Class Rules

By Joseph Bakewell

Mike Martin, a former fire fighter with a disability, takes up writing and has one successful novel to his credit. One of his students, Leroy Hawkes, is a wealthy banker and chairman of the board at Cresthaven Prep, an all-boys school. He asks Mike to become a 'writer-in-residence' at the school, about two hours away from Mike's home. He takes the job, thinking that the regular salary will help him to save his busted marriage.
While at school, he begins to suspect a neighbor of taking up with his wife. Enraged, he plots to do in the neighbor and he observes a growing similarity between the plot of his current novel in process and his fantasies regarding his neighbor.
During the previous school year, a gang rape took place on campus. A cover-up was engineered by wealthy parents, the school's head master and some faculty. Mike is asked by the victim to write about it, revealing the truth and bringing her a sense of justice. He agrees and then encounters road blocks and complications. Losing his job is one, and he faces going home with nothing to offer, possibly even losing his, much-loved, children.
He vacillates, growing more confused and helpless with each new input. He's offered status and money to drop the project, an advantage in recouping his marriage--but his children would know of his capitulation. He starts to convince himself that dropping the project might be best for the girl. Leroy weighs in, providing Mike with the clarity he needs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joseph Bakewell
• Release date: Jun 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310530869

Joseph Bakewell

I have been writing for more years than I care to admit to. I've attended workshops and conferences almost every year including the Stone Coast Conference in Maine, Poets' and Writers' Conference at Vermont College, and the Colgate Writers' Conference in Hamilton, NY. I'm a member of the New Hampshire Writers' Project.I've self-published six novels, the latest,Class Rules tells the story of a writer, working at a prep school where he encounters a gang rape, scandal and corruption while working to save his marriage at home. My current work, untitled, is about n old man and a young woman thrown together in extraordinary, life-threatening, circumstances.Born in New York City, and raised in that area, I'm married, have four adult children, and live in Boxford, MA. My sports include skiing, snow shoeing, cycling, and hiking. All of which take an occasional back seat to snow removal or house repair.

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CLASS RULES

by

Joseph J Bakewell

SMASHWORDS EDITION

********

PUBLISHED BY

Joseph J Bakewell on Smashwords

Copyright © 2014 by Joseph J Bakewell

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CLASS RULES

THE STORY OF A MARRIAGE

&

MONEY, POWER, AND CORRUPTION

A MANUSCRIPT

JOSEPH J BAKEWELL

CHAPTER ONE

I was just looking to make a few bucks and get away from Eileen and my busted marriage. Descending into madness was not in my plan.

It all started peacefully enough. I drove onto the campus in my beat up, eleven year old, Volvo wagon, formerly our family car, and followed signs directing me to the ‘Villa Writers’ Conference’. Eventually, I spotted a hand-lettered cardboard square with an arrow, pointing to ‘Faculty Parking’. That had to mean me, even though I’d never been a faculty member before in my life. To me this was a gig: room and board, plus a week's pay to schmooze with wannabe writers for a week while pretending to possess a high level of expertise in writing novels, of which I had exactly one to my credit. What the hell, it got me out of the house, and gainfully employed, if only for a week. After that…?

The week passed as I had hoped: my students were pleased, and I was credited with having done a good job. I might have been invited back a year later--except for Leroy. Meeting him changed everything

But before returning home, I wound up agreeing with him to become a 'writer-in-residence' at an all-boys prep school. Five weeks later, I got a call from Cindy, his secretary, Doctor Farnsworth, the headmaster, expected to see me at Cresthaven Prep the following Tuesday after lunch. And so it began.

I fussed over what to wear, settling on a sport jacket and tie. I thought about bringing a copy of my book and clippings of articles I’d written but decided that might reveal a lack of confidence. I opted for a notebook.

Late summer blessed Cresthaven, giving it a bucolic feeling, sun emphasizing the still green trees and grass. A warm zephyr called attention to small dabs of red fluttering on a line of Maple trees at the far end of a large sloping lawn. There were no students as yet. The only person in sight was a groundskeeper pushing a wheelbarrow, loaded with hand tools, along a distant walkway. All was quiet, serene, as if I were visiting a monastery. It was hard to believe that a gang-rape had taken place there less than a year ago.

The signage at the school was pretty skimpy. The message seemed to be: ‘If you don’t know where you’re going, you don’t belong here.’ I spotted a woman on one of the paths and asked directions. The headmaster’s office was in one of those buildings built recently, sparing no expense to make it look old. Inside, it was cool, softly illuminated, and quiet, thanks to thick carpeting and drapery. A secretary told me that Doctor Farnsworth was expecting me. She invited me to be seated and went inside to tell him of my arrival. I strolled around examining portraits on the walls, a long line of deceased headmasters.

She returned. Doctor Farnsworth said he’ll be with you shortly. Please, do take a seat.

I did. ‘Shortly’ turned out to be twenty minutes. I wondered what a headmaster did to keep so busy in the summer time. At the muted ring of her phone, the secretary stood to guide me into Farnsworth’s office. I noticed immediately that the light was brighter there than in the outer office. As I entered, he was sitting behind his desk, perusing an important document. It could have been the ‘Racing Form’, for all I knew. He removed his rimless glasses and came round to greet me.

Mister Martin, a pleasure to meet you. Sorry to keep you waiting. He gestured toward a chair. Please. A nod to his secretary and she left, closing the door behind her. He sat in a chair identical to mine, just across a small coffee table.

Nice office, I said.

Thank you. Marvelous views of the campus. He tilted his nose toward two picture windows, one behind, and one to the side of his desk. Of course, there are times when the sun is a bit much, and I must make use of the drapes. They’re motorized. I have the controls right there on my desk. His smile stuck me as one of those ‘I’m a modest ordinary guy at heart’ smiles that the rich and powerful use to charm their inferiors.

What won’t they think of next?

Yes, well, Mister Martin, we need to discuss your role here. We have no experience with a ‘Writer in Residence’. What is your view?

Fortunately, I had considered this question. If I were left entirely on my own, what would I do? I see myself as a kind of extra-curricular resource for students with a particular interest in reading or writing.

I see. And in what form would this resource be provided?

I thought perhaps a writers’ group. Half a dozen students writing and critiquing each others’ work, with some coaching from me.

Yes?

And a book club. I could have two levels in each: one for seniors and another for lower grades.

You do realize that we have extensive courses in reading and writing taught by competent, professional teachers?

Of course. I wouldn’t interfere with that in any way. It’s just that there’s a difference between taking courses for a grade and pursuing a subject for the joy of it.

I will try to keep that in mind, Mister Martin. In the meantime feel free to enjoy your stay here. I’m sure you have much work of your own to attend to. I’ll endeavor to come up with a contribution you can make, consistent with our obligations to our students and their parents. He rose and went back to his desk. Mrs. Nelson will see you out. She’ll also take care of getting you an I.D. card, food arrangements, that sort of thing.

He had not mentioned my connection to Leroy, or the rape.

Mrs. Nelson reentered to escort me out. She introduced me to a big man, heavy set through the shoulders and chest, with a modest belly to match. He wore a brown, plaid, long-sleeved shirt, its pocket stuffed with a notebook, pens, and pencils. This is Mister Jack Booth, a very important man. Booth, standing with his arms folded, shot a glance my way. Mister Booth is our facilities manager. He’ll take your picture for your I.D. and then show you around.

Once outside, we shook hands. It’s Jack, he said,

And I’m Mike.

You got the best cottage here. Do you want to see it first?

Whatever’s easiest for you.

He showed me around the main campus first: very impressive athletic facilities, the library, dining rooms, dorms, science labs, and classrooms. You’re a writer, I understand?

Yes, I am.

I never met a real writer before. Oh, some of these characters around here write text books and that kind of thing, but that’s not the same thing, is it?

I laughed. We need both.

I suppose.

We had done a lot of walking. Every function seemed to require a separate building. I wondered how the students dealt with bad weather. Booth pointed out that many buildings were connected underground. Finally, we got to my cottage, isolated about a hundred yards away from the main campus. I was impressed. It had a full, covered, front porch, slate roof, cedar shingles, and stone chimney. Inside, I found a generous living room-library, modern kitchen and bath, plus three bedrooms. All was done in a rustic style; the whole would have made a luxurious vacation home on Moosehead Lake in Maine. I wondered if I could entice Eileen to come out for a look-see.

During the drive home, I mulled over my visit with Farnsworth. What it came down to was that I had a second home—all to myself. I’d be paid to live there while I worked on my novel and did a little spying for Leroy. I felt uncomfortable with that but I couldn’t assess exactly why. It wasn’t just the spying bit. Eileen, being away from her, that was the biggest part.

I kept at it for the entire trip, thinking, at one point, that I should just shit-can the whole thing, call Cindy, write an apology to Leroy. I remembered a bible quotation from my youth: What does it profit a man if he gaineth the whole world but suffers the loss of his soul? In my case, it was the loss of Eileen, not my soul, that worried me.

I hate to spend that much time thinking about something, only to find myself more confused than when I started. There was only one thing to do—nothing.

Eileen did not evidence the least curiosity regarding my visit to Cresthaven. But at dinner with the kids, I had a chance to briefly describe the school and my cottage. Later, the kids left the table; I lingered. Eileen got up with her plate. Sounds like you’ll be living the life of Riley.

The cottage is great. You might like to come out and see it.

We’ll see. Perhaps one of the kids would like to take a drive out and see how the other half lives.

I’m not…I’m not really happy with the deal.

Poor baby.

I was already down. How many times was she going to kick me before her foot got sore? She seemed annoyed with me; I'd already confessed, I'd been trying to make it up, but something was missing. What? What the hell was I supposed to do?

Cindy Bates called. Mister Hawkes asked me to find out how your meeting went.

I loved the cottage, beautiful campus.

He specifically wants to know how you got on with Doctor Farnsworth.

I didn’t.

You did meet with him?

Oh, yes.

"I’m sure this will not come as a surprise to Mister Hawkes. Can you give me some details?

I summarized the meeting, without embellishment.

I’ll relay this to Mister Hawkes. Please don’t be discouraged, Mike. Once you’re there, things will improve. It will all work out. You’ll see.

What a weird situation--and it all started at a writer's conference--The Villa Writer's Conference on the coast of Maine. I'd no sooner arrived when I learned that one of my students, Leroy Hawkes, was not just a name on twenty five pages of manuscript but, a big muckety muck, Chairman of the Board at Center-Bank.

He didn’t show up at the orientation meeting. I thought, maybe he was just too busy to go through with it. I was disappointed until a woman approached me after the meeting.

Mister Martin, I’m Cindy Bates, Mister Hawkes’s secretary. I understand that you’re to be his instructor? She was in her forties, trim, and very well dressed in a business suit. She looked me over. You're about the same size as he is but a little trimmer. Are you an athlete?

Well, I was--played some football and basketball in high school. I waited to hear what she’d been sent to say.

. Mister Hawkes will be with you in the morning. I’ve taken notes on all that he needs to know. And he asked me to tell you that he wants no special treatment and expects to be called by his first name, which is, Leroy."

No problem. I look forward to meeting him.

She gave me a prim smile and leaned forward to confide in me. He’s really quite nice, you’ll see. And off she went.

After breakfast the next morning, we all jumped into cars, or a shuttle van, for the short ride to the ‘Villa’, for which the conference was named. I stepped out to view a large mansion, built years ago as a summer ‘cottage’ by one of those wealthy families, whose name is familiar only to those who also ‘come from money’. They donated it to the college, no doubt, when it became a white elephant.

Early arrivals stood around outside, drinking coffee and getting acquainted. I overheard someone say, He’s here. There was a big limo in the parking lot.

I started watching the latest arrivals. He wasn’t hard to pick out, nattily but casually dressed in polo-shirt and slacks. He wore a tan baseball cap with no logo or name embroidered on it, a tall man in his late fifties, strong, looking like he’d been a jock in college and still played an aggressive game of tennis.

His nametag in view, he took the initiative, introducing himself on his way to the sign-in table. I noticed his eyes, darting around at nametags. I made mine obvious as he turned away from the table. Sure enough, he came straight to me, hand outstretched.

Hi, Mike. I’m Leroy.

I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.

I understand Cindy talked to you last night. I just want to fit in here.

Good trick.

He grinned and waved a hand. The novelty will wear off by tomorrow. I hope I’m not making things difficult for you.

As long as you don’t ask any tough questions, I’m cool.

I don’t know enough to ask an easy one.

Helen, the conference director, rang a little bell. Time to go inside.

Just as our little group was settling in, Leroy’s cell phone rang. He apologized and answered it as he stepped into the hall. All I heard of the brief conversation was, Listen, Walter, even convicted criminals are entitled to a little privacy. Tell ‘em I’ll take care of it next week. He came back in. Sorry, it’s off now.

There were six students in my group. I began the session with a short tutorial on dialog (I’d been reading writers’ magazines for the past month) and then started with Betty and her novel. I’d plugged Leroy in for the second day.

The class began the critique of Betty’s novel in a tentative way. I suspected that they did not want to set a precedent for their own critiques, and I think some of them worried that Lucy, her novel's much-abused protagonist, might be Betty. I felt certain that she was not.

A young woman named Harriet, the first person to speak, pointed out several errors in spelling, punctuation, and grammar. I jumped in to say that, while these were important in all writing, we should concentrate on Betty’s story and suggest ways to improve it. Leroy weighed in. I liked the way you described Lucy, writing about how she treasured little things like that piece of blue ribbon. I was moved by her plight and I wanted to reach out to help her. I hope someone does before the end of the novel.

Tom spoke up. Maybe she’ll find a way to help herself.

Betty beamed as she hurried to take notes.

After the last session, we headed back to the campus in time to wash up and, for some, to have a snort before diner. I would not see Leroy until the next morning.

When he showed up, knowing we were going to critique his piece, he told me, I’m looking forward to it. It’s kind of exciting.

I wasn’t excited; I was worried. Next to Betty’s, his piece was the most amateurish in our group. His protagonist, a