Red Tide

by W. Dale Justice

  “Doing what?” Kate asked.

  “Dad was always good with numbers. High school education, but a wiz at math. He took some night classes at the community college on bookkeeping

  and accounting. Found his calling. Pretty soon, he weaseled his way into becoming the church bookkeeper, making sure all those Sunday donations were safely secured in the church bank account, and paying the bills on time. He earned a small stipend, but couldn’t resist borrowing a few bucks from the plate to make ends meet. Over time, his appetite for nicer things grew.”

  “What happened?”

  “A new car would suddenly appear in the driveway. Six months later, a new bass boat and trailer joined it. Mom, me and my sister, we had no clue. We all believed his bullshit about getting a raise at his job, or some side job he did for some dude. He gave up farming and crop dusting altogether. We were the picture postcard Christian family. Our church was our social safety net, our community, our friends, and our extended family in our little town.”

  “It came crashing down, didn’t it?” Kate asked solemnly.

  “Yeah, it did.” Jimmy told Kate his story.

  The doorbell rang, unusual for a Sunday morning an hour before service would begin at Liberty Baptist Fellowship. Mary was in the bathroom fussing with 11 year-old Ginny’s hair while she perched on the closed toilet seat. Boys were suddenly very important, and her hair needed to be perfect.

  “Jimmy, get the door.” Mary called.

  “Yes momma.” 9-year old Jimmy had been ready for church for a half hour. Why did girls take so long? So stupid. He jumped from the couch, and hustled to the door, just as the bell rang a second time. “Jeezle, I’m coming.” Someone was in a hurry. He opened the door, and was surprised to see Pastor Pence, and a couple deacons he recognized from church.

  “Hi Pastor Pence! We’re almost ready. I can hardly wait for the festival after services, sir! Yesterday was just a blast!”

  Today was the last day of The Liberty Baptist Fellowship Church Festival, an annual 3-day celebration with carnival rides, tractor pulls, bake sales, livestock competitions, food, fun, and fellowship. The whole town turned out every year. And, it was the Fellowship’s primary fundraiser for their missionary work. Jimmy, in all his excitement for the day to begin completely missed the stern expressions on the Pastor’s face, mirrored by the three deacons.

  “Jimmy, is your father home?” Pastor Pence asked.

  “No sir, he’s not here. Said he had ta’ go to his office this morning before church to do some things. He won’t be late for services, I promise.”

  “Do you know where his “office” is?”

  “Yes sir, it’s on Front street above Greeley’s hardware.”

  “I’m Deacon Greeley. There ain’t no offices above my hardware store. Where’s your pa, boy?” A man next to Pastor Pence spoke up.

  “Easy, Ike. We can handle this like Christians.” The Pastor strived to maintain control over his entourage. They may very well be Christians, but they were also good old southern boys. They could shoot someone trying to break into their tool shed on Saturday night, and be in church Sunday morning in the halleluiah pew with a clear conscience.

  “Hello Pastor Pence. How can I help you?” Mary, Jimmy’s mom arrived at the door with Ginny at her side. From behind, she draped her arms protectively over little Jimmy’s shoulders.

  “Where’s Rocky, Mary?” Pence sternly asked her.

  “He’s at his office, Pastor. He’ll be here soon to take the family to services.”

  “Ever been to Rocky’s office, Mary?”

  “Why. No. No I haven’t. Never had a reason to intrude on his work.”

  “Exactly what is his work, Mary?”

  “He does bookkeeping for businesses around town, just like he does for the Fellowship, Pastor. What’s this all about?” Mary noticed the crowd out by the rural mailbox for the first time. There must have been two dozen people, all personal friends from church. Whole families, including their kids.

  “I don’t believe Rocky’s coming home, Mary. I think he’s long gone.” Pastor Pence replied. Mary’s heart dropped into her stomach, and fear gripped her.

  “Please what’s this all about! Tell me what’s going on!” Mary demanded.

  Pastor Pence drew a deep breath, and spoke as if delivering a sermon.

  ”The Fellowship has held our festival for the last 50 years. It’s the biggest festival around, and attracts Christian folks from all over the county. We should have $75,000 in the safe after Friday and Saturday. Those are historically our two biggest nights. Deacon Greely checked the safe in the church offices this morning. There’s $100 in the safe.”

  Mary looked like she had just been struck by lightning.

  “I can’t help but notice the truck and bass boat are not in your driveway.” Pence observed.

  “Rocky usually drive the bass boat to that office of his that doesn’t exist over my hardware store?” Deacon Greeley could no longer be contained, Christian values be damned. He turned, and headed straight for the crowd at the street.

  Pastor Pence watched his retreat, as Deacon Greeley told the huddling families what had transpired on the Rockenfeld’s front stoop. Turning towards Mary, he simply said, “You’d best make other plans, Mary. The Fellowship is a close Christian family, and will not take kindly to this.” He turned to leave.

  “But we’re part of that Fellowship family, Pastor! My children… Her voice trailed off with a question hanging in the air.

  Pastor Pence stopped, half turning towards a terrified Mary, and her confused children.

  “Not anymore.” The Pastor walked away.

  To be shunned is the cruelest form of punishment, and flies in the face of true Christian values. Mary, and her children were from this moment forward, pariahs within the rural community. Her Fellowship family paid lip service to their treasured Christian values every Sunday morning, but apparently, those values didn’t extend to Mary and her children. The Fellowship did agree not to prosecute James “Rocky” Rockenfeld, as that wasn’t the Christian thing to do. It really meant they didn’t have any proof that would stand up in a court of law, and weren’t likely to find any. Rocky was very good with numbers. And cash.

  Mary’s job at the Fellowship day care no longer existed. Her teaching position educating first and second graders of the wonders of Christ at the Sunday Bible study was gone. Neighbors of 12 years turned their backs, their children no longer available to play with Jimmy and Ginny. Mary’s children no longer had any friends at the Fellowship Christian School, or a school to attend. The bus no longer stopped in front of their rural house. No phone calls were returned, no incoming calls received. The Rockenfeld’s ceased to exist in the town of Farmington, Georgia.

  After two months, Mary had to put the house up for sale. She had tried to find work in town, to no avail, so she tried elsewhere in the county, but word spreads fast. Yard sales, and trips to the thrift shop to sell personal items, tractors, tools and clothes to raise money to pay the mortgage all failed. There were no buyers at any price. After five months, the house went into foreclosure, with the local bank president, a Fellowship Deacon hand delivering the notice personally, and without a speaking a word to Mary.

  Mary packed three suitcases, one for her, and one each for Jimmy and Ginny. She called her cousin in Atlanta, who agreed to drive down to Farmington and take them to Atlanta. She walked away with her children from her home, all her earthly possession’s, and her life, leaving the house keys on the kitchen counter.

  Atlanta was a nightmare for Jimmy. Mom had returned to her maiden name, Falcone, to escape the Rockenfeld stigma. Nothing ever appeared in the press about Rocky’s theft, but word of mouth is a powerful thing. She found work at a factory where her cousin’s husband worked, on the assembly line sticking plastic tubes into plastic lids for plastic bottles for the medical supply industry. It was mind numbing, a recipe for carpal tunnel, and destroying her feet and hips standing on concrete in cheap
tennis shoes nine hours a day. But it was a paycheck, and she remained on this job for the next ten years.

  Ginny did okay in Atlanta’s city schools. She was pretty, and smart enough to avoid the bad actors and thugs without becoming a target. Jimmy. not so much. A rage boiled just beneath the surface.

  That rage was fueled when he saw his father on television, stumping for election to represent a district far from Farmington for the Georgia State Legislature. It seems James “Rocky” Rockenfeld had found another source of someone else’s money. A new trophy wife decorated his side, though no formal divorce papers from his mother had ever arrived. His TV spots were suave, urbane, and had just enough downhome yee-haw to get him elected in a landslide. Rocky’s star was just beginning to rise in Georgia politics.

  By the time Jimmy reached high school, his academics were a train wreck, and his transcript read like a rap sheet. Jimmy had a discipline and authority problem, coupled with a hair trigger temper. His first, and only response to conflict since middle school was to throw a punch. He got his ass beat so many times, he had lost count. In the process, he had won a certain respect in the school. Jimmy didn’t care how big, how tough, or how many of his adversaries stepped out. He would bring it every time.

  Over time, he got much bigger, and much better at fighting, to the point where he was avoided by the the tough students. The price they would have to pay for tangling with Jimmy was too high compared to the reward. He had ripped one dudes ear completely off in one of his last battles. No one was anxious to see what Jimmy would do in his next encounter. He was a loner, so leave him alone.

  There were people for whom Jimmy had a grudging respect, at least as much as he could muster. Bill Harris, football coach, wrestling coach, and history teacher, was a Korean War veteran, as was Rich Seoman, gym teacher and assistant football coach, a full blooded Cherokee. Then there was Bill Maynard, the civics and social studies teacher and WWII veteran. He had a leg shot off in the Pacific, and stumped through the hallways with a drill instructor expression permanently affixed to his face. Seoman and Maynard were both functional alcoholics, though never while they worked. Their rheumy eyes and bulbous noses gave them away. Harris had managed to tame his demons without alcohol.

  The punks, thugs and smartass students gave these three men a very wide berth. Collectively, they were the disciplinarians of a tough, inner city school. Though Jimmy was constantly getting in fights, and ignoring authority, he never stole anything, and he was never a swearer. He never talked back to a teacher, he didn’t do drugs. He had no interest in school assignments or homework, yet he had a decent C average. He accepted students of all colors, and was sometimes seen alone in the early morning empty halls kneeling in prayer. Jimmy was clearly fighting demons, but had adhered to his own code of behavior. The three had never confronted or admonished Jimmy other than pulling him out of a fight, and telling him to knock it off. But each observed Jimmy closely, and talked among themselves often.

  Coach Harris walked straight down the center of the hall towards the cafeteria, students moving out of his way like Moses parting the Red Sea. Harris’ six-foot frame carried 270 pounds of muscle, his neck thicker than a grown man’s thigh. In college, he was the 1951 NCAA National Wrestling Champion from the University of West Virginia, until he was drafted to fight as a Marine in Korea. He headed straight for Jimmy.

  “Falcone, with me.” The coach didn’t break stride, or look to see if Jimmy was even following him. No one refused Mr. Harris. Jimmy moved beside the Coach, and slightly behind. That morning he had busted the lip of some jerk who was making fun of a kid with a bad complexion and a stutter. “This is not good.” he thought.

  Coach Harris, with Jimmy in tow turned into an empty hallway leading to the gymnasium. Harris often administered discipline to male students who disrespected female teachers with an hour detention after school. They were instructed to bring their gym clothes, and meet Coach Harris on the wrestling mats. This always drew an audience of students in the gym stands to watch Coach Harris bend some tough kid into a pretzel for a solid hour while he whispered in their ear why being polite and respectful of women was a virtue.

  No one had ever heard the coach raise his voice, other than shouting encouragement to his players on the football field.

  Coach walked to the gymnasium doors, held one side open, and waited for Jimmy to enter. Jimmy hesitated, met the coaches eyes briefly, then moved inside. The gym was dark, the only light filtering in from a narrow band of windows on each side near the roofline. Jimmy was 20 feet inside, the coach just behind him when the self-closure slammed the door closed. He almost jumped out of his skin.

  Looking around, there was no one in the gym. There were no wrestling mats out on the floor. “This way.” Coach moved towards the center bleachers on the home side of the court. As Jimmy’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw two men sitting together on the bottom row next to the court. It was Seoman and Maynard. Maynard had rolled up his pants to remove his prosthetic leg, and was rubbing lotion on the stump. What looked like a cloth diaper torn in half lay across his thigh, discolored and splotchy.

  Jimmy could not help staring at the amputated leg. It was hideous. The chaffed skin stretched over the stump was red, black, and blue where it wasn’t peeling off. Sores oozed. Walking on it, and standing in front of a blackboard for eight hours each day must be agony. Yet, he had never seen Mr. Maynard so much as flinch or betray any discomfort.

  Jimmy finally realized he was staring, and looked up, locking eyes with Mr. Maynard.

  “Not very pretty, is it son?’

  “No sir, it isn’t. Sorry, I mean, does it hurt much?” Jimmy was pretty articulate for a seventeen-year old kid, but this situation was a bit unnerving.

  “Every second of every day.”

  Coach Harris, standing to Jimmy’s side spoke.

  “Falcone, you’re a dumpster fire. You’re a lost soul heading down a dark road. It’s obvious you’ve been raised right, but you have to shed whatever demons are chasing you. You don’t drink or smoke. You don’t swear, or do drugs. You’re quick with your fists, but never start a fight. You defend smaller kids against jerks and bullies, yet are respectful to teachers. You need to talk to us, and listen to what we have to say. We just might help you salvage your life.”

  Jimmy stood before these three men for a long minute, saying nothing, but thinking about the events that led his mother, sister and him to this point the past eight years.

  Mr. Seomen, his eyes bright against his dark skin spoke. “What happened to you, son?”

  Jimmy had never talked to anyone about Farmington, or the Fellowship, or his father’s betrayal and abandonment of the family. He refused the school counselor’s many attempts to break down his self-imposed isolation. He could not trust anyone. Never again. But there was something compelling in these three men. Three hard men that commanded respect, but spoke to him softly now.

  “We lived in a small town called Farmington. My father stole money from our church, then took off. Our church shunned my family. My sister and I were kicked out of the Christian school, we lost all our friends. We lost our house, we lost our Christian family, we lost everything.”

  “Where’s your father now?” Mr. Seoman asked.

  “He’s State Representative James “Rocky” Rockenfeld.”

  “I know that town, and that Fellowship Church. Bunch of holy-roller hypocrites if you ask me.” Mr. Maynard spoke up.

  “Your mom changed back to her maiden name, didn’t she? She have a job?” Mr. Harris asked.

  “Yeah. She works on the assembly line at Smith & Barnes Medical. Stands on concrete 9 hours a day sticking nozzles into plastic tubes then into plastic bottles. It’s piece work. Five cents a bottle. Works out to $10 an hour if you hustle. No benefits, no overtime. Sometimes she brings boxes home, well as many as she can carry on the city bus. I help assemble them at night. An extra $20 goes a long way.

  “That explains the homework issue.” Mr. Harris
observed. “I’d like to invite you and your mom… he was cut off by Jimmy.

  “To your church? No thanks. I’ll never set foot in a church again as long as I live.” Jimmy’s words were like stone.

  “But I see you pray in front of your locker every morning.”

  “I talk to God every day, but I don’t need no damn crooked preacher to tell me how and when.” Jimmy’s first uttered curse word reinforced his position.

  Mr. Maynard had finished putting salve onto his stump, wrapped the end with the half diaper, and reattached his prosthetic. He stood, shook down his pant leg to conceal the contraption substituting for a leg, and motioned Mr. Harris and Mr. Seomen to stand beside him. Locking eyes with Jimmy, he spoke. “Falcone, there are two dogs fighting inside you. One represents good, the other rage and anger. One of them is going to win.”

  “Which one?” Jimmy asked.

  “The one you feed.”