"

"I don't want bread; I want you," Tracey said with a pout. "Come down here to me."

Hearing her words startled him and he shook the reverie from his head. His eyes focused down at her. "I am a man of God!" He reached down to her to pull her out of the bed, but she was as strong as he was. She grasped his shirt, pulling him down on top of her. She held him tightly. They were eye to eye.

"You're a man," she breathed, "You're alone and sad. You need the feel a warm, woman's body against you. How long have you been without?" She tightened her hold on him; felt him slowly relax until he ceased struggling. Then she pulled his face to her and kissed him. She held it a long time, sensuously suckling his lips with hers and snaking her tongue into his mouth. When he started to give back she turned him over and straddled him. Her nude body escaped from under the covers and then began unbuttoning his shirt. 

Ethan lay under her, silent and passive, allowing her to disrobe him. His hardness pressed through his pants and she ground herself down on him to help her start moistening. She opened his shirt and lifted the undershirt to expose his bare chest. She ran her fingernails from his shoulders, past his nipples and down to his belly. He wasn't as big or powerful as Jarrod, had he had less body hair, but she wasn't there to compare physiques. 

Ethan stared up at her, panting and saying nothing. Tracey wished to spur him, so she bent her head to his chest. Her breasts draped over his belly. She laved his nipples with her tongue; she felt his hands hug her head to him. She took one of his pebbles between her teeth and bit on it slightly. She heard him growl—the reaction she'd hoped for.

He lifted her—or, she allowed herself to be lifted—off him and turned her on her back. Ethan knelt between her wide-spread legs throwing off his shirts; his hand flew to his belt. In a second his pants and underwear pooled at his knees. Tracey saw his erection beneath the fire in his eyes and egged him on.

"Give it to me!" she cried. "C'mon, give it to me!" His hard penis pointed at her, dripping fluid.

"I'll show you!" he roared. He fell on top of her and pushed himself inside. He pressed forward; Tracey met him with an upward thrust. She tightened her vagina around him. The resistance made him work harder. She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his back. He kept pumping her without pause. His face was pressed into the pillow alongside hers. He never cared to pause and look down at her, or to listen for her signs of pleasure.

Tracey knew when he was about to come. He grunted as he thrust into her. He slid out and did it louder as he returned to the end of her canal. On the third pass he yelled out. Tracey felt him spasm inside her as he pressed in to the hilt. It was done; she had claimed him.

When he caught his breath he withdrew and lay atop her. "Why don't you take of the rest of your clothes and get in here with me?" she said in a low voice.

Ethan complied, and as he rose to complete his disrobing Tracey made her way to the bathroom to clean herself. There was soreness in her core, for she wasn't really very moist when Ethan entered her. She accepted the discomfort. It wasn't the first time and she knew it would go away.

When she returned to the bedroom Ethan was in bed. He gazed at her nude body as she walked to her side and got in with him. His face was devoid of any expression; he stared at the ceiling as she pulled the covers up to her shoulders and shifted to her side.

"First Becky, and now me," he said out loud to himself. "How will I tell my flock that I, too, have sinned?"

"There is no sin," Tracey assuaged him.

"Oh yes," Ethan insisted. "The Sixth Commandment says..."

"For most men, it would be a sin," Tracey answered, placing a finger over his lips. "Not for you. You are different—above the Commandments. For you, it would be a sin to deny yourself to women." 

"Yes; yes," Ethan agreed. "I see it now. It's what Judith was trying to tell me when she left."

Tracey and Ethan dozed a while and woke up and had sex again. They remained in bed, skipping dinner, conversing little and joining together as they wished. In the morning Tracey fellated him and then got up and dressed. Ethan looked up at her without speaking.

"Maybe we can do this again, Reverend Chandler—we'll see. Don't get up. I can find my own way out."

Tracey made her way to her car. She grimaced because it was covered with new snow and she wanted to go home and soak her aching body in a hot tub. She smirked slightly as she brushed off the windshield. Ethan had called her Satan and then changed his mind. She had denied it, but began to think that, perhaps, he had been right after all.

************* 

Twenty four hours after Tracey exited Ethan's front door to find her snow-covered car, Ethan took the pulpit in his church. He looked out over the congregation; sitting packed together in the pews with their winter coats on. 

"They've come to hear me," he said to himself. His night with Tracey had inspired a rewrite of his sermon. He planned on stirring them up anew against the hated teacher, O'Toole. He decided to veer away from that on this Sunday. There would be plenty of time to press the attack in later weeks.

"I am the Church; they are my flock," he reminded himself. "They must know the mind of the Shepherd as he tends them." He decided on a sermon that reflected his frame of mind, his mood, his outlook. "After all, will the flock not follow the shepherd, wherever he leads them?"

Scripture was always a good source for sermon material. It grounded the talk in unassailable truths, safe from doubt or challenge. Ethan knew all the scriptures, and better yet, he had new revelations that came to him as Tracey brought him to orgasm scarcely a day ago. "She must have been an Archangel, sent by the Father." 

Through his angel, the Lord revealed to Ethan that he was unlike ordinary men. There were rules, laws and commandments necessary to govern their lives. How could Ethan impose them on others, and be subject to them at the same time? Judith's departure was the work of the Lord. She was out of the way, deposited in Limbo with their sinful daughter.

Ethan leaned forward, grasping each side of the lectern with a powerful grip. He felt strong, invincible, sent to be in a particular time and place.

"To everything there is a season," he broadcast with all his strength. The people sat hushed, ready to be soothed by the familiar, ancient passage. "And a time for every purpose under heaven."

"A time to be born, a time to die; a time to plant, a time to reap," he continued. "A time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance." The few listeners who realized he had skipped over a few lines gave him license.

"A time to embrace," Ethan threw his arms aloft as he bellowed the verse, and then lowered them and softened his voice. "A time to refrain from embracing."

"A time to be humbled, a time to be exalted; a time for thirst, a time to be satisfied," he went on, leaning forward to the throng. "A time to please, a time to take pleasing; a time to forgive and a time of retribution."

He straightened up again, found Jarrod in the corner of his eye, expecting his approving nod. Instead, his confidant looked puzzled. Ethan dismounted the pulpit and proceeded to the center of the church for the final hymn, "Faith of Our Fathers". 

As he listened to the words they sounded a dissonant chord in him. "What 'Fathers'?" he asked himself silently, scorning obeisance to passed-down wisdom. "Do the scriptures belong only to ancient men?" 

The congregation passed by more quickly than usual as Ethan greeted them at the door. When all had left Jarrod approached him. 

"It was hard to understand your sermon today, Ethan."

"It was from the scriptures," Ethan answered, staring straight ahead. "The people will think on it and come to understand."

"Ethan, I know that passage well and I would say that you took some liberties with it."

Ethan turned to face his friend. "Why shouldn't I? Who is to say that I do not have my own revelations?"

"You're flirting with a cruel seduction, Ethan," Jarrod warned. "Don't get the idea that you're invincible. If the people think you're leading them astray, they'll send you to hell in a rowboat."

"I think I know Satan when I see him," Ethan countered. "And, I can handle him."

Jarrod sighed. "At least you look more rested than have recently. How did it go with that Miss Jacobs I sent to see you about the girls' camp?"

************* 

Snow covered the fairways, but the dining room at the Bates Country Club was open all year. At a corner table in mid-week Ed and Nathan met for lunch. 

"I need your help on this, Ed," Nathan pleaded.

"I don't get it, Nathan. Only last week you were defending the guy."

"He's become more trouble than he's worth," Nathan replied. "And I can't be looking over my shoulder all the time, worrying that he'll blab about seeing me with David last November at the winery."

"So that's it!" Ed exclaimed. "Honestly, Nathan, I don't think he'll tell on you."

"Probably not," Nathan agreed. "This way, I'll make sure."




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 13



"Wouldn't you want to protect him to keep him from talking?"

"That was my first thought. But if we let him go, and then he talks, we can just say that he's bitter about being fired. With all the other talk, no one will pay any attention to anything he says. It'll be my word against his. Who do you think people will believe?" 

"I dunno, Nathan," Ed said, shaking his head. "What about your plans about the Math Department? I thought he was such a good teacher."

"He's an excellent teacher," Nathan admitted. "I hate to lose him, but there is a calculation to be made here and..."

"I thought that he told Vicki that would keep silent," Ed reminded.

"I told him to keep his nose clean when he first started here," Nathan scolded. "If he hadn't been running around with her, he wouldn't be in trouble now. So, you see, it's really his own fault."

Hey Nathan, people in glass houses..."

"If I'm found out we'll have to move away. That means a new Principal for you to deal with and no buffer between you and Jackson. Most of all, it'll mean no more going away for the weekend with my wife."

Ed sighed. "I don't like it, but—what do you want me to do?"

"Just go along with whatever I say," Nathan said.

"How are you gonna do it?" Ed asked.

"I'm not sure, Nathan answered, rubbing his chin. "I have a feeling that Bob Jackson will do it for me. I just won't stop him."

*********** 

James sat in a waiting area at the social Services area at the County Office Building, waiting for his appointment with Miss Martin. There was a receptionist at a desk who handed him a clipboard with a pen so he could log in. She tried to look important, but it appeared that her only job was to hand visitors the ubiquitous clipboard, and tell them to wait until their name was called, and to studiously avoid eye contact with any person she could find.

Looking beyond the reception desk James saw a sea of fabric partitions, held together by wood frames. The floor was a vinyl tile with a gray-swirled pattern; the fabric of the partitions was gray, as well. It might have been said that the faces of those waiting in the area were gray, too. The ceiling overhead was supposed to be white, but had turned gray from age and the same for the snow outside, tainted with car exhaust. 

James might not have noticed those details if it weren't for his frame of mind in these days. There was little to be happy about. Considering the suspicions about his sexual practices, being thrown out of his apartment, ending up in a drafty trailer, and losing all three of his girlfriends in one week, he couldn't have been blamed if he were a little depressed. 

"Bubba's my only friend, and he's never in town," he thought to himself. He was thinking to ask him if he needed a helper on the truck at Spring Break. He was considering the possibilities of that when he heard his name being called. 

"Mr. O'Toole!" a voice called. His mind was halfway back to Florida with Bubba and he didn't respond. "Mr. O'Toole!" the voice called again. "James O'Toole!" it called louder. James finally shook himself and lifted his head up to see Connie Martin at the receptionist's desk preparing to shout at him again. 

"Sorry," James said as he gained eye contact with her.

"This way," she ordered, ignoring the apology. She abruptly turned and headed into the gray maze. James followed, lest he lose sight of her and be unable to find his way out.

It was because of the hovering suspicions that James found himself summoned to the presence of Miss Martin at the County Building in Hornell. He had told her everything in their earlier meeting. He hoped for some news about how the case would end.

On their journey through the maze Miss Martin made several turns and James struggled to keep up with her. He realized that she looked exactly as she had the day he met her in Bob Jackson's office. It looked like the same black suit. 

"Maybe she never goes home," he mused to himself.

To James surprise, she didn't inhabit one of the gray cubicles. As they ended their walk she deposited him in a modest office against the wall. "I though that we were going to end up in one of those cubicles," he said, to break the ice. 

"No, I'm senior," she replied. "Take off your coat, if you want to." The offer was her first friendly act. 

Miss Martin closed the door and seated herself behind her desk and motioned James to the chair in front.

"How were the roads on the way over?" she asked. She hauled a folder from her desk as James groped for an answer. "It's an easy question," she said as she looked up with a smirk.

"A little icy, but alright if you keep your speed down," James answered.

"I'm sorry that you had to make the trip," she continued. "It's just that I didn't like having to interview you with all those others looking over my shoulder." 

"Did the results of the blood test come back yet," James asked hopefully.

"We haven't even sent the bloods out to be tested," she answered. "We may never test it; we haven't anything to test it against. We won't put the County to the expense until we have something to test it against."

"What do you mean...?" James began to ask.

"The mother has to have the baby's blood drawn and sent to us. We only just found out where she is. I spoke to her by phone. From what she said, I don't think she's going to send it—or come back to New York for that matter. It seems that her father is the one pressing the complaint. He has no standing. The girl is eighteen."

"That's no good!" James exclaimed.

"I thought that you'd be happy that you're off the hook."

"If I get off on a technicality everyone will think I'm guilty. I'll never live it down; I've got to be cleared outright.

Miss Martin leaned forward and looked James in the eye. She grimaced slightly, shook her head; she sighed and eased back in her chair. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "There's nothing we can do without the baby's blood. The mother isn't even in-state anymore." To James, her sympathy seemed real, and he welcomed it. It was the first hint of human feeling that he felt towards him in days.

"I need a statement from you," she told him, returning to her cold professional role.

"I told you everything when you visited the school," James protested.

"I just want it in your words without the boss looking on. I'll tape it and have it typed up later." She turned on her recorder and placed the microphone in front of James. He recited his story; it was simple enough and didn't take long. It was identical to the original. When he finished Miss Martin turned off the recorder and took the microphone away. 

"Off the record," she asked, "why did you decide to help her? Any other teacher would have been running full speed to the Guidance Office."

"It never occurred to me to not help her," James replied. "Becky might be eighteen, but she's naïve. She's a pretty girl, too; naïve and pretty sometimes don't go too well together."

Miss Martin nodded in agreement. "Her father is so sure that it was you. When I mention your name to him he hits the ceiling. What's going on here that I don't see?"

James sighed and shrugged his shoulders. "It's probably because I'm a former priest."

Miss Martin looked up with a start. She eyed him, her mouth open in surprise, but quickly regained her composure. "I...didn't know that." 

"I left the Order last summer," James explained. "I taught Math at a boys' prep school in Rochester. By the time I got looking for a job, the one in Bates was the only one I could find. Here I am."

"So, you're going to stay?" she asked.

"Maybe. A lot depends on how this all comes out. I'm not the most popular man in town right now. It's a funny feeling. Everyone knows I'm not guilty, but few will acknowledge it. They're afraid of the truth. I can't live like that much longer. I might have to move on."

"I hope it works out for you," she said with caution. "If we're still off the record, I know you didn't get that girl pregnant. I've been doing this work for a lot of years. It doesn't add up."

"You're the first person to say that," James said. "It was nice of you."

Miss Martin stood to show James that their interview was over. "I wish I could do more to help you. Officially, I have to be neutral, of course." She offered James her hand. He took it carefully, not wanting to crush it. She smiled slightly to acknowledge the courtesy.

************** 

"You understand that I'm here in an unofficial capacity," Jarrod asked them.

"Of course, Jarrod," Bob Jackson answered. Nathan nodded in agreement.

"This thing with your guy, O'Toole," Jarrod began. "It's creating a lot of trouble."

"Nothing that we thought up, Jarrod. It's Ethan; he's the one who's stirred this up."

"Well, I don't know," Jarrod countered. "There are a lot of charges here—a lot of evidence. If it's true, it could be serious."

"You know it's not true," Jackson retorted. "Ethan's a crackpot—we all know it. I know you belong to his church—but we all know it."

"I don't know that," Jarrod said stubbornly. "Let's just say that I wish that he might be more tactful."

"Yes, tactful; that's a good word to use. His not being tactful has caused us a lot of trouble, Jarrod."

"Ethan believes in what he's saying," Jarrod warned. "I think that he's about ready to go further. That would rile a lot of people up. I doubt if any of us want that to happen."

"He hasn't got a leg to stand on," Jackson countered. "He won't even get his daughter to give a blood sample so we can see if O'Toole really knocked her up or not."

"Hey, hey! Don't get angry, Bob," Jarrod raised his hands in mock surrender. "Listen, if Ethan gets going with this it'll hit its peak when that bond issue for the school addition comes up for a vote this spring. You wouldn't want that-and I wouldn't either. If that doesn't pass, our bond for the new park will go down, too. We've got to look at the practical side."

He's got a point, Bob," Nathan added. "These things are more important than any one person."

"Any two people," Jarrod corrected.

Bob and Nathan glanced at one another, sensing a breakthrough. "Then, you're suggesting a trade?" Bob asked.

"I prefer of thinking of it as shedding our liabilities simultaneously," Jarrod said. "You know, with Ethan's family breaking up and everything, he would benefit from a change of scene; and that O'Toole will never live down what's been said about him in this town. Let him start over somewhere else."

"So we're going to hang them out to dry," Bob said.

"Call it what you want," Jarrod replied.

"What about timing?" Nathan asked.

"I've got that figured out." Jarrod said. "If you cut O'Toole loose pretty soon it will keep Ethan at bay for a while. He'll have no target to shoot at. I've already put out some feelers to the seminary for June graduates. Our move will have to wait until then."

"It sounds like you get something now and we have to wait" Jackson complained.

"It's the way it is," Jarrod answered. "At least with O'Toole out of the way we'll have some peace and quiet. It would be nice if we could do something before the next School Board Meeting. We don't really want to put on another show for the Sentinel." 

"Let us think it over and we'll..."

"You don't have to answer now," Jarrod calmed them. "When O'Toole's gone, I'll know the answer. Don't bother to get up—I know my way out. I would say the ball's in your court." Jarrod put on his overcoat and left the office.

"This is real hardball," Jackson said to Nathan. 

"I think it has to be done," Nathan replied. "You've got cause because he kept the girl's pregnancy to himself. Besides, he's on probation. I told him that when he started in September. I told him to keep his nose clean, but he didn't listen."

"This thing has already distracted us enough," Jackson said. 

"Then I would say that you have to do it," Nathan urged.

"What about the union?"

"I'll explain it to Ed. None of the other teachers like him, anyway."

"I'm worried that Jarrod won't follow through?"

"I've got that figured out," Nathan said. "We won't fire him. We'll put him on unpaid leave. Then Jarrod will have to move or we'll bring him back"

You're better at this than I am, Nathan," Jackson said, chuckling.

"I hate to do it. Remember that O'Toole was to be our Math Department answer. Now we'll have to figure out something else."

"When the time comes, let's make sure O'Toole has good references so he gets out of town fast."

*************** 

"You see it our way, don't you," Nathan asked as James squirmed in his chair. "If we can get you out of sight for a while, this whole thing will go away. Otherwise, Ethan Chandler will just keep it up until you can't take it any more."

"It sounds like I'm being fired," James replied. "I don't understand why. All my students are passing. They're the best math sections in the school."

"It's not about that," Nathan said. "I already explained it all to you. You're not being fired. It's just an unpaid Administrative Leave." 

"When do I get to come back?" 

"That's hard to say right now," Nathan admitted. "You never know how these things are going to turn out. I wouldn't plan on anything before next September."

"I don't have the money to sit around doing nothing."

"I can't help you with that," Nathan said. "Unfortunately, you haven't been in the system long enough to have any vacation or sick days accrued. Try Unemployment Insurance. I know that they're looking for a substitute in Cohocton. If you like, I could send them a letter." James nodded.

"I'd like to know where Cassidy is. He's been here every other time something came up."

"I told you when you started in September that your status was in my hands," Nathan leaned forward, pressing the point. "The Union has no say in this."

James sat back in his chair. "Things started so well. They sure went downhill in a hurry."

"I'm sorry to rub salt in the wound, but I told you when you started to keep your nose clean," Nathan reminded him. "It was good advice; you should have followed it."

"Maybe you should follow your own advice," James shot back.

"I knew you'd bring that up," said through bared teeth. "Go ahead! See who believes you."

"I may be at a low point," James sighed. "I'm not that low."

"If you have any more questions," Nathan said as he rose, "channel them through Abby and she'll relay them to me."

************** 

After his meeting with Nathan, James cleaned out his locker and then drove directly back to his trailer. It was only one in the afternoon, but he felt like a drink just the same. His outlook about working as a teacher anytime soon was pessimistic. The scandals were sure to follow him. He had enough money to last until month-end. He needed something else fast. 

He thought about calling his parents to ask for help. He could even pull up stakes and go back to Boston and live with them for a while. Surely, he could eventually find a teaching job back home. He dreaded it; it would be better than starving, but not much. It would require explanations about the 'why' of his dismissal—the pedophile rumors, Becky's pregnancy. He would have to lay it all bare to them. It would hurt them; they would believe his denials because he was their son and they'd have to. It was the fear of their unspoken questions that froze him. They would yearn for the untold details, as do all parents. He would have none to give them. If their suspicion was to be penance, he preferred to live with the sin. 

James didn't bother with ice for the whiskey. He had a light breakfast and skipped lunch, so it didn't take long for him to feel the dram's effects. He glanced at the half-empty bottle, thinking that he might have to ration it. If he could cut down on some things it might give him some extras time to work something out.

It was a cold, stormy day. James heard of an automobile engine struggling to start over the howling of the wind. It was his neighbor from three trailers down the lane, a young woman whom he had not met. He saw her in her car as he drove in. The grunting engine slowed with each try until only the clicking solenoid sounded as the woman insistently turned the key.

James looked at his half-full whiskey glass. The annoyance from outside precluded any further enjoyment of the liquor. He stood and sighed, put his overcoat and boots back on and reluctantly went back out. As he approached he saw her rolling down the window.

"Do you think you can get it started?" she called out the window as James approached.

"You'll never get this started now," James yelled over the wind. "You've worn down the battery."

"I don't know what to do," she replied. "My shift at the grocery store starts in fifteen minutes. I've already been late twice this week."

James took a deep breath. "What the hell!" he thought to himself. "Get in my car," he said. "I'll run you over."

The young woman, whom James pegged in her late twenties, bounded from her car and started running toward James' sedan. "We've got just enough time to make it," she called over her shoulder at over the wind.

"I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come along," she gasped, trying to catch her breath as James' car ambled down the lane in the trailer park toward the State Highway. 

"What are neighbors for?" James asked. 

"Things were easier when I had my boyfriend living with me," she explained. "We broke up three months ago. Now I can hardly make ends meet, or I would have gotten rid of that old heap long ago." She paused to blow warm air on her hands. "Norma Weaver's my name," she added as an afterthought.

"James O'Toole," he answered loudly, testing to see if she knew him by his reputation. 

"Hi, James," she replied. "I saw you move in last month. I should have come over to say hello. Probably would've if the weather had been nicer."

"That's alright," James answered, not quite believing her. "How do you plan to get home tonight after your shift ends?"

"In all the rush I clean forgot," she said. "I could ask around at the store—not many live this way. Do you think you could...?"

"What time do you get out?" James asked, anticipating the request.

"At nine," she answered. "Just wait for me in the parking lot. I'll find you."

"Give me your car keys and I'll see if I can get your car started," James offered. 

Norma handed dug into her pocket and handed him her key chain. "The trailer key's on it, too. I'm not worried. There's nothing in there worth taking," she said with a laugh.

James was grateful for the jumper cables his brother left in the car before he sold it to him. The car finally started with the help of a couple of quarts of drygas and a gallon of gasoline in the tank. James drove it to the gas station to return the gas can and fill the tank the rest of the way. So far, he had a few hours and fifty dollars invested in his good deed. He didn't mind. The exercise had taken his mind off his own problems. 

The activity made him feel better, so he finished his whiskey by sipping it instead of gulping it down. When he emptied the glass he saw that it was only five o'clock. He had four hours before he had to pick Norma up, so he decided to take a shower to relax. As the hot water pelted down, he thought about his new neighbor. 

Aside from an estimate of her age, it was hard to tell much about her from their brief meeting. He guessed that she was thin, although hard to tell for sure with her winter jacket covering her. He remembered that her black pants fit her tightly. She had dark brown hair that she tied in the back in a pony tail, but that might have just for her work hours in the grocery store. For James, she had neither allure, nor repulsion. 

"She doesn't mind taking favors from strangers," he said to himself.





The Blameless Bystander Ch. 13



********** 

Norma came out of the store at ten minutes after nine carrying a flat box with her. 

"Sorry I'm late," she said. "I got a pizza, if you'd like to share it." James thanked her as they pulled out of the parking lot.

"I got your car running," he told her. "It was nearly out of gas. I think some moisture got in the lines. I filled up the tank for you. With the gasoline and drygas, it came to fifty-two eighty."

"Can I pay you on Friday?" she asked. "I won't have that kind of money until payday." James nodded, unsurprised. "I have to tell my boss that I need more hours," she went on. "This job's not much, but it's all I have right now. What do you do for a living, James?"

"I'm a teacher," James answered, not wanting to explain anything else. Norma said nothing, but relaxed in her seat as James drove.

James stopped in front of Norma's trailer. Her once-ailing car was in the parking space allotted to her trailer. "I'm just going to park my car in my space and I'll come right over," he said, handing over her keys.

"So, you live alone?" she asked as they ate the pizza. "I wish I didn't have to," she added, not waiting for his answer. "I'm surprised a teacher would live out here. You could afford something better."

"I had an apartment in town, but it fell through. I don't have any furniture, so I needed a furnished place. Around here, the pickings are pretty slim."

"This is all my stuff," Norma proclaimed. "At least it's my ex-boyfriend's and mine, but he hasn't shone any interest in it." She looked around the trailer and her expression changed to embarrassed. "Someday you'll be able to actually see it when I pick up the stuff on top of it. I guess I'm not too good a housekeeper."

"Don't worry," James assured her. "I'm an unannounced visitor."

"I bet your place is all cleaned up."

James shrugged his shoulders. "It's just a thing I have. It's no big deal."

"I figured that you're that kind of guy. It'd probably drive me nuts living with you. On the other hand, it might be good for me."

"Probably drive you nuts," laughed James.

"Well, you never know."

They had eaten all but a single slice of the pizza. "You can have it," she offered. "I don't really want it."

"I'm kind of full, myself," James said. He looked at his watch, noting that it was ten-thirty, and then reminded himself that he had no reason to get up early.

"Well," she said casually, "you probably want to get me into bed. Do you want to stay the night?"

"I really wasn't thinking..." James started to say.

"That's alright," she interrupted. "Don't be afraid to admit it. All men want the same thing. Some, like you, pretend they don't. It all ends up the same." She looked at James, neither embarrassed nor hopeful, but pleasant as though she had just placed an order for a pizza. "C'mon, it'll be fun."

"I could use some fun," James agreed. "Sure, why not?"

Norma didn't answer. She arose from her chair and started walking toward the rear of the trailer. As she approached the bedroom area she turned and saw James still seated. "Well, come on," she called, as if beckoning a puppy.

James followed her into her bedroom and they stood aside the unmade bed. Norma kicked off her shoes and James did the same. She began peeling off her clothes. James watched her. Norma shed her clothes in layers. Soon she stood before James in her bra and panties. She had an ordinary body. She was slender, but her body had a soft, untoned look. She released her pony tail. Her hair fell down around her shoulders. She reached behind her to unhook her bra, but stopped.

"Hey, let me see what you've got!" She waited for James to catch up. When he was down to his boxers she pivoted so her back was to him. "Care to do the honors?" 

James stepped forward to undo the hooks. She slid the bra off her shoulders and turned back around to face him. Her breasts were the shape of pears and fit her frame. "Not bad," she commented. "You must work out."

"A little," James answered. Before he could elaborate she knelt in front of him and pulled his shorts over his erection and pulled them down his legs. Her tongue snaked out; she licked the crown of his penis several times before swallowing it. She sucked on him and James felt the pleasure warm him. He decided that he would just let himself come in her mouth if she kept it up long enough. 

Just as James began to feel a trace of impending orgasm she pulled off him and stood. She slid her panties down her leg and climbed to the middle of the bed, waiting for him. "I wasn't going to go all the way on the blow job," she explained. "I just like the feel of it in my mouth." 

James climbed on with her. They lay side by side. James clutched a breast; they kissed. James reached down and caressed her vulva, smoothing her patch of tangled pubic hair. Norma turned on her back to give him better access. 

James felt between her lips, searching for moisture, but she was still dry. He bent his head to her chest to take a nipple between his lips. He probed a digit into her vagina and spread some of her wetness to the labia. 

"That feels good," she whispered. "Not many men would take the trouble." She thrust her hips up to deepen his fingers and clutched his head to her chest. James kept it up and after a while she was thrusting her hips harder and breathing deeply. 

Norma released James' head and pushed him to his back. She mounted him, guiding his penis inside her. She slowly let herself sink down on him until he was buried to the hilt. She closed her eyes when she was fully impaled. To James, it looked as though she was savoring the filling.

She began riding him. James grasped both breasts. She made little sounds, displaying her pleasure. After a while, James erupted inside her. As he did, Norma pressed down hard, and then collapsed on his chest. When she caught her breath she dismounted and lay alongside him.

"That was pretty good," she said as she rested her head on his chest.

"Yes, I would say it was," James returned the compliment. They didn't speak again, as they drifted off to sleep.

*************** 

In the morning James was half awake, with an unfamiliar sensation in his groin. At first, he assumed he was recounting the events of the night before. The feeling strengthened. He opened his eyes to the sight of Norma with his hardened member in her mouth. James lay back and allowed her to continue.

Before too long his semen was pouring into her mouth and down her throat. As she finished she glanced up and smiled at him. She was on hands and knees straddling his legs. Her breasts hung from her chest like droplets of rain from a window sill. "That was just a bonus for being so nice to me yesterday," she said. "I made some coffee. Come out and have some after you get dressed."

She threw on her robe over her naked body. As it disappeared beneath the terrycloth James admired it, thinking that he hadn't given it its due the night before. He threw on his clothes and stalked out to the living area as Norma poured him a cup of coffee.

As he stared into the black steaming liquid Norma sidled next him. Her robe wasn't quite closed, so he could see her breasts as he glanced over to her. "Last night was nice," she purred at him. "We can do this all the time, if you want." She looked up at him.

"I'd like that fine, Norma, but I really can't get involved with anyone right now."

"Who said involved?" she countered. "It would just be for fun; something to keep our time occupied. Just some boy-girl relaxation. Everyone needs that."

"I don't know, Norma..." 

"I'm on the pill—you wouldn't have to worry about a thing. No commitments, just sex."

"Well, alright," he said. "We could give it a try."

"Good! This is going to all work out so good. We can get together again tonight." She kissed him on the cheek. "There is just one little thing you might think about," she said.

James looked at her, assuming she wanted another ride to work. "What might that be?" he asked, as he reached inside her bathrobe and cupped a breast. She didn't stop him, so he thought that they might be back in bed soon.

"Well, there's this car down at the used car lot that I was thinking to buy," she purred. "I thought you might come down there with me and take a look at it—see if it looks good to you—a second opinion."

"I don't know much about cars, Norma, but I'll go down there with you if you want."

"If you think it's good, I think I'm going to buy it," she said. "There's just one more thing. I'll need a cosigner for the loan. It's only five thousand. Do you think you could...?"

"I'm not cosigning any loan," James declared. 

Norma removed James' hand from her breast and stood up from the table. "I'd be making the payments. It's just for the bank," she shouted, her anger rising. 

"It's not that I don't like you, Norma, it's just that..."

"You mean last night meant nothing?" she shrieked. "What about that blow job this morning?"

"I thought that you said 'no commitments, just boy-girl fun," James reminded her.

"I just need a little favor! On a teachers' salary, five thousand would be nothing."

"Not that it's your business, but I lost my job yesterday," James revealed. "I'm a teacher without a place to teach."

"You tricked me!" she wailed hysterically. "You came into my trailer and let me screw you under false pretenses." 

"I think I'd better go," James said, putting on his coat.

"You're damn right! And don't come back—and don't think you're God's gift to women, because you're not."

As James walked from Norma's trailer he could hear her continue to scream, but he wasn't interested in the words. After he was inside his trailer he sat at the table with his face buried in his hands. She had lured him and he'd allowed her to do it. It shamed him to have been so naïve. He had been so sure he was on the right track when he broke things off with Abby. He had slipped off the track. It cost him fifty-two eighty to find out. 

He tried to blame his loss of character on the bitterness he felt after losing his job. Alone in his trailer, it was pointless to lie to himself. "The reason is because I was bad, even though I didn't want to be. Every person has the potential for good and evil. I guess I've seen the Satan in me."

**************** 

TO BE CONTINUED...

Dear Readers,

Thanks again for choosing my work for your reading. Please send me your comments or questions.

Best regards,

Autumn Writer



The Blameless Bystander Ch. 14



© Copyright 2006, 2007

Chapter 14—The Fourth Estate

It had been less than a week since James visited Miss Martin in the County Office Building. It was a good thing that he knew the way, because it was snowing hard again that morning and it was difficult to see the road signs. He was, nevertheless, determined to make the trip. Although out of a job, he needed a place to be in the morning. After the ill-fated encounter with Norma he sought to regain his self respect. 

The County Office Building was uncharacteristically large for a small city in a rural area. It was new, too, built with some grant or another, secured by a local legislator who just knew that the citizens would naturally want a monument to big government in their midst. It housed many governmental functions. The Social Services Department was one; it was on the fourth floor where he met with Miss Martin several days before. On a lower floor was the office where claimants for Unemployment benefits shuffled in and out, filing their weekly paperwork. It was James' destination on this day.

James was in a special line for new applicants. While he waited, he filled out a form with information needed for his claim.

"Next!" he heard a clerk shout to be heard over the background noise. James approached and sat in the chair alongside the man's desk. He was a small man, in his fifties, with a moustache and receding hairline. He seized James' paperwork and pored over it. 

"Unpaid Administrative Leave," he asked loudly, "what's that?"

"They said I'm not fired but I can't work there, either," James explained.

"I don't get it," he answered. "Either you're fired or you're not."

"They said they would call me back when the time is right."

"That's called a Temporary Layoff," the clerk corrected. He crossed out what James had entered on the form and penciled in the correct term. After exercising his authority on the form, the clerk continued his review. His brow furled on the second page. 

"You only accounted for four and a half months," he said. "You need six months."

"I only worked there since September," James said. 

What did you do before that?" he demanded. 

"I was a priest until the end of June. I wasn't anything in July and August."

The clerk shook his head. "A priest? This never came up before." He leaned forward toward James. "Tell me, what did they fire you for? I've never seen a teacher get fired."

"I didn't get fired," James repeated. "It's an unpaid Administrative Leave." 

"Right, right," mumbled the clerk. "It doesn't look like you qualify. You have to have six months of work out of the last twelve. I don't know whether the priest thing qualifies or not." James let out a sigh. The news was a surprise, and not a good one. His financial outlook had just turned sharply down.

"There's a couple of things you can do," the clerk went on. "Pick up some kind of job for a couple of months. Come back when it's over and you've got your six months." He snapped his fingers for effect.

What else?" James asked. 

"I'll stamp this 'Rejected'. Then, you can appeal it and see if they'll count your time as a priest."

"I think I'll go for that one," James replied.

The clerk didn't answer. He took a stamp from a little wheel on his desk and pressed into a red inkpad. He carefully impressed the red letters in the proper space and initialed it under the ink. He pulled another form from a basket on his desk and filled out. "Sign here," he ordered and held his finger on the line. James took the pen from the desk and wrote his signature. 

"That's it," the clerk advised. "They'll send you something in the mail." He thrust a pamphlet into James' hands. "Read this. It'll explain everything."

James took the material and left the office. When he reached the ground floor he looked out the window and saw that the snow was driving down even harder than before. He spied a bench in the corner of the lobby and decided to wait for the storm to abate. He started perusing the pamphlet obtained a few minutes before. 

It was approaching the lunch hour. Office workers began to parade past him and disappeared down a stairway. James guessed that there must be a cafeteria on the ground floor. He was thinking about getting something to eat. He would just wait for the crowd to thin a bit. He started reading again when he heard a familiar voice.

"I didn't expect to see you today," the voice said. James looked up to see Miss Martin standing over him. "Do we have an appointment?"

"No...uh...I had to visit a different department," James answered. 

Miss Martin nodded that she understood, and then caught sight of the pamphlet in James' hand, but kept her silence.

"There's a cafeteria in the basement," she suggested. "It isn't the greatest, but you can get a good soup and sandwich." 

"I thought it would be crowded," James answered. "Anyway, I don't enjoy eating by myself."

"I don't have anyone to eat with, either," she declared. "We'll eat together." She about- faced and strode off with James hopping to it to catch up.

"She must do this all the time," James said to himself, recalling the chase through the gray maze of partitions several days before. James caught up at the start of the cafeteria line. He looked out at the sea of full tables. The snow had driven everyone inside. He was correct; it was crowded.

"We'll take it up to my office. Don't buy any coffee. We have some upstairs."

James bought a ham and cheese sandwich and skipped the soup. He hadn't really planned on spending anything. With the bad news of his morning meeting, he decided that it was more than he thought he could afford. When they finally arrived in Miss Martin's office, she closed the door.

"Normally, it would be unethical for me to socialize with you," she informed him. "I can, because we decided to place the case in 'Inactive Status'. With the mother uninterested in pursuing anything, there's little more for us to do. I sent the file to Archives yesterday. Officially, it's not my case anymore."

"I suppose I should be glad," James said. "I told you how I feel about that."

"I know," Miss Martin said. "I'm afraid that our hands are tied."

"It's better for Becky this way," James replied. "I hope she gets a fresh start somewhere. She was always so unsure of herself. She never thought she would pass Trig; never thought anyone liked her. She was mistaken on both counts."

"Not many men in your situation would say that," Miss Martin observed. "Don't you have any hard feelings that she didn't come out and clear you?"

"What would be the point?" James replied. "I wish she had cleared me, but I can't help it now. She's still a confused kid with big troubles. Hard feelings won't solve her problem, or mine. I have to believe in the good in her, and hope she has the chance to bring it out. If I can't do that, I couldn't believe in the good in myself." 

"Is that what you learned when you were a priest?" she challenged. "Do you believe that you have good in you?"

"I don't know. Maybe..." James answered. "There are times that I have to look hard for it. Sometimes the good gets mixed up with the bad. Everyone has some good and bad in them. If I had learned that while I was a priest, I might have never left."

"But, you're not going back?" she asked. James shook his head. "Still, if Becky had just told everyone that it was not you, everything would be a lot simpler."

"She must have her reasons. Her boyfriend was the Mayor's son. I noticed they broke up at about the time she found out she was pregnant. They sat together in one of my Trig sections." 

"Jarrod Morris' son?" she asked.

"Do you know him?"

"Yes, too well," she answered, and then fell silent and took a bite from her sandwich. James did the same. For a few minutes they ate in silence, until she paused to take a sip of coffee.

"It's not a bad sandwich, don't you think?" she asked. Before James could answer, she dropped her big question. "And, how did you come to lose your job?" James had his mouth full and looked confused. "I saw your pamphlet," she added as he swallowed his food.

"I couldn't believe it when it happened. It has to do with Chandler. One moment, Nathan and Bob Jackson were behind me. The next, Nathan said I was on Administrative Leave to get me out of the way so they could put the whole thing to rest. I don't know what happened."

"So, you're out of teaching?" she asked.

"I still have my last tutoring client. I have a session with him tomorrow afternoon."

"Why did he stay with you when the others left?" she prodded. James told Raymond's story and recounted his Thanksgiving dinner with his family. Miss Martin listened intently as he told it. "So, you're going to keep teaching him, even though you're out of a job and they can't pay?"

"If he told me he was going to quit, I would beg him not to," James stated. "He won't, though. His family is poor, but they're better than many I've met in Bates. They stuck by me when all the trouble with Chandler started. They know what it's like to have a bad break or two."

"I think that the School District lost more than they realize," Miss Martin answered. "I do a lot of work with the local schools. Sometimes I hear about job openings. If I do, I'll let you know."

The receptionist knocked and told Miss Martin that she had an appointment waiting. "Thanks for listening," James stood and clasped her hand. 

"Stay in touch," she said softly, as James left her office.

During the lunch hour, the snowstorm lessened. James felt a little better, despite the rejection of his benefits claim. Miss Martin was easy to talk to. She spoke few words, but those that she did were worth listening to. So far, she had been honest in everything she said, with the dripping sympathy left out. She was a plain, sexless woman, not good material to be a potential bed partner. She was, however, worth cultivating as a friend, if he could find a way to contact her again. 

"Things have a way of working out," he said out loud. He was alone in the car, but somehow, hearing the words made him feel good. Just then, he remembered the eleven hundred dollars that Bubba owed him for the Florida trips. With all that had been happening over the last few days, he had forgotten it. He would see him at bowling in a few days. If he planned carefully, he could make that money stretch for at least another month, maybe two. Things were looking up.

********** 

James found himself wandering through the Bates Feed Mill feed mill the next day, looking for someone in charge. There were two men talking on the loading dock. He stood back near the door to the office waiting for them to finish. 

One man was heavy-set, in his fifties. He wore overalls, a canvas barn coat and black, rubber boots. He had two days' growth on his face. Every now and again he would turn his head away and send a stream of brown syrup from between his lips, and then resume his conversation. James didn't know much about country life, but he would have bet the man was a farmer, it town to pick up supplies.

The second man was about the same age, less roughly hewn. He was more carefully groomed, and wore grey work clothes. There were logo patches sewn on the chest of his jacket, just over the pockets. James was sure that he managed the mill. Before long, the farmer spotted James and pointed him out to the other man.

"Hey, what can I do for you?" he called to James. 

James approached. "I could use a job," James answered. The Mill Manager approached James, peering at him. 

"Sorry, we're all filled up," he answered abruptly, then turned away.

"Shoot, Bert," the farmer contradicted. "You know damn well you need someone. With Cy out with his hurt back, you gotta' have someone right away."

"But Augie," Bert protested, "you didn't recognize him. He's that, you know..."

"I sure did see him," Augie retorted. "I got eyes. You don't believe any of the Chandler hogwash, do you?" He turned his head and spit some brown juice.

"I don't know, Augie..."

"Hey, mister," Augie interrupted, "you lookin' for any children to molest around here?" He burst out laughing, then turned and spat again and wiped his chin. "Give him the job, for crissake. I got to get back up the hill to the farm." He climbed down off the loading dock and piled himself into his pickup truck and drove away.

Bert let out a big sigh. "It would only be until my regular guy gets back on his feet. I don't suppose you know how to drive a truck." James shook his head. It'll be seven bucks an hour, then. I can only give you twenty hours a week."

"I'm glad to have it," James answered.

"Bert Hodges is my name," he said, extending his hand. "I already know what your name is. This is no easy place to work. You can start right now. I need that pallet of feedbags over there restacked. Pull out any torn ones and put them over there."

The Feed Mill was really a general store for farmers. Most of the space was devoted to animal feed, either in bags or in bulk. It carried a variety of other supplies, from baling wire to lubricants and even disinfecting chemicals for the dairy barns. James didn't know a thing about them, but as long as Bert kept issuing orders, he kept working. When Bert wasn't there to direct him, he picked up a broom and swept the place out. He worked hard and the time went by fast.

At the end of the day, Bert called him over. "For a teacher, you got some muscles," he said. "I put you on the schedule. It's in the back room. Find yourself a couple pair of overalls that fit. You'll be outside, so make sure you've got warm clothes, and especially boots. Fill out those tax forms before you go, and I'll see you tomorrow morning." 

************** 

Peggy Hardaway stood in the doorway of Roger Blair's office. "Are we still interested in that school scandal in Bates?" she asked.

"Seems to have died down recently," he answered. "Why do you ask?"

"Connie Martin from Social Services just called me and told me that James O'Toole was fired a week or so ago."

"I thought they were backing him up," Roger said.

"They were, and then they dropped him like a hot potato. She said that Chandler accused O'Toole of getting his daughter pregnant, but Connie said there was nothing to it." "Anything with sex attached to it gets people's attention—true or false," Roger said. 

"Connie gave a new angle," Peggy continued. "He's been tutoring a kid from an indigent family. She said that they might give me a view from the other side. I'd like to see if it leads anywhere."

"Get on it!" Roger agreed. "Interview the other players again, too. See if there's anything new. Whatever you do, don't let them know that you're talking to the student's family." Peggy nodded. "And keep me in the loop," he yelled after her as she put on her overcoat.

********* 

Shirley knew who the car belonged to as it parked in front of her trailer. Peggy Hardaway had called in advance. Shirley was reluctant, at first. The cares and worries of her life didn't include press interviews.

"I was told that Mr. O'Toole is your friend," Peggy urged her on the phone. 

Shirley thought for a second. "If I don't talk to her," she thought, "everyone will think it's because I'm hiding something. I've got no choice."

"Come over before the school bus brings the kids home," Shirley told the reporter.

Shirley took Peggy's coat and showed her to the dinette table. "Leave your boots on. It's just snow. The kids will track more in a few hours, anyway."

Peggy took a chair at the table and set up her recorder. Shirley set a coffee mug before her. "I made us some coffee," she said before her visitor had a chance to refuse. She set a plate of cookies in the center of the table.

"Thank you," Peggy said politely. "You didn't have to go to all..."

"They're from the batch that I just made to take to James tonight when he tutors my son, Raymond. It's the only payment he'll take."

"Is your son behind?" Peggy asked. 

"Hardly!" Shirley exclaimed, a proud grin imposing itself across her face. "He's the best in the class. James tutors him so that he'll be able to take all the hard math courses when he goes to Engineering School next fall. His Guidance Counselor said that without the extra help he'd be behind the students from other schools next year."

"That's interesting," Peggy replied. "So, you don't think he should have been fired?"

"No, of course not," Shirley proclaimed. "He's the best teacher they've got. That wouldn't mean much to them, though."

"And it doesn't bother you—you know, about all the rumors about him?"

"All those rumors are phony," Shirley replied bluntly. 

"How do you know?" the reporter asked.

"How does anyone know anything about anyone?" Shirley asked back. "How do you know I'm not a liar? You don't—you just believe that I'm not. I believe in James. If I didn't, I wouldn't let my son go with him every week, or let my little girl play with him in that chair over there on Thanksgiving. I've seen enough good and bad in my life to know; you can believe me or not." 

Peggy was scribbling notes as Shirley spoke. Shirley waited for her, and then continued.

"My stepdaughter knows him, too. She's a teacher in the same school as James. You should talk to her."

"I'll do that," the reporter promised. "Why do you think they fired him? No one from the school will talk to me."

"It's because James isn't enough like them," Shirley confided. "They all got their power and their place, and that's what they care about. He just wanted to do his job as best he could. Anyone who upsets the applecart has got to go."

**********

"I shouldn't be talking to you. Remember, you promised that this would be anonymous." "Sure," Peggy answered Tracey. "It's just for background."

"So you know James O'Toole?" Peggy began. Tracey nodded that she did. "And you think that he's alright?" she continued.

"Better than alright," Tracey answered.

"What kind of teacher is he?" 

"Everyone knows that he was one of the best in the High School," Tracey attested. "He was undoubtedly the best in the Math Department. There's a big crisis going on there now. I heard that a third of the seniors taking Trigonometry failed the midterm—except for James' students. They all passed. They need it for graduation. Nathan Smithling told us that the test average was about the same, but he's covering up. It was James' sections that brought up the average." 

"Then, why did they fire him?" Peggy asked.

"I don't really know," Tracey answered. "I heard it had something to do with Becky Chandler getting pregnant and moving away. I can tell you this. I've lived in this town all my life. I've learned that those who do the best aren't always the ones rewarded. What matters is keeping things the same."

"I'm new here," Peggy admitted. "I'd like to think better of people."

"They start out fine," Tracey said. "Along the way, something happens that lets them take the easy way out. At first, it feels bad. After a few more times a person gets used to it, until they're doing it all the time. They just settle for less than what could have been, and then they're trapped in it."

"I think that you're talking about someone that you know well," Peggy said.

"Just people, in general," Tracey looked away. Her eyes were watering and her lower lip quivered.

"Can I ask you a few more questions—or would you like me to leave?" Peggy asked sympathetically.

"I'm alright; go ahead," Tracey said as she turned back to face her.

"Why does Ethan Chandler hate James so much?"

"Reverend Chandler?" Tracey stiffened. "I barely know him."

"What about Jarrod Morris? He seems to be very close to Chandler. Do you think that he has any part in this?"

"I don't know Morris, either," Tracey answered tersely.

"It's funny," Peggy went on. He's on the board of Ethan Chandler's Church and he always seems to be on the fringe of things, but never quite in the middle of them. He's been very evasive any time I've spoken with him."




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 14



"I told you," Tracey repeated. "I don't know him."

"That's too bad," Peggy said. "Morris won't give me an interview. I wish I could find someone who knows him."

"I can't help you with that," Tracey repeated, her tone turning harder.

"If we're off the record," Peggy confided, "I think that it was really Morris who got O'Toole fired to cover up for his son. They say that the boy is really the father of Becky's child."

"Why are you telling me this?" Tracey spat out angrily. "I told you, I don't know Morris."

************** 

"It looks like O'Toole made friends with the wrong people," Peggy said to Roger Blair upon returning from her day in Bates. "I spoke to the parent of the student I told you about. Even though O'Toole's out of work, he still tutors him for free. The mother swears by him. I thought that it was a problem student, but actually, he's gifted. They're sorting through scholarship offers. They credit O'Toole for a big part of it."

"Interesting," Roger mumbled.

"There's more," Peggy interrupted. She told her boss about her interview with Tracey and the crisis in the Math Department.

"What did Jackson and Smithling say about it?" Roger asked.

"They refused to be interviewed." Peggy grimaced, thinking that she had failed to close the loop. 

"Don't feel bad," Roger assuaged her. "By not talking, they're telling us something. What about O'Toole."

"I spoke to him, but he didn't have much to add. He just said his firing was a shock, and wished that he was back with his students. He's working at Bates Feed Mill now. I think he knows less than we do."

"I think we're getting closer," Roger said. 

"There's one more thing," Peggy added. "I asked Tracey Jacobs—the teacher I interviewed—about Jarrod Morris. She was very defensive. Maybe it's a woman-to-woman thing. I think there's more there."

Roger cocked an eyebrow at the sound of Jarrod's name. "Now, I know we're closing in," Roger said. "Keep this story under wraps for a while. We've got some more digging to do.

************* 

It was Friday afternoon; the sky threatened more snow. Ethan was in his study finishing his sermon, as he usually did at that time on that day. He heard the front door open, but no one had rung the bell. "Who would do that?" he asked himself out loud. He swung around in his swivel chair, looking toward the foyer. "Who's there?" he called out. No one answered, but he heard rustling noises, and then a soft padding of quiet steps.

"Reverend Chandler, I need to see you," Tracey cooed, as she finally made her entrance into the study. She slowly sauntered toward him. 

"Miss Jacobs!" Ethan exclaimed. "I wasn't expecting you."

Tracey ignored his comment and kept coming slowly forward. 

"Why are you here?" Ethan demanded.

"Because I'm lonely," she whispered as she arrived at where he was seated and sidled up next to him.

"Yes, I can imagine," Ethan answered confidently, puffing out his chest. "I'm busy right now. You should have called first."

"Please don't refuse me," she whispered in his ear as she bent down to him. "You know you cannot refuse me." She smoothed her hand over his thigh and placed her hand over his penis. She felt it starting to erect under his trousers. She passed her hand over it several times and then stood up.

She turned and walked slowly in the direction of the stairs. When she reached them, she turned and looked at him, still sitting in his swivel chair. "Finish whatever you need to finish. I know my way; I'll be waiting for you."

Tracey made her way to Ethan's bedroom where she undressed. When she was nude she looked around the room. She passed by a picture of Becky, whom she recognized. She shook her head sadly. Nothing else was there that interested her. When she started feeling chilly, she slipped under the covers and waited for him.

She must have dozed off. She didn't know for how long. She looked up and saw him standing over her. He was already undressed standing still, displaying his naked erection to her. "I knew that you'd come back; it was meant to be," he proclaimed.

She didn't care for his expression; she thought he looked haughty. Tracey peeled back the covers just the same and Ethan got in beside her. He pressed his body up against her and waited for her to kiss him. 

"Suck on my breasts," she commanded. Ethan looked at her in momentary surprise, and then obeyed the order. Tracey gathered the flesh in her hands, framing the nipple. Ethan suckled as would a babe. He serviced her left one, and then she switched him to her right. She stretched and then kneaded her flesh, to maximize the sensation. It felt good, equal to Jarrod's attentions. When it was enough she had to lift his head up, as he seemed to enjoy the exercise.

"Go lower," she directed. She rolled on her back and Ethan climbed atop her. He kissed and sucked his way down her lean torso, ending in her navel. She allowed him to lave her there for a minute. "That was nice, but I meant lower than that," she informed him in a husky voice.

Ethan looked up at her with a pleading expression. "But that means..."

"That's right, it does," she confirmed. 

"I don't know how," Ethan begged.

"You will soon," she informed him. "Put your face in my hair first." She grasped his ears and forced his nose to her Mound of Venus. She rubbed his face in her wiry, black pubic hair. She pressed him down and bucked up against him. She felt the distant promise of pleasure. Her long legs opened wider. She rubbed herself on him harder and harder, using his face. Pleasure was getting closer.

"Put your tongue in me!" she screamed. She forced him lower, pulling and twisting his head until his outstretched tongue landed on the bud of her clitoris. She used all her strength to pull him in close and hard. A female scent permeated the room. Ethan started learning the task, cooperating as she searched for satiation. Tracey spread herself wider yet, and then wrapped her limbs around Ethan's head. 

She climaxed hard, with a sudden, high-pitched gasp. She pinned Ethan where he was and held her breath until it was over. As she descended, she loosened her grip. Ethan looked up, as if asking permission to ascend to his rightful place alongside her.  

"You can put it in me now," she told him. Her legs were still split wide. Ethan had no trouble finding her entrance. She was better lubricated this time. He slid in with ease. He thrust forward. She responded. Soon he grunted and released into her. He fell off to the side, gasping. He clutched a breast and lay alongside her, winding down. He closed his eyes as he waited to catch his breath.

"Before the Last Supper, I washed the feet of the disciples and anointed them with oil," he panted in a dreamy voice.

"I enjoyed it, Reverend," she said dispassionately as she arose from the bed. "Maybe next week you can anoint me again," she quipped, as she reached for her clothes.

"I thought you would stay until morning," Ethan answered, surprised and disappointed.

"Not this time," she replied, as he looked longingly up at her. "You've got your flock to tend and I need to get home and shower."

************ 

"I'm glad that you invited me to lunch, Ethan."

"How's your soup, Jarrod?" Ethan asked as he slurped in a spoonful.

"It's fine, but I have to admit that it's not as good as Judith's. Have you had any word from her?" Ethan shook his head.

"It's just soup from a can," Ethan admitted. "I hope you don't mind."

"I wasn't that hungry, Ethan. I want to discuss a few things with you." Ethan looked up from his eating. 

"This firing of James O'Toole is just what we wanted," Jarrod began.

"It's justice," Ethan agreed. 

"That may be, Ethan, but now that O'Toole is out of the way the congregation won't be very interested in him anymore. There's no point in bringing him up anymore in your sermons."

"I heard he's working in the Bates Feed Mill. We can turn our attention to that," Ethan suggested. 

"No, no; that won't work at all," Jarrod scolded. "How excited do you think the people will be to find out we have a rumored pedophile lugging around sacks of feed. Use your head, Ethan!"

"Sorry, Jarrod," Ethan apologized and hung his head. "That's why I need you."

"We need something new to keep pulling them in," Jarrod continued. "Without it, they'll lose interest again and you know what that means to the collections."

"Sin is always a good topic," Ethan suggested.

"No, they're tired of that—and considering Becky's condition, you don't want them to think that you're condemning your own daughter. They don't mind damning someone theoretical, but they soften up on familiar faces."

The two men were quiet for a minute. They rubbed their chins as they wracked their brains.

"That's it!" Jarrod exclaimed. "We'll go soft; God's love and forgiveness, and all that. I know it sounds corny, but they'll eat it up after five months of O'Toole."

"I don't know about that, Jarrod. It's been a long time since I tried that angle."

"Don't worry, Ethan. Get the organist some new music—it's all in the music. Tell the choir to swing a little. Maybe we'll move them out of the choir loft and behind the altar facing the congregation. Work it in gradually."

"I'd like to do a 'Laying on of Hands' in the Spring," Ethan announced.

"Huh," Jarrod answered, "what's that?"

"It's a special service for healing. The sick and lame come up the center aisle. I lay my hands on them."

"I don't know about that, Ethan. You've been acting very strange lately. I can just see this getting out of hand."

"Jarrod, it's my duty. You can't stop me if I decide to do it."

Jarrod thought for a second and agreed. "Alright, Ethan," he conceded. "Just don't let it go out of control. See if you can tie in the healing with their tithe."

The two resumed eating their soup. Jarrod finished first and poured himself a cup of coffee. "Why don't you think about taking a few weeks off, Ethan? Go up to Indiana and see Judith and Becky. It'll do you some good."

Ethan stopped eating. "How can I do that? Who would take over Sunday services?"

"Howard Jones is a deacon. Let him do it." Jarrod said. "You could write it and he could deliver it."

"No, Howard is a good man, but I don't think he's up to giving a full sermon."

"I had another idea, Ethan," Jarrod countered. "Why don't we contact the seminary and ask them to send a student down to fill in for a few weeks. You know, it would be a senior-level student who needs some first-hand experience. I'll call them if you want me to. It'll only cost us room and board."

Ethan shook his head. "In all my years in Bates I have never had anyone fill in," he puffed in defense.

"Relax, Ethan," Jarrod consoled. "It'll be good for your image. After the congregation gets their fill of some young, wet-behind-the-ears guy, they'll realize how good they have it with you." "No," Ethan answered defiantly. "Besides, it's better that Judith and I don't have any contact. "I've found another."

"Another what?" asked Jarrod, incredulously.

"An angel, who will one day be my wife," Ethan replied with solemnity. "It's that Miss Jacobs that you sent to see me about the girls' camp." He eyed Jarrod, hoping for a reaction that he didn't receive. "We've been together—in the flesh—two times." 

Jarrod stifled a smirk. "Did you talk with her about this?" he asked. "Are you sure?"

"As I poured forth into her, I was inspired. It is whence I draw my strength," he said.

"And what does she get out of it?" Jarrod asked.

"She begged me not to deny her," Ethan replied. "I had revelations. It is my duty not to deny her." 

"I wouldn't tell anyone else about these revelations, Ethan," Jarrod warned. 

"Of course not! They wouldn't understand. For them, the joining would be a sin—not for me. I am not bound by the usual commandments. I must operate on a higher plane."

"Is it a sin for Miss Jacobs?" Jarrod asked. 

"No," proclaimed Ethan. "She comes to me as an angel. She, too, is above sin."

"When do you and Miss Jacobs plan to start using first names?" Jarrod queried.

****************** 

"And so you see, Bob, these are serious charges and I didn't want to print them until you had a chance to respond," Roger told Bob Jackson. "You and I always had good rapport, so I thought that if I called you, personally, you would agree to an interview."

"Of course, Roger," Jackson responded. "I'm sorry that I refused you, Miss Hardaway. I didn't understand your request. I thought it was about James O'Toole."

Peggy Hardaway was sitting next to Roger Blair. "It's Mrs. Hardaway, and James O'Toole is involved, since it concerns your Math Department."

"We, of course, deny that there's a crisis," Jackson replied. "What I'd like to know, Roger, is who would say such a thing?"

"C'mon, Bob, even the Valley Sentinel has confidential sources," Roger countered. "What is the situation in the Math Department, anyway?"

"I'd rather wait for Nathan to get here," Jackson answered. "He has all the technical details."

"While we're waiting," Roger asked, "why don't you fill in the details of the O'Toole firing."

"That's very sad," Jackson answered. "Of course, we didn't fire him. It's an Administrative Leave. I'm not supposed to talk about personnel matters. If we're off the record, I can tell you that he came to us and said that he couldn't stand the pressure that Ethan Chandler was putting on him. He asked for the time off."

Peggy began to contradict Jackson, but Roger put his hand on her arm, and she kept silent.

"How was he as a teacher?" Roger continued.

"Well, I guess he was pretty good," Jackson sighed. "That's really Nathan's area to talk about. Look, maybe we'll have him back in September." He looked at his watch. "I wonder what's keeping Nathan," he said. "How about some coffee while we're waiting?"

Jacks popped up and exited the office before they could answer, leaving Roger and Peggy to themselves in his office. 

At the High School, Nathan waited for Jackson's call. He handed a note to Abby. "Here's another request for a reference letter for James O'Toole. Can you use the standard letter I composed? Sign my name to it and send it in the mail tonight." 

"No problem, Nathan," Abby said. "Don't forget that you have a meeting with Bob Jackson this afternoon."

"I'm waiting for him to call before I go over," he answered. "He wanted to size the reporters up first to see what they want. Then he'll fill me in before I show up."

As soon as Nathan said the words, the phone rang. "Mr. Jackson is on your line," Abby said.

"Nathan," Jackson whispered over the line, "somehow they found out about the disaster in Trigonometry. I'm not sure how much they know. You better be ready for it when you arrive."

"All the teachers know it," Nathan said. "You can't keep something like that secret for long."

"I know, I know. I can't talk long. You better come over right now." Jackson hung up and Nathan started putting on his coat.

In Bob Jackson's office Roger and Peggy sat sipping their coffee. "Where do you suppose Bob went?" Peggy asked.

"He probably called Nathan to get their stories straight," Roger guessed.

At that moment, Jackson strode back into the office. I just got a call from Nathan's secretary," he told them. "He was delayed, but he's on his way over now." 

"While we're waiting, let me fill you in the bond issue coming up," Jackson said. "We'd really like your help on this one."

As Jackson wound up his lecture on the bond proposal, Nathan knocked at the door. "Come in, Nathan," Bob called out cheerfully. Nathan stepped in. "You know everyone here, right?" Nathan shook hands all around.

"I was wondering if you wanted me to tell you about James O'Toole," Nathan began. "I heard he's working at the Feed Mill. It's sad, really. He was our best teacher in the Math Department. Hopefully, he'll be back in the Fall. We tried to talk him out of it." 

"What we'd like to know about is the status of the Trigonometry midterm," Roger said. "We have a source that says that a third of the seniors failed. Won't that mean no diplomas for them in June?"

"It's a very difficult test..." Nathan started to say.

"I remember!" Roger laughed. "I nearly failed it myself." Bob and Nathan laughed with him. "So, it's true then. A third of the seniors might not graduate in June," Roger pointed out, turning stern.

"It's these new State Requirements..." Nathan began saying before Roger interrupted him again. 

"So, you do confirm it?"

"Only half of the seniors are taking the course. They're mostly the slower students. The rest took it a last year. It's true, about a third of them didn't pass."

"So, it's a sixth of the senior class in danger of not graduating," Peggy said.

"They'll have the final Exam to average it out," Nathan explained. "If not, there's Summer School."

"Your best math teacher is gone," Peggy pointed out. "My source says that none of the failing students were from O'Toole's class."

"I'd have to check it," Nathan answered. 

"Would you call over to your office and check it now?" Roger asked. 

"Now that you mention it, I believe that's true," Nathan admitted. "We'll just have to do with what we've got."

Roger turned to Jackson. "Bob, I wish that we could tell the readers that you're taking some action to help these kids."

"But we are, Roger," Jackson blurted out. "We're...we're...offering remedial review courses at night." Nathan stole an unbelieving glance, then looked at the reporters and smiled as he nodded affirmatively.

"That about covers it," Roger announced as he rose to leave. "Thanks, Bob. Good luck with it, Nathan." 

"Have a chair, Nathan," Bob said blandly after the two reporters left. Jackson closed the door, and then resumed his seat behind his desk.

"You better set this up pronto, Nathan. We've got real trouble here."

"I don't know where we're going to get the manpower or the money," Nathan advised. "These kids need a real high-powered teacher. Some of those grades weren't even close." 

"As for the money, take it out of whatever budget you have to. As for the manpower, get O'Toole to do it. Pay him whatever he wants. Let him do it as an independent contractor so they can't say we reinstated him."

"It won't be easy convincing him," Nathan said.

"Dammit, Nathan!" Jackson yelled. "It was your idea to can the guy—now you get him back."

"I thought it was a joint decision, Bob," Nathan protested.

"You thought wrong!" Jackson countered. "I'm not getting my ass in a sling. When the Board finds out there's going to be hell to pay." He sat back in his chair and allowed Nathan to absorb his dictum. "Anyway, I can protect you if you get in hot water, but you can't do anything for me."

Back in Nathan's office, Abby was getting ready to leave for the day. As her last task, she assembled the outgoing mail. Nathan's reference letter for James was on top. Abby reached into her desk and pulled out a new envelope, from her private supply that had no letterhead on it. She set it her typewriter and typed the same address as Nathan's reference letter. Under the supply of plain envelopes she had a supply of photocopied press clippings. They were of James and Reverend Chandler. They told how a man of the cloth accused a teacher of pedophilia. She carefully inserted a set of clippings in the freshly typed envelope and sealed it.

She gathered up the stack of mail, which she would drop at the post office on her way home. "Another day—another dollar," she sighed wistfully as she turned out the light. 

************** 

"They were lying about everything!" Peggy exclaimed as they walked out of the school building. 

"Don't get upset," Roger eased her. "I know they were. Now they're locked in. We'll publish what they said and attribute it to them. We just have to find out the rest of it."




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 14



"Like what?" Peggy asked.

"Why they really fired O'Toole and what part Jarrod Morris has in all this," Roger answered. He handed Peggy the car keys. "I would guess that your source, Miss Jacobs is home right now. I'm going over to the diner for a coffee and a piece of pie. Pick me up after you've talked to her again."

Peggy knocked at Tracey's door. "I told you everything I know," Tracey said as she opened the door. 

"There's something important to tell you," Peggy said. "I'll explain if you let me in." Tracey opened the door wider and stepped aside. "I thought that you'd like to know that we confirmed everything you said about the senior math test with Nathan Smithling and Bob Jackson," Peggy announced after she was inside.

"You didn't tell them that I told you?" Tracey cried out. 

"No, they asked, but we refused to give it and they didn't press the point."

"Well, okay—that's good. I've told you all that I know."

"We still want to find out why O'Toole was fired, and how Jarrod Morris had a part in it.

"Jarrod had something to do with it?" Tracey asked.

"I thought that you said you didn't know him."

"I don't! Everyone knows of him. He's the Mayor."

"Maybe so, but I think you do," Peggy said. "There's a guy working in the Feed Mill who should be teaching and kids who are flunking out. Jarrod Morris had a hand in it."

"James is working in the Feed Mill?" Tracey asked meekly.

"Yes, I spoke to him yesterday. He was stacking sacks of feed at the time."

"I would help you if I could," Tracey said. "I just don't know anything more."

*************** 

It was bowling night and James was just barely on time. He saw Bubba's pickup in the parking lot as he pulled in. His hopes rose for seeing the eleven hundred dollars that was due him from the Florida trip.

As James walked into the bowling alley he saw Bubba at the bar. He waved and James sauntered over to him. "I bet cha' been waitin' for this." He said as he handed a check to James. "Wanna' go a game of shuffleboard—double or nothing?" he laughed.

"Normally I would," James replied, keeping the joke going, "I've got tendonitis in my shuffleboard shoulder."

Bubba slapped him on the back. "I heard about what happened to you at school. I was sorry to hear that. I figured you'd be lookin' for that check."

"Keep me in mind if you need a helper on another trip," James answered. "My job at the Feed Mill is just temporary."

"Maybe you'll be hired back at the school," Abby said, peeking around the corner of her husband's burley chest. James hadn't seen her standing behind Bubba. "Hello, James. It's nice to see you."

"Why don't you talk to James while I go in the locker room and change my shoes, Baby- Doll," Bubba said. "We're set to start in a few minutes.

As Bubba walked away, Abby gave James that smile that had set him on fire so many times.

"How's your job hunting going?" she asked.

"Plenty of rejections," James answered. "I think my reputation has gotten around."

"Too bad!" she cooed at him. "You'll never find a job."

"I know—but I don't know what to do about it." James said.

"I could make it stop," Abby said.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I'll make it stop if you say the right thing. You just have to say that you'll come back to my bed." Abby explained.

"I won't say that I haven't thought about you more than just a little." James answered. As he looked at her, he noticed that nothing had changed since their days of pleasure. Her petite little body looked just as inviting as before; she still smiled at him like she always did; and, as always, she was eager for a bed partner with whom to ply and share her skills. A voice in James told him to say 'yes'.

"Sorry Abby—can't do it," he answered. "Same reason I told you before. Look, can't we just be friends?"

"I'll let you wonder over the answer to that," she replied. "By the way, I told Nathan that I would be seeing you tonight. He gave me a message for you. He wants you to call him tomorrow as soon as you can." 

"I'll call him," James answered. "Maybe I'll tell what you've been doing."

"And prove what?" Abby retorted. "Even if Nathan found out, he'd just give me a slap on the wrist—like he always does when I'm bad. It's an arrangement that Nathan and I have."

************ 

"Thanks for taking care of my friend, Ethan," Jarrod said to Tracey's reflection in the mirror as he straightened his tie. "I'm calling it off, though. It didn't have the effect I was hoping for."

"And what effect was that?" Tracey asked. 

"I thought it would bring him back down to earth. It doesn't matter, now. By the way, you should have checked with me before going in for round two."

"Maybe I liked it," Tracey answered in her sultriest tone. She rose from the bed and pressed her nude body against Jarrod's. "I think he's kind of cute," she said as she twirled her fingers in Jarrod's hair.

"Hey, Tracey! Be careful not to get lipstick on my collar," Jarrod ordered. "I don't think Ethan's your type."

"Maybe I'm looking for a new type," she pouted. 

"Oh, yeah? Just what type is that?"

"I don't know," Tracey replied. "Maybe I'll make him into my type."

"He thinks that you and he are headed for the altar," Jarrod informed her.

"The altar?" Tracey hooted. "As what—human sacrifices?"

"No," Jarrod replied. "As bride and groom."

"Sounds romantic," Tracey teased. "It's the best offer I've had all day." 

Jarrod spun around and pushed her onto the bed. "I told you—I'm calling it off!"

"Who are you to tell me to call it off," Tracey protested. "What do you expect me to do, just wait until the next time you decide to take a long lunch?"

"Just stay away from him—for you own good," Jarrod warned through bared teeth. "Don't play games, Tracey."

Tracey ceased teasing about Ethan, sensing it had struck a nerve with Jarrod. She would use it later. His arrogance made her angry.

"What did you have to do with James O'Toole getting fired?" she demanded.

"O'Toole? How did that come up?" he shot back.

"I just want to know."

"It was just a little business transaction," Jarrod replied.

"Oh, I don't believe it!" Tracey exclaimed, rolling her eyes at the ceiling. "Why would you do a thing like that?"

"I told you—it was business," he answered. "Why would you care about him?" He stood over her, still sitting naked on the edge of the bed. He paused several seconds, lost in thought. "You screwed him, didn't you? I'll be damned. You went behind my back, you slut."

"What if I did?" Tracey retorted in defiance. "I wanted to. I like him. He was the best I ever had!" 

"You bitch!" Jarrod screamed. He whipped her across the face with the back of his hand. He looked down at her stunned expression as he hovered over her. "I'll show you!" he roared, and then closed in to attack her. When he was finished Tracey's cheekbone was purple and her lip was split. There were bruises on her arms and breasts. "That'll teach you to get out of line," he said calmly, and then walked out of the bedroom. Tracey lay on the floor. In a few seconds Tracey heard the front door slam.'

She didn't get up right away. She lay naked on her bedroom floor crying. Her body screamed in pain all over, but she hurt in other places more. Finally, she lifted herself from the floor. She staggered to the bathroom and winced as she looked into the mirror. 

Her teeth were still firmly in place, which surprised her. She blotted the blood from her lip with a wet washcloth as the pain made her grimace. At last, she put on her robe. She would have to call in sick for a few days. She couldn't appear in public as she was. 

As she made her way to the living room to make the call, she spied Jarrod's briefcase. "I'll be damned if he thinks I'm going to take it to him," she thought. It wasn't his regular case. It was an extra one, a leather portfolio that he carried along sometimes. Tracey assumed that he left it behind in his hurry to leave the house.

She wondered what was in it, and why Jarrod needed an extra briefcase when he had such a nice one. Normally she would have set aside, but on this day she decided that he had waived his right to privacy. She unzipped it and found two folders inside. One was labeled Church Finances. The other said "Insurance Fund". Tracey glanced through the material. There were check registers, receipts, some accounting type papers. They meant little to her.

She got dressed, covered her wounds with makeup as best she could and made a call. She zipped the folders back in the portfolio and went out.

************* 

Peggy Hardaway greeted Tracey as she arrived at the Valley Sentinel offices. "Tracey, what happened to you?" she cried in alarm.

"Never mind that," Tracey answered. "I came to talk about Jarrod Morris."

"I need to introduce you to our publisher, Roger Blair," Peggy said and led him to his office. After introductions Roger motioned the women to sit down.

"I asked her what happened to her," Peggy said. "She wouldn't tell me."

"I think I know already. It was Jarrod, wasn't it?"

Tracey sat silently, not answering.

"Well, what do you want to say?" Roger asked when he realized he would get no reply.

"Maybe this will do the talking," Tracey replied, as she opened the portfolio and placed it on Roger's desk. 

Roger opened the folders and thumbed through them. Every other page or so, his eyebrows rose. "How did you come by this?" he asked.

"He left it in my house."

"Did he ever tell you to safeguard it, or not to open it?" Roger asked.

"No, I think he just forgot to take it with him."

"Peggy," Roger said, "take Miss Jacobs to my doctor and have her checked while I take a closer look. I'll call ahead and tell him you're on your way."

When Peggy and Tracey returned from the doctor's office two hours later they found Roger Blair poring over the contents of Jarrod's briefcase with two other men. 

"She took six stitches in her upper lip," Peggy told Roger. "The doctor said she probably suffered a mild concussion. She has a lot of contusions, but no broken bones."

"I'm alright," Tracey assured them. "What did you find?"

Roger introduced Tracey to the two men in his office. "This is Mike Walsh, Tracey. He's our Controller. I asked him to help me with his accounting knowledge in sorting out these ledgers." He nodded to the other man. "This is Detective Wright of the State Police. I had to call him after Mike told me what he found."

Wright was a big man, in his early thirties, square-shouldered and trim. He was dark-complected, with jet black hair and a moustache to match. "You look like you've been worked over pretty good," he said when he looked up at her. "You can file charges if you want to." Tracey shook her head.

"I'll let Mike explain what all this means," Roger explained.

"The first thing that's obvious is that he's siphoning money from the Church through this Insurance Fund. Look—here are the checks and there are the invoices. He's inflated the premiums by about thirty percent. Once, he loaned his company two thousand dollars that he hasn't repaid yet."

"That's embezzlement!" Wright said.

"That's not the most serious part," Walsh continued. "These charges by the insurance fund to his business—they're never paid. They're for every expense under the sun: consulting, cleaning services, and the like. He's creating phony expenses. My guess is that it's a tax dodge. The expenses get deducted by the business. The income is never taxed because the Church is exempt. He's got it going both ways."

"How much do you think is involved?" Roger asked.

"The overage on the insurance premiums is about three thousand; the loan is two; the phony expenses amount to twenty-five thousand."

"This is really something for the Feds," Hal explained. "I can see one thing; it won't be a tax fraud until he actually files a return with those expenses on them. We can't do anything right now."

"I'll sit on the story for now", Roger offered. "When it comes to a head, we'll have an exclusive."

"We've copied all these documents," Hal said to Tracey. "We've got to get the originals back to him so that he doesn't suspect. Can you help us?"

"I'll just tell him that I found the portfolio after he left and for him to come by and pick it up," Tracey said.

"I don't want him to hurt you again," Hal told her.

"I can handle him, don't worry," Tracey assured him.

"Try to handle him better than you did earlier," Hal said with a smile.

Tracey started to laugh with him, but then winced as she felt the stitches in her lip. "I'll do anything you say," she said. "Just don't make me laugh again until I get these stitches out."

"I'll give you a ride home. You shouldn't be driving with a concussion." Hal said. "Roger can follow in your car and then I'll drive him back." 

************* 

Jarrod knocked on Tracy's door that evening. "Did I leave a little briefcase here today?"

"I was going to call you at your office tomorrow morning," she said as he pushed past her into the house. "I doubt if you wanted me to call you at home."

He unzipped the portfolio and examined the contents. "Did you open it?" he asked.

No," she answered. "You know that I have no interest in business things."

"How would you know that there are business papers in here?" he asked suspiciously.

"What else would be in a case like that?" Tracey replied.

"Maybe airline tickets for two to the Virgin Islands," he teased. "Look, I'm sorry about what happened this afternoon, but it was really your fault, Tracey."

"I know, Jarrod. I'm sorry; sometimes I get a little out of line."

"What do you say—after you're healed up we'll get back together again. I'll book that Virgin Islands seminar and we'll go together."

"That's sounds wonderful, Jarrod."

"He stepped to the door. ""I've got to get going. My wife is expecting me and I'm late already. Just don't get out of line anymore, Tracey," Jarrod warned. "I don't like hurting you." 

"Oh yes you do," she said after she closed the door behind him.

******************* 

TO BE CONTINUED...

Dear Readers,

Thanks for reading. I look forward to your comments.

AW 



The Blameless Bystander Ch. 15



© Copyright 2006, 2007

Chapter 15—Confessions

After Jarrod left with the briefcase Tracey phoned Hal Wright, as he asked her to.

Tracey: "He's gone. He took the case and left; he didn't stay long."

Hal: "Good! Did he suspect anything?"

Tracey: "No, he asked if I opened it, and I said that I didn't. He believed me."

Hal: "I still don't like it, Tracey. He might look in the folders and see that the papers have been reshuffled. He'll have to know it was you. He'd be sure to fly into a rage again."

Tracey: "I don't know what I can do about that."

Hal: "If he gets on to you, tell him everything. If he knows the police are aware of what he did, he won't dare do anything. We'll know it's him."

Tracey: "I don't think he'll be around for a while—not until my face heals up. I'm no good to him without my looks. If I have a big scar on my lip, he may never be back."

Hal: "Maybe so, but I'm going to be calling on you from time to time until this is over. Don't you have some family you can stay with?"

Tracey: "Just my stepmother, but I won't go there. She has young children and I won't have them seeing me like this."

Hal: "Stay out of work for a few days. I'll look in on you tomorrow." 

Tracey: "How long do you think it will be before this is over?"

Hal: "That's hard to tell. I'll call the IRS tomorrow and let you know."

*********** 

"Look, there it is; what else can I say?" Nathan asked.

"You mean to say that you don't want me associated with the school, but you want me back; that you have great teachers, but many students failed; that you need me, but you want me to form a dba so that no one will know that I'm here." "I know that you need the money. That Feed Mill job doesn't pay much and your Unemployment claim was rejected," Nathan countered.

"I'll get by," James replied. He felt victorious, but he kept stone-faced, enjoying staring down Nathan for a change.

"Look," Nathan pleaded, "we're in a bind. I think you can see that."

"I'll do it," James assured him. "You'll have to up the fee by fifteen percent. I want you to know that I'm doing it for the students—and the money. Don't consider this a personal favor."

"I can see that you're not as naïve as you were when you first came here," Nathan conceded.

"Around here, that's self-defense," James countered. "You know, I would never have disclosed your secret. You should have known that. If you had, I would still be here backing you up."

"That's water over the dam now," Nathan said. "I suppose it's true. You don't know what it's like to be afraid all the time. I never know when someone might see me or some little fact might lead to another and then another. I can't afford to take chances."

"I'm sure that there are others who know. Vicki does, of course. I'd bet that Abby knows, too."

"I only trust people who have something that I can hold over their heads," Nathan said. "I never had anything on you, so I couldn't trust you."

"Well, you have no choice, now."

"It's thirty-three students," Nathan changed the subject. "I know it's a big section. We're making our best classroom available to you."

"That's not what I want," James replied. "Give me a classroom that's small and in close quarters. I'm splitting the class. I want the class list and the grades. I'll divide the class between those that came close to passing, and those that are really lost."

"You're going to teach two sections at one time?" Nathan asked.

"The lower section will be Tuesdays and the better section on Wednesdays."

"James, we really didn't have two nights a week in mind," Nathan cautioned. "Maybe the better students can help the slower ones."

"The word 'better' is a relative term here. They have troubles of their own." "You named your own poison," Nathan shrugged.

"It doesn't matter; results are what count and time's wasting. There's a lot to be done, and this is the way it has to be," James demanded.

"Okay, okay," Nathan held his hands up in surrender.

"There's one more thing," James said. "I need an assistant. I want Raymond Jacobs to help me."

"You mean your tutoring student? I don't have the money in the budget for it, and I could never get a payment approved for a student," Nathan protested.

"Don't worry about that. I'll take care of the payment. It's the reason for the extra fifteen percent."

*********** 

When Raymond got home from school that day, James was waiting for him, talking with Shirley over coffee.

"Hi, Mr. O'Toole! I didn't expect to see you here."

"Raymond, Mr. O'Toole has something to ask you," his mother said.

"Did you hear how many seniors failed the Trig midterm?" James asked. 

"I heard it was a lot," Raymond answered.

"It was thirty-three," James replied. "I have a job at the school teaching them review at night so they can pass the Final in June and graduate."

"Does that mean you won't be able to tutor me anymore?" Raymond asked, almost hiding a frown. 

"No," James answered. "Our sessions are on Mondays, and I set these new classes up for Tuesday and Wednesday. I came to see if you'd like to be my assistant. You would give special help to students to ease them through the problems. I want to work one-on-one as much as possible. There's too much catch-up necessary for regular teaching methods in the time we have left."

"I don't know, Mr. O'Toole. I don't know many of those kids. I'm not sure I can do it."

"It'll be good for you, too. The math should be easy, but you'll learn some things that will help you later."

"Those kids don't really like me. They think I'm a bookworm."

"They'll like you when they're in their caps and gowns accepting their diplomas because you helped them," James countered.

"Raymond," Shirley said, "you've received a lot from Mr. O'Toole for free. You've got to give something if you have a chance to."

"I'll keep tutoring you whether you agree or not, Raymond. It's your choice. I need your help on this, and these kids do, too."

"What can I say?" Raymond said. "I just hope I can do it."

"There's one other thing," James added. "The School District will pay you a fee for your work. It'll be a hundred and ten dollars a week right through exams. It'll be a nice amount to have in the bank when you go to college in the Fall."

"You didn't tell me that!" Shirley exclaimed. 

"I guess I forgot until just now," James answered.

*********** 

James had to ask around to find out what a dba actually was. Bert Hodges tried to explain it, but couldn't. No one knew, so he called Nathan back and asked him.

"You get it at the County Clerk's office," he told James. "It stands for 'doing business as' and it means that you're registered to do business under a trade name."

"Do I really have to have one?" he asked.

"Bob Jackson wants it," Nathan confirmed. "In the long run, you'll get your payments faster. When you get it, bring it over to me and I'll get the purchase order cut for you. You should do it today, if you can, so we can get moving."

James couldn't go until his shift was over at the Feed Mill. He had already asked for time off for his meeting with Nathan. It was two in the afternoon before he was on the road to Hornell. He had to stop at the bank first, because he found out that the certificate would cost sixty dollars. 

In all, it was an aggravating exercise. "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em," he quipped out loud as he patiently guided his car over snow-covered roads. He shook his head in disbelief. "Please tell me I didn't just say that," he begged to the empty passenger's seat. "Better stop talking to myself," he told himself silently.

At the County Clerk's office an attendant approached him as he leaned on the massive wooden counter. She was a corpulent woman, with an unhurried manner. She thrust a form over the varnished wood. "Fill this out," she ordered. "Don't forget to look in the book before you write in the name. Bring it back after you have it notarized," she recited.

"What book? What am I looking for?" James asked.

"Over there," the exasperated clerk pointed to the end of the counter. "You have to see if the name you want is already taken." 

James did as instructed. He hadn't even thought of a name for his venture. He scribbled something simple on the form and returned to the attendant. "You've got to get it notarized," she reminded him. 

"Where can I do that?" James asked patiently.

"Almost anywhere," was the answer. "Banks, lawyers—they've all got 'em."

"Are you a notary?" James asked.

"Yes," she answered.

"Would you notarize my form?" James asked.

"I can't," she answered. "I have to sign in a different place, so I can't witness it, too."

The hour was drawing late and James was determined not to have to return the next day. A sudden inspiration, born of need, came upon him. He hurried to the lobby and found a public phone. After looking up a number he placed the call.

"Hello," he said loudly into the phone over the din of the lobby. "Can I speak with Miss Martin?" He waited on hold for half a minute. "Hello, Miss Martin—James O'Toole. I'm downstairs right now. I was wondering if you're a Notary Public—or maybe you know one who could sign a form for me."

"You're a real lifesaver," James attested as he presented himself in Miss Martin's office.

"What have you got?" she asked as she took the paper from him. She read it without waiting for his answer. "A dba form? I wouldn't have guessed that." She read a little further and then pressed a stamp onto the witness line and signed her name above it. "JOT Education Services," she read out loud. "So you're an entrepreneur, now?"

"It's a long story," James answered. "You'd be bored if I told you. Besides, I've got to get back to the County Clerk's office before they close."

"There's a fee for notary services," she called after him as he was halfway out the door.

"Sorry, I didn't know," James answered sheepishly and dug into his pocket.

"None of the stories I've heard about you are boring," she said, "so the fee is that you have to come back up when you're done at the Clerk and tell me the story."

James realized that he had been had, and shot a grin at her. He thought he detected a faint trace of a smile on her lips, but realized quickly that he was probably mistaken.

************* 

James returned to Miss Martin's office after securing his dba certificate.

"So what's the dba all about?" she asked, as James took a seat in her office. 

"Like I said before, it's a long story, so I hope you don't have anything to do right now."

"Go ahead," she urged. "I'm listening."

At that moment the department secretary stuck her head in the door. "The County's closing the roads. We have to close the office in fifteen minutes."

James hadn't noticed how bad the weather had become. There was a heavy snow falling and the wind was driving it sideways. "I better give you a raincheck on this story of mine," James said. "I think that I'll get on the road."

"You'll never make it all the way to Bates," she admonished. "The roads are closing, anyway; the police would stop you. You should try to get a room at the Downtown Hotel."

James sighed. A night in an old hotel wasn't the evening or expense he had in mind, but he knew she was right. To make matters worse, nightfall was close at hand.

"Let me call down there and reserve you a room," she offered as she punched the numbers in the keypad. She waited for the line to connect, and then set the receiver back on its hook. "Their line's busy," she said. "Everyone's probably trying to get in there."

"There must be another hotel," James said. "It's just for a night. I'm not fussy."

"None in town," she answered. "You'd have to go out on the State Highway. I doubt that they'll let you." She glanced out the window. "Look at it coming down," she said in awe. From her window on the fourth floor they watched the wind-driven snow, so heavy that they could barely see the hundreds of office workers struggling against the blizzard to find their cars.

"You'll have to do something," she said. "You don't have much time to make up your mind."

"I'll try the Hotel again," James suggested.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "It's not a very big hotel; I'm sure that they're full by now. I know someone who'll take you in. You can leave your car here in the lot. I'll drive you there."

"That's too much trouble to put you to," James replied.

"I insist," she said. "Let's get going before the weather gets even worse."

*********** 

It was nearly a half hour before they were able to brush the snow from Miss Martin's car and make their way out of the parking lot and onto the street. The going was slow. At times the wind blew so hard that the tail lights on the car ahead were invisible. "If we can get into the residential streets it should block some of the wind," James said.

"That's true," she answered, "but the streets won't be plowed. They're having a hard time keeping the main roads clear." At long last, after an hour of creeping though snow-drifted streets, they arrived at a duplex on the edge of town. "You can stay here for the night," she assured him. "I know the person who lives here."

She turned the car to point into the driveway. The car lost traction on the slight incline and James got out to push it. After great exertion and spun wheels, the car staggered up the hill and came to rest alongside of the side door of the house. Miss Martin shut off the motor, and James followed her inside.

The doorway opened to a stairway that led to the kitchen. The house was dark. She flicked on the switch and peeled off her coat and then her boots.

"It looks like no one is home," James observed.

"I live here," she replied. "This is my home—at least this half of the house."

James was surprised and kept silent for a second before speaking. "This is asking too much," he protested. "What will it do to your reputation if the wrong person finds out?"

"I don't have a reputation, so it would probably give it a boost," she declared, "and I'm glad for the company."

"I'm practically a stranger to you," he said, but did not convince her.

"Less a stranger than you might think," she answered. "Never mind that, it's too late for you to go anywhere else, anyway. I'll heat up the stove and start some dinner cooking. Is spaghetti alright? I'm a little low on supplies."

"Right now, soda crackers and catsup would look appealing," James said.

"You had better take off your coat and boots," she said as she put on the pasta water to boil. "I have sauce already made in the refrigerator. I'll put on some tea to warm us up. I have wine for later."

"Can I help with anything?" James asked.

"No," she answered. "Just make yourself at home. The living room is that way. Maybe you can find some storm news on the television." 

******************* 

James hadn't realized how truly hungry he was until he finished his second plate of spaghetti and sauce. Then he remembered that he had skipped lunch. Over dinner he told her the story of the dba, Nathan, and the remedial courses he was preparing to teach. Miss Martin said nothing as he told her. She just listened and nodded approvingly as his excitement was on display. He told her just how he planned to do it and pull every last student through. At long-last he pushed away from the table.

"That was the best Italian food I've had in a long, long time," he declared. "I was so long-winded that I forgot to say thank you." He topped off both wine glasses.

"It was just thrown together," she replied. "It just tasted good because you were so hungry and worn out from pushing the car up the driveway. Anyway, I don't get much chance to have dinner guests."

"It's very nice of you to do this for me, Miss Martin."

"If we're to be housemates for a night, I think you can call me Connie." James thought he spotted a trace of a blush on her skin. She rose to clear the dishes and James helped her. "I'll wash them in the morning," she said. "We can go in the living room and finish the wine."

Connie sat on the sofa and curled her feet under her. James sat in an easy chair nearby. "I don't usually drink this much wine," she confided.

"You have a nice home," James observed. "How long have you lived here?"

"About two years," she answered. 

"Where did you live before that?"

"Hmmm—around," she replied.

"Have you been a social worker a long time?" 

"Fifteen years."

"In the kitchen you said that I was less a stranger to you than I thought," James asked. "Why did you say that?"

Connie looked away for a second, and then snapped back to attention. "I'll tell you later," she replied. "First, tell me why you gave up your vows."

"A lot of people have asked me, and I'm not sure of the answer to this day. I just know that I didn't feel much like a priest in those last few years. I was ashamed of my hypocrisy. I guess that I was running away from it."

"Wasn't there any time that you thought you were right for it?" she asked.

"There was—a long time ago." James told Connie of his Guatemala days. He told her the story of them. He played back the scenes of the villages, the poor, but hard-working students that he taught. He recounted all the things he did, and learned. Mostly, he told her how the hardships refreshed his body and the sacrifices stirred his soul. "In the end," he confessed, "I think I resented having to leave. That's what probably told me deep-down that I wasn't cut out to be a priest. Having to obey ruined it. Obedience was a vow that I had no joy in keeping." He paused, thinking about what he just said. "You know, I never realized that before," he confided. "You really helped me." 

"I won't take credit for what was inside you all along," she said.

"Your turn," he reminded her.

"It's boring, compared to what you've just told me."

"C'mon, we had a deal. It's time for you to hold up your end."

"It's really not much of a story," she protested, and then looked away, biting her lip.

"Never mind," James consoled. "We'll talk about something else."

"I'll tell you," she replied. "Let me summon up my courage first." She refilled her wine glass, and James', too. She took a big swallow and a deep breath."

"I was a sister in the Convent of Charity," she declared. James' eyes widened with surprise. "You see, in a certain way, we're not strangers." She swallowed some more wine. "I was a social worker, assigned to work in a hospital. My father passed away. Not long after that, my mother became sick, too. My brothers were far away in their Silicon Valley jobs. The only one to take care of my mother was me."

"You gave up your vows to care for her?" James asked.

"I asked for a leave for that purpose," she explained. "I never wanted to give up my vows. Not long after my mother passed away, the hospital where I worked closed. The Order had no work for me. I would have been an extra mouth to feed. They asked me to be on 'hold' until they figured out something. I used the time to wrap up my parents' estate. After that, the Order still had nothing for me, so I asked for my release. That was two and a half years ago."

"That's kind of sad," James said.

"It's in the past," Connie said. "I'm doing the same kind of work, and I've found that I can still be close to God, with or without vows." 

"You appear to be doing well in civilian life," James said.

"It's alright," she admitted. "I only rent this half of the house. I have some savings. Sometimes I think that I'd like to buy a place of my own, but it's easy to lose interest when there would be no one to share it with."

"I was born to teach Math," James said. "I'll be doing that somewhere. It might not be in this Valley, after everything that's been said about me."

She didn't answer, but filled their wineglasses again, draining the bottle. 




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 15



"I haven't had Chianti in a long time," James said. "I hadn't remembered that it tasted this good."

Connie ignored his comment. "I've gotten used to life outside the Order, except for one thing." "What's that?" James asked.

"Sex," she stated. "I'm so confused about it. I don't know what I'd do if I ever had an offer—but I don't think I'll ever get one. You can see that I'm not very pretty."

"The eye of the beholder," James answered whimsically.

"Everyone seems to be going at it at will," she complained. "I can't see myself doing that. I'd like there to be feeling, a joining of spirits. Am I wrong to want that?"

"The right guy will come along," James consoled her. "You just have to be patient."

"I'm used to men ignoring me," she went on. "My coworkers think I'm a lesbian." 

"I think that you worry too much, Connie."

"Tell me," she demanded, "how do you handle it?"

"Not very well, I'm afraid," James confessed. "Believe me, Connie, you don't want my advice. I'm as confused as you are, but I didn't have the sense to think it through first, like you have."

"You have to tell me, James. That's why I brought you to my home."

"I don't understand," James said.

"The Hotel wasn't full. I lied," she explained. 

"I didn't think that you were capable of lying," James told her.

"I didn't think so, either," she answered. "I just have to know. Please, tell me."

"I would tell you if I did know," James replied. "Talking to you tonight made me realize how much I don't know anything."

James arose and walked to the window to break the uncomfortable silence. "Listen to that wind howl," he mumbled as he gazed out onto the street.

"The wine made me feel sleepy," she murmured as she rested her head on a pile of pillows at the end of the sofa. 

James stood at the window, watching the blizzard obscure the darkness. She had pierced him so deeply. Yet, she was, herself, so vulnerable. The unpleasant stab ripped open a supposedly sealed portal that poured out his sour juices. He wished that the void could have been filled with sweet wisdom, but she gave only questions and riddles to place inside him. He thought of Father Brendan and couldn't help but smile a little.

"My real name is Concetta Martino. My grandfather shortened it to Martin," a subdued voice arose from the sofa. James allowed the howling wind to answer her. "I wanted you to know everything," she said before closing her eyes.

James looked at her from across the room. Soon her body rose and descended in the rhythm of slumber. He found an afghan folded at the end of the couch and draped it over her. In her sleep, she clutched the blanket to her, as though a lover.

"The innocent always sleep well," he thought.

************ 

James awoke early the next morning. He had slept in the easy chair, his overcoat around his shoulders. He didn't know what time it was. The scanty light in the darkened living room of Connie's house told him that it was close to sunup. He glanced over to the couch, expecting to see Connie, but there was only the empty blanket. Then he smelled the brewing coffee. 

"Good morning," he greeted her as he shuffled into the kitchen. She was mixing some batter.

"There's a toothbrush in the bathroom," she said. "The wrapper's still on it. I'll have some French toast ready soon."

James went off to do his morning ablutions. While he did so, he wondered why Connie seemed so cross. He hoped that he hadn't said anything to offend her. 

"I apologize for last night," she said as he returned from the bathroom. "I had too much wine."

"Apologize for what?" James asked as he sipped his coffee. "I thought that we had a nice talk."

"I'm a pathetic, besotted spinster," she said without looking up at him. "You must think that I kidnapped you to give me vicarious thrills."

"That's not what I thought," he told her.

"What then?"

"I think that you're lonely and you have a lot of questions about an important part of life, with no one to ask. I was afraid of your questions and the answers, but I couldn't turn away from them."

"That's what you thought?" she asked, finally raising her eyes to him.

"I thought that we were friends," James said. "At least that's what I'm hoping for."

"Friends with me?" she confirmed. 

"Let's eat," James commanded.

*************** 

Detective Hal Wright knocked on Tracey's door in the afternoon after school. "I came to see how you're doing," he said as she opened the door. 

"I've been back on the job for a few days," she answered. "I get my stitches out tomorrow."

"What did you tell them at school?" he asked.

"I told them I was in an automobile accident. I don't know if anyone believed me, but no one seemed to care very much, either. They're probably waiting to see if I end with a scar on my lip."

"Do you think that anyone suspects that Jarrod beat you up?" Hal asked. 

"No, we've always been careful about keeping that a secret."

"I spoke with the IRS. They pulled his company's tax return. They'd like the original Church files, if they can get them."

"I don't know what to do," Tracey said.

"When will you see him again?" Hal asked. 

"He always decides. He won't come around until my stitches are out. He'll probably buy me something to try to make up for what he did."

"I see," Hal said with a grimace.

"You don't think much of me, do you," Tracey asked.

"That's not true," he answered. "I think you have a lot of courage. It's just that you're selling yourself short by quite a bit."

Tracey looked away. "Unfortunately, that decision was made a long time ago. Who would be interested in me now?"

"I would, for one," Hal said. "Me and about a thousand other guys. But, that would be up to you."

"So, your wife wouldn't object?"

"Ex-wife," Hal corrected. "She's out in California now. No, I doubt that she would even want to waste time thinking about it."

"I don't know if..." Tracey hesitated.

"I can't do anything about it until this case is closed, or I'm taken off it," Hal explained. "You have time to think about it."

"I might have to sleep with Jarrod. How does it make you feel?" 

"I'd rather not answer," he said. "But I might have a solution for that. It has to do with an idea that the IRS boys had for getting that original file secured."

"What are you talking about?" she asked.

"Let me fill you in," Hal said as they sat at the dinette table.

************* 

"There's a Miss Jacobs to see you in the waiting room, Mr. Morris," Jarrod's secretary told him as she brought him his coffee.

Jarrod looked up with a start, and then regained his composure. "Jacobs...Jacobs," he said out loud. "Do I know her?"

"She has bruises on her face," the secretary said. "Maybe she was in an accident and has a claim."

"Why don't you send her in and I'll see who she is."

Jarrod shut the door behind Tracey as she walked in. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"I know you said I should never come here," she answered, "but this is an emergency."

"Now what kind of emergency could there be?" 

"Two men from the IRS came to my house this morning before I left for work," she answered. "They were asking all kinds of questions about you."

"IRS? Questions about me?" Jarrod asked. "Are you sure they were from the IRS?"

"Oh, yes," Tracey answered. "I made them show me ID, and they gave these business cards." She handed them to Jarrod. "At first, I told them that I didn't know you, but then they said that they had photos of your car in my driveway."

Jarrod kept fingering the agents' business cards. "What kind of questions?"

"They asked about your business; how much money you had, and if you ever gave me any presents. They asked about your Church and Ethan Chandler."

"The Church?" Jarrod asked. "What did they ask about the Church? Did they say they were going to talk to Ethan?" 

"They didn't tell me. I told them that I didn't know anything about any of that sort of thing, and that we're friends and you come over and talk once in a while. I told them that you never gave me any presents. I think they believed me. They didn't press it."

"Did anyone see you come here to the office, Tracey?"

No, I don't think so. I went to school first and slipped out the back way. I walked over, didn't even use my car," she assured him. "Look, Jarrod," she went on, "we've had some hard feelings lately, but I never..."

"Don't worry, Tracey," Jarrod assured her. "I know you're my girl. I haven't treated you very well lately—but I'm going to make it up to you with something real special as soon as I can."

"I like the sound of that, Jarrod," she cooed. "We can get back to the way we were."

"There's just a little favor that I need to ask you first," Jarrod said, smiling. 

"Anything, Jarrod. Just ask me."

"I need a safekeeping place for this briefcase," he said, pulling it from a filing cabinet. "It's the one I forgot at your house a while ago. You recognize it, don't you?"

"If you say so, Jarrod. You know I never pay attention to those things."

"Can you just hide this at your house for me for a while until this IRS thing blows over?" Jarrod asked. "I'd really appreciate it."

"No problem," she said. 

"And I'd appreciate it if you didn't open it, too. It's kind of private."

"As soon as I hide it, I'll forget it's even there."

"That's my girl, Tracey. I owe you a big Thank You—and you know how well I know how to say Thank You."

"I can hardly wait, Jarrod."

"It will have to wait a while, though. They may be watching you—or me. I can't be seen with you until I know it's safe." 

"I hope it's not too long," Tracey answered, as she picked up the briefcase and rose to leave.

Tracey started out on the short walk to her house. Jarrod watched her through a slit in the Venetian blinds of his office window as she crossed the street. As she crossed into the residential area, out of sight of the downtown offices, a large black sedan pulled up to where she was walking. 

The passenger's side window slowly rolled down. "Tracey, get in the back seat." It was Hal Wright calling her from inside the car.

"Tracey, these men are Agents Reed and Hoffman from the IRS," Hal told her. "Gentlemen, this is Miss Tracey Jacobs."

"Those business cards are what convinced him," she told them as she handed over the briefcase to Agent Hoffman, who was seated next to her.

"Everything went smooth—he didn't suspect you?" Hal asked. 

"He said that we wouldn't see each other for a while because he's afraid that you're watching us," Tracey explained. "And that's okay with me."

"Just call him every week or so and tell him that there's a man parked down the street that look's like a cop and you think he's watching your house. That'll keep him away," Hal answered.

"Of course if he does show up, call Emergency right away," Agent Reed added. "We're putting your address on the dispatcher's 'Hot List'."

"It all seems to be here," Hoffman said. "Miss Jacobs, you've done a great service to ..."

"I did it for myself," Tracey said.

***********************

Several weeks passed by, and not much happened, except that James taught his course with Raymond's help. James and Connie became friends and began spending time together. One night, James called her on his cell phone. 

James: "Hi, Connie, it's James." 

Connie: "I thought that you had to teach a class tonight."

James: "They're taking a quiz right now. Raymond is watching the class. I stole a few minutes to call you."

Connie: "How do you think they'll do?"

James: "We'll know better after tonight. I think they'll be alright. We've got twenty-nine left of the original thirty three we started with six weeks ago. I think that there are five who are borderline cases. The rest will pass if they stick with it. Raymond's been a big help."

Connie: "Make them stay the course, James. Don't take no for an answer."

James: "I have other news. Bert Hodges offered me a permanent job at the Feed Mill. He wants to make me Assistant Manager. I'd be in charge of keeping the books and inventory, ordering more stock, that sort of thing."

Connie: "Are you going to accept?" 

James: "I don't know. It would mean giving up teaching, but I'm not sure if I'll ever get another job in a school with all that's happened."

Connie: "You could accept the job from Bert and keep looking. You'd make a lot more money."

James: "I could—but I won't. I wouldn't do that to Bert. He gave me a job when no one else in this town would. If I take the job, I'm in a hundred percent."

Connie: "That's what I thought you would say. I was just testing. You know that teaching is your first love."

James: "I've got to think about it. We can talk about it on Saturday night. Are we still on?"

Connie: "Yes, of course. I can't believe you're taking me to a hockey game."

*************** 

James always gave Raymond a ride home after the night classes. Usually, they would talk about that night's class, which students were doing well and what had to be reviewed again. That night Raymond was quiet, and to James, he appeared edgy. 

"How do you think the quiz went tonight?" James asked.

"Okay, I guess." 

"You don't sound very enthused about it," James pointed out. "Anything else on your mind?"

"I think I've changed my mind about becoming an engineer," Raymond blurted out.

"Sounds serious," James replied. "What does your mother think?"

"She doesn't know yet. I just decided tonight."

"What do you think you want to study, then?" James queried.

"This job you gave me makes me want to be a Math teacher, too."

"That's interesting," James replied. "I thought that you were committed to engineering."

"I was, but there's a lot to think about. Maybe Engineering School won't turn out so well. I know I can do Math and I can stay right here in Bates and get a job. You're happy doing it." 

"Everyone is meant to do something," James told him. "Teaching is what I was meant to do, Raymond, but you can't be me. You want to design things and build them. You told me this many times. Don't you remember your trip to the factory in Rochester?"

"Yeah, that was great. But, I may never get a chance at a place like that."

"I don't see why not," James answered. "I can tell you that if it's what you really want, you'll never forgive yourself if you settle for less and never find out. Be a teacher if you want to, but don't let cold feet talk you out of your dreams."

Raymond was quiet for a while. As they turned into the entrance of his trailer park, he spoke again. "You were right, Mr. O'Toole. I'm sorry that I bothered you. I guess it's because I like doing this job with the night classes."

"Don't worry about it, Raymond," James said. "You did me a big favor. I should follow my own advice."

*********** 

"I think we're ready to get under way, Bob," Homer Briggs spoke for the others on the Board. "We're all here; the tape recorder's running."

"The Executive Session of the Bates School Board will now come to order," Jackson spoke into the microphone.

There were five voting Board members. Homer Briggs was one. The other man was Harry Thurlow, a business owner. Millicent Petty, a retired First Grade teacher had been a member for years. Mabel Holliday had just been elected. She was sixty, a widow and also served on the Historical Preservation Council. Paige Holman, a young mother and housewife, was the final member and was active in the PTA.

"We've got to do something about this Math problem with the seniors. Look at this stack of mail," Homer began.

"We've had an equal number of calls in the office, I can assure you," a tired Jackson said in agreement.

"We just can't have another scene in the public meeting like the one a few months ago, Millicent Petty said in a whiny voice. "That was so ugly."

"Have you taken a tally on how the letters and calls stack up, Bob?" Homer asked.

"They basically divide into two camps. There are those that say, 'I thought we fired O'Toole, and now you've hired him back again.' The others are saying 'What's the problem with our Math. Program and how many seniors aren't graduating?"

"I think I'd like an answer to that second question," Paige Holman said.

Millicent Petty didn't agree. "What about James O'Toole. I thought he was a pedophile—and there are rumors that he raped Becky Chandler in the Teachers' Lounge and got her pregnant."

"Both those charges are unfounded," Jackson said. "We put O'Toole on Administrative leave for giving Unauthorized Assistance to the Chandler girl."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Thurlow asked. 

"She told him that she thought that she might be pregnant and he bought her a test kit in the drugstore," Jackson answered.

"What else?" asked Holman. "Certainly you didn't fire him just for that?"

"He wasn't fired. It was Admin..."

"And now you've brought him back." Mabel Holliday pointed out.

"We thought that he was the only one who could pull these failing seniors through," Jackson replied. "We had a real emergency." 

"What's the matter with the teachers you still have?" Mabel demanded. Jackson didn't answer.

"What's the report on the students now, Bob?" Homer Briggs asked.

"O'Toole just gave them a test. He started with thirty-three—four dropped out after a week. He says that he's quite sure that twenty three of them will come through alright. There are a half dozen that are question marks, but O'Toole isn't giving up on any of them."

"We gave up on O'Toole but he won't give up on even the worst students?" Paige asked to make her point.

"So, you fired your best Math teacher when you needed him most," Harry Thurlow said. 

"He fired him for helping a girl in trouble," Paige said. "He was fired when he deserved to be commended."

"And then hired him back under an assumed name," Mabel reminded everyone.

"It's a good thing he did," Harry added.

"We better bring Nathan in," Homer suggested. "Let's have a recess first. We all need to catch our breath."

During the recess the members talked quietly among themselves, avoiding Jackson. The women took turns using the bathroom. As they were coming back to order Homer Briggs approached Jackson. "Bob, the Board Members would like you to wait outside while we talk to Nathan." 

"Nathan, how did this trouble with the Math Department come about?" Harry Thurlow asked.

"It's been building for a long time," Nathan started to explain. "I put money in the Budget Proposal for more Math teachers and new text books each year. Bob always said that we couldn't afford it. It came to a head when the regulations changed about students having to pass the State Test for Trigonometry to get a diploma."

"Didn't Bob know about the State Test requirement?" Homer asked.

"Oh yes," Nathan replied. "There were just so many expenses. He thought that the tutoring program would take care of it."

"I just hate that tutoring program," Paige Holman interrupted. "Students having to pay for the help they need." 

"I do, too," Nathan agreed. "It's the system. I would change it completely, if I could."

"So you hired James O'Toole," Millicent Petty said.

"He's a very good teacher," Nathan attested. "I was going to promote him to Department Chair."

"Then, why did you fire him" Thurlow asked.

"Bob said we had to. The pressure from Ethan Chandler was getting too heavy," Nathan answered.

"And you said nothing?" Mabel Holliday demanded.

"I tried my best to talk him out of it," Nathan replied. "In the end, I supported him because I thought that it was important to be unified for the good of the District."

"Let's not forget that O'Toole's a pedophile," Mrs. Petty reminded them.

Oh really, Millicent!" Paige exclaimed. "We forgot that a long time ago."

"Thanks, Nathan," Homer said. "You can go now. Tell Bob that he can go home, too."




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 15



************** 

Three days later Nathan avoided Bob Jackson. Nathan waited in his office for the inevitable call. Abby had just fielded a phone call then stood on Nathan's office door.

"Bob's secretary called, Abby told him. "It's time."

Nathan put on his outdoor clothes and walked to the Administration building. He came upon Jackson standing in his office.

"I don't know what to say, Bob," Nathan said as he shook hands with him.

"Nothing's forever, Nathan. I'll catch on somewhere." 

"I'll have a tough time filling your shoes. Of course, it's just temporary," Nathan said.

"Don't worry; they'll give you the permanent job after a decent waiting period. You know how to handle them," Bob said.

"Was it O'Toole that did it?" Nathan asked.

"I don't know," Jackson replied. "I think that they were afraid that some of the blame would rub off on them."

"It was a mistake to fire O'Toole," Nathan mused.

"We didn't," Jackson reminded him. "It was Administrative Leave. It's the same thing I got. It's poetic justice, I suppose."

************** 

On Saturday night James was driving Connie home to Hornell after watching the hockey game. The air was frigid, but clear. The interstate was nearly empty, and James guided the car behind the headlight beam.

"It was exciting," Connie remarked. "I never knew much about hockey."

"You got to see a good game for your first one—overtime, no less."

"I didn't know the rules, but I had no problem following it," she added.

"It's a simple game—straight-forward and direct. I would say that the game's a lot like you," James said.

Connie thought for a moment, and then said, "I don't know how to answer that, James; so I won't." 

"That just proves my point," James retorted.

"How did you learn so much about hockey?" she asked, changing the subject.

"I played in High School. I enjoyed it more than excelled in it. I wasn't very good—not fast enough—barely made the team. I guess I had lead in my butt."

"Now there's an honest and direct answer!" Connie shot back with a laugh.

"I had to tell you before someone else did. It's been twenty-five years, and my brother still brings it up every time I see him."

"That statement wasn't very simple and direct, James," Connie said.

James hesitated. The words slipped out at a time when he wasn't prepared to deal properly with them. "I don't know how to answer that, so I won't," he responded, continuing the repartee.

"Did they always call you James?" she asked, sensing that she had touched a nerve. "It seems kind of formal, especially on a sports team."

"I was always 'Jamie' until a few months ago," James answered. "Nathan made me change it because he thought it sounded too ethnic." 

"Jamie O'Toole," she tried the feel of it on her tongue. "I like it—especially with St. Patrick's Day coming up."

"Well, I probably shouldn't have..."

"Why did you, then?" she demanded. "At least, you have a right to your own name."

"Nathan thought it would keep me out of trouble."

"But it didn't—did it? I think you let him pimp you," she declared.

"You're right, Connie, but that hurt," he pleaded.

"Sorry, James," she answered. "I should have kept it to myself."

"You can call me Jamie from now on," he answered. "Sometimes the treatment hurts, but the patient is better-off in the long run."

"Okay," she said softly, and patted him on the thigh. 

"Did you ever think of going into dentistry?" he quipped. By that time, they were rounding the corner to Connie's street.

"Stop it," she joked back. "You'll get over it."

He pulled into the driveway.

"C'mon in," she said. "I'll make it up to you with a cup of coffee."

"No thanks, I'm all set, Connie."

"Tea, then?" 

"I better not," he answered.

"Oh," she said, in a subdued voice.

She had a tear in her eye as she turned the lock and James backed down the driveway to head back to Bates. "Too bad," she sighed.

*********** 

"How do you think the class went tonight, Raymond?" James asked as they packed up their books.

"Fine!" Raymond answered. "I think they're getting it."

"I think they're getting over-confident," James answered. "Let's give them a pop quiz next week and bring them back to earth. It's too far away from the final exam to let them think they're world-beaters, yet."

They were distracted at that moment by a rap on the door. James turned and saw Vicki standing there. "I was hoping to talk to you for a minute or two," Vicki said.

James turned to Raymond. "Do you think you might be able to give me a few minutes? I'll find you when we're done; it won't be long." 

"Sure thing," Raymond answered as he picked up his books and headed out of the room.

"I knew you'd be here," Vicki informed him. "I drove in to be here when I thought your class would be getting out."

"Good timing," said James. 

"I haven't seen you for a long time," she said. "I hoped that we could be friends again."

"I never thought that we stopped being friends, Vicki."

"I know that I hurt you when I ended it," she said. "Sometimes I wish that I hadn't."

"It did hurt, but it was for the best," James conceded. "I would have kept chasing a rainbow with no end to it. You did me a favor."

"You've learned, James," she replied. "You wanted something from me that I couldn't give you. Abby told me you broke it off with her right after we split up. She said you did it out of friendship for Bubba. I was impressed."

"You gave me friendship when no one else would," James acknowledged. 

"I wasn't there when you really needed me, though, and I was sorry about that. I should have called you."

"Things have a way of working out," James shrugged.

"Do you think that we'll ever sleep together again?" Vicki asked.

"If that's an invitation, thanks, but I think I have to say 'no thank you'. I'm thinking about someone else right now," James said.

"Thinking—or doing?" Vicki asked, smiling. "And it was an invitation."

"I was out with her last weekend. I think that she wanted me to make love to her then," James answered.

"And you didn't?" Vicki asked with surprise. "That's so unlike you, James. It must be something special." 

"It would have been her first," James answered.

"You're full of surprises, James." 

"I should have taken her up on it," James replied. "I probably insulted her. I just didn't want to ruin things between us. She's very special to me. I didn't want to push her away."

"James, you're just being you," Vicki scolded. "Try to find out what she wants. If she's that special, you two will work it out."

James nodded. "I'll think about that," he said.

"So what do you think about Nathan getting promoted?" she asked.

"You wouldn't want me to tell you," he answered.

"I got a new job out of it, too," Vicki said. "District Personnel Manager."

I guess that congratulations are in order," James said.

"Not really," Vicki said. "It's just Nathan's way of protecting me, and himself at the same time."

"He once told me that he only trusted those that he had something on."

"That would include me," Vicki confessed. "When I was a senior in college, I got pregnant. There were problems; I had to drop out of school; the baby was stillborn. I was a few credits short of my degree. I lied on my application to get this job. Nobody checked. Nathan found out, but he protected me. Now he wants me close so that no one will find out."

"You never got over it," James said.

"No, and it cost me a marriage years later," she answered.

"You could have gone back and finished," James said. 

"It was too risky," she answered. What if someone found out and then asked how I was working as a teacher already."

Nathan's a hard guy to figure out," James said. "Part of me won't forgive him for firing me. At the same time, he's done some of good things, or tried to."

"He thinks a lot of you, James. He told me to give you a message. Nathan says the Department Chair job in the Math Department is yours next Fall if you want it."

"I should be grateful," James answered. "Tell Nathan he should deliver his own messages, and then I'll think about it."

"It's your call," Vicki said. "I'll tell him."

"Raymond's waiting," James reminded her.

"Then we're friends?" Vicki asked.

"I would never stop being friends with you, Vicki."

************* 

Every year, as Spring finally broke winter's icy back, the priests would enjoy walking the grounds of the school. There were the remains of snow in some places and emerging green in others. Many times it was a respite in the midst of their Lenten deprivations. The rebirth of the earth reminded them of the Pascal tide soon to be.

Jamie was ambling his way to the perimeter of the grounds for a stroll and, perhaps meditation. "Walk wit' me a bit, Jamie," he heard a voice behind him. He didn't have to turn to know that it was Father Brendan calling him.

The two priests walked side-by-side, saying little, enjoying the weather. A small creek bordered the grounds, forming one side of the perimeter. A large willow tree had grown up on the bank, escaping the blade of whoever trimmed the area until it was too large to be easily hewn down. It had become home to many birds. On this day they were singing loudly.

"I was in m' room dis mornin'—just havin' risen," Fr. Brendan told Jamie over the chirping. "Ye know d'ere's a tree beside the residence—and a bird's nest jist outside m' window."

"Have the eggs hatched yet, Father?" Jamie asked.

"Aye," he replied patiently, "but let me get to m' point." The old priest paused and slowed the pace of his walking. Jamie grew impatient, but dared not speak interrupt again.

"The mother bird alit on the nest and gave one o' the little chicks some food," he finally resumed. "The little fella' ate what was given 'im, and d'en looked out o'er the edge o' the nest. He must not 'ave see what he wanted, so he leaned out a bit far'der and looked some more. In a flash, the mother bird pushed the chick from the nest." Fr. Brendan paused again. "Can ye imag'n the drama o' the moment, boy?"

"It's God's creation at work," Jamie answered.

"Quiet, boy, and listen," his mentor scolded.

"It s'prised the chick at first. I saw fear in 'is face. He was fallin', but sudd'ly started flappin' his wings as fast and hard as 'e could, and d'en flew away. I'll never see 'im agin', but I'm happy fer 'im."

"I imagine that his mother is, too," Jamie added. Father Brendan ignored him.

"I have to t'ink d'at God knew the bird would learn in d'at moment t' fly," Father Brendan said. 

"No doubt," Jamie agreed. 

"But what if the bird decided not t' try, if 't were his choice t' flap er not?"

"But God gave the birds the instinct to fly," Jamie answered.

Father Brendan stopped and faced Jamie, staring eye to eye. "Exactly! But what of us mortal humans wit' free will?" he posed. "If God knows the future, what of our free will; and if God does not know—well, I don't want to even t'ink of it."

"It's a mystery, Father," Jamie answered. "I don't know the answer."

"Either way, if we don't believe in both, what're we doin' here, Jamie?"

"I never thought of that Father," the protégé replied.

"Aye, a mystery t'is, and I don't know the answer," the teacher confessed to his charge. "I t'ink about it often."

They walked some more; Jamie struggled to recall the answer from his studies.

"D'ere is no answer, Jamie, at least not in d'is life. We believe in both 'cause free will allows us t' cast aside our doubts."

*************** 

TO BE CONTINUED...

Dear Readers,

Thanks for reading. I look forward to your questions and comments.

AW



The Blameless Bystander Ch. 16



© Copyright 2006, 2007

Chapter 16—Agony, Revelation, Atonement, and Knowledge

"How's the old man, Mark?" Jamie asked as he shook hands with his friend and embraced him.

"I'll let him tell you, Jamie. He's in the wing down the hall. I'll take you."

The two men walked together through the antiseptic corridor. They dodged gurneys and wheel chairs, squeezing by a crowd of anxious families waiting at the elevator.

"I'm glad that you called me, Mark. You know that he wouldn't have."

They arrived at the end of the hallway. The receptionist, a stern, young woman, sat on guard, an authoritative scowl stopping them in their tracks.

"We have to sign in, Jamie. It's ICU rules."

They took turns signing as the receptionist shouted into a speaker-phone. "Can McNulty have visitors?"

"Come in," came the muffled voice from the little box.

"Just one can go in at a time," the receptionist decreed as they unbuttoned their coats. She saw Father Mark's collar. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know you were clergy. You can go in too."

Father Brendan lay in the hospital bed. There were monitor cables leading away from his body and tubes filled with clear fluid leading into it. There was an oxygen tube with dual openings placed inside his nostrils. As they approached, Jamie wondered if he was sleeping, but as they drew nearer the old man turned his head toward them.

"Jamie, I've been missin' ye, boy," he uttered with hoarseness that Jamie had never known. A nurse was checking the IV lines and he looked at her. 

"It's not what you think," she said. "His throat's dry from the oxygen and sore from the biopsy. The tumor isn't near his vocal cords. It's farther down."

"Let me give you some water, Father." Jamie took the cup of ice chips and raised it to the old priest's lips. Father Brendan took a few into his mouth.

"T'anks, 't feels good, Jamie; an' t' what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked.

"I came to see how you're doing," Jamie answered. 

"I'm doin' jist fine, boy, as ye can see."

Jamie was short of words. He grimaced and looked away. 

"Ye could ne'er lie t' me, Jamie. What really brings ye here?"

"I came to confess, Father." 

"And ye t'ink a sick old man will be easy on ye?"

"Reach inside me and pull out my sins like only you can," Jamie pleaded. "I need to be cleansed. It's not only for me."

"I'll just visit the other patients," Father Mark said, excusing himself.

"Ye know I haven't the power, Jamie. Only ye can pull the sins from yer own soul. Are ye ready for 't?" Jamie nodded. "D'en, confess t' me ye shall, Jamie. Kneel here and tell 't all t' me, boy."

Jamie sank to his knees alongside the hospital bed of his old mentor. He was barely able to see over the rails of the hospital bed. He did tell him all, whether he was sure that it was a sin or not. It was his story since he left the priesthood nine months earlier. He confessed his acts of commission, and omission, too. At first his knees ached from the hard, tiled floor pressing back at him. As his unburdening progressed, he felt like he was floating, a kind of high—a euphoria—that he had nearly forgotten; he welcomed the feeling back. 

As he concluded, the old priest closed his eyes. His lips moved in unintelligible speech, but Jamie had no need to hear the words to know what they were. Finally, Fr. Brendan opened his eyes; he snapped his head over to look at Jamie kneeling beside his bed.

"I'll grant ye absolution, contingent on ye doin' the penance," the old priest croaked. "Come closer and I'll whisper 't to ye."

Jamie stood and bent over the bed, his ear next to the Father's lips, waiting for the dictum. Father Brendan grasped Jamie by the collar of his shirt with one hand, and by the hair with the other. Intravenous lines and monitor wires flailed like the lines on a derelict schooner in a gale. He pulled him even closer. Jamie could feel the old man's skin on his own, the coarse whiskers ground against his cheek. Fr. Brendan whispered the penance, and then released him as he finished. "It's a hard penance, boy, but 't'll do ye good."

Jamie stood up straight. "I'll do it, Father," he promised. By that time the floor nurses had gathered around the bed, along with Father Mark, as all the alarms connected to the old man's hospital bed had sounded. 

"Father McNulty, that just won't do," the floor nurse scolded. "Your visitors will have to leave if you can't lie still."

"We're leaving soon, nurse," Father Mark assuaged her as she rechecked all the lines and cables.

"T'was the last confession d'at I'll ever hear," said. "Ye made it a good one, Jamie," he said with a chuckle. Jamie and Father Mark shook their heads and laughed a little, too. 

"I s'ppose ye know d'at I'm dyin'," he told them. "T'was m' old pipe d'at did it, or so d'ey tell me. It was such a friend; I must've overindulged. D'ere was a time when a small dram would take away the little tickle in m' t'roat—but no more."

"Father, please don't say that. We'll miss..." Jamie tried to console him, but Father Brendan would not hear it.

"Quiet, boy," he admonished. "Jist be hopin' d'at I'll put in a good word fer ye when I'm wit' Himself, speaking directly to Him 'bout ye."

A nurse stood at the foot of the bed, signaling it was time for the visitors to leave.

"And don't ye be t'inkin' that ye'll live ferever," he called after them as they turned for the door. "And bring me a dram of Irish Whiskey next time, er don't ye come at all," he called louder, and then collapsed into a fit of coughing. 

"Whiskey, of all things," the nurse scolded mildly as she soothed him and straightened his blankets. His coughing subsided.

"I should 'ave made it part o' his penance," he told her.

************** 

All the Feed Mill employees had left for the day, except Jamie and Bert. They sat in Bert's office finishing off the coffee.

"I was hoping that you would take it, James," Bert said. "I had a feeling when you started teaching those classes at night you'd turn it down."

"It's not that I don't like working for you, Bert. I almost said 'yes'. My heart would never have been in it. You would be thinking that it was, but I would be giving you ninety percent. The other ten would have been day-dreaming about some math class somewhere."

"But, James, you don't even have a job to go to. Why don't you think it over for a while?"

"Some day there'll be an opportunity. Nathan might even give me my old job back. In the meantime, you've got to move the Mill forward."

"You don't have to leave; you can keep working here. There'll be plenty to do with spring planting just around the corner. You can show Beth how you set up the inventory ledgers."

"It's for sure that I won't be back full time in teaching until September. I'll stay with you until then."

"I don't know how you've done it," Bert said. "You're up to nearly forty hours a week here at the Mill, and you're teaching three nights a week. You must be bone tired all the time."

"Not really. I kind of like it, especially the teaching. It's not like it's a job; more a battle against time and numbers. I'm on a mission. Of course, Raymond's my star pupil. One day soon, he'll be teaching me." 

"You'd take your job back from Nathan, after what he what he did to you?" Bert asked.

"I might," Jamie answered. "I won't say that I wouldn't have second thoughts about it. I don't know how much of it was Nathan's decision or Bob Jackson's."

"This whole town hasn't treated you very well. There's still some who point when you walk down the street. I wouldn't blame you if you packed it in and moved back to Boston." 

"I admit that I thought about that more than once, but I'm staying."

"You've got guts, that's for sure," Bert said.

"I've learned that once you stop running away from others, you can stop running away from yourself," Jamie said. "If I ever do that, I'll have real guts."

"I thought that maybe you'd done that already," Bert told him.

"I'm working on it," he laughed.

"You're one of a kind, James. If you change your mind about that job, be sure to let me know."

**************** 

Jamie found the pace of his steps slowing as he marched down the sidewalk. He was approaching his destination and he wasn't looking forward to what lay waiting for him. It was a breezy day in March, with a little chill. His hair was tousled from the wind. It was his lunch break at the Feed Mill, so his clothes were dusty. He finally stopped at a large stone house with a black, wrought-iron fence. The gate was open and he climbed the stone steps to ring the bell.

Jamie waited for the door to open. He became hopeful that no one was home; he hadn't called first. It occurred to him that he might have done it that way on purpose. He could always say that he tried.

"Courage, Jamie," he told himself as he waited. "You'll just have to come back if no one answers." As he was about to turn to leave, he heard the doorknob turning. The man he was looking for pulled the heavy door open. Jamie looked him in the eye, wondering if he was staring at Satan in the flesh.

"Reverend Chandler, I'm Jamie O'Toole. I would like to talk to you."

"I know who you are," Ethan sneered at him. "What are you doing here? What do you want?"

As Jamie eyed him, the evil boiling on his countenance began to appear less fearsome. Ethan gave him a look meant to convey hate; Jamie saw it for the fear that it was. It was making his task easier.

"Can I come in, Reverend? I'd appreciate a word with you."

"Why should I let you in? I've never allowed a pervert in my house."

Jamie absorbed the insult, choosing to turn the other cheek. "I can say my piece here on the steps, if that's what you prefer, Reverend. It would be easier in the house—just in the foyer."

As Ethan looked him up and down a voice came from inside the house. "Ethan, who's at the door?" Jamie heard steps approaching on the hardwood floor. 

"It's Jamie O'Toole, Jarrod," he reported, keeping his scowl. "He wants to come in."

"What do you want, O'Toole?" Jarrod asked.

"I'd like to speak with Reverend Chandler," Jamie answered.

"Well, Ethan, let the man in. Don't keep him out in the cold," Jarrod flourished his arms in an exaggerated sweep. "Let him speak."

Ethan backed up to make room, and the three men stepped into the hallway. "Make it fast, O'Toole," Jarrod ordered. "We were eating lunch."

"I came to seek your forgiveness, Reverend Chandler," Jamie began. "I ask you to forgive me for the hate that I felt toward you, and for not doing more to understand you, and for failing to put your mind at ease about me."

"This is a trick!" Ethan exclaimed. "I'll not listen to more."

"Calm down, Ethan," Jarrod said. "I'm enjoying this. It's good comedy."

"There's more," Jamie continued. "I'm going to pray for you, and your family. I'll especially pray for Becky and her child."

Ethan's eyes widened and the veins in his neck stuck out as he clenched in rage.

"Easy, Ethan. You know he's a fool," Jarrod cautioned. "Is that all, O'Toole?"

"Almost," Jamie replied. "I also wanted to tell you that I forgive you for the transgressions that you committed against me." 

"Blasphemy!" Ethan roared. "I'll have no forgiveness from Satan's Child. You'll not ruin my hatred for your evil soul."

Ethan rushed Jamie, his arm raised to strike him. "I'll smite Beelzebub!" he screamed. Jamie easily parried the blow, and then grabbed his wrists tightly. The two men stood toe to toe—their eyes burning into the one another's, mere inches away. 

"Like I said," Jamie repeated in a low voice, "I forgive you, and I'll pray for you." He released Ethan, turned and let himself out the door.

As he closed it behind him he heard Jarrod. "Ignore him, Ethan. He's just playing games with you."

Jamie was happy as he walked briskly down the street toward the Feed Mill. He had performed the penance that Father Brendan had given him. He felt good. It had been less difficult than he envisioned; the cleansing made him ready for better things.

************* 

Ethan spent the rest of lunchtime panting with anger. "Ethan, you're letting this get to you," Jarrod admonished. "You're playing right into his hands. Can't you see that?" His advice was to no avail, as the enraged preacher said nothing, only panted, and stared straight ahead.

Jarrod finally gave up. "I'm not going to stay here if you won't communicate. I have work back at the office, anyway." Ethan remained frozen as Jarrod walked out the door where Jamie had stood.

As he heard the door close, Ethan roused himself. He walked to his desk in the study and sat down, picked up the phone book and paged though it. "I'll have an anointing," he mumbled. "I'll seek out the sacred harlot."

Not long afterward, Ethan was parking on Tracey's street in front of a house a few doors away from hers. As she arrived home from work she saw the car and thought it was a lookout that Hal had sent to check on her. The car was an odd style to be a police vehicle. She wouldn't have guessed that they would drive station wagons, even in plain clothes.

"I could really use a shower," she said to herself as she entered her house. She went straight to her bedroom and stripped off her clothes. She was alone, so she walked nude to the bathroom and started the water.

The bruises from Jarrod's beating were nearly gone. She could hardly feel them as she glided the soap over her skin and it mixed with the soothing, hot water. The scar on her lip was healing nicely. Soon, one would have to look closely to even see it. She poured some shampoo into her hand and spread into her hair. She saved some for her triangle below and spread the lather in it. It made her think about Hal. She was hoping to start seeing him when he was relieved from her case and was free to socialize with her. 

Her pubic hair was naturally black. She thought of the contrast with her carefully dyed blond hair and regretted the coloring that made her look like what she was not. The blonde would have to go soon, she decided. 

She rinsed off and stepped out of the shower and toweled dry. Normally, she would put on her terrycloth robe. She remembered that she had thrown it in the wash that morning, so she wrapped a towel over her wet hair and walked back to the bedroom. The shower had relaxed her and she enjoyed the nakedness. 

"I wish Hal were here right now," she said to herself. "Case—or no case." She smiled a little. She thought to touch herself to bring the thought of making love to him alive. She decided not to. She'd just save it up until he could touch her. She couldn't remember when she had been so long without being in bed with a man."

There was a presence in the bedroom that did not belong there. She glanced to the side.

"What—what are you doing here?" she screamed. Ethan was grinning, sitting unclothed in her bed, waiting for her. 

"You have avoided me, woman. I came for an anointing." He pulled the covers away. His hardened penis stood straight up from his groin, demanding satisfaction.

"Get out!" she commanded, pointing toward the door. "How did you get in here?" she shouted before she remembered that she had forgotten to lock the door.

"I'll have you first. You are my woman," he cried, jumping from the bed, rushing her. Ethan wasn't as strong as Jarrod, and Tracey wasn't afraid of him. As he lunged, she grabbed hold of his outstretched arms, catching him before he could fully close on her. 

They struggled, locked in each other's grip. Ethan started spinning the two of them around. Suddenly, somehow, she flew out of his grasp. The force threw her against the sharp edge of the bedroom door jamb. Tracey felt a sharp pain in the back of her head and then herself hitting the floor. She saw nothing but stars. She vaguely felt Ethan on her. For a moment, it occurred to her to fight him off, and then she just wanted to sleep. 

She woke up a short time later. She later calculated that it had been about twenty minutes. Her hair was stringy and dripping. She was again naked and injured, picking herself off her bedroom floor. She felt the back of her head and she winced in pain. She looked at her hand and there was blood on it. There was something on her thigh and belly. It was semen. Ethan was gone. She felt inside herself. She didn't believe that he had been in there, but couldn't be sure. She called the only number she could.

Fifteen minutes later she was sitting on the sofa in her living room telling her story to Hal who sat beside her. She had cleaned herself up and put on cotton-fleece sweats. 

"We'll get you to the hospital and they'll have a rape kit. Then we'll arrest the bastard," Hal told her.

Tracey shook her head. "I already cleaned it off," she said. "I don't think he got any in me."

"You can't be certain," Hal answered. "Let's check it out to be sure."

"There's something else," Tracey said. "I've been in bed with him twice before—of my own accord." 

"Hmmm," Hal grunted. "That complicates things. That still doesn't give him the right to..."

"Jarrod knows about those times," she interrupted. "He sent me to him." Tracey gave Hal a long, hard look. "You understand, don't you?"

"At least, let me take you to the clinic. You already had a concussion a few weeks ago, and now, probably another one. You have to be checked out. On that, I do insist." 

In the car, on the way to the clinic, Tracey turned to Hal. "Did you mean what you said before?"

"What do you mean?" Hal asked.

"About wanting to see me when you're off this case."

"Sure, I did," Hal answered

"What about now—after this, and all you've just found out. Does that change your mind?"

"No, Tracey," he replied. "I'm just worried about you being safe. I won't be on the case much longer. The IRS will be taking it over. We were just lending a hand."

They drove a ways further without saying anything. Tracey's head ached, but she wasn't crying. The clinic loomed in the distance. "Please, Hal—get off this case as soon as you can."

************* 

Several days after Jamie returned from visiting Father Brendan he called Connie to invite her out to dinner.

Jamie: "I know it's short notice. There's a little Italian place in Corning that I know. Why don't we go there tomorrow night? You can give me some fine points on the cuisine."

Connie: "That sounds nice, Jamie, but I know a nice little Italian place that's even better."

Jamie: "What place is that?" 

Connie: "Not many people know it. It's called Connie's Place." 

There was a pause, and then Jamie spoke again.

Jamie "Oh, I get it; sometimes I'm a little slow."

Connie: "Seven o'clock; bring some wine."

So it was that Jamie found himself in Connie's house, probing a home-made Veal Scaloppini with his fork. She had set up a table in her living room, complete with red and white checkerboard tablecloth and candles. She had done an excellent job preparing the food. Jamie would normally be on helping number two, but he couldn't manage to get his appetite aroused. He took a sip of wine to help. "I think that your new hairdo looks nice," he said, looking for a way to fix his mood.

"It's not really a hairdo, Jamie, I just had it trimmed and shaped."

"I thought that's what a hairdo was. Anyway, it looks nice." 

It did look nice, and so did the slight application of makeup that she put on. It wasn't a dramatic change—hardly noticeable to the untrained eye. Perhaps it was the act of making the changes that stirred Jamie's comment, but understanding of that psychology eluded him by far.

"You haven't eaten very much," she complained. "I thought you would like this dish. It's my specialty."

"It's better than good—and I'm going to get to it," Jamie acknowledged. "I'm just thinking of some things right now."

"What are you thinking about, Jamie?" she asked, as she leaned forward.




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 16



When she asked him that way it made Jamie want to tell her everything. When he told her little things, she understood how he felt about big things. She possessed the key to him and he willingly allowed her to turn the lock. "For one thing, I went to see Father Brendan yesterday. He's very sick; it's only a matter of time."

"It was good of you to go to see him."

"It would have been, if I had done it for him. I actually went for myself," he admitted. "I went to say my confession to him."

"It was a big step, Jamie."

"Yes," he answered. "It was less difficult than I once envisioned. I finally realized that I was never blameless, as I once believed. I thought it raised me on a pedestal and I wanted to stay there. There were some who refused to acknowledge it, and I was bitter. When I fell, I saw that no one noticed. It was the same as not existing. I was wrong."

"I knew this would come about one day," she said. "I thought it would be a longer time. Something must have happened."

"It was when you asked me in for coffee last Saturday. I wanted to come in, but I turned you down. I asked myself why; at first I couldn't find the answer."

"But you finally figured it out?" 

"It would have ruined everything between us," he answered. "I couldn't bring you down to my level. I needed to be clean again, to belong once more—to not be ashamed of what's deep inside me."

"But I am not blameless," Connie said. "I have much to confess, and I do."

"That's true," Jamie replied, "but you have no arrogance of the soul, as I did."

"Was Father Brendan hard on you?" she asked, her happy mood returning.

"Yes," Jamie replied, "and he gave me a penance that I'll never forget." He told her of his visit to Ethan's house. 

"That was some penance," Connie acknowledged. "He must be a very special man."

"He truly is," Jamie replied. "I'm going to miss him. I think that he's taking his death better than I am. He told me to bring him back some whiskey, or not to bother coming back at all."

Connie burst into laughter at hearing the story. "I'd like to meet this man," she said, and then turned serious. "And so, the confession gave you what you sought from it?"

"Yes, it did," Jamie admitted.

"Then, what did you have on your mind that spoiled your appetite?" she demanded. 

"That's one thing I love about you, Connie," he answered. "You always see right through me."

Jamie saw her face, framed by the candlelight as she leaned closer, her stare sounded his depths. "Tell me, sir," she asked, "what else do you love about me?"

Jamie heart skipped a beat at the moment of truth. He knew the words, but not how to say them. He knew he had to say them. He wanted them to sound just right. He feared disappointing her with inadequacy, but he was no poet. He just blurted them out. 

"Connie, I love everything about you."

Her eyes watered, as she heard the words. The tears glistened in the flames' reflections. She didn't move, spoke plainly, without hesitation. "I love you, too, Jamie."

They were the words that he'd hoped for, sounding sweet, as he imagined. He discarded the notion of rising from the table to make a romantic gesture. Such fakery would have sacrileged the honesty of the moment, and of her. 

"I was hoping that you'd say that," he said.

"Then, you're going to stay for coffee this time?" she asked. 

Jamie noticed her trembling as she waited for his answer. She must have known what it would be. He covered her hand with his. "I never drink it in the evening, but I'd like some in the morning."

"I'm too old to be seduced, Jamie." 

"I wasn't too old," he replied. "I was seduced more than once, and not just by lovers. I just went along with whatever happened. I knew that I would never seduce you, but it's not about age. If you ever came to me, it would be of your own free will."

"It is, Jamie, but I'm as nervous as a schoolgirl," she pleaded. "Will you show me what I have to know?"

"I'll show you some things," he promised. "You'll show me some others."

*********** 

"Give me a few minutes, and then come upstairs," she bade him as she made her way to the stairway.

Jamie poured out the last of the wine and sat in the living room trying to relax. It wasn't easy to do. He had never even kissed the woman he was preparing to introduce to physical love. In all his past encounters, he had always been the least experienced.

"What does it matter," he thought as he emptied the glass. "It's new for both of us. 

When he arrived at the top of the stairs all was dark, except for a lamp glowing from inside Connie's bedroom. He walked slowly in; she sat in bed waiting for him. She had propped the pillows behind her back, pulled the covers up to her chin. She didn't say a word as he undressed. He stripped off all his clothes, except his boxers and slowly approached the bed.

Her hands lowered as he approached, allowing the covers to pile at her waist. She wore a negligee made of white satin. He saw her breasts, cradled in the shiny cloth. The tops of them showed over the top of the bodice. Her nipples pressed an outline in the fabric. "Wait, let me show you," she whispered.

She pulled the covers aside, reclining against the pillows. Her gown was full length. Only her feet showed below the hem. Her form pressed against the satin. He had never contemplated the features of her body. It was fit and trim, if not seductive, with ample, but not oversized, breasts. She smiled demurely at him.

"Do you like it? I bought it last night, hoping that things would work out for us."

"I'm glad that you did," he answered. "It's a beautiful gown with you in it." He began to reach his hands out to begin disrobing her, but she stopped him.

"Let me see it," she begged, her eyes glued to his groin. He understood what she wanted and pulled the waistband of his boxers over his erection, letting let them fall to his feet. She gazed at it for several moments. Jamie was fully erected; the fluid of anticipation leaked out in viscous droplets. "I'm ready," she said, and reached over her head to switch off the lamp.

"Wait," Jamie stopped her. "Let me see." He stepped forward, and pushed down the thin straps from her shoulders. He peeled the gown away from her breasts, letting them drape naturally on her chest. He placed his hands on them and softly stroked them down from the tops and up from underneath. His thumbs caressed the nipples. He felt pleasure as she purred at the new sensation.

He leaned down and kissed each hardened bud. She took his penis in her hand. He kissed her on the lips. At first, she was unsure how to kiss back, but learned it quickly. When the kiss was done, he tugged the gown some more. She lifted her hips to assist him in removing it. She was revealed, as he was. He beheld the sight, promising himself to never forget it.

Jamie reached over her head to turn out the light. Connie slid down to lie on her back as Jamie joined her on the bed. He wanted to give her many pleasures; she opened herself to them. They were embracing, touching, pleasuring, and allowing desire to grow. They took their time; neither counted the minutes. 

Jamie sensed that they were ready. He gently pressed the inside of her thigh. She knew what he meant and opened them wide. He placed himself between them and he bent low to kiss her once again. His penis pressed her at the juncture of her spread legs; the soft, warm flesh of her breasts pressed up against the skin of his chest.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"I think so." 

Jamie shifted his weight to his elbows. "Bend your knees up," he advised. As she did the end of him slipped slightly between her moist lips. She breathed harder; final joining was close at hand. Jamie pressed forward just a little. She sucked in a breath.

"Are you alright? Did I hurt you?" 

"It didn't hurt. I'm fine. It's just that I know it's really happening."

"We'll go slow," Jamie assured her. He pressed in some more. He was about half way inside her.

"It's so full, Jamie," she breathed up at him.

"We'll wait while you get used to it," he said.

"No, now!" she cried as she thrust her pelvis up at him and he slid all the way into her. She paused when he completed the journey. "Oh, Jamie—this is so good!" she panted.

Jamie withdrew and thrust forward again. She pushed herself up to meet him. Each time they repeated the motion, their pleasure grew. She cried out in climax. As she finished, he allowed himself to release into her. He stayed inside until he softened, and then dismounted her and they lay embracing side by side. Soon they fell asleep She had given her whole self to him, and he returned the same. It would always be that way.

When Jamie woke in the morning Connie was already smiling down at him as she propped herself on her elbows. "How do you feel?" he asked.

"I feel wonderful; you were wonderful. I want to make love to you again." 

They did, and then arose and went to Connie's church where they took Communion together. Afterward, they returned to her house for breakfast and made love again until the next morning.

************** 

Jamie was a bundle of nerves as he drove the ninety miles to Salamanca. Of the scores of resumes that he had sent out, it was the only interview granted so far and it was a job that he really wanted. Winter was giving way to spring. The forests were enjoying their annual rebirth. He hoped for a rebirth of his career.

He could, of course, go to Nathan and reclaim his old job. If Nathan had called him, he would probably have accepted. There had been no call. Jamie reasoned that Nathan was waiting to see if the remedial classes would be successful. Nathan wouldn't risk hitching his wagon to a falling star.

Jamie knew, too, that the High School was in more trouble than the small corner of it that he knew. For one thing, he heard that Henry Thompson had resigned as of the end of the school year. Vicki would be moving over to take her new job at the District, so they would be short an English teacher. Tracey mentioned that she had decided to look elsewhere, too.

With Bob Jackson's departure, the bond issue was never brought forward, so the new school roof was put off for another year. To make matters worse, the Teachers' Union contract was up for renewal. Ed Cassidy was under pressure to negotiate some big raises. As Jamie thought about it, he had to reluctantly feel sorry for Nathan, having found a bag of snakes in his executive chair.

Jamie snapped back to the task at hand as he guided his car into a visitors' space in the parking lot. 

"Welcome, Mr. O'Toole," the receptionist greeted him. "There's a little room just over there for your boots and overcoat, and a restroom just down the hall. When you're ready I'll take you to the Council Room." 

When he returned she guided him to a large meeting room, centered by a long, polished, wooden table. "You're just a little bit early. Have a seat on this side of the table. You will be meeting with three members of the Council. "Brant Russell, the President of the Council will be here. He'll introduce the others."

Jamie sat nervously awaiting the entry of his questioners. He was tempted to walk around and peruse the plaques and certificates dotting the walls of the room. He thought better of it and pulled his resume from his briefcase to review it. He still wasn't sure how he would handle the questions about all the rumors that were damaging his reputation. They were sure to come up before the interview was over.

Without warning, the door by which Jamie entered swung open. A man, followed by two women, entered and walked single file to their places on the opposite side of the table. The man took the center chair, flanked by the women. Jamie rose as they paraded by; no one said a word until each stood at their assigned spots.

"I'm Brant Russell; I am President of the Council," said the leader, extending a hand. Jamie reached out and grasped it. "With me are two Council members, Sheila Morningstar and Catherine Gibson. Mrs. Gibson is the High School Principal." Jamie shook their hands as well.

Russell was not tall, but square shouldered and barrel-chested. His copper-skinned face was craggy with the experience of his fifty-eight years. His hair was peppered in grey and braided down his back in the Indian style. 

"Thank you for coming all this way, Mr. O'Toole," Russell began. "There are nine Council members. We are appointed as the Search Committee. We already know your background. I think we can skip the preliminaries and get right to the heart of what we need to talk about." 

"I'm ready to answer your questions," Jamie replied.

"For starters," Russell began, "tell us why you wish to be the Chair of the Math Department at our Reservation School."

"I want to teach students who are serious about learning," Jamie answered. "Math is a gateway to bigger things for students. Many think they can't do it. I know how to make it happen for them, if they want it."

"We want our students to get accepted at the better colleges," Principal Gibson said. She was roughly Jamie's age, a long, slender woman, who eyed him through thick-lensed glasses. Her black hair would have fallen to her shoulders, if not tied back. 

"If Math is the issue, it can be resolved over time. Math isn't only for the very best students," Jamie continued. "All students need it in a form that will suit them in whatever walk of life they choose." Jamie expounded at length on his methods and how he would implement his program. He was comfortable talking about it and he could see that he had their attention. 

"Tell us about your episode with the pregnant girl," Sheila Morningstar suddenly insisted without warning. She was a heavy-set woman with a kind face, a Native American, in her late fifties, or perhaps her sixties.

"I did what I thought was right. I had little time to think it over. The girl was lost and alone. I felt compassion for her. I guess that's what drove me to do what I did."

"You risked your job to help a girl whose father hated you?" his inquisitor pressed on.

Jamie heard the door open in the back of the room. He dared not turn to look, for fear of appearing evasive to the question. "I was in a certain place in a certain moment. Other teachers would have done the same; I'm sure of it."

"But her father did so much to hurt you..." she insisted.

"I didn't think of it then. I don't think it should have made a difference," Jamie answered. "I've since made my peace with her father."

"My question is whether you'd do the same for an Indian girl," Russell interjected.

"I hope that I would," Jamie answered. "Who's to say? I once thought that right and wrong were adjustable according to the situation. It was confusing and I was afraid to face it. I was wrong and I've learned not to fear it."

"Then, what are you afraid of?" Russell demanded.

"Forgetting what I've learned," Jamie shot back without hesitation. "And not learning more," he quickly added. Brant Russell sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.

"A good answer," he declared, as he nodded to the others. "You should know that your answer does not surprise us." 

"I don't understand," Jamie said. He was wondering why the committee knew so much about him.

"One of our people has told us your story and recommended you," Russell said as he pointed to the back of the room. "Henry Thompson will be joining us as Assistant Principal in September."

Jamie swiveled his head to the back of the room. It had been Henry who had entered in the middle of his interview. "Hello, James," he called out from the back of the room. 

************** 

Bowling season was wrapping up. Jamie's average was up to one-sixty-five. He looked forward to the camaraderie each Thursday night. Bubba was making it about half the time. Abby had not been with him since the night she tried to force him back to her bed. Jamie wondered about it, but thought not to bring it up.

After the bowling match Jamie and Bubba stayed behind for a few beers. Bubba was always congenial, but on this occasion he was in an especially good mood.

"I was thinkin' of askin' ya to go down South with me on the truck this summer, Jamie," he said before gulping the remnants of his beer. "'Had to change my mind, though."

"You're not going to tell my why until I ask you," Jamie joked. "Am I right?"

"That ya are, Jamie. So, are ya askin'?"

"I guess I am," Jamie replied.

"Abby's goin' with me instead," Bubba beamed proudly. "I'll miss havin' ya with me, but cha' understand..."

"I think it's great, Bubba."

"Abby told me the whole story," Bubba said. "We had it out big-time one night, and this is what came of it." 

"Sounds like a good result," Jamie said.

"Of course, she won't be able to work on the loadin' and unloadin' like you could, but she can do other things." Bubba started grinning. 

"She won't go for the cigar smoke, either," Jamie warned.

"I know; I know," Bubba grumbled. 

"Are you ready for another one?" Jamie held up two fingers to signal the bartender.

"If you had gone with Abby like she wanted you to, none of this would have ever come about. You could have, Jamie. I told you to go ahead—but you didn't. You did it for me; you're a real friend."

When the beers arrived Jamie lifted his glass to Bubba's. "Here's to you, Bubba. I wish you and Abby all the best." They both took a big swallow.

"It's the best eleven hundred I ever spent!" Bubba cried and dissolved into laughter as he slapped Jamie on the back. 

"Are you and Abby going to use the sleeper cab?" Jamie asked.

"Sure, why not?" he answered.

"You better put some heavy duty springs on her, that's all I can say," Jamie answered."

************* 

When Easter Sunday arrived in the valley, it was accompanied by rain and sleet. Balmy weather didn't emerge until two weeks later. It suited Ethan's purpose because he had chosen that day for the "Laying on of Hands".

He was nearly ready to make the short walk from the manse to the grey, stone church. Before he left he stopped at the medicine chest for some aspirin.

He was getting headaches often in those days. They came on especially strong after his visit to Tracey's house, where she swooned under him as he approached her for anointing. He felt her enraptured body crumple on the floor waiting to receive him.

He was certain that the headaches were from the special energy he received from the anointing. It was spinning in his brain, and if that caused the pain he was willing to accept it. The pain brought its gift. As the throbbing would depart, he had revelations. The more intense the pain, the clearer was the vision. He began to look forward to the agony. It was an earthly matter; the visions were not.

As he neared the granite steps of the church he saw the congregation filtering in. There were many with wheelchairs and crutches; some were bent over, most were old and had forsaken hope of healing. They just hoped for recognition as a suffering being and comfort where they could find it. They cried out in greeting as Ethan passed by. 

He would have liked to pause and talk with them but he spied Jarrod standing at the large doorway. There was a young man standing with him. Jarrod had been distant lately and Ethan couldn't figure out why. This service was sure to get the congregation excited again. That and the spring weather would fill up the pews anew, which is what Jarrod always liked. 

As Jarrod saw Ethan marching up the steps toward him he shrank further backwards into the vestibule and the young man disappeared with him. Ethan found them in a dark corner near the stairway that led to the choir loft.

"It's a fine day, Jarrod."

"Ethan, just keep this nice and simple. We don't need any incidents," Jarrod warned. 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ethan replied. "Why do you speak to me in that tone, Jarrod?"




The Blameless Bystander Ch. 16



"Just remember what I said, Ethan."

Ethan turned to greet a few members who walked by. He watched the congregation file in, one by one. They had really come out for his big day. 

"I want you to meet someone, Ethan," Jarrod spoke from behind him. Ethan was barely listening to him.

"This is Elvis Means. I asked him to come here.

"Yes, yes," Ethan answered absent-mindedly, more interested in the number of sheep in the flock.

"He's a Divinity School student—finishing in a few weeks," Jarrod continued. Ethan was watching them continue to pour in, wondering what to do in case of an overflow. He wanted to lay hands on them all.

"I asked him to come here to be Temporary Assistant Pastor to help you get a rest," Jarrod concluded.

"Huh!" Ethan snapped his head around and eyed the young man from head to toe. He was callow and lean, barely with whiskers. He wore glasses and cropped hair that made his ears appear to stick out even more than they did. He looked like Ethan might have years ago.

"I don't need a rest," Ethan insisted. "I've never had a rest. I told you that, Jarrod." 

"It's my decision, Ethan. I can get the Board to approve it with or without you."

"I won't have it," Ethan declared. "Go away, young man. You're not needed here." He abruptly turned away from them and sped into the sanctuary to be with those who had come to see him.

"I've never heard of this kind of service," young Elvis said to Jarrod.

"I was afraid of that," Jarrod snapped. "It's too late to do anything about it now. Stick close to me." They went inside and Jarrod took his accustomed place in the front pew.

Ethan walked slowly to the center of the sanctuary. He stood confidently facing the congregation. Jarrod's entry of young Means had brought his headache back. Raising his eyes to heaven he cried out, "The Centurion's Servant shall be healed!" The organ began playing restful chords at half volume. Ethan stared out among the throng. He saw them waiting with eager eyes. When he was sure that their expectations were piqued, he raised both hands in a beckoning gesture and cried out once again, "Lazarus, I bid thee, come forth!"

Elvis Means turned to Jarrod, whispering in his ear, "This is not scripture," he said, "He's mixing it up. They are different miracles. He is way off-base." 

"I know," Ethan answered. "We can't stop him now." 

The infirm slowly approached Ethan who stood on a step at the head of the center aisle looking down at them. Those approaching were mostly old, but the first was a young boy who hobbled up to him wearing a cast on his leg. As each of the faithful approached, Ethan would place his hands on the head of the hopeful one, close his eyes and mumble a silent prayer. When Ethan removed his hands, the person would move away and a new pilgrim would step into place. There had been no practice or rehearsal for what took place. The faithful lined up out of instinct.

Ethan's headache pounded, so he sensed a revelation coming on. The pain throbbed so greatly that it hurt his eyes to open them to allow in light. He exulted, for in the light, he reasoned, must be that which was to come to him. So, he did open up his eyes to allow in the agony and the vision.

Mrs. Harper was third in line. As Ethan laid his hands on another afflicted soul, he thought about her. She never disclosed her age. It was rumored that she was eighty-eight, although a few thought her older. She was fifteen years a widow. She crept up the aisle behind her walker. As Ethan focused on her he could see a halo forming around her head.

When it was finally her turn to receive Ethan's hands, he hesitated for a second. The throbbing in his head accelerated. Mrs. Harper looked up at him, expecting Ethan's firm touch. She removed her hat to make easier for him.

Ethan reached out his hands to settle on the gray head, but sudden inspiration made him bend lower and grasp the handles of the old woman's walker. The pain was nearly blinding him as he bent from the waist. "Take up thy pallet and walk!" he roared.

Ethan seized the walker, ignoring the gasps of the people who saw what he'd done and the shocked expression in the old woman's face. He straightened up and flung the walker to the side. It flew through the air and landed in a pew as those seated there scattered to dodge it. Mrs. Harper stood speechless for a few seconds, balancing tentatively on unsure feet. She then fell unceremoniously on her knees, crying out in pain, and then fell prone, striking her face on the step at Ethan's feet.

"Grab him!" Jarrod commanded in a loud voice as he and Elvis Means rushed forward. Several other men had come forward, too. They held Ethan as he struggled to no avail. He was wild-eyed and in a rage. As the men restrained him he saw Jarrod standing before him with his new protégé. 

"Thou art Judas!" Ethan bellowed at Jarrod and he struggled anew to loosen himself. "Judas!" Ethan repeated, and refused to stop struggling.

"Get him out of here," Jarrod ordered. The men dragged him from the sanctuary. Jarrod stepped to where Ethan had been standing and brought the assembly to his attention. "This is Reverend Elvis Means," Jarrod calmly said. "I've brought him here to..."

Ethan heard the introduction as he was being led out the door. "Judas!" the congregation heard him scream from afar. The young Reverend Means stepped before them as they carried Mrs. Harper away.

"Let's pray for the speedy recovery..."

******************* 

It was nearly dark when Ethan woke up in his bed; all was quiet. His headache was gone, but not the memory of how he was dragged from his church hours ago by the men in his own congregation.

"I was wrong," Ethan mumbled. "Mrs. Harper didn't have the faith to be healed. I should have chosen someone else." He wondered at the faultiness in his vision.

He swung his legs out of bed and his feet landed on the floor. He stood and dressed in the clothes that his captors had set in the chair after putting him in his bed and given him some pills to sleep. As his hand tried to turn the knob of the bedroom door it stuck. He jiggled it, but it refused to budge. He knew that he was locked in. 

He spent a few moments in consternation, and then turned and stepped to the bedroom window. He raised it and slipped out onto the roof of the porch and then climbed down the trellis. It collapsed on his way down and the thorns of the climbing roses gouged his face and hands. He was dripping blood, but made no effort to stop it. He knew that the spare key to the house was beneath the mat, and soon he was roaming free inside the manse. 

"Things need doing in the church. I'll do that little job in the choir loft." When stressed Ethan liked to putter about fixing little things.

He found the spare church key in his desk and walked deliberately there. There was no one on the street in the early evening. 

"I've been wanting to take care of this for a while," he said to himself.

In the maintenance closet in the basement were the things he needed. He stumbled through the clutter: paints, two-by-fours from the manger scene, rope for hoisting, brooms, broomsticks without brooms, hand tools, cleaning supplies. He sorted through them, shaking his head at the mess. When he had what he needed he trod up the stairs to the main floor and up another stairway to the choir loft. He thought it amusing that he was in his Sunday-best suit carrying the items from the maintenance closet. His bleeding left a trail of blood on the floor. 

When he got to the choir loft he took off his suit coat and slipped off his tie in noose like fashion and hung them on the crosspiece that he brought with him. He moved over a chair near the railing so he could fasten the rope to the rafter. It was quite a job. He was finally able to throw it over the beam and secure it, but not before nearly falling from the chair. 

"I should have turned on the lights," he thought. No matter, he was nearly done. It was time to get in full dress again. He slipped the noose back over his head, and notched it up a little tighter. His headache was coming back—soon it would be at full strength. He had to hurry. He slipped his jacket back on with some difficulty.

He stepped back onto the chair. His head hurt so much that it was hard to balance, but he made himself rise to the occasion. He looked a last time to heaven.

"Into Thy hands I commend my spirit!" he cried, and fell forward into the unknown.

The next morning Jarrod took Elvis and Doc Barnes to the manse to look in on Ethan. They planned to take him for treatment somewhere. After a search they finally found him hanging silently in the noose attached to the beam over the choir loft. He was stiff with rigor mortis, a broomstick strung through the sleeves of his jacket to stretch out his arms in the form of a cross. Dried blood was in streaks on his face and hands.

*************** 

A week after Ethan's death the talk was lively at Harvey English's Barber Shop.

"The wife and I already decided to switch to Presbyterian," Harvey said as he chopped away at Bert Hodges.

"I put the blame on Jarrod," Brice Barlow declared. "After he was arrested it all became very clear. He put a lot of pressure on Ethan." 

"Ethan brought a lot of it on himself," Bert said. "His battle against James O'Toole is what did it."

"So it was O'Toole's doing, too," Harvey concluded. "It was a sad day when he came into this valley. Don't forget that it was Nathan who brought him here. At least, none of us are to blame."

"You're wrong, Harvey," Bert said, "I got to know..."

"You've gone soft," Harvey scolded. "Ethan might have tried to move too fast, but..."

"What does it matter now?" Brice asked. "I heard that he's leaving soon."

"Not too soon for me," Harvey said.

"How did Mrs. Harper come out of it?" Bert asked.

"Cracked patellas and a broken tooth," Harvey answered.

"I think that we're going to change churches, too," Bert declared.

************* 

Connie and Jamie stood side by side. Connie had his arm in a vise-like grip. She was beaming. Jamie endured it placidly enough. He had the look of a grateful sheep preparing to be shorn, fortunate to not be one of those led to the slaughter.

It was a fine spring afternoon—a Friday. The month of May would be arriving very soon. The balmy weather reminded Jamie of his walk with Father Brendan years ago and how he learned of the mystery of free will. As he stood with Connie, he realized how deep that mystery truly was.

Father Mark was at the bedside with them as witness, and held the book open for the old priest, propped up to a half sitting position. It had been accomplished with great effort for the sick man moved with great pain in those final days. But, he was still a priest and he knew that by enduring the pain he would learn a little bit of Truth—and Truth was still his stock in trade. 

"Do ye, Concetta, take d'is man, James t' be yer lawful husban'?" 

"I do," she answered. 

"D'at bein' the case, I now pronounce ye man an' wife." 

Jamie reached out to take Connie in his arms, but the old man feebly raised his arm to halt him. 

"I'll 'ave the first kiss from the bride, if ye don't mind, boy"

Connie bent low and kissed Father Brendan's forehead.

"T'ank you, lass, an' now I got weddin' gifts fer ye both." Father Mark produced an envelope and a flat, rectangular box covered in gold foil. "The box is fer ye, child." 

Connie took the box from Father Mark, tentatively looking at them all before opening it. She gasped as she lifted the lid.

"It's the crucifix d'at hung over m' head all m' years in the priesthood." Jamie looked into the box and recognized the cross from Father Brendan's office. It was simple, yet powerful. It was made of brass, so that its truth would never splinter or fade; the polish of it would be the duty of the owner.

"Father, thank you, but I could never accept this," Connie pleaded.

"Ye will accept it with m' blessin'," Father Brendan insisted. "If ye're to spend yer days lookin' after d'is lout, ye'll need all o' the help ye can get." He patted her on the hand, as she wiped a tear that had run down her cheek.

"The env'lope is fer ye, Jamie. Open it another day when the time is right—ye'll know when." A nurse arrived at the foot of the bed, waiting patiently to check the Father's intravenous lines. "I'll give ye all m' blessin'," he said, "and when Fadder Mark takes ye back t' the residence, he'll give ye a dram o' whiskey from m' private stock." He summoned all his strength to raise his right hand. "After I bless ye, I'm goin' t' sleep fer a while. I'm so tired." He cleaved the air with a tiny cross. "In nómine Patris, et Fili, et Spirítus Sancti," he whispered.

************ 

After the blessing Father Brendan drifted to sleep. He slept for two more days, never fully waking. Jamie and Connie had planned a trip to Boston to visit Jamie's parents, but postponed it because they knew that his end was near. The funeral wasn't sad. All there agreed that the old priest's wisdom lived inside them and there was certainty among some that he was at that moment putting the Almighty into a state of consternation with his riddles and questions filled with Truth and vexation.

"Maybe the Almighty will send him back," Father Mark said, and all present had a final laugh with the old man.

After the funeral Jamie and Connie drove down to Bates. Jamie's days in the town were ending. He still tutored Raymond each week and worked at the Feed Mill. He was finishing up the remedial Trig classes and still worried about those half-dozen borderline students. 

They were temporarily living at Connie's house and looking for a new place closer to Jamie's new job at the Reservation School. He still had a few things to clean out of his trailer and he wanted to introduce Connie to a few people.

On the drive into the Village they stopped on the ridge. They parked the car at the same spot that he had nearly a year ago on that late August afternoon. He looked back over his shoulder, half-expecting to see Becky and Brad covertly eying him from their lair in the glade of trees, but there was only fresh, green grass waving in the breeze. 

The town looked different than it did the first time. Some of the lines weren't quite as defined and the large buildings were far less fearsome. He could see Mrs. Wilkinson's boarding house. Tracey's little ranch house was not far from it. It was where he tutored Raymond all those weeks and Shirley brought him cookies. Tracey was seeing Hal in earnest and would soon move away.

Ethan's Church stood in the distance. The gray granite edifice resembled a shadow. Reverend Means was the new pastor. He was struggling to keep the congregation together, which had begun to filter away after Ethan's demise and Jarrod's arrest.

In the distance Jamie imagined he could hear Bubba's truck. He and Abby were inside laughing and Vicki was calling after them. Of course, there was the school sprawling out on the edge of town and all that it meant, and could have meant. 

The year had brought suffering to Jamie, but he regretted none of what he endured. He had done good things and bad, and understanding had settled on him. Sitting beside him, Connie watched him silently sort out the past.

"When are you going to open Father Brendan's envelope?" 

"Right now would be a good time," he answered. Connie always knew the right timing for such things, just like the old priest. 

Jamie carefully opened the small, square envelope in the heavy-bonded cream stationery. Inside were a handwritten note and another smaller envelope. Jamie set the little envelope aside and read what Father Brendan had to say to him from the grave. He finished and opened the small envelope. Inside it was a small card. Jamie looked quickly at it. He smiled and nodded, and then handed them over to Connie to read, too.

The note was dated on the same day that Jamie signed his exit papers in Father Brendan's office. Though written, he heard Father Brendan's voice echo from it: 

Dear Jamie,

If ye're reading d'is, it will mean d'at I've gone to m' reward, an' I look forward to the day d'at we'll meet ag'in.

Boy, I promised to tell ye the name o' the "Eighth Deadly Sin"—an' now I'll reveal it to ye. Ye must defeat this sin or ye'll ne'er know Truth er see yerself er anyone, as the human bein's d'at we all are. 

T'is the true Orig'nal Sin, boy, an' ye'll wash 't from yer soul by livin' life, itself. If you wish t' see its name, ye'll find it writ on the card in the small env'lope.

God bless ye and keep ye,

Father Brendan

Connie turned the card over and read the single word printed on it in bold letters, the name of the Eighth Deadly Sin.

"If he had told me when I wanted him to, I would never have understood," Jamie attested.

Connie looked at Jamie and smiled, too. She set the card on the dashboard, the name of the sin looking back at them.

INNOCENCE

"I'll miss him, and his wisdom," Jamie said.

Connie took a deep breath as she looked out over the ridge. "Jamie, you better get down there."

******************** 

THE END 

*

Dear Readers,

This story ends with the beginning of Jamie's and Connie's life together. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did bringing it to you. I look forward to receiving your questions and comments. 

Good reading and best regards, 

Autumn Writer