Wraak!: (A Story of Revenge)

By Joseph E. Ressner

Sam sat throughout the inquest listening but preoccupied with a basic truth that was becoming clearer to him. They would not find the murderer, and there would be no way to avenge, to punish, to cry out that little Helen Cook had every right to live. Her world had been contemptuous of her, had discarded her, and in so doing had delivered the final insult. To have witnessed all this was terrible enough, but to merely mourn, to omit any retaliatory act on her behalf was, in effect, to acquiesce. He could not. Suddenly, he stood, turned from Kate, and began to leave. The proceedings stopped as if on signal. Those in the room stared, but Sam had no sense of or indeed any interest in his impact on them. It was as if he had simply stated to the entire assembly, Ive had enough of this awful nonsense. I will do honor to my grandchild in the only way that means anything: I will hunt down the killer and destroy him. The patrolman stationed at the entrance bowed his head slightly as he held open the door. Sam walked through, gripping his left arm at the biceps.

Kate caught up with him, and both sat in the station wagon hardly moving. She asked, Do you feel all right, Sam? She scanned his face shocked by a purity of hate that even she, after thirty-five years, had never seen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468548235

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© 2012 by Joseph E. Ressner. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/18/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-4825-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-4824-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-4823-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012901599

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Biography

Foreword

To the Reader

Madison, Massachusetts. Wednesday, September 26

Thursday, September 27th

Monday, October 1st

Monday, November 5th

Tuesday, November 6th

Wednesday, November 7th

Thursday, November 8th

Friday, November 9th to Wednesday, November 21st

Friday, November 23rd to Monday, November 26th

Tuesday, November 27th

Wednesday, November 28th

Thursday, November 29th to Sunday, December 2nd

Monday, December 3rd

Tuesday, December 4th to Thursday, December 6th

Friday, December 7th

Friday, December 7th, evening

Saturday, December 8th, morning

Saturday, December 8th, late morning

Saturday, December 8th, afternoon

Saturday, December 8th, late afternoon

Sunday, December 9th

Monday, December 10th

Tuesday, December 11th

Wednesday, December 12th

Thursday, December 13th

Friday, December 14th

Saturday, December 15th

Biography

Until his death in 1994 at age 83, Joseph Ressner was a clinical psychologist whose professional experience spanned nearly five decades and encompassed varied areas of his field.

He received his B.S. degree from Columbia University in 1932. During the late 1930’s he completed his doctoral course work in Psychology, and in 1942 he entered the United States Army Air Force (USAAF) as a psychologist. His World War II experience involved postings in military hospitals as well as clinical research in pilot-navigator-bombardier selection including in-flight behavioral observation.

Following his discharge from the USAAF, he spent three years completing his doctoral dissertation. During this period, he worked both for the Veterans Administration in a maximum security hospital treating capital criminals diagnosed as psychotic, and in outpatient clinics providing therapy to patients with neurological disorders.

After receiving his Ph.D. in Psychology at Columbia University in 1950, he founded and was executive director of the Association for Interpersonal Dynamics (AID) where the primary course of treatment included individual and group therapy. Later, he concentrated on independent practice and continued treating patients for the next thirty years.

Throughout his long career, Dr. Ressner studied the complex link between motivation and behavior. WRAAK! is a fictionalized depiction of a dilemma in which an individual is driven to an unforgettable action despite the potentially extreme consequences.

Foreword

WRAAK! was written by our father, Joseph Ressner, in 1974 and it is his only work of fiction. While not published during his lifetime, for him it was a source of enduring personal satisfaction. On August 18, 2011, our father would have turned 100 years old. In his memory and as a gift from him to his grandchildren and great-grandchildren, we chose to make his book more than a yellowed, manually-typed manuscript. For us, the process of publishing the novel was a labor of love which evoked many fond memories of our extraordinary father.

Although WRAAK! is fictional, in many respects it strongly reflects the author’s views on family, integrity, and justice. And while the novel is often a disturbingly harsh view of human behavior, those who knew him are well aware of his willingness and courage to confront difficult issues with honesty and compassion.

Our father was a deep and complex man, yet he always made clear his love and admiration for our mother, Sylvia, to whom we wish to dedicate this book.

Deena Carol Ressner Mitchell & Michael Philip Ressner

With special thanks to our spouses, Jack & Jeanne

March 1, 2012

To the Reader

This is a story based on actual reactions to a killing. I observed these reactions in a real family, either as acting out or fantasy. Listening to their outpourings evoked in me what are probably universal, if mostly repressed, feelings which have had a major role in motivating me to do the writing.

Though I know that the story is to be judged on its merits as a tale, I thought there might be some interest in its human origins.

Joseph E. Ressner

August 15, 1974

JER%20Map.pdf

Madison, Massachusetts.

Wednesday, September 26

Morning sun, filtering through the shedding maples outside of Sam Fleet’s windows, dappled his face with small dancing lights. He stirred, barely asleep, vaguely aware of remote visual signals. The fluttering sun patches became more insistent, and unable to ignore them any longer, he awoke. An instant before, an unwelcome competitor with sleep, now the flickering light was cheerful.

To his right, pressed into pillows and muffled in the blanket, Kate clutched tenaciously to sleep. Sam nudged her with his knee, and she growled softly but did not awaken. He stretched tentatively, and the slow stressing of muscles produced joint cracking in his neck and shoulders. ‘Feels like Saturday,’ he thought. It was Wednesday, but even after two months of retirement, he had to remind himself that it was no longer necessary to be at his drawing board every morning. ‘This is the way to live,’ he mused, ‘stay in bed as long as I like, don’t get dressed, don’t make the 7:55 bus. No damned ride to Boston, no more boring apartment buildings and supermarkets, boy what a relief!’ He had not regretted early retirement once and he never would.

The youngest of three sons, Sam grew up in a family whose almost exclusive occupation was construction. Surrounded by a father, brothers and two uncles in different specialties, he picked up a host of skills from them, all willing teachers of a willing student. They would make much of the slender, brown-eyed boy who could thread pipe or nail studs with the best of them. That he could hardly lift the materials with his stringy muscles served only to make them fonder of the youngster, and the entire clan babied him outrageously.

He was working in the family contracting business when he was drafted into the army during World War II. After his discharge, with a push from Kate, he drifted into architecture on the tide of the G.I. Bill education program. Eventually he got his degree and an architect’s job in a big Boston design firm where he remained, with a few promotions, until retirement.

His work had never touched him in depth. Perhaps it was that other interests, woven into his character by the distaff side of the family, had subtly strong claims, and that architecture, a relative latecomer, lagged somewhat. There had been five Mrs. Fleets in his childhood, and as the youngest male member of the family by eleven years, he was a natural object of their maternalism. It was a diverse group of women too, especially the eldest sister-in-law, a lovely, fanciful girl who was Sam’s first great love. She was a fair organist and gently seduced him into the joys of Bach with her own beauty and then that of the music. He still favored the Baroque sound, even a little of the look in buildings.

Perhaps, his work was not his priority since he needed no status such as might be derived from a vocation. It was enough to be doing whatever satisfied: repairing a roof or listening to Telemann’s Suite for Four Horns, Two Oboes and String Orchestra, wandering in the woods, or reading an article on Medieval architecture. It was all the same to him—gratification and enlightenment of the soul.

One window was open to the light, a chill breeze bringing early autumn into the room, and he welcomed the cool relief from the debilitating summer. Soon it would be a joy to wear clothes in order to be comfortably warm rather than to be burdened by them. Dressed against the cold, like walking in a storm, made him feel able to pit himself against the bullying elements. They would soon be at it too, the winter wind tearing through the woods, snow and ice assaulting his house. He would oppose them with patient preparation, intelligence, tricks. Eventually they would tire and then spring would be there to beguile him. It was a good fight. The opponents respected each other and no one got hurt.

His waking thoughts continued, ‘Ought to get going, couple of things to do, can’t start getting lazy.’ He was amused by his show of ambition, aware that he had never felt this way on workdays. He levered himself out of the bed and with this exertion became aware of diffuse tightness in his left arm. He flexed it a few times with no effect. His lower back was stiff, and he arched backwards as he padded along the hall to the bathroom. Soon he returned hurriedly, and lowering himself into the still-warm bed, he bumped Kate’s broad hip. She made slurred sounds and turned a little, half whispering,

What’s the time?

Little after eight, Sam answered.

Huh?

Eight o’clock, he repeated.

What do you want?

"What do I want? Sam laughed. Nothing. You asked what time it is."

I told you, she answered, eyes closed. It’s eight o’clock.

He laughed and waited until she dug back into the pillow. Hey Kate, don’t fall asleep. I have to go to work. It’s Wednesday.

She started and then lay back relieved. Oh, you scared me for a minute. I thought you really did. I could sleep all day. She had almost slipped back and spoke through a yawn, You, you eager beaver ought to get a job.

No, not that! He feigned horror. I’ll let you sleep only don’t make me get a job!

Guess I’ll have to get up, Kate yawned again. Oh well, I’m hungry, so it’s worthwhile. I’ll eat with my eyes closed. She stretched her strong body, rounded arms over her head, then dressed quickly.

Breakfast was warm and lingering. The morning meals of his working past had been frantic, and the consequent dim nausea used to remind him of his three army years. "When my kids ask me what I was in the war, I’ll tell them I was nauseated, he had told Kate. He hated the regimentation but secretly enjoyed the long bivouacs and especially the lonely scouting. Years later, when there were children to tell, he spoke of the nausea. Their daughter Olivia had said innocently, Did you vomit, Daddy?"

Robert, the younger child, had endeared himself by commenting that, in his seven-year-old opinion, it must have been the army food that did it. My friend’s father said they used to put ice cream on stew. That’s disgusting. Sam would often think of his fondness for Robert, now almost twenty-eight, who sometimes spent a weekend at home and whose presence always completed the circle.

Outdoors, more of the turned leaves were falling with the breeze, and both Fleets watched the gentle descent of reds and yellows. Sam leaned close to Kate’s warm plumpness.

I love this time, she said.

"Aw, I think you love us, was Sam’s response, only we’re not as pretty as the leaves."

Romantic!

The only sixty-two-year-old former architect I know who is, and he kissed her cheek. Say, let’s go over to Olivia’s today. I’ve got a couple of little jobs to do there.

Olivia, just turned thirty, but looking nineteen, lived about a mile north on Crest Road. She and Ron and little Helen, their only child, lived in an old house which was one of the original structures built in the area. It had weathered over a hundred years of the tough Massachusetts winters and soft summers. Sam was in the process of restoring and refurbishing the house and had been working at it for the past month. Ron, who spent endless days with his partners starting up a small electronics manufacturing business in nearby Tannerville, had little time for the painstaking tasks involved in replacing stairs, plumbing, trim, and sash. Sam welcomed the work, and he did it expertly, of course, but more important to him was the opportunity to be closer to Olivia whose unique character fascinated him. He found it difficult to comprehend that this thirty-year-old with so much youthful energy was Kate’s and his. The grandchild, a miniature of Olivia, was even more enchanting. For Sam she was a magical little person coming into focus like a fine reproduction of her mother, a kind of guarantee of immortality, and he imagined that little Helen would someday have a child who would look exactly the same. This clone-like notion he thought to be foolish, but one evening, having mentioned it to Kate, he was amazed to find that she had a similar belief.

Kate was agreeable to the suggested visit. But I want to bring a cake. It’ll take only an hour or so, and we can be there for lunch. She busied herself with preparation for the baking, and having no interest in the process, Sam put on his windbreaker and went into the side yard. It was a large, sloping area cleared from the surrounding heavy growth which abutted the southern boundary of Old Woods. He watched the clouds for a while and then walked slowly around the house inspecting foundation stones, siding, gutters, and window frames. Most of the pre-winter maintenance had been done, but he knew that there could always be a surprise or two for the unwary house owner. Finding none, he sat on the side entrance steps to enjoy the contrasting brisk air and warm sun. His thoughts drifted back to the weekend when he and Kate had last entertained their favorite visitor, Helen Cook.

The nine-year-old had prepared for the visit by packing a small bag in which she had put a favorite book, a small doll, and a chain and locket given to her by Kate, but it remained for her mother to add the more practical items like pajamas and extra clothing. On Friday, the child’s grandparents waited for her on Tannerville Road where she would emerge on the path that cut through Old Woods. She had pedaled the distance in about ten minutes and emerged panting with the effort. In the bicycle basket was her bag and a box of cookies baked by Olivia. Her smiling face was framed by long, child-fine hair that clung to the collar of her green jacket. She wore a red knitted tam, green slacks to match the jacket, and red loafers. She braked to a stop between Kate and Sam, hugged them and was in turn hugged. Then she announced,

Grandma, Grandpa, Mummy baked cookies for us. And she said I could stay up late. And I could go to the movies if you went. She gave the bicycle to Sam who guided it by the handlebars with one hand while the joyful child held the other and Kate’s.

In the kitchen, Helen was soon sitting at the big oak table, sampling cookies and sipping milk. She did not sit for long but was shortly walking around telling a story about her fourth grade teacher.

Margaret and I saw Miss Judson in Tannerville with her boyfriend, and she was kissing him in a car. We were embarrassed, Grandma.

And what were you doing in Tannerville? Kate asked.

Oh, Daddy took me and my friend to the factory on Saturday. For the ride. He had to get, you know, those paper things all rolled up. Diagrams, I think. He puts them in a tube that looks like a pipe with covers on the ends. These are very good cookies, don’t you think, Grandpa?

Sam patted her head and smiled, But I haven’t even tasted them. Guess I’ll have to, he laughed and bit into one. Your mum is a real good cookie baker, little one.

"Oh, I helped her after school. That’s why they’re so good. Mummy said it was because I mixed the stuff so good—well, I mean. Good is an adjective. We learned that in school."

Would you like to help make dinner, sweetie? Kate asked, kissing the top of the child’s head.

Yes, Grandma, she replied, in all seriousness. I can do lots of things you know, like mixing and dicing. I can be a big help, like Mummy says all the time. I think she just says that because she loves me. I can’t really do all those hard things so well, but maybe I can now.

Well then, how about cutting up the celery and carrots and putting them in the small pot? And when you finish, you can have a rest. Oh dear, you never rest. What am I talking about?

Miss Judson says that’s making conversation, Grandma. I think I changed my mind. I don’t want to cook. I’d rather do something else. I know—could I look at your pictures of long ago—like when Mummy was a little girl? Huh, could I?

After dinner, during which the Fleets were entertained with a variety of gossip about Madison, the school, the bank manager who liked her mother, and a dozen other subjects, there was an early movie on television. It was a mystery thriller full of photographic tricks and surprisingly good acting. Helen sat between Kate and Sam, her slender legs folded under. She snuggled close to her grandparents, sometimes catching hold of their arms during especially dramatic sequences. Sam could hardly remember the plot, so much did he enjoy the company.

By the time the late news appeared on the screen, Helen was rubbing her little fists in her eyes, so Kate suggested sleep. The child assented gladly and later, when she was asleep in one of the second floor rooms, Kate