Unforgettable Sins

By Gerald Rivinius

"So whoever knows the right thing to do and fails to do it, for him it is in."—James 4:17

Two young men are the best of friends and, seemingly, the best of their small town: smart, considerate of others, great athletes, with the attitude that a good life was theirs with hard work.

But as high school seniors, Rick and Luke become a unit of one following an egregious error.

Luke's father, Elmer Schmidt, is a successful attorney who built a reputable law business and is well-known throughout Oklahoma. And yet, some of the townspeople believe he is a wolf in sheep's clothing. Elmer's influence on the two boys catapults them into a confused and scary adult world, one where their long-term goals are shattered and each is sent on an unguided course, with fear and guilt the essence of their lives.

Inspired by an actual event, Unforgettable Sins is a work of fiction that contains many fundamental truths. Get on board and enjoy the ride. Through their travails after a terrible youthful mistake, Rick and Luke will not disappoint.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gerald Rivinius
• Release date: Dec 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370064229

Book preview

UNFORGETTABLE SINS

A novel

by

Gerald Rivinius

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

Copyright © 2016 by Gerald Rivinius

The story herein is a work of fiction. Any characters or events bearing similarities to actual persons or occurrences is strictly coincidental.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, it was not properly lent to you or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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Prologue: 1970

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Acknowledgments

About the author

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PROLOGUE: 1970

The ’60s and early ’70s were much different than the beginning of the 21st century. The atmosphere was in survival mode, compared to the present day. Calculators have been available for only a few years. There were no personal computers or cell phones. Color TV was abundant and flourishing. The older cars had no seatbelts. Mufflers and tail pipes needed replacement almost as often as tires.

The term, finding himself, was not in the layman’s vocabulary. Most of the younger generation lived with themselves and there was no looking for their place in life. The masses were destined to do what was expected of them. To work hard and if you have a family, then you must provide for them.

Parents would not worry that their children might be abducted, and hardly ever were the youngsters personally cautioned about it. Outdoors is all the children knew, unless the weather was bad, and then it was cards, chess or board games. The games gave the participants a little understanding of math, and social skills developed when the deck of cards, thrown at a sibling, or crying ensued due to a disagreeable loss.

The well known adage (you never get a second chance to make a first impression) speaks especially to adolescent high schoolers. This statement is particularly true for those who make the journey from freshman through senior and eventual graduation. There was no second opportunity to do it over.

Students didn’t have a guide book to follow. They were more concerned with the emotional aspects of growing up. What it felt like being popular or not. Peer pressure was part of the building block or the glue that formulated their behavior. This was the time to make the correct choices. Most students were growing physically, but the mental process followed far behind.

Adults often said, Wouldn’t it be great to go back in time and relive our high school years. A few would slip back in time, but only to start over. Poor decisions were part of their past.

The painted canvass sits with various colors. Some chose a dark color rather than bright yellow or white. The finished parcel is not what was expected.

Click on the computer screen to erase the past. The monitor must be bright and clear when touching the delete button. The cursor blinking and the words are visible in a 12 point font. The high school freshman entered the homeroom for the first time with two weapons: a huge smile and a number two pencil.

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Chapter 1

The state of Oklahoma has a death penalty for those convicted of violent crimes.

Luke and I were high school seniors. We had outstanding grades, loving parents, and had never, ever been in serious trouble.

Friday the 13th seems like a good day to get this story underway—Friday the 13th of March, 1970.

The brakes and tires screeched, and a strong scent of hot rubber spread throughout the vehicle.

I was riding shotgun with my best friend, Luke Schmidt. His Chicago Cubs hat was sitting high on his head, and his dark rimmed glasses were hanging cockeyed, low on his nose. Our means of transportation was a 1955 pink and black Desoto, a gift to Luke from his father.

Luke’s abrupt braking, and the harsh turn from the blacktop onto the county road, filled the car with dust that seeped through the rusted-out floorboards. Luke had been far too lazy to attempt cleaning the windshield recently, and the dense dust blurred our vision further.

Ahead of us, Doug and three others rode in a new 1969 Oldsmobile, a car belonging to Doug’s father that he’d borrowed without his father’s knowledge. Both cars fishtailed from side to side on the washed-out gravel road. My passenger door opened, and for a split second, I prepared for the worst. If it wasn’t for Luke grabbing me by my shirt collar, I would’ve tumbled out.

Are we racing to prove something, I yelled, or will we collect a big prize at the end of the race? This was reminding me of a fishing trip I’d taken with Luke. I braced myself with my right hand on the dash, my left hand fixed to the back of the front seat.

Luke, despite my near miss, looked neither worried nor concerned.

If any of us had taken the time to think about it being Friday the 13th, we might have used a little restraint. Our group was only a few miles from Willit, Oklahoma, taking a backroads route through rolling hills. At that point, our choices were to terminate our outing or buckle up. We were on a mission.

We were six seniors, all members of the Birchville High School track team. We all stood between five foot ten and six feet tall, except for Doug, who was much shorter. All of us wore our hair in crewcuts or flat-top haircuts, and my mom had once said, All you guys look alike—slender and handsome, just like James Stewart. It’s hard to tell you kids apart. My dark hair held a tinge of red, though, so Luke called me Mars, like the red planet.

Two weeks earlier, the entire track team received their hard-earned letterman jackets. The jackets had a whiff of fresh leather and the Birchville colors of purple and gold. We wore the jackets mostly for school functions, but we were also wearing them for this experimental excursion.

The six of us were involved in an undertaking that only high school students about to graduate (and stupid ones at that) would understand.

Regardless of the high speed and the aberrant driving, my optimism told me that we would get to our objective in one piece.

When our two vehicles entered the city of Willit, the approximate time was 7:30 pm. The sunlight was going fast, and the few stars that we could see were twinkling in the dusky sky. Lucky, I thought—our parents were nowhere in sight.

This unincorporated small town, 16 miles northeast of Birchville, was almost a ghost town. Its streets were bumpy and full of potholes, and its ditches were brimming with cans, bottles, and cardboard boxes. Willit had no grocery store, drugstore, school, library, or hospital. A small post office was visible on an adjacent block, but the only other businesses that we saw were a grain elevator across the railroad tracks and the Willit Bar on Main Street, only half of its neon signs flashing. There were no sizeable buildings in the block other than the bar.

The Willit Bar was our journey’s end. It was our goal to walk in, order six beers, and drink them like adults.

We parked both cars diagonally on the opposite side of the street from the bar. There were no people or traffic in sight, only two dirty pickup trucks that were parked near the bar’s front entrance. We stepped out of our vehicles, and I wondered which one of us had come up with this dumb idea, and why had we all signed on?

While we were planning our entry strategy, an elderly couple drove up next to us in a red and white Cadillac and stopped in the center of Main Street. The aged driver, who had a huge white beard like Santa Claus, rolled down his window.

Good evening sir, Doug told him politely.

Don’t even think about going in, was the man’s only reply as he waved a finger of disapproval toward our group.

The car’s electric window went up, and the Cadillac drove off. None of us had recognized the man or woman inside.

Let’s just hop in my car and wait to see if Charlie White Beard returns, Doug suggested. Once we’d all piled into the Oldsmobile, he added, Relax! The night is just beginning. We may get thrown out, but what harm can that do?

Our coach isn’t here, and our parents aren’t either, Luke agreed. What can go wrong?

After that, we discussed the Clayton County track meet, which was coming up in the first week of May. Both the girls’ and boys’ Birchville track teams won that event almost every year. Eventually, though, Doug said, Just act natural, and we’ll do just fine. Let’s go and enjoy the evening.

We were slow to exit the vehicle, with good reason. Laughing, Doug teased, Come on guys—you look like a bunch of girls ready for their first dance recital!

This was where we had our last opportunity to back out, but not one of us had the intelligence to say no. The Cadillac did not return, and now our goal was in full view.

Each of us was wearing our purple and gold jackets as we approached the front door of the Willit Bar. We’d reversed them before slipping them on so that the bartender would have no idea what school we represented. Of course, that meant that the care labels at the backs of our necks that said, Sears, Roebuck & Co. Do Not Wash, Dry-Clean Only! were showing. I had a vision of the bartender shouting, Nice jackets, boys—now hit the road before I call the cops.

Hanging from a long nail to the right of the entrance door was a huge, rusted wind chime made from used horseshoes. The weeds were high enough at the bar’s entrance to conceal most of the empty beer cans and bottles that were strewn about. Its outside windows were filthy. We could observe some of the inside through them, but the broken shades prevented us from getting a clear view of what we were about to experience.

Every detail of the building was old and dirty. If we were to get beer here, I thought, it would probably be old and stale.

Despite this, Doug skipped toward the door, the rest of us following like a dover of ducklings. He would go first, since he had a half-beard growing all the time and looked much older than the rest of us. I decided to go second for the same reason that I was typically early in line for vaccinations on school health days: I wanted to be one of the first and get it over with.

Sweat was pouring off my brow, apprehension and anticipation wrapping together in a tight ball in my stomach. Being thrown into jail overnight would not sit well with our parents or the track coach.

The rest of the guys didn’t have much excitement in their steps, either. Doug, unperturbed, pushed open the door five or six inches, then turned back toward us and said, Now, don’t order a fountain drink. This isn’t a drugstore!

The smell of stale beer and smoke was apparent as soon we entered the bar. The place had endured many years of abuse. Two neon beer signs above the bar were broken and flickering, just like the faulty neon lights outside. All of the chairs and stools were pitted with tears and countless cigarette burns. The wooden floor was saturated with oil, and there were beer stains throughout the room.

I was thinking how all bars couldn’t look as bad as this one. What enjoyment could adults get from an atmosphere like this?

Hello, guys, the bartender said in welcome. He seemed to be pleased to see us.

The only other people inside were two middle-aged men sitting on tall barstools, farmers having drinks after a long workday. They gave us a look and turned away in disgust, not too pleased to see six youngsters enter their territory.

Doug ordered six Budweisers for our group, then sat down next to the two farmers and offered them a round of their choice. They accepted.

Luke spotted two pool tables. How about a game, Mars? he asked me. The bar’s lighting was terrible, and the fixtures above the pool tables were barely bright enough for us to see what we were doing, but I agreed that we could give it a try.

After repeated attempts with two quarters, the balls finally released and we started playing. Our other three buddies were playing on the table next to us. We made little conversation and attempted not to be conspicuous, though the bartender quickly came over and sat our bottles of Budweiser on the table’s edge, saying, Enjoy.

We could readily see how so many of the beers that had previously sat on this table had spilled and combined with tears, gave the table’s felt cloth a horrible appearance. Each of us took a sip and made it look like we knew what we were doing. Luke and I both drank our beers slowly, unimpressed with the bitter taste.

Hey, Rick, Luke said to me after a while. (Infrequently, he called me Rick.) Can you believe we haven’t been thrown out? With these jackets, it must look like a circus invaded the Willit Bar.

The mastermind of this jacket reversal is a genius, I answered in a low tone. The bartender and the men at the bar haven’t said a word about our jackets.

Luke smiled and took his turn.

I was facing away from Doug and the two men sitting at the bar, but I could hear parts of their conversation whenever I wasn’t focusing on playing. Doug was shaking dice with his two new friends for the bar tab, and every time I heard the dice box empty, the men would laugh and pat Doug on the back, meaning that he’d lost again. He could certainly tell a good story, though. He told them that we were passing through from Kansas and looking for work. The two farmers and the bartender seemed to be buying it, so I just hoped that they wouldn’t look outside and spot the Oklahoma license plates on our cars.

Doug gave the bartender a dollar for the use of the jukebox for the entire night. Brenda Lee’s I’m Sorry was first to play, followed by Chubby Checkers’ The Twist. Doug’s buddies at the bar were not impressed with our choices. We were certain they wanted country western, but it was free music for them, and they didn’t complain out loud.

Luke wanted in on the action and asked Doug to play anything he could find by Elvis. Doug was on his third beer and moved quickly to the jukebox to hit the Elvis button, but when he did, all of the lights went out for a half minute or so. The electrical wiring in the place was definitely in ill repair, with loose wires coming out of junction boxes all over. The building was hurting and needed the assistance of an electrician and carpenter.

Periodically, I would see headlights passing in front of the bar through the dirty windows, thankfully not stopping. I attempted to distinguish if a Cadillac was one of them, but so far, Charlie White Beard hadn’t come back.

When the bartender asked if we wanted another beer, no one refused.

He sat two new beers down in front of Luke and me and said, That’ll be one dollar. Not knowing the price of beer, I thought the charge was a little steep for two drinks, but how could we complain?

Doug and two of the others took off their jackets and made certain that the gold and purple didn’t show when they laid them down on a soiled bench. Doug was wearing a Yellowstone National Park sweater with two huge brown bears on the front. Doug’s catchphrase was Big is better, and he could always be identified in a crowd by the huge animals on his sweater.

This night was unusual and unreal. There were no comments about our goofy-looking jackets. The bartender didn’t question us about looking 18 or younger. And with Doug keeping the two farmers occupied with conversation and beer, no one was wondering where we were from or doubting Doug’s looking for work story.

The five of us at the pool tables were constantly whispering softly. We thought the incompetence of the bartender and the bizarreness of the evening were something else.

Doug played one more Everly Brothers tune, Let It Be Me, then hollered to all of us, I’m going to the car to get a couple more dollars from the glove box.

The two men at the bar left with Doug, while the rest of us continued with our second beers, which hadn’t been part of the plan. One minute later, though, Doug came running back through the front door. The County Sheriff is pulling up outside! he yelled. Let’s get out of here!

Beers went flying in the air and on the floor as we all, including Doug, scrambled to fetch our jackets. The bartender was shouting, Out the backdoor through this aisle, then take the backroads! Take Fillmore Road, not the highway back to Birchville!

Wow, he knew we were from Birchville all along and didn’t let on. And we’d thought we were so clever!

It didn’t take us more than five seconds to get out of the bar, speed being no problem for the track team. I even managed to tell Doug, We’ll see you back in town! on the way out.

It was totally dark outside, and Luke and I headed in one direction while the others separated and were soon out of sight. As Luke and I ran side by side, though, there was suddenly no earth below us. Our feet kept moving, nothing but air under them as we fell into an empty basement. The building that had been above it was gone, but the empty hole was still there.

Neither of us were seriously injured from the tumble, but how could we get out of this dark hole? My ankle had twisted in the fall, and I felt a few jolts of sharp pain as I climbed to my feet.

Stumbling over cans and bottles, I searched for an exit, feeling my way from corner to corner. The headlights from the sheriff’s vehicles kept flashing above us. Eventually, I found wooden stairs leading out of the hole in the northwest corner. I called Luke over, and he followed me up our exit route.

When we were out, I quickly caught sight of the two sheriff’s vehicles. They were circling the block with their headlights on, searching. Luke and I scattered in opposite directions.

My ultimate goal was to find a way out of the block that the sheriff was circling. Running from one side of the block to the other used all of my stamina, however, since my ankle was hurting and I couldn’t move as fast as I wanted. I tripped on the gravel right as one of the cars was turning toward me.

To my surprise, though, the Sheriff’s vehicles turned around and started circling the block in the opposite direction. I may have given myself up if they had continued toward me at that point.

As I hurried back into the block once again, I heard a voice hiss, Over here! Not knowing where the call came from or who it was, I saw a door open in a tiny structure—a dirty chicken coop—and spotted Luke. Get in here! he whispered loudly.

I was happy to crawl in there and spend time with Luke and the chickens. The smell of chicken poop was terrible, and there was no place to sit, so we stood half bent over, gasping for air. The spotlights did shine on the chicken house a few times, but apparently the sheriff couldn’t see us. We only said a few words as the vehicles maintained their route around the block.

We could see our cars through cracks in the coop with the help of a dim intersection light adjacent to the bar. Both cars were still there, but none of our other friends were in sight. Suddenly, though, Doug’s headlights went on and his car made a screeching exit, taking the same street out that we’d used to enter town. From the sound of the Oldsmobile’s V8, Doug was using all of its power.

The sheriff’s vehicles swung around to give chase.

Luke and I hoped that Doug could get away and take the backroads, as the bartender had suggested. We both knew where Fillmore Road was, having hunted pheasants on it before, and we knew that Doug was aware of the narrow wooden bridge on that road, so he’d also know which route to take.

We waited a few minutes before we climbed out of the coop and dusted ourselves off, then