Forgiving Judas

By Spencer Conrad

Stoneridge is like any other small town: placid, church-oriented, and predictable. Neal McLean is an average teen—he lifts weights, hangs out with friends, goes fishing with his dad, and looks forward to college as his ticket out of Stoneridge. Neal's predictable world is uprooted by the death of his best friend, Brandt Stradleiter.

Though the death is officially ruled accidental, Neal is haunted by the possibility of suicide. Brandt’s death has reduced Neal’s life into a narrow, self-torturous existence of isolation, reflection, nightmares, penance, guilt and shame. Ultimately, Neal must come to his own rescue and find a way to make his own peace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spencer Conrad
• Release date: Jun 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463943434

Spencer Conrad

Spencer Conrad earned his B.A. degree in English from Texas Tech University. The author currently resides near Athens, Georgia. He married his husband, Mike, in 2019. Spencer also has a daughter from a previous marriage.

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Author’s Note

The second edition of Forgiving Judas was created to republish the novel as an e-book. The text of the story remains largely unchanged except for a few minor corrections. This edition also reflects the author’s name change.

Readers of the first edition seemed to split about 50/50 between those that wanted a little more closure and those who thought the ending was fine as is. In re-reading the story, as I prepared it for republication, I realized that it would benefit from a few additional pages in the form of an epilogue. This addition enhances the story for those who wanted more, but does not detract from the original content.

I hope you enjoy this novel,

Spencer

September 8th

Chapter 1

Jolting awake, I sit up and toss back the sheets, damp with cold sweat. I listen to the dark stillness for the sound of my parents down the hall. Goose bumps form as sweat dries on my skin. The only sounds come from the occasional creak somewhere up in the attic and the rustle of leaves outside my window. As my pulse begins to slow and my breathing lightens, I tell myself—not necessarily believing—that I didn’t scream out loud.

I disable the alarm clock before it rings, wondering why I even bother setting it anymore; the buzzer hasn’t gone off once the whole summer. I’ve been awake by five o’clock every morning; it’s funny what you can do once you don’t have someone to prod you along.

Although the room is dark, I don’t bother with the light as I crawl slowly out of bed. My toes curl under when they touch the cool wood floor. A slight breeze drifts in through the open window as I stretch, arms overhead. Taking careful steps in the blackness toward the door, I slide my under­wear down my legs and then kick it in the general direction of the laundry basket. After stretching again, I reach, or rather feel, for the gray sweatshirt that’s lying on the back of the chair and pull it on. Then finding the jock­strap, I slide it on and adjust myself.

Down the hall, I don’t bother turning on the light in the bathroom, as the street lamp outside provides enough illumination to go about my business. I learned a long time ago that it is harder on my eyes to keep making them adjust. I use the toilet without flushing so I won’t wake Mom and Dad. I wash my hands and then run wet fingers through my hair. It is just possible to make out the outline of my five-foot-nine-inch frame in the mirror over the sink. None of my features are visible. Just as well; it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to notice the dark circles around my eyes, or to see that I haven’t stopped losing weight—much less put any pounds back—this summer.

Quit stalling. You’ve been getting up this early for two years now; so why does it keep getting harder and harder to get your ass in gear?

I splash cold water on my face and then dry off with the front of my sweatshirt. Yawning, I carefully feel my way back down the hall to my room where I pick up a pair of worn, black gym shorts. I run my hand around the waistband searching for the tag in the back and put them on. Sitting down, I slide on a pair of solid white tube socks followed by my riding shoes, first left then right. My shoes are nothing special; they’re not really even cycling shoes, just ones with a stiff shank that I only use for riding. I double knot the laces before tucking the ends in the arches, which helps prevent them from getting caught in the chain.

Standing up, I move to the window, mentally checking that my shoe laces are comfortably tight. Across the way, I can barely make out the shadow of the church bell-tower. Finally, I push the sweat socks down around my ankles, take a deep breath, and cross myself.

It isn’t the physical act of getting out of bed that’s difficult since I infinitely prefer not to spend a lot of time sleeping these days; in many ways, early morning is my best time of day. I’m disoriented enough—from still being tired—to not focus on anything in particular, and yet I can function enough to get dressed and start my ride.

Maneuvering my way down the twelve steps of the staircase, I feel my way around two corners, and into the kitchen. The oven clock glows, 5:15, in a pale greenish blue digital neon. The circular fluorescent ceiling light flickers twice, like it always does, before it pops on. Closing my eyes as they try to adjust to the light, I step blindly toward the sink. The kitchen slowly comes to life around me as I blink my eyes. The buzz of fluorescent light fills my ears.

I fill two plastic squeeze bottles halfway with water, and then switch them with two frozen bottles from the freezer. I top off the one frozen bottle with orange juice, and tap water in the other.

Out back, I set the bottles on the porch rail. Crossing my forearms over my head, I grab my elbows and stretch my torso side-to-side. Next, I interlock my fingers high above my head and turn my palms upward as I rise up on my toes. I let a out a deep groan as I reach the maximum stretch point. There is a slight breeze from the north. Finally, I bend over, touch my toes, and then raise slowly up into one last arms straight overhead full body stretch. Checking the kitchen door, I pick up the water bottles, and head for the garage.

Dumping the water bottles on a storage shelf, I make a quick check of my bike: tires—light—gearshift lever and cables—brakes—and chain. All okay. I make a mental note that the chain needs to be lubed, but that it can wait. Pulling the helmet off the shelf, I put it on and tighten the strap. Then, taking my gloves from the gear shift levers, I slip them on and adjust the Velcro straps. Rolling the bike out on the driveway, I lower the kickstand and then head back into the garage to get the water bottles that I left behind, once again.

Seems like after this long I’d be able to remember to put the bottles in their holders before wheeling the bike outside. Of course, the water bottles were only added to the routine about nine months ago. Still, habits die hard.

Brandt?

A squeeze bottle slips out of my hand.

No, it can’t be.

The bottle rolls halfway down the drive before it finally veers to a stop in the grass. Dieter Mark—wearing Brandt’s riding gear—pulls up just short of my bike.

What the heck does he want?

He straddles the frame of Brandt’s bike while I walk over to pick up the bottle.

Isn’t it obvious?

Except for a few seconds at church and an occasional quick wave across the alley while taking out the garbage, I haven’t seen much of him this summer.

Can I ride with you today? he asks quietly, his voice breaking, slightly.

What ever happened to ‘Good Morning’ or ‘Hello’? I say flatly.

Morning, Neal, can I? he asks, much stronger, deeper—more hopeful.

Dieter Mark can’t see my face from the angle that I’m standing.

No.

From the corner of my eye, I see his head drop as he stares down at his size twelve and a half hi‑tops.

Hi‑tops? Who wears hi-tops to ride a bike?

Looking back up at me, putting as much casual indifference as he can manage in his tone, he says, Sorry to bother you. See ya’round, I guess. The ending comes across more as a question than a statement.

I can’t help but notice the disappointment in his voice as I bend down to pickup the squeeze bottle.

F‑‘im if he can’t take it. I didn’t ask him to come around, anyway. I didn’t ask for any of it.

When I turn to face him, he’s trying to put his right foot in the toe clip, but the pedal keeps spinning on him. I fight down the flash of anger.

Wait … Dieter … I was only kidding. The words come haltingly against my better judgement.

It’s just that I wasn’t sure that you’d … I mean …

Relax; I guess it’ll be okay.

I’ve been riding, he adds quickly.

Not as much as me, Dieter Mark, not nearly as much as me. I’d bet the world on it.

Did you check the bike?

It’s okay.

Pressing down on the front tire with my thumb, it gives too easily.

It’s low. These are high pressure; they should be solid. The pump’s in the garage. 95 p.s.i. in front, 100 in the back.

Dieter Mark lumbers off Brandt’s bike as he lowers it to the ground. He doesn’t have a water bottle so I give him the one—filled with ice water only—that rolled down the driveway, and then do a quick check of his bike to make sure that it’s really okay. It needs maintenance—nothing serious, nothing that can’t wait. When he returns, I tell him I’ve loaned him a water bottle, and then stand there, waiting, while he unscrews the tire cap and fumbles connecting the pump nozzle on the tube’s valve-stem connection.

C’mon already, how difficult can it be? I don’t have time for this shit. Get a move on it.

I grab the pump from his large hands, and he shrinks back. Dumb move. I am already pumping up the front tube before I notice the tires have been replaced with ones that are even higher pressure. He hesitates as I hand the pump back, and then hurriedly returns it to the garage.

You lead, I say as Dieter Mark emerges back into view.

I thought I’d just try and keep up.

No, you lead, I say firmly, without explanation.

Okay, he says, shrugging his shoulders.

Brandt and I used to play a game where the person in back is in control. He pushes the leader.

Dieter Mark wheels his bike next to mine. 5:45.

Fifteen minutes behind schedule.

Straddling my bike, I slide my left foot in the toe clip and tighten the strap. Dieter Mark does the same with his right foot on Brandt’s bike, and then looks to me for a signal. I nod, and he pushes off, making a left turn out of the driveway. I cross myself before following him out of the driveway. I put my right foot in the toe clip and tighten the strap. Looking back, he tightens his left strap and then signals a right turn. We brake for traffic. I turn on the small, strap-mounted plastic headlight. Dieter Mark flips Brandt’s switch as he makes a wide right turn onto Dumont. St. Thomas, the Apostle, Catholic Church looms up ahead of us on the right. I’ve always found comfort in St. Thomas being the patron of our church. He is one of the few saints that I can relate to.

Dieter Mark raises off the seat, and quickly picks up speed. I do, too. He’s starting out at a fast clip; will he be able to keep it up?

I mean, it isn’t just that he was the original doubting Thomas. He is also portrayed as being a little slow on the uptake. But most important of all, he is shown as a man whose loyalty holds, even to the point of death.

When he finally settles the saddle, he’s breathing hard and beginning to sweat. He steadies into a fluid rhythm. In fact, he rides a lot like Brandt, fast and hard with a good feel for cadence. I advance, and Dieter Mark rises to the challenge. Heading down Dumont toward the highway, I watch him for signs of wear.

Dieter Mark’s just over a year younger than me. He plays linebacker for Stoneridge High School. I don’t really know him all that well though, because Brandt never wanted him to hang around much. That’s just the way brothers are, I guess. Of course, he has his own friends too.

I pick up the pace. So does Dieter Mark; either he’s catching on to the game, or, he’s trying to impress me.

FM-37 is the eight-mile point, and he’s sweating hard by the time we reach it.

Don’t turn right. Dear God, please don’t turn right.

The upcoming light is green—no cars coming—he signals a right, and then at the last second deliberately makes a left turn from the wrong lane. Staying on the access road, he looks back and laughs as he raises off the seat to pick up speed again.

Going right at the state highway would’ve taken us out to the construction area for the new section of FM-37 that will eventually link it up with the interstate just before Adairsville. It’s not a safe place to ride. There’s already been one accident, and that section of the highway hasn’t even opened yet. I speed up. Dieter Mark does too.

We head over toward Jackson Park, a favorite turnaround point for Brandt and me on what used to be our longer route. I speed up and signal to enter FM-37. Dieter Mark, puzzled and nervous, glances back at me with a look that asks, why the hell are we getting on the highway?

Because Brandt never would. He said it was too dangerous, and besides it was—and still is for that matter—against the law.

Raising up to pedal harder, I laugh. The shoulder’s fairly wide, and the traffic is light, especially for a weekday. I bet that he’s never ridden on the highway before. It looks to me like some of his fluidity is gone. On the other hand, if he had gone out to the other direction he would have to get on FM-37 since the access road ends. He’s keeping as close to the edge of the pavement as he possibly can. I wonder if Dieter Mark has already ridden out that way. The first rays of light streak the darkness along the horizon.

Dieter Mark’s a senior this year at Stoneridge. Brandt and I graduated from St. Thomas last May. I pedal harder. Less than two miles to the halfway point. On his brother’s bike, Dieter Mark—wearing Brandt’s riding gear—could easily pass for him. He isn’t as lean as Brandt, though; of course, he hasn’t been riding as long, either. I speed up, again, even though he’s hurting; his breath is short. Less than a mile to the halfway point now. 6:08.

He’s not used to this; he’s not Brandt. I stand and begin to pedal as hard as I can.

At the Randell Road exit, he looks back just in time to see me fly by, veering toward the exit. He’s really sweating like a pig. I laugh—telling myself that it isn’t out of meanness—it’s just part of the game … the game that Brandt and I used to play. I remain standing on the pedals and sprint for the park. Dieter Mark raises up and the race is on.

It’s not even a close finish. As I complete my third slow lap of the parking lot, Dieter Mark glides in. He tumbles off Brandt’s bike over near the picnic tables. 6:10.

His legs are like rubber, and he’s collapses to his knees and then bends over with his forearms and helmet keeping his head off he ground. His lungs are on fire, and he’s having difficulty catching his breath. I’ve known that feeling. He’s ridden hard, and it’s taken its toll. He’s not used to this. Today would’ve been a stroll for Brandt and me compared to the days when we’d ride all out. The pushes have come in erratic spurts this morning; Dieter Mark has thrown me off tempo. My concentration hasn’t really been there. There is a big difference between hard and all out. Dieter Mark hasn’t learned that yet.

Getting my water bottle, I take a long slow drink of watered down orange juice as I complete my fourth circuit of the lot. Getting the loaner bottle from the bike, Dieter Mark greedily sucks down the cold water like a newborn pup. He saves just enough to have something to pour through the vents in the top of Brandt’s helmet.

There’s an awkward silence between us as he studies me carefully. I continue circling knowing that I should say something, anything really, but something; Dieter Mark wasn’t prepared for this.

Good ride.

He smiles weakly, his panting under control. Five-minute rest, I tell myself, Dieter Mark needs it. I climb off my bike and lower the kickstand. I don’t take breaks when I ride. Neither did Brandt. If you don’t keep moving, you stiffen up, and that’s not good. I watch as he shakes the bottle upside down over his face to get every last possible drop, praying for more.

Thanks for the water.

No problem.

I remove my helmet and put it on the closest picnic table. I’ve been sweating too, just not anywhere as hard. I’d tell him about the water fountain on the other side of the playground; only, it generally doesn’t work. No sense getting him all excited over nothing. I pull up my sweatshirt and wipe the sweat from my face and forehead. Noticing my helmet on the table, he takes his off, too. I don’t comment out loud; but, oh God, how I want to laugh. I want to ask him if he’s ever had an original thought.

I lean against the picnic table and check my watch, 6:18. I’ll give him a couple more minutes rest before we head back. Glancing eastward, it strikes me how quickly it becomes light once the sun gets that first hold on the horizon. I force myself away from the table, make myself keep moving.

Dieter Mark’s gotten his hair cut; he’s taken it from well below the collar in back to a buzz cut, whitewalls on the side. It is as short as Brandt’s was graduation day. Dieter Mark sits down and reads the table graffiti out loud. When he points out Joe’s declaration of love for any one of three people—two of which are female, I turn and, smilingly, ask who Joe is and how come he loves so ambiguously? Dieter Mark, a spark coming into his eyes, laughs, saying that he doesn’t know Joe either, but suggests that it might be a group thing. We lapse back into a not quite comfortable silence.

I can’t get over how much they look alike, especially with the crew cut. Yeah, there are differences. But the eyes—Dieter Mark has Brandt’s eyes.

6:20. I put on my helmet. We still haven’t said much, not that there has really been anything that needed saying. Then again, neither did me or Brandt, but that was the expectation.

We’ll go slower on the way home, I didn’t mean to push so hard. It’s just …

Did I mean to push that hard? Probably. Certainly, not intentionally—deep down, though, maybe.

It’s okay, he says, filling in the gap as he swings a leg over Brandt’s bike.

No, it’s not. Don’t punish Dieter Mark for Brandt.

Take Miller instead of Dumont, I offer, there’ll be less traffic.

Okay.

The hills are worse.

My foot is already in the clip, waiting. We’ll need sunglasses; the ride home will be mostly east into the sun. Twisting around, I unzip the canvas bag that’s hanging under my seat. As I pull out my shades, I notice that Dieter Mark’s waiting.

You’d better check Brandt’s saddle bag for sunglasses.

Brandt’s bag is empty except for an Allen wrench and a gum wrapper. A flash of memory comes back that Brandt broke his on graduation day and didn’t have time to get new ones.

Take mine.

He shakes his head.

You’ll need ‘em more since your leading. Besides, you’re less familiar with the road and potential dogs.

As Brandt would have said, You know not the hour, the size or the wrath.

Reluctantly, he puts on my sunglasses.

The shades look good with the cut.

Dieter Mark runs a hand over his scalp. As he straps Brandt’s helmet on, I realize the whitewalls are fresh enough that he isn’t quite comfortable with it.

Some of the guys on the team all went in together … he trails off, flashing that Stradleiter grin.

No speed records, you’ll be leading the blind, riding into the sun.

He nods. It already feels like it’s at least 85 degrees. The sweatshirt was a definite mistake.

Do ya miss him? he asks quietly.

Brandt?

Uh-huh.

No. I reply, almost nonchalantly.

Liar.

I do, Dieter Mark says quietly, as he pushes off.

Straddling my ten speed, I stand there watching him veer toward the access road while tightening both toe clips. Dieter Mark’s admission hits me like a sharp, forceful blow. A cheap shot. His family is notorious for not expressing emotion.

Dieter Mark is already heading back in the other direction when I finally tighten the left strap and push off. I can’t believe I actually said I didn’t miss him. Once I’m rolling, I bend down and tighten the right clip. I want like anything to believe it; I’ve rehearsed it in my head often enough, but to actually say it out loud though. I stand and pedal hard to catch up with him. After making the turnaround at the underpass, I holler up at him to stay on the access road. He signals a relieved, ‘okay.’

Brandt’s been gone three months now; no, not gone—dead. Gone implies that he simply left and may come back; he’s not though. It’s still hard to accept, but eventually, I’ll have to face the facts—all the facts. Then again, maybe I’m the only one who has.

Get him out of your head. Now is not the time. Concentrate on riding. Rhythm, breathing, control. Strike a cadence; keep time with the sound of the chain. Above all, keep your head up and alert for traffic.

Dieter Mark’s riding looks better for having a rest. He’s a natural. So is … was his brother … on a bike. I down shift as we approach a long, steep, uphill climb. He still looks good—even on the hill—no major signs of strain. Of course, if your name is Stradleiter being a natural on a bicycle doesn’t count.

I won’t play any more games with him today. He isn’t ready.

The sweatshirt was a mistake; it’s too hot. You knew it would be when you put it on, I admonish myself. I want to take it off, but I know better than to ride with that much exposed skin. One quick tumble and you can lose a lot of skin. Oh well, it’s too late to do anything about it now. It’s too late for a lot of things.

Going past the county motor vehicle depot, I notice several drivers already getting their school buses ready for the first run of the morning. I never rode the bus since I could walk around the corner to St. Thomas. Even the year I spent at Stoneridge, I rode with Brandt since that was the year he learned to drive.

Dieter Mark and I both stand and pedal harder for the final push up, and over, the crest of the hill. Almost immediately, we make a right onto Miller. Dieter Mark takes it low and inside. No slips. No panic. Good job. I am higher and wider. Eight and a half miles left to go. 6:31.

I worked my way up the steps of St. Thomas Preparatory and Grammar School for the first day of first grade. Passing through the huge, brown metal doors that had been propped open with wood wedges, I maneuvered my way down the hall to my new classroom. Sister Margaret and Sister Mary Catherine were stationed on either side of the hallway by their respective classroom doors—forcing us to pass between them to enter either room. Sister Margaret stood holding her ruler piously, as if it were a rosary presented to her by the Bishop himself. A new ruler for a new year.

Keeping my eyes toward the floor, I darted by mumbling, Morning, Sister, into my chest.

Our desks—bearing cards with our names neatly printed on them—were arranged in alphabetical order. The desks also sat in straight, perfect rows that will remain that way forever and ever, amen. I found my desk, and then quickly looked about for my cousin, Cade. Naturally, he wasn’t there yet; Mom always said That boy’ll be late to his own funeral. The room was fairly noisy ‘cause the bell hadn’t sounded yet. I opened the wood top and slid my lunch in the metal belly of the desk and sat down quickly as the school bell began to clang. Tardiness was a sign of disrespect.

Letting go of the handlebars, I ride upright while moving my elbows back behind me in order to stretch my chest.

Silence filled the room as Cade squeezed his large frame in just slightly ahead of Sister Margaret, who closed the door behind her. The whole class—holding their breath—waited for her first words of the year. Sister Margaret’s stare followed Cade as he flashed his monkey grin at me and made his way down the aisle to the chair in front of me. His rear end barely hit the seat before Sister Margaret raised her arm and aimed her ruler.

Master McLean, come here, She bellowed.

The rest of the class drew a collective first breath while Cade looked around as if he was checking to see if she meant someone else, which being