The Season in Between

By Jane Harvey Meade

Kate Ross knows it’s time to leave her abusive husband. But she must be careful. She and her daughter must make a safe exit.

Set in the early 1980’s, much of this story takes place in a public middle school with its own elements of drama that get tangled up in school teacher, Kate Ross’s personal life.

Soon, Kate learns that escaping from the abusive home is only the first leg of an agonizing journey. Once away from Al, her husband’s campaign of terror can begin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jane Harvey Meade
• Release date: Dec 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310343261

Jane Harvey Meade

Jane Harvey Meade has had a long career in education, teaching in the states of Maine, New Hampshire, Massachusetts and New York for 38 years. In 2000, she retired and began to focus on her life-long love for writing. Summer of the Disco King is her first novel of fiction. She lives on the coast of Maine with her husband, John, and her family.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Kate had just finished cleaning the last room when the phone rang.

All day, she had worked her way through the downstairs, then up into the bathrooms and bedrooms of the second floor until now, at seven-thirty, she was exhausted but finished with even her own cluttered study, the East Room, as she called it.

Still plenty of time to grab a shower, a scotch, and something to eat, in that order, she mused. Her plan was to hit the hay early and get a good night’s sleep before the first day of the new school year.

Then she answered the phone.

You’ve got to come pick me up, her husband’s voice demanded, shattering the dream of having the rest of the evening for herself.

The tone of his voice did not permit discussion. In his mind, her obedience was a foregone conclusion. Kate’s eyes traveled out the window above her desk to the front walk under the maple, shady and cool in the twilight. She would have carried her scotch outdoors and settled comfortably in a lawn chair there, thankful to finally unwind from her end-of-the-summer cleaning frenzy.

Where are you? she asked.

The Half Track.

In Greenboro? Kate gasped. What happened? How’d you get there? Why do you need a ride?

Just come get me, damn it all. I’ll tell you when you get here. Leave right now.

Do I take the Southeast Expressway? she asked, trying to remember. She normally accessed Greenboro directly from school, and from that direction, the route was altogether different.

Keep following the signs to Rhode Island, Al snapped, and the connection cut off.

Kate hung up the phone and regarded the front walk again. Shadows of maple branches moved ever closer to the house. It would be dark soon. She’d better hurry. The drive to Greenboro was a good hour.

By the time Kate had phoned her daughter to be sure she stayed at her friend’s until she could pick her up, and had closed up the house, and gotten out on the highway, another fifteen minutes had elapsed. Once on her way, she saw with alarm that she would need gas for the trip. It was Labor Day. Where would she find a gas station open at this time?

Just before the on-ramp to the Expressway, she found an all-night station next to the Two Feather Lounge, a strip joint that Al had frequented before they were married.

While the attendant filled her tank, she inquired about directions to Greenboro and watched the neon lights of the Two Feather take on more and more prominence against the quickly descending night sky. She was angry at being drawn into this mission at such an inconvenient time, and felt a sense of unsettling vulnerability as she began this unexpected odyssey. The vulnerability was useless, but she used the anger to steel herself for the task ahead.

Kate spent much of the drive concentrating heavily on road signs and the lay of unfamiliar land, now mostly obliterated by darkness except for the glimpses that her headlights exposed in narrow paths in front of her Supra. She whispered a prayer to St. Joseph, a habit she’d adopted whenever Al was out drinking. She had become convinced that these prayers often blocked unpleasant scenes between her and her husband, and had even cut down on the violent assaults that were often the product of his liquor abuses. Now she asked for guidance in keeping to the correct route and a safe journey to and from Greenboro.

Ahead, the green signs hanging over the highway kept pointing the way to Rhode Island, and Kate kept following them. She knew she would not go quite that far, that a Greenboro exit would be coming up soon. When it did, she took it, grateful that the trip was mostly over.

The Half Track sat on the left side of the road, which was now familiar, and her confidence returned. She often traveled this section when, after a day of teaching, she would visit Thunder J, her six-year-old pacer, who was stabled at the Greenboro Raceway. If Thunder J was racing, she would meet Al at the Half Track for dinner and they would go on to the races together. Some of these occasions were wonderful times, as long as the horse paced well and Al paced his drinking during the evening.

Tonight, Kate had no idea what had brought her husband way down here, but she knew better than to push for answers. She could tell by their brief phone conversation that Al wasn’t in the mood for questions.

She swung the car into the crowded parking lot and was surprised to find Al outside the restaurant watching for her. His usual habit was to wait at the bar, forcing her to come in and find him. Tonight, having not even bothered to comb her hair after working furiously all day, Kate was relieved that she didn’t have to go into a public place. Her relief was short-lived.

The car had barely stopped when the passenger door was yanked open. Park it right here, Al slurred, and come on in for a quick drink.

Kate had never seen him so drunk. He was actually staggering. Al was six feet two and over two hundred pounds. It took a lot of drinks to make him stagger.

Because school was starting tomorrow and she had worked all day to have the house ready for fall; because she was exhausted and hadn’t had a thing to eat; because she was already angry at being summoned on this mission in the first place and had expected to have at least a token explanation when she arrived, Kate forgot to hide her displeasure.

I didn’t even stop to comb my hair, she said with an edge to her voice. I’ve got school starting tomorrow and a lot more to do tonight to get ready for it. I’m not coming in.

Fine. Sit here and wait, then, Al mumbled. He attempted to throw the door closed, but got himself caught between it and the car. It slammed against his leg and threw him momentarily against the back door. Undaunted, he let the passenger door swing back open and began stalking off in a zigzag path.

Another night, Kate would have dutifully gone after him and tried to coax him into the car. Either a fight would have ensued or she would have acquiesced to a drink that would have ended up being five or six more for him, and they would have arrived back home well after midnight. Tonight there was a daughter waiting to come home and school beginning in the morning. There was positively no time for either option. She would risk the consequences. Besides, somewhere deep inside, she knew without realizing that she knew it, that Al was too drunk this time to be a threat now, or to remember tomorrow that she had defied him. So she left the car running and went around to close the passenger door.

Al, she said across the short distance her husband had managed to walk in his pursuit of the restaurant entrance, I’m not waiting. I have to get back. If you want a ride, you better get in now.

She didn’t pause for a reply, but walked back around and got behind the wheel. Closing the door, she backed the car out of its parking spot. The passenger door opened with a swoosh of air when she braked to shift gears.

Give me the keys; I’ll drive, a voice said over a thick tongue as Al swayed tenuously in the passenger doorway.

With unprecedented defiance for a second time that night, Kate shifted gears. Get in. I’m driving, she said in a tone tinged with anger. I start teaching in a new school tomorrow, and I intend to do it in one piece.

To her relief and surprise, Al threw himself like a lump into the front seat and slammed the door. Drive the damn car, then, was all he said. He was snoring loudly before Kate had reached the Expressway heading north.

Once at home, he woke and got himself into the house. There, he began talking about how he had almost flipped the car over about ten miles from the Half Track. He had abandoned the vehicle on the median strip, where it had landed right side up after careening across the double-lane highway. He couldn’t remember, he said, how he’d gotten to the restaurant, but he needed Kate to call the police and report his car stolen so that no charges would be levied against him for the mishap.

Kate understood his concern: Al hadn’t had a valid driver’s license for years. But she told him she would not call the police with such a lie, thereby defying her husband for the third time that night.

When he lunged for her in an effort to force her to the phone, she stayed well out of his way. He quickly wearied of any pursuit and collapsed on the couch, where he slept deeply for the rest of the night.

It was ten o’clock when Kate finally picked up Jamey and ten-thirty before she could make herself an omelet and pour herself a scotch.

She wouldn’t get upset about Al’s dilemma. Instead, she concentrated on the fact that she was safe after her long ride and had been spared any physical abuse at the hands of her drunken husband. There had been a time in her ten-year marriage to Al Ross when she would have been devastated by his behavior; by now she was indifferent to it. Years of abuse had not killed her yet, but it had finally killed her love for a man with whom she had once been deeply in love, a man who had finally beaten out every shred of affection she’d ever felt for him.

Her daughter would graduate from high school in June, and then she would leave Al. She wouldn’t disrupt their lives before Jamey’s important event, nor would she give any clue that she intended to leave. Her safety might depend on his being kept in the dark about her intentions right up to the very moment she left. She certainly knew that she could not predict what Al Ross might do when faced with his wife’s final defiant act.

CHAPTER 2

Mark Connors let the screen door slam every time he made a run to his car, which was parked on the street in front of his three-decker. He should have gotten his son Matty up to help him. The kid didn’t have school until tomorrow so he was sleeping in one last day. As a result, Mark’s hip was screaming at him for loading all these supplies in the car by himself. He’d get Ernie, the custodian at Westmore whom he’d already schmoozed, to help him unload everything once he got to school; meantime he’d have to tolerate the pain from the old football injury that always flared up when he was tense and active. He told himself he was an idiot to be tense about starting in a new school. A man of his experience! He wasn’t so sure about the guy who would be his new boss, but the rest of the district worshiped the ground he walked on, including the super!

One more pass and he’d be able to sit behind the wheel and rest for the twenty minutes it took to reach his new building.

Back in the kitchen, he grabbed a juice glass from the high kitchen cupboard and limped into the pantry to his Johnny Walker stash. He poured three fingers, measuring loosely; just enough to take the edge off his pain. He left the tumbler upside down on the rubber drying mat with the other haphazardly thrown dishes that his wife would get to sometime when the spirit moved her.

If he didn’t hurry, he’d not be early enough to arrive ahead of everyone else, which was his custom. The early bird always impressed. Just because it was a new school and a new group of co-teachers, there was no reason to change his routine.

At age forty, Mark was a veteran educator, highly respected for the exemplary job he’d been doing for almost nineteen years. He’d hold on to that, thank you very much. He liked being the most admired elementary instructor in his school district. Other teachers joining him in his new school, though some had more seniority than he, had not gained the notoriety. As a member of many Boston organizations affiliated with the museums in the city, the superintendent had sought his counsel often and bragged to his colleagues in other towns that Mark Connors was on his staff.

He pointed his car out onto Route 2 and sped into the passing lane. On this first day of school for the teachers, he had a lot to do before the general meeting. First, a stop at the bakery to pick up a couple of bags of goodies for his group. That always impressed, too.

* * * *

Pete Lange sat in his new office watching his phone ring. He was in the northerly side of the building in the section hurriedly named A House when the new middle school operation was put together. Up until today, he had been vice principal of all of Westmore Junior High School, grades seven, eight, and nine. But over the summer, the town had moved the ninth grade to the high school and all of the sixth grades from the elementary schools to Westmore. So today, he began his duties as housemaster of Westmore Middle School’s A House.

His new secretary (secretarial staff had been shuffled right along with the teaching and administrative staffs) caught the phone on the fifth ring and buzzed into his office.

She’s quick, he said to himself, and then felt rotten about his deteriorating disposition. Not worthy of me, he reminded himself as he picked up the receiver to Amy’s buzz. He pressed the first of two buttons. (He used to have four lines.)

You okay? The voice belonged to his buddy, Josh Winters, resident music director.

Terrific.

I wanted to check on you before you headed down for the meeting. Want to meet me for a drink later?

Nope. Lloyd wants to get off to a good start and has called an administrative staff meeting for the rest of this afternoon. By the time I’ve been holed up with Pickett for three-plus hours, I’ll be ready for therapy. You won’t want my company.

Maybe tomorrow then. If you change your mind…

Thanks, Josh. Let’s make it tomorrow. That sounds good.

Pete hung up the phone and reached for his clipboard, which was already neatly arranged with typewritten pages and dotted with last-minute stick-on notes. In five minutes he would have to be in the homemaking room when Lloyd Pickett, the new principal, called his first teachers’ meeting of the new Westmore Middle School.

His phone rang again. Pete picked it up himself.

I just called to say, don’t get discouraged, Anna Jordan, one of the elementary principals greeted him. You’ll have a good year. Take care of my sixth-grade teacher. You’re lucky to have her. They don’t come any better than Kate Ross.

I know, Anna. Thanks for the call. Pete inched forward in the desk chair, anticipating a quick end to the conversation. I’m not discouraged. I’m way past discouraged and all the way to disgusted, but like all the other times I’ve been passed over for a promotion, I’ll survive while I pray for the opportunity to retire early.

The system needs you. You know that.

The system has a funny way of showing it.

The superintendent doesn’t want to put his best buddy in that position. It wouldn’t make him look good, and then he might have to strong-arm you to get things the way he wants them. He’d much rather grapple with poor Lloyd. We all know who’ll be making the tough decisions.

You and I both know that simply means I’ll do all the work, get all the headaches and less of the prestige, not to mention a smaller paycheck.

"And you’ll have a job in ten years, with a paycheck, and Pickett won’t."

I told you, early retirement.

Pete Lange pushed the sweep of gray hair back to its place across the top of his forehead and smiled in spite of himself. Forgive my lamentations. I appreciate your kind words.

I should be the one lamenting, Anna chided him. I’m getting quite a crop of new teachers here in the elementary school, and there you are with my cream.

I’ll take good care of her, he promised, and wishing her a good year, he hung up the phone.

It immediately rang again, and this time he ignored it. He was now late for the meeting. He was opening his office door with clipboard in hand when his buzzer sounded. Walking back to his desk, he reached over awkwardly to press the button for the phone’s speaker, and Amy announced that he really needed to take this one.

Pete walked back around the desk, grabbed the receiver, and pressed button number one. As he did, he noticed the black woman standing in contained impatience on the threshold of his open office door. He calmly held up his hand, one finger extended, to indicate that he would not be long. He expected that she would politely retreat a few steps into the hall, but she did not move.

Ben Carney here, Mr. Lange, the steely voice said in his ear when Pete identified himself. Since my son was in first grade, I have felt that public schools were derelict. I’m putting Westmore Middle School on notice that I expect quality education for my son Philip or I go to the board and demand the town pay for a proper education at a more worthwhile institution.

Mr. Carney, Pete said in unruffled reply, I appreciate your call and encourage you to keep after us if you see any area where we can improve.

You’ve got my word on that, Mr. Lange, came the stern reply, but with a bit less formality than a moment ago.

The black woman paced to the side and then back until she was inside the room.

Pete repeated his just a minute gesture, only this time with more punctuation in the extension of his finger. The woman retreated back into the hall.

Mr. Carney, Pete resumed, I was due in the first teachers’ meeting five minutes ago. Could I have your number and give you a call later?

Not necessary, Mr. Lange, so long as we understand each other. I’m counting on you to oversee my son’s education.

My job exactly, Mr. Carney, Pete agreed.

With a hasty wish for a good day, Mr. Carney ended the conversation. Peter Lange stood, slowly straightened a telephone index on his desk, buttoned the middle button of his suit jacket, picked up the clipboard once again, and strolled to the door. The black woman was still waiting several feet to his left in the corridor. Pete closed his office door, and seemingly unrushed, locked it before he turned to regard her.

Mr. Lange, she said, reaching him quickly, I’m Maria Montagne. My son, Mason, will be entering into the sixth grade here tomorrow morning, and there are important matters we have to talk about.

Why don’t you see my secretary and make an appointment? Pete suggested, gesturing toward the open door next to his closed one.

I’m afraid this just won’t wait for that, the woman said, standing her ground.

I’m late now for a faculty meeting, Mrs. Montagne. I wish you had called me earlier. I could have seen you this morning if you had.

I was not able to call earlier, Mr. Lange. I work until this time every day, and the state only just yesterday got my family into an apartment in a complex we’ve had our name on for these past three years. I’m anxious for Mason to start the first day of school here even though we are not settled yet.

I assure you, if you have him here at eight A.M. tomorrow, we will enroll him.

There are things we must discuss before then.

What are these things that won’t wait? Pete asked kindly.

You must know the sensitive background of my boy before you effectively educate him, came the reply.

I would agree on the wisdom of that, Pete nodded, but one day or two won’t make a significant difference at the beginning, wouldn’t you agree?

Perhaps, Mr. Lange, you are only busy to my skin color, Maria Montagne said with a sudden huskiness to her voice. I’m used to that, but I won’t tolerate it.

"Now, Mrs. Montagne, you’re pulling a weapon on me, and I won’t tolerate that, Pete said, holding up his hands, clipboard and all, with a bemused smile on his face that seemed to take Maria off guard. Pete took advantage of the sudden loss of wind in the woman’s sails and backed up to his secretary’s office door, arms still raised. Through the open doorway, he spoke to Amy while looking directly at Maria Montagne. Mrs. Clarke, please book Mrs. Montagne into the next available slot which fits her schedule," he said. Then, with a smile and a nod to the woman, he strode past her and down the corridor in the direction of the faculty meeting.

On his way, Pete passed his old office with a hint of faded veneer on the closed door where his name plate had hung for fifteen years. He did not look in its direction, nor did he give his old situation another thought. He’d give this middle school thing and his lowered position as housemaster a fair shot and wait for retirement only ten years down the line, if his investments paid off the way he’d planned. The best laid plans…he thought to himself, and rushed to dismiss this new snide reflection. He’d spent years disciplining himself to focus, while on the job, on the tasks at hand, and was not about to lose his practiced control to the draining emotions of what might have been. At forty-five, he had committed himself for too long to making Westmore’s education the best it could be, and he would be as precise and adept toward this end as he had ever been.

Ahead of him was Kate Ross, and he remembered the recent telephone conversation with Anna. Kate was a tall, slender brunette who could not possibly get past Pete’s appreciation for a pretty woman. He deliberately followed Kate’s long, firm legs up to a round buttocks and further up to an amazingly tiny waist before a crowd of teachers absorbed her into the throng.

Then, the minute he entered the home economics room, he saw Lloyd Pickett hurling his rotund body against one of the room’s unyielding windows. He concealed the urge to smile and as soberly as possible made his way through the noisy crowd of teachers until he reached his principal. He knew what the problem was. It was too warm in the room already.

Lloyd, he said softly, they’re nailed.

Nailed? came the gruff and disbelieving response.

A few years ago we had trouble with vandals. This room, because of the equipment, was a prime target. We lost a quantity of toasters, broilers, irons, etc. The fans take care of ventilating, and the classes are only here for one period a day. We felt that this was the best way to insure ourselves.

Someone should have said something about this, snapped Pickett, retrieving a red-checked handkerchief from his back pants pocket and swiping at the sweat building up on his broad forehead.

No one had any idea, until this morning, that you were using this room, Pete shrugged. You know, I’ve been in this building for many years. I can give you some of the more subtle details regarding the plant if you just ask.

I want these windows open by eight A.M. tomorrow, came the sharp demand. Pete Lange shrugged again and backed off. He moved toward the other side of the room, where Fay Miller, a newly hired novice administrator was sitting at a long table on the right of the podium.

What was that all about? she whispered when Pete pulled out a chair beside her.

Pickett is steamed. He’s just discovered the windows won’t open. He says he wants the windows operable by starting time tomorrow. I’m sure the custodians on the first day of school have nothing better to do than pry open windows that have been sealed shut for eight years. This should teach him to work with us more closely, but mark my words, I wouldn’t count on that happening anytime soon.

* * * *

Lloyd Pickett, standing at the front of the room again, watched the last of his teachers filing in and picking up the cumbersome loose-leaf notebooks with their names emblazoned in black Magic Marker across the front. It was a task he had labored over during the entire summer, and the product was one he was proud of , a comprehensive compilation of every feasible piece of information his teachers would ever need: list of staff, room numbers, map of the building (both floors), A.M. duties, P.M. duties (for the entire year), lunch duty and schedules, rules and regulations, and on and