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...