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.