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 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. He'll play 'bait and switch' between the pregnancy and the pedophile accusation."

"You think Chandler's that smart?" Jackson added. "I don't think he is."

"It looks like someone over there is," Ed retorted. "It's a perfect setup."

"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 stood at the door of the office. The first to come in was Edna Baxter, School Nurse. Following her was an unknown woman and they all assumed that she was the social worker from the County.

"Hello, Edna," Nathan greeted her.

"Connie Martin, Senior Caseworker—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 hid any features of her figure. 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 wore no jewelry except a watch with a plain leather wristband. More than anything, she wore no expression that might have given away anything of her thoughts or mood, or 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 and 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 here, 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?" Ethan asked in a stern manner. "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 thou wilst 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 slowly; 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 whispered 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 them. "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 minority 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 on my logbook for a rest. 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 scratchin'. 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 her settle for less. I love her with all my heart and there's nothin' she could do to make me change my mind."

"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 on-ramp 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 coffee 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.