A Right Thing to Do

By Debra Nord and Bill Harrod

Following his desperate prayer for help, an eccentric lady driving a dilapidated RV suddenly appears offering to help a guilt-ridden former corporate executive.

The journey of a lifetime awaits him if he chooses to embark upon this trip back into his past. Little does he know that this quest to find his lost soul will not only bring him face to face with the wreckage of his selfish life, but will also place at his disposal the most awesome power ever known to an ordinary man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Sep 27, 2001
• ISBN: 9781466956773

Debra Nord

Bill Harrod was born and raised in Kentucky. He has lived in Kansas for the past thirty years. He graduated from Washburn University. Prior to writing this book he was employed in various management capacities in private industry. Harrod also has owned and operated a number of businesses. Debra Nord was born in Kansas and has lived there her intire life. She is a graduate of Friends University. Bill and Debra have been married for twelve years. This is their first book together.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

As the last rays of sunlight signaled the end of yet another lonely late fall day, forty-six-year-old Harry Biteoff sat alone in the family den staring out of the large rear windows that ran the length of the house. Even with most of the leaves having fallen, it remained an attractive vista. The house was situated in the middle of twenty wooded acres near a thicket of oak trees and a small creek that often attracted deer and other wildlife. But Harry saw nothing. He heard nothing. There was only the voice in his head that kept repeating, Go ahead. Do it. What have you got to live for?

As darkness overtook the shadows, he said to himself in a low voice resonating with disgust, You’re pathetic. You won’t do it. You’re a coward.

The gun slipped from his hand and fell to the carpeted floor. The sound of its falling was barely audible.

He sat back in the expensive leather chair that had functioned as his personal cockpit seat all these years. Here he had watched the troubled world go by within the safety of his modern-day rural fortress with its one-eighth-mile long drive protected by a large locked metal privacy gate.

He reached for the Scotch on the table and took a big gulp. Setting the drink aside, he said with a grimace, Why do I drink this swill? Why does anybody drink this swill?

Occasionally, he drank a few with the guys at the golf club after a round. It seemed necessary to project a macho image-to be like one of the guys. And to Harry, image was very important.

Stepping out onto the rear patio, Harry had no idea what he was doing or where he was going. He began to wander around to the back of his house, reconciling with the horrible fact that he was miserable and could find no reason to continue living. Although he abhorred the thought of going on like this, it had become obvious he was too big a coward to end his useless existence. Worse yet, he had absolutely no idea what to do next.

Harry had always been an answer man. As long as it concerned someone else’s life, he always had a solution. This was different. There was nothing now but the hopeless realization of his powerlessness to ease his mental torment.

Then, without any forethought, Harry fell on his knees in the cedar mulch of one of his wife’s flower gardens. In sheerest desperation, he lifted his arms and face to the cool evening sky and began to do something never done before in his entire adult life. He prayed for help.

In a voice just above a whisper, Harry pleaded for release from his anguish. Oh dear God, please help me. I don’t know what to say. Help me know what to do. Please help me…help me. I’ll do anything. Anything.

As quickly as it had begun, it ended. Taken aback, he tried to comprehend what had just happened. Where had that come from? Had he actually fallen to his knees inhis wife’s flower garden and prayed to God? Confused and a little frighten, he stumbled back to the house.

CHAPTER TWO

The next morning Harry was up and moving like any man with somewhere important to go and something important to do. However, on this morning, like every morning for the past seven months, he didn’t have to be anywhere. No one expected him; no one needed his services. This thought still shocked him.

The company he had dedicated his life to in a very literal sense had abruptly and with very little ceremony offered him early retirement, and informed him that he would be well advised to take it. After twenty-two years of faithful service, Harry was dismissed, along with many others who were considered expendable in the company’s future plans. While remembering not to put on a suit and tie he muttered, Those rotten lying low lifes, those back stabbing morons.

Dressed, and yet lacking someplace to go, he got in his 1999 white Chevy Suburban that looked as new as the day he had purchased it and drove a few miles down the road to have breakfast at the local diner. He seldom went there because he didn’t want anyone to think he hadn’t more important things to do than have a leisurely breakfast.

As he pulled into the diner parking lot he recognized a couple of his ex-coworkers’ vehicles. Not wanting to sit around with those incompetents listening to how sorry they were that he got such a crappy deal, he turned his Suburban around and headed home. He didn’t want sympathy from the likes of them.

While retracing his route, the feelings of despair, confusion, and anger began to creep into his consciousness again. Recognizing the futility of his life, he began to wander if it had always been this way. Again he said to himself, Why would anyone want to live such a totally useless life?

He recalled the events of the previous evening: how he had chickened out with the gun, how he had fallen on his knees in the garden, and how he had begged for help from God. Even now it was difficult for him to comprehend. He certainly recognized the recurring feelings of despair and misery, but praying? He had never prayed. Never! What had gotten into him?

Already, he wished this day were over. He even thought it would be preferable if his wife would return home from visiting their youngest son. He knew the constant arguing kept her away so long and so often. It seemed to be all they did since his retirement. She had learned to put up with his preoccupation with work, but she couldn’t stand by any longer and bear the brunt of the bitterness and resentment he now had towards nearly everything in life.

He was selfish, always looking out for himself first, but who wasn’t? He believed in the trickle down theory. The managers of the productive assets of society deserved more, and the less capable and talented should be satisfied with what was left over. It had been that way throughout history.

Pulling his Suburban off the road into his driveway, he stopped a short distance from the impressive iron gates that told the world, Here resides a man of substance, and he doesn’t want to be bothered. As he pressed the remote gate opener, the gates immediately began to open. He remained stationary for a time, staring down the tree-lined driveway pondering what and who these gates were protecting-those on the inside or those on the outside?

Slowly, he began to drive through the gates as they closed behind him. Proceeding down the driveway, his gaze shifted to the tops of the nearby oak trees that gave indication the wind was becoming stronger. He felt a chill as he realized that soon the remaining leaves would succumb to winter’s cold breath.

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CHAPTER THREE

As she eased her way into traffic and pushed the RV’s gas pedal to the floor, Martha felt relieved to be out of Denver’s inner city traffic. She was still somewhat irritated-although this was her usual state when notified by e-mail to drop everything, hop into her 1977 Vistawego recreational vehicle, and head out on the highway to meet her new assignment. Piece of junk computers, piece of junk modems, piece of junk RV, she said aloud with obvious irritation in her voice. As she finished her harangue, the RV backfired loudly as if it had taken offense.

Martha yearned for the days of old when getting in touch with people on an immediate basis was much less assured. The quickest way you had then was long distance,but if you weren’t around the phone, you couldn’t answer the darn thing. At most, the caller would leave a message on your machine. Now with pagers, cell phones, and notebook computers with modems, you were at the beck and call of whoever jerked your chain the hardest. Although only one party jerked Martha’s chain, this was the biggest chain jerker in the universe.

Martha, again with derision obvious in her voice, read a printed copy of the e-mail she had received. Olathe, Kansas. Who in the heck would live in a place named O-lath? What kinds of people make up a name like O-lath? And this guy’s name: Harry P. Biteoff. What kind of name is Bite-off? And a middle initial P? Are the parents that stupid? And what’s his problem? Let’s see: middle-age white male, good physical health, plenty of money, and living in the most free and prosperous country on the planet. Sounds critical to me! I’ve got to find some way to get in touch with whoever selects these assignments. This one-way-only communication is just a little too one-sided, if you ask me.

Continuing eastward towards her newest assignment-the RV engine popped and missed. Despite the fact that it had over two million miles on it, she knew it wouldn’t fail. Run it without oil, no problem. It would run on and on until it conveniently stopped running in front of the only honest car mechanic shop in a hundred miles. Inevitably, there would be nothing seriously wrong with any part of the vehicle, and the mechanic would quickly have her safely back on the road again.

That’s right, keep on running, on and on and on. We’ll see who gets the last laugh. We’ll just see. You know I belong in one of the big dogs. That’s right. I belong in one of those million dollar, big as a barn, flying down the road, suck you up with my dual tall pipes, hot tub in the back, satellite TV with all the shopping channels, custom designed interior and paint job-luxury RV, and I do have a plan. All I’m saying is that it involves watching you get crunched up and smashed into a little three foot cubed bale of scrap metal. Again, the RV retorted with a loud backfire.

CHAPTER FOUR

Nighttime found Harry alone again with his torment. He turned his head slowly from side to side aimlessly looking out the window into the darkness. Can Hell be any worse than this? Am I cursed? If so, what are my crimes? Who have I harmed so dreadfully? I ask again, who?

Taking his palms, he pressed the sides of his head as if to force the answers from somewhere deep within the recesses of his brain. An almost inhuman moan came from his throat-his inner pain would not allow it to stop. Something was determined to come forth, fighting its way to the surface through years and layers of denial.

As if someone else was using his voice to answer, Harry began to speak. What about Christy McDaniels? You broke your promise to marry her and then ran away leaving her pregnant with your child. You’ve never once gone back to check on her or the baby.

The voice continued, Or what about Jeff Bailey? He confided to you that he was gay. Although he was your best friend before and during college, you exposed him to your mutual friends and coworkers. Feeling betrayed and humiliated, he quit his job and left town.

And again the voice, Remember Tom Yates…the capable young man who worked in your department? He was too good, too smart and that scared you. You kept assigning him projects that had little chance of success and gave him bad reviews when he came up short. Conveniently, you fired him for the good of the company.

Stunned, Harry exclaimed, Where’s all of this coming from? I haven’t thought about those people in years. What’s going on? Why now? Talk about dredging up the past. This is getting downright spooky. What else is in there that wants to come out?

Just as before, his own voice answered. What about stealing your buddy’s girlfriend while he worked away from home as a volunteer on an inner city youth project the summer before you left for college? You slept with her all summer and then left her to face him alone. Her reputation was ruined after he refused to take her back.

The voice persisted. "How about the deal where so many of your friends and high school classmates ended up getting drafted and sent to Vietnam where several of them were blown to pieces? All this was going on while you were draft exempt with a college deferment, sitting in a frat house chugging brewskies. Their