The Blameless Bystander

CHAPTER 1—Into the Valley

It was late in the afternoon on a day in late August. Summer freedoms were melting away, which meant that things would soon get back to normal. A small sedan pulled over and parked on the side of the road at the crest of the ridge overlooking the village that was the center of the town. The driver shut off the engine and sat looking at the panoramic scene.

Lying neatly on the opposite hills, basking in the summer sun, the farmers' fields arranged themselves into a patchwork on the slopes. Every block tucked exactly into the space assigned to it, like grandma's quilt. Each performed its function without complaint or troublesome disturbance. As the summer wore on the colors of each field turned away from the greens of spring. A soothing tan showed where hay was growing. In fields of wheat was a golden hue, signaling the richness of the coming harvest. The acres of corn retained their greenness until much later in the year. Only in the pasturelands did the painted fields vary from their assigned monotones. There, one could see speckling of weeds among the untended grass, where sample colors of anything conceivable might interrupt the order of things. It was there that cows roamed about with little control. An untrained observer might think that the pastures were the most beautiful, but that person did not know about farmland. In the spring to come those fields would be plowed under for crops.

The neat village rows below reflected the manner of the fields. White houses, row on row, stretched along on strings of narrow streets like pearls on a necklace unclasped and stretched to its limit. Under each gray roof lived a family, a cog in the village society. Each person had a purpose in the family, each family a place in the village. It was a neat arrangement that no one wished to disturb.

To make sure it stayed that way were the institutional buildings, the churches, the Town Hall, the banks. They sat in the center, built of stone and brick. They were gray, brown and red-orange. They growled and grumbled every day, every week, month after month, unchanging and unbending, year after year. They all had cornerstones with ancient dates, proving that they had always been there and would always remain. The tall spires posed authority to the fields, to all people in the fields, the houses and anywhere else within line of sight.

At the edge of the village resided their stepchild. It was made of brick and glass, sprawled across acres with its proprietary fields around it. It was a low, newer building that hadn't quite grown up to look like its foster parents, but emulated them in its own way. The school tutored the young in the proper ways and received sustenance from the resources of the town in return. Everyone paid great attention to everything in or about the school.

************

"What do you think he wants?" a young girl whispered to the muscled youth next to her. She was lying on her belly at the edge of a grove of trees. It stood isolated in a grassy field about fifty yards from the road. The teens hid in the shadows from the unknowing interloper. They had preceded him to the lonely hilltop and didn't appreciate the intrusion.

"Forget about him. He can't see us. He doesn't even know that we're here. If he did, he wouldn't care," the young man ordered.

The girl was blond and pretty. Her wavy locks fell over her shoulders and tee shirt. The youth was good looking in a different way. He wore curly brown hair, just a little bit too long. He was heavily muscled. His face was changing form, straddling the tender features of a boy to the thicker ones of a man.

The girl gave a last look to make sure of the stranger's indifference. She resumed her place—lying on her back. The young man hovered above to kiss her, or taste her, or possibly possess her. They continued while the man in the sedan continued looking out over the valley, oblivious—or choosing to be so—to the scene being played out just yards away.

The young man bent lower to kiss her. It was gentle at first, seeking to convey emotion and caring, just as he knew she would be expecting. It turned rougher, more demanding. A hand went under a tee shirt and traveled upward to the brassiere. The girl paused in her reaction, a moment of indecision. She didn't want to break the kiss. Passion and convention warred within her. She was breathing heavily, enjoying the feeling and the thrill.

"Um-umm!" she protested weakly, as though to a child snitching a lollipop. He ignored her and continued advancing. Finally, she pulled away from him, grasping his hand to stop his advance.

"Brad!" she scolded more strongly. "I thought that we agreed that you would stop trying to do that."

"Becky, I can't help it. I want you," he pleaded. "You do this every time we're together!"

"I know—I know," she consoled him, stroking the locks from his forehead. "I'm just not ready yet."

"All the other cheerleaders are doing it with their boyfriends," he lamented. "I'm the quarterback and I haven't even done it yet." He paused so that she could absorb his frown of disappointment.

"I got a 'Trojan'!" he announced. He brandished a light blue foil packet.

The girl gasped. "Where did you get that?" staring at the threatening package.

"At a drugstore in Corning. We all got them when we went over after morning practice."

"I'm just not ready," she pouted, changing her tone but saying nothing new.

"Well," he demanded, "when do you think that you will be ready?"

"I don't know," she whined. "Soon—it'll be soon."

The youth exhaled loudly and rolled off her onto his back.

"Do you really think that you'll be the starting quarterback?" she cooed, changing the subject.

"The coach made the announcement at practice today," he assured her.

"That will be wonderful!" she exclaimed. "I'll be so proud to be cheerleading for you!" She turned to him and kissed him lightly on the lips and then rested her head on his chest.

"But Becky, what about...." he made one last try.

"If I let you put your hand under my tee shirt, will that be enough for today?"

"Okay, but what about...?" he pressed harder, but the girl put her mouth on his to silence him. He took advantage of his small winnings and snaked his arm under her shirt, placed his hand on a bra-protected breast. She purred in delight—at the attention and sensation.

"It will be soon," she whispered.

*************

Jamie O'Toole started up his small sedan, his respite over. He had spied the young couple hiding in the trees, but ignored them. It didn't take a lot of imagination to guess what they were up to. Whatever happened was none of his doing. He was new in town; it was pointless to get started by interfering.

He would have preferred a job in an urban locale, but his change came so late in the hiring cycle that all the sought-after teaching jobs had been taken. This opening, in this little town of Bates, was all he could find. It was a farming town, tucked inconspicuously in southern New York State, between the Finger Lakes and the Allegany Plateau. He was lucky to find it. He was a teacher of mathematics—all kinds. He could do any of the big three—Algebra, Geometry and Trig. He could handle Calculus or Statistics, as well, if they had a desire to offer Advanced Placement. He didn't imagine that they did. He would give them what they asked of him.

He paused before putting the car in gear. It was as if pointing it over the crest and down the hill was the final decision to leap over the precipice—but it wasn't. Perhaps he could just turn the car around and go back to his former life. That, of course, was not the case. He had started on his journey to this place long ago. The point of no return was not a place on a map, but a scribbled line of ink on a document, his signature that closed him from his past and hurled him into unknown time and space.

He was single—no attachments. He was required to fend only for himself and no others. As long as he performed his duties no one had call to question his motives or circumstances. They could not ask him for more that he had agreed to give. It was freedom and captivity joined together, for in the emancipation he treasured so deeply, he closed himself to all else. He had thought of that. He resolved live with the paradox until and if he could figure out more.

He checked the folded newspaper on the seat beside him. It was opened to the classified ads, with circles around potential places to rent. He sighed as he put the car in gear, leaving behind all that he had rejected. Becky and Brad, lying in the grove, were too busy to notice his departure.

"Jamie, you'd better get down there," he said to himself out loud.

************

Jamie stopped in front of the big Victorian house on Whitman St., in a quiet, residential area. The house sat back on a double lot in the older part of the village. It was far from derelict, but its grandeur was certainly in days gone by. A porch encircled the ground floor. That feature, and its round turrets on the top floor, made the grand old place look like a white fort. The scallops and gingerbread trim of the house were ruined by the black iron jacket of the fire escape attached to the side, as though in prison for superfluous joviality, making what was once cheerful appear grim.

Jamie paid the aesthetics no mind and turned into the gravel driveway. They were none of his concern. He just needed a place to lodge. He stood waiting on the porch for several minutes. He was nearly ready to leave when a portly woman answered the door. She looked to be about seventy, wore her grey hair in a bun and a Betty Crocker apron. At first glance one might have assumed her to be a sweet old lady who would offer hot cookies out of the oven.

As she drew closer, it became apparent that the first impression from afar was a mistake. She had a permanent scowl pasted on her round face as she peered out at him from behind her wire rimmed spectacles. The corners of her mouth turned down slightly. The nose was scrunched to make her eyes take on a beady, suspicious look.

"Here about the room?" she asked, skipping the pleasantries. "Wait here a minute. I'll get the keys," she ordered, not waiting for his answer.

She reappeared about thirty seconds later.

"The entrance is around back," she mumbled as she moved past him and down the stairs of the porch. She walked with a waddle and a slight hitch in her step. Jamie attributed it to the burden of her excess weight. There may have been some arthritis at play, too. Still, she got around quickly enough. He followed her command.

There was a stairway in the back that led to a small platform and a single door on the second floor.

"You have your own private entrance," she called out as she led the way up the stairs.

"Who's in that one over there?" Jamie asked as they reached the landing. There was an identical arrangement at the other end of the house.

"The company that owns the cheese factory on the State Road keeps up the rent on it. They use it when the bosses come down here to check things out," she explained. She fumbled with a keychain and a score of keys. "If they've got so much money for such things, you'd think that they'd pay more to their workers," she mumbled as she searched for the right one. "The other I rent to hunters in Deer Season and to snowmobilers in the winter. I've got my regulars." Finally she produced it and opened the door and motioned Jamie in.

"Fully furnished—brand new mattress on the bed!" she called after him as Jamie made his inspection tour.

"Who had the place before me?" Jamie asked. "Do you mind my asking?" he quickly added.

"A retired man," she answered. "He had to go to the County Home. He ran out of money. It took me forever to get him out."

Jamie looked into the cupboards and the refrigerator. It was clean and there were pots, pans and a set of dishes and utensils.

"I had a right to evict him. It's not like I didn't give him extra time," she uttered the justification even though not asked to provide one.

Jamie nodded that he understood and kept inspecting.

"You have to get your own account for your utilities. That would be propane, electric, telephone and cable TV, if you want it. The gas and electric are on now, but you would have to take care of that within the week," she informed him.

"I saw the electric meter under the stairs," he confirmed.

"Well, do you want it?"

"I guess I do," Jamie answered. "What do you need?" In fact, it was perfect for him. Small, neat and private; it was within walking distance from the high school. The entrance was invisible from the street, so he could exist unseeing and unseen.

"Before I let you have it I have to have some things from you. I need a copy of your license and proof of your employment. You can get a copy at the library. I go strictly month to month—no leases. You have to pay the first month in advance and one month security. The propane tank is full, and you have to leave it full when you move out." she recited the litany of demands.

"I was hoping to stay here tonight," Jamie said. "I don't know if I can get to the library before it closes."

"Where are you working?" she queried and squinted her eyes a little tighter.

"I've got a teaching job at the high school. I have a letter in the car I can show you."

"The rent has to be three-fifty."

"The ad in the paper said three hundred," Jamie protested.

"That was before I bought the new mattress,"

"I can give you a check right now, but I was thinking three hundred," he answered.

"Get that letter and your checkbook; and let me see your license—and be sure to get me a copy in the morning," she demanded and they filed out of the room

"I'm Ethel Wilkinson. This is my place," she declared as Jamie followed her down the stairs. "And, what do I call you?"

"Ethel, my name is Jamie O'Toole. I'm pleased to meet you."

"Mr. O'Toole, my rules are these," she yelled out as she continued down the stairs. "Rent is due on the first of each month. Pay on time. Whatever you do in there is your business, unless it causes me trouble or bothers me, in which case you have to stop or leave," she recited. "Fair enough?"

"That's fair enough!" Jamie answered back. He wrote a check for most of the money his parents had loaned him. It took him less than an hour to move in.

************

That night, Jamie sat in the chair in his living room. He finished reading for the night and turned off the light. He was delving into Descartes, trying to comprehend how to fathom the meaning of life from lines and planes and algebra. So far, it escaped his grasp, but so had everything else that he tried. No matter how futile and abstruse the writing, he decided to give it a second chance the next night. He was running out of philosophies to latch onto, so it would be unwise to discard any without due consideration. He was, after all, a teacher of mathematics. A kinship of understanding should evolve across the centuries. At least, he hoped so. At the same time realized that the odds were against it.

Except for his books and a modest set of clothing he owned nothing. Even the car he drove into town really belonged to his brother who told him to keep it, but Jamie insisted that it be strictly a loan. He wondered to himself if he shouldn't have taken a motel room for just one night. At least it would have a television. He decided not to forestall the inevitable, and he really couldn't afford it.

It was a new moon. In the back of the big house there wasn't any source of light to cast a beam or shadow through the small window next to him or the tiny one in the door. The 'cheese factory' guys obviously weren't around that week. Even Mrs. Wilkinson's lights weren't visible, if indeed, they were still on—and he didn't know if they were. To the world, and perhaps to himself, he was a non-entity sitting in the darkness. No matter what sound he might utter, or action he might make, either on purpose or accidental, it would not matter. It was the isolation that he sought, or so he had assumed.

He looked back to those long, hot nights during his two years in Guatemala a long time ago. Those days, when he felt like he mattered, were long in the past. He had been recently ordained, assigned to the missions. He was young, hopeful, idealistic, dedicated, self-important. He taught God and Math all at one time. "Just like Descartes," he said to himself with a chuckle and a smirk at the comparison. He left Guatemala fourteen years ago to teach at a boys' prep school to the sons of the well-to-do. Of course, they needed God and Math, too. It wasn't the same. He was just turning forty-two and those happier days were long past. He sat in the chair, in the dark, alone, wondering how solitude would suit him.

"I wanted to stay." he said out loud with some conviction. The prefecture turned him down. It was predictable. Assignments were made to serve God, and the Order, not to suit individual desires. He accepted the judgment as he had been trained to do. Still, the Guatemala days were his best.

He wondered why he had spoken aloud, with no one but him to hear the words. Surely, he did not need to convince himself. He had just read Descartes': "I think, therefore I am." Was his existence narrowed to this? Perhaps it was his protest to any Power that could hear that there had once been a spark in him that was sure and happy and delighted to be who he was. Perhaps his soul rejected solitude. Did anyone hear him? He thought not, but ached to be sure.

He was too agitated for sleep. He thought he might read some more, but thought better of it. He realized that it was warm and stuffy in the small apartment. He stumbled to the window and pushed it up. The air outside wasn't much cooler, but it was fresher. The only sound was the crickets chirping. A glass of water might be a good idea. He realized that he should have bought some groceries, and maybe some whiskey, but the double rent of that afternoon left him with little money. He would have to make it last until his first payday.

He sat back down with the water, listening to the crickets outside his window. They kept up their ceaseless monotone. It made him feel more alone. They just kept at it ceaselessly, not caring if he heard them or not. Jamie settled back in his chair contemplating solitude.

****************

Jamie was up early the next morning. He was hungry because he had skipped dinner the night before. He wanted to take his morning run and then shower. That would leave him with just enough time to find a diner for breakfast and then make his meeting at the school. He decided to devote the afternoon to errands. As he stepped out the door the weather was sunny, but pleasant and cool in the early morning. The clear sky promised a hot day later.

He started on a slow trot out the driveway of his rooming house, not sure which way to go. He decided he would see if he could get onto the High School track, so he jogged over the few streets to where the back of the school grounds adjoined the private residences. He found an easy gait on the flat street. He could see the school grounds, but was unable to find any back way access to the fields. A chain-link fence guarded the perimeter. He could have hopped over it, but didn't. The fence was a silent sentinel, an unspoken warning to trespassers. Entrance to the grounds had to be done properly, though the appropriate gate, where authorities had predetermined the best means of entry. Jamie shrugged and jogged on. He would find the entrance another day. This first day he would take a running tour of the neighborhood.

It was lonely in the early morning. He was a little surprised. It was the Friday before Labor Day. Perhaps the residents were beginning their holiday. He ran on, looking from side to side at the houses. None were as large as the Victorian edifice where he now resided. These houses were smaller. Most had two floors, either in the split-level or Cape Cod style. It appeared that many had been built in the 50's. It made Jamie wonder what had preceded them. Perhaps Mrs. Wilkinson's house was a last remnant of days gone by. All the houses seemed to fit with those around it. Even the oversized house on the double lot blended in. Maybe it was a reminder that as the old gives way to the new, few things really change.