Chapter 15: Confessions

After Jarrod left with the briefcase Tracey phoned Hal Wright, as he asked her to.

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.

James took a deep breath before answering. It was difficult not to tell Nathan off. James, after all, was blameless and Nathan had done a lot to make things worse—for him and many others. James told himself to forego the self indulgence, but he couldn't hold it all in.

"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.

"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 believed me when I told you 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 went on. "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 insisted.

"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'm not sure, Mr. O'Toole. I don't know many of those kids. I'm don't know if I can do it."

"It'll be good for you, too. The math will be easy for you, but you'll learn other 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 against 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 with your payment 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 spoke 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 with a sheepish grin and dug into his pocket.

"None of the stories I've heard about you are boring," Miss Martin said, "so the fee is that you have to come back up when you're done at the Clerk's Office and tell me the story."

James realized that he had been had, and laughed a little. 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."

James took a breath and was about to begin his 'dba story' when 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 a room for you," 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 the wheels spun in the fresh snow. It was knee high by then. James got out to push the car up the hill. After great exertion and twenty minutes of pushing and spun wheels, the car staggered up the driveway 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. James was covered with snow. It was beginning to melt and run down his hair and onto his face.

"You'd better shake off your coat and hang it over there," she advised him. "There's a bathroom just down there off the hallway. You can dry yourself off."

There were some clean towels in the bathroom and James dried himself off. He came out and expected to find the homeowner waiting for him with Miss Martin explaining who he was. He looked around and found no one, except her, who was clattering in a cupboard full of pots and pans. He wondered where he was.

"It looks like no one is home," James observed.

"I live here," she replied. "This is my home—at least this half of the duplex."

James was surprised and kept silent for a second before speaking. "This is asking too much," he protested. "I can't stay here overnight. 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 as she pulled a saucepan out of the cupboard., "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.

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 as James' 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.

"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.

"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 confessed.

"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 had so carelessly exposed her own vulnerability at the same time. She seemed so unafraid of her weakness. James wished that he could question her about that, but after his unsatisfactory attempt at answering her he kept that question to himself.

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.

He glanced back at her lying on the sofa. Her eyes were closed and her only movement was her breathing. James knew that the extra wine had done its job. She would be asleep soon.

"My real name is Concetta Martino. My grandfather shortened it to Martin," a quiet voice arose from the sofa. James allowed the howling wind to answer her. She wasn't finished. "I wanted you to know everything," she said and then nodded off to sleep...

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 observed in a silent 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 late afternoon. "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 Morris 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 records from the archives. 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 wondered 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."