Freedom's Sins

By Karen Truesdell Riehl

The author of the bestselling memoir, Love and Madness, My Private Years With George C. Scott, Karen Truesdell Riehl turns to fiction in this tale of love, sex, suicide and scandal in a small town in Indiana.

The charred remains of the Cameron house is the site of an unsolved arson fire, evoking fear and fascination in those with hidden connections to it when it was a place of guilty pleasures. Roger Sundbee, the club tennis pro, digs up dirt on the townspeople for a book he’s writing, seeking revenge on those who've mistreated him. Fifteen year-old Richie Evans serves as Roger's spy. Sixteen-year-old Macy Sherman vows everyone will be sorry for the way they’ve treated her. Father Eastlake misses the Cameron house, his haven of sin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karen Truesdell Riehl
• Release date: Jul 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301016884

Karen Truesdell Riehl

Karen Truesdell Riehl's writing achievements are remarkable, given the award-winning author's lifelong battle with dyslexia. She was unable to read until the age of ten. Her published works now include a 2015 San Diego Book Awards winner, Helga: Growing Up in Hitler's Germany. Her other books include a memoir, Love and Madness: My Private Years with George C. Scott, telling of her 30-year hidden liaison with the international film star, six novels, eight plays and a radio comedy series, The Quibbles, available from ArtAge Publications at http://www.seniortheatre.com/product/the-quibbles-radio-shows/. Her children's play, Alice in Cyberland, was an award winner in the National Southwest Writers Contest. Helga was an elementary school librarian, a 1948 German immigrant, when the author met her in 1977. Asked about her experience during the war, Helga quietly revealed she had been a "Jugend," a member of Hitler's child army.Ten-year-old Helga was forced to join the Hitler Youth weekly meetings. Lies and treats were used to build her allegiance to the Fuhrer. As the war drew nearer to her home in Berlin, Helga was sent away to a Youth Training Camp. Her slow disillusionment and harrowing escape home, is a coming-of-age story of a young girl's survival of Nazi mind control. Helga: Growing Up in Hitler's Germany was a 2015 San Diego Book Awards winner. In the romance novel, Hello Again, a finalist in the 2015 San Diego Book Awards, Shannon Taggert falls in love with Nate, a graduate student teaching assistant. But there's another woman in Nate's life, Tally, the daughter of Walter, his mentor and benefactor. Before meeting Shannon, as Walter lay dying, Nate promised to marry his daughter. The Ghosts of Fort Ord was inspired by the author's month-long stay near the remains of the abandoned military base. After having lived for several years in Terre Haute, Indiana, the author was inspired to write a story about scandals in a fictional small town, Freedom's Sins. Saturday Night Dance Club, was inspired by a true story of four couples, from the 1900's to 1930's, touched by the Great War, organized crime, the Depression and the threat of another war, finding sanctuary in their weekly dance club. Drawing from her personal experience, Karen wrote Bad Girl: A Play. The Safe Haven Home for Unwed Mothers provides shelter from a judgmental society, but reveals its hypocrisy as well. The young women from all levels of society, rich and poor, share only their shame. Many overnight weekend getaways on the famous Queen Mary produced her latest novel, The Ghosts of the Queen Mary. Karen loves to hear from readers of her books. Twitter: https://twitter.com/karenisriehl Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/karen.riehl.52 Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/KarenTruesdellRiehl

Book preview

1962

Not much had happened in Freedom, Indiana since that August night in 1961, nearly a year ago. Nothing of note, anyway. The evil had been cast out, and the village had gone back to sleep. That’s the way Ellen Stewart liked to think of it. Asleep. Slumbering under thick handmade quilts. Quiet and safe.

She floured her rolling pin. Everyone would expect one of her pies at the sale. She stopped briefly and gazed out the small kitchen window above the counter. Cornfields, far as she could see. So comforting.

She placed the dough into the pie pan and wiped her hands on her apron. She opened the pantry cupboard and lifted out a can. No one’ll be the wiser. Why should I stand here for an hour and peel apples for a pie they’ll gobble up in five minutes? No one appreciates my efforts, anyway. She carefully fluted the edges, placed it in the oven and set the timer. Then she leaned against the counter and wiped her forehead with the bottom of her apron. My, it’s hot! I’ll bet it reaches 98 today. That’s too hot.

Passing by the window on her way to the laundry room, she saw billowing dust following a red pickup truck traveling north on Tyler road. She peered out. There he goes again, she thought, blowing up dust with that contraption of his.

Roger Sundbee was, as usual, having trouble with his ’51 Ford pickup. Damn! I hate this pile of rust! Giving the steering wheel a whack, he continued to pump the gas pedal. If I don’t get working on the tennis courts by 7:30 Wesley will fire my ass. Shit! He pumped again. The truck lurched forward and kept going. Well, finally! He grinned at his rugged features in the mirror and drove north on Tyler road, turning right on Seasons Drive past the stone fence that announced the Gibson acres.

On Gibson Road, just south of town, Lois and Ray Gibson sat opposite each other at the kitchen nook table, each reading sections of the morning paper. Ray scraped the last bit of egg onto his toast and leaned his mouth close to his plate to receive it. Taking a last noisy slurp of his coffee, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

Repulsed, Lois looked away. Ray reached for a toothpick from a cut glass holder and pushed his six-foot bulging frame up from the table.

I’d best be going or I’ll miss the cool of the morning. Got a lot of corn to husk. He leaned down to kiss her. She offered her cheek. I’ll be home at sunset. You have yourself a fine day, now.

He picked up the brown lunch bag sitting on the counter, pushed open the screen door. He stood for a moment, as he did every morning, proudly surveying his seven hundred acres. Yes sirree, bob! Ray Gibson, you are a wealthy man and you did it all yourself. He smiled to himself and lumbered down the back porch steps.

Lois watched as he drove his Tracker down the driveway. She sighed and turned on the television to the morning news show. She’d watch until it was time to put on her tennis dress.

Roger drove his pickup once around the Wayside Lodge’s circular drive, then followed the driveway to the side parking lot and stopped. He folded his arms, leaned back in his seat and pictured himself in ten years. I’ll walk into that main dining room and they’ll say,Here comes Mr. R. Sundbee, the novelist. He won the Pulitzer, you know. May we offer you a table by the window, Mr. Sundbee?

A loud knocking at his side window interrupted Roger’s reverie.

For cryin’ out loud, Roger. Move this junk heap to the back lot. It’s bad for business.

Yes, Sir, Mr. Wesley. He grinned, saluted, and started the motor.

Seventy-five minutes later, Lois stood by the Lodge’s tennis court fence surveying Roger, dressed in whites, pushing the roller across the clay. This was the best time. Before the lesson. Lois always took inventory in order, beginning at the top of the sturdy young body. White visor cap over thick, dark brown curly hair. Deep-set brown eyes. Large, nearly-hooked nose, full lips. Strong neck. Biceps firm and rounded. Flat stomach, rounded cheeks above firm thighs. Even his feet were just the right size. Perfect. Now back to the face.

The face looked back at her and smiled. Good morning, Mrs. Gibson. I’ll be right with you. My bucket of balls is on the next court if you want to practice your serve while you wait.

Lois unfastened her two top buttons, smiled, and folded her arms behind her, knowing her dress was tight enough to make her breasts look twice their size and her nipples nearly pop out. She also knew her light brown shoulder length hair, large green eyes, slim hips and long legs were the desire of nearly every man and boy in this town of 4,500 people. Thank you, Roger, I’m fine. Just fine. She smiled again and leaned against the fence. One of Lois’s talents was meaningful flirtation. After taking weekly lessons from Roger for three months she hadn’t improved her tennis skills at all. It wasn’t tennis that interested her.

On her way to town, Ellen Stewart slowed her ten-year-old, gray Chevy to watch Lois watching Roger.

Uh-huh. Every Tuesday at nine a.m., she mumbled to herself. Who does she think she’s kidding? Poor Ray. Such a hard-working fellow. Somebody should tell him. Just because she’s pretty, she thinks she can flirt with every man in town and get away with it. Evil, that’s what it is.

She saw Lois turn her head towards the car and sped up. She turned left on North Baker Street and headed down Main.

Ellen had closed her car windows so she’d be surrounded by the aroma of her fresh apple pie, wafting from the back seat. Another triumph. She smiled. The ladies of the Historical Society would be delighted to have her pie in the bake sale. She turned on to Tyler road, then on to Third and took a left on Coven Road to the old Cameron house. There it stood, half-burned, still a reminder of the wickedness. She idled the car a minute. Why didn’t they finish it off and tear it down? A sign read Danger. No Trespassing. Huh! There was more danger in that sinful place before it burned. She pressed down hard on the gas pedal, the car jerked, and she drove on.

By ten a.m. the temperature had risen to 74 degrees. Roger Sundbee’s personal heat index felt like 110. Today’s tennis lesson focused on the backhand, Lois’s weakest point. They had agreed he needed to stand close to her and guide her arm with his. Her smooth arms and sweet smelling hair were more than a distraction. Several times he felt himself getting hard. He feigned thirst, drank from his cooler, and poured the rest of the cold water over his head.

Not aware of the time, they went twenty minutes into Macy Sherman’s hour. Macy didn’t mind. She’d just as soon sit on the bench and watch Mrs. Gibson try to look like she was really trying to hit the ball instead of hitting on Roger. She had nothing else to do. At sixteen Macy was overweight and had a bad case of acne. She kept her head and shoulders down, tried to scrunch the rest of her body so she wouldn’t be noticed, and felt relieved when she wasn’t. She dreaded school starting again. Everybody dating. Everybody but Macy. When she walked the halls the only students who smiled at her or said hello were geeks. And it didn’t help that she had a strong feeling even her mom hated her. Her mother never touched her. She just kept reminding Macy she had lovely long fingers, straight teeth and was a whiz at tennis. Tennis will help you slim down, and those nasty pimples will be gone soon. You just wait and see. Macy had no ambition to wait and see.

When Lois’s lesson finally came to an end she exchanged places with Macy and sat with her eyes on Roger for the next forty minutes.

Roger had no time to look at Lois. An advanced student, Macy was strong and swift, which forced Roger to keep his eyes on the ball. Before the end of Macy’s hour, Lois rose, gave her dress a deliberate tug, and meandered to her car. Roger missed returning Macy’s serve. This bothered him immensely. Not only was his pride hurt. The club had a standing rule that required returning half the hourly fee to the student if the tennis instructor misses returning a serve. It would come out of his own pocket.

That night at dinner Macy still smiled about Roger missing her serve. Considering she had little to smile about, that made it a banner day. Her parents had actually let her eat her green diet salad and four Ritz crackers in peace. Her mom and dad seemed more interested in world events and had turned on the television set half way through the meal. Macy couldn’t care less about tax increases and wars in Europe. She had her own war.

Later, in the seclusion of her room, she knelt beside her bed. She pulled the mattress up from the box springs. Reaching under the mattress, she retrieved two Snickers Bars. Removing the wrapping from each, she tossed the paper into her wastebasket. She smiled. Her mother would find the candy wrappers when she emptied the baskets on Friday. She would confront Macy. She would cry and ask what she could do for her daughter. Macy would cry also and hug her mother and promise not to hide fattening foods any more. She would, of course, continue her secret gorging. Her mother would then take her to that doctor in Terre Haute again for advice. The game was getting boring. Macy always won.

Removing a writing tablet and pen from her desk drawer, she sat down on her bed and crossed her legs. Munching on the candy, she ripped the writing paper into small strips and began to write on each one of them.

TWO

Inside the Jansen estate on Belleview Road, Vickie Jansen lay in silk sheets trying not to wake up. She was enjoying her morning masturbation. She finished and opened one eye to peer at the bedside antique gold clock. Twenty after seven. Steven must have left early. He’s probably at the clinic already. She smiled and thought, oh, Steven, my brilliant trophy husband! The finest and most respected physician in the county. No, in the state. And handsome. And such a loving lover. A brilliant, wealthy, loving lover. Mommy and daddy, aren’t you proud? I snagged him. I won him away from her. She moaned as she managed a second giant orgasm.

Steven had left the house early, but he wasn’t at the clinic. He was sitting alone in his black Cadillac, parked by the riverbed, the air conditioning aimed at his face. Ugly water, ugly old brown water. What there is left of it. Just like me. H e looked at himself in the mirror. You’re getting old, doctor, and ugly. You thought if you married a little girl, you’d be young again. Look at yourself, doctor. You’re fifty-two and look sixty-five. But I can still make her squeal.

He’d been sitting in his car for an hour, a small sheet of white paper beside him. He picked it up and read the short message for the third time. You’re overdue. If you don’t pay up, you’ll be sorry. He wiped his brow with his handkerchief. Even with the air con aimed at him, perspiration covered his body. He looked at the dashboard clock. Time to leave. The clinic needed him. He started the car. Driving along River Road, he turned south past the high school, taking Third Street to the clinic. Entering through the staff-only back door he walked to his office. After exchanging his suit jacket for a white cotton coat, he buzzed Shirley.

A very annoyed Shirley Hartman, RN, looked at the wall clock and picked up the pile of charts on her desk. The doctor was well aware that the clinic filled up early on Mondays. Emergencies, plus regular appointments, always happened on Mondays. Tapping on his open door and not waiting for an invitation, she entered his office and set the charts in front of him.

Nice to see you could make it in before noon, doctor.

Steven let the remark pass. But he did not give her the satisfaction of looking up. Good morning, Shirley. Who is our first…

She didn’t wait for him to finish his sentence. Francis Delano. She’s been waiting forty-five minutes, and she is not happy.

Give me two minutes to read her chart and send her in.

Making as much noise as possible in her white low-heeled nurse’s shoes, Shirley stomped back to the front office. She wasn’t just annoyed. Her feelings were hurt. Today was her forty-eighth birthday and not one of the three others in the office had offered good wishes. She was certain they all knew the date. She’d been in that office, sitting in the same chair for twelve years, and it was common practice for the staff to celebrate their birthdays together.

Thursday morning of the same week Steven stepped out of Sam’s Canary Coffee Shop and nearly bumped heads with Ray Gibson.Whoa, doc.! Where you goin’ in such a hurry?

Just headed for the clinic, Ray. How are you today?

Ray stepped closer. Funny you should ask. I had it on my mind to call for an appointment.

What seems to be the matter?

Ray looked at the sidewalk and cleared his throat. Lowering his voice he took another step closer. It’s real confidential. I’d rather not say out here like this…you know…

"Of course. You call and talk to Shirley. She’ll fix you up.

Yeah. Well, that’s what I’ll do then. Thanks, Doc.

I’ll see you soon then, Ray. Take care.

Ray stood on the sidewalk for a moment, dreading what he had to do. He decided not to join the 7:30 coffee klatch. He wasn’t up to all that laughin’ and jokin’.

Driving down Main, Ellen Stewart spotted Dr. Jansen and Ray Gibson close in conversation. Well, she mumbled to herself. It looks like those two have their heads together. I wonder what that’s all about. I wonder if Ray’s sick. I’d be sick, too, if I had a wife like Lois who went after every man in town. I wonder how many she’s had. She’s downright wicked. She doesn’t deserve him. Looking at her antique locket watch she saw there was time to do a bit of marketing before the library opened, but she’d have to hurry.

As Ellen lifted a sack of sugar from a shelf in Wayland’s Grocery, a small strip of paper fluttered to the floor. She picked it up and opened the fold. It read: Please be my friend. Well, what on earth could this be about? she said aloud. She stood a moment looking at it. Then held it to her breast. Oh, my, Lord, how sad. How awfully sad. If only I knew who it was, I’d be happy to be their friend. I need one, too. Then she dropped the strip of paper into her bag and quickly pushed her cart to the next aisle. She’d nearly forgotten to buy cooking oil.

At nine a.m. Ellen parked her car in front of the library. Picking up the four books on the backseat, she hurried up the front steps. If Sara hadn’t unlocked the door yet, she’d drop the books in the return box. Sara Peters was a fine librarian, but she was often five or ten minutes late opening up. Too often for Ellen’s taste. She’d mentioned it at the board meeting last month.

The door didn’t budge, and the shade hadn’t been turned up. As she leaned down to push the fourth book through the slot, she saw a shadowy movement behind the shade. Thinking it must be Sara, she raised her hand to knock.

She heard Sara’s voice, then a man’s voice, a familiar voice, barely audible. She put her ear close to the door, but the man stopped talking before Ellen could identify him. She turned, trying for a retreat, but the door opened before she could take a step. Both women flushed when they greeted each other.

Ah, oh, good morning Ellen. You’re here bright and early.

Yes. Well, the early bird, you know. I was just leaving last week’s books in the slot. I didn’t hear you.

I was in the back. She stepped aside. Come in. Please.

Yes. I will. Thank you.

Ellen stepped inside and walked through the receiving lobby to the rear stacks, her eyes darting into every nook. Where on earth had he disappeared to? This place is too small to hide in, and the old wooden floors are so creaky you could hear a bug walking.

Sara followed Ellen to the back reading tables.

Can I help you find something, Ellen? The new books are in the usual place up front.

Ah. I thought I’d look for a book for my Sunday school class. But, now that I see the time, I think I’d better run. Thank you, Sara. She felt one of her headaches coming on as she hurried out to her car.

At 4:45 that afternoon Ray sat in a leather chair across from Steven’s desk. Okay, Doc, what can you tell me?

We won’t know anything for a couple of days. It has to go the lab in Indianapolis to be analyzed. If I were you, I’d try to forget it for a few days.

Yeah. Well, that may seem an easy thing to do, Doc. But this means an awful lot…and I…

I’m not ignoring the importance of this, Ray. But I think you should talk to Lois. This is something for the two of you to deal with.

Oh, no. I couldn’t, doc. I just couldn’t.

Okay. I understand. I’ll call you with the results as soon as we have them.

Ray stood up and lifted his jacket from the back of the chair. Doc…you’ll keep this to yourself, right?

Don’t worry. Ray. I’m a physician. This is between us.

What about your staff?

Your sample will have a number. That’s all. Please don’t worry, Ray. Worry can only make things worse for you.

Right. Okay. I’ll be movin’ on then. Thanks, Doc.

When Ray arrived home it was empty. Empty and lonesome. He took a beer from the refrigerator and sat down at the kitchen nook. He reached for the telephone and began to dial. Then he replaced the receiver. This is no good. I gotta get outa this low mood. I only wish…Ah shit!

Vickie Jansen drove the long way home from her Wednesday evening bridge class. She needed freedom and fresh air. She hated those lessons. The youngest in the class, she was also the slowest to catch on. But she had to learn. Steven loved bridge and had given up this major part of his social life for her. She would become a bridge player for him if it killed her. She had told him her Wednesday night outings were with the girls. But she had suffered once a week, for three months, in Mrs. Luther’s small, overly-furnished and smelly living room with two other ladies and one middle-aged man, all of whom, like Vickie, wanted their lessons kept secret.

She’d surprise Steven soon with a dinner and bridge party. He’d be so proud and happy. She’d do anything for Steven. She knew people thought she’d married him for his prestige and money. Not true. She’d adored him from the