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 an 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 conceded. Jarrod called her later that day. The old wallpaper bled through the layer 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 recited 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 into her cleavage.

"If I can get him peeking in there," she thought, "the chase will be all 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 of 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 girl's summer camp," Ethan said.

"That's right, Reverend Chandler," Tracey answered. "the camp is for teen-aged girls. It will give them a chance to be outdoors—in nature. They can be themselves without boys to distract them."

"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; with practiced deftness she 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 a little more, 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 perfume vapors escaped. Tracey waited as Ethan took a deep breath, drinking in the feminine scent and as the necklace hung swinging she saw his eyes venture beyond—where he would find promises of breast, encased in a flesh-toned bra. He had forgotten to breath and finally let his captured breath of her escape...

"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. 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.

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 peeled it from her shoulders. Winter made the large manse drafty. Tracey felt the chill on her bare skin. Her thin bra covered little and reserved no warmth for her. She hung the shiny blouse on the newel post like a courtesan claiming the space. She felt his eyes on her as she ascended 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 stealing into his own bedroom with her satin blouse in hand.

"You brought my blouse; how thoughtful," she answered, 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 welcoming.

"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 with me? You'll be glad; I guarantee it. I can do many things for a lonely man."

Ethan stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at Tracey. He stiffened his body 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 over 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 to feel a warm, woman's body. 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 and 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 just a little. It was enough. 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 without pause. His face was pressed into the pillow alongside hers. He never cared to look 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 off the rest of your clothes and get under the covers 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 left 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 told 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 reasoned. "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 mortal 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 you 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."

"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 argued.

"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 weekends 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 floor 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 was clear 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 could have been said 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 Miss 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 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 thought 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 toward him.

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 and hesitated. "It's an easy question," she prompted 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 blood sample 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 directed toward 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 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 started, Jarrod. It's Ethan; he's the one who's stirred this up."