Bats: A Novel

By Cathie Smith Keenan

Short book description:

BATS is an unlikely love story set in a small New England town.

It is the tale of misfits of differing sizes and shapes.

Jean Woodland has lived her entire life in Derby but never quite fit in. Socially awkward, she has always been an outsider, unable or unwilling to identify with her neighbors or her students.

Mylo, the handsome guy who bags groceries at the local market, lives on the margins of society in a residence for disabled adults. Disarmingly friendly and kind, he makes Jean feel distinctly uncomfortable, but she finds his deep-seated desire to help impossible to deflect.

Then there are the bats.

Discoveries follow. A bat colony on the brink of extinction. A land development company with fifty more houses to build. The thrill of activism. Next-door neighbors whose livelihood depends on the development. Raising three children, the family have enough problems. A town grapples with the forces of development and conservation. Jean discovers feelings she never knew she had.

Daring to do something amazing, Jean and Mylo embark on a road trip in a vintage Airstream. What begins with a sense of promise, quickly degenerates into something neither can navigate.

Or can they?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098340155

Book preview

cover.jpg

©2020 Cathie Smith Keenan. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN: 978-1-09834-014-8 print

ISBN: 978-1-09834-015-5 ebook

This book is dedicated to my parents

Harry and Dorah

Contents

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

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER 1

Jean closed the classroom window as she watched the chartered bus belch black plumes into the schoolyard below. She watched parents rush take-out pizzas and forgotten luggage to their pampered offspring boarding the bus, and exhaled. The dreaded pilgrimage to the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum had begun. She could give the spiel on the Spirit of St. Louis herself, she’d heard it enough. Hell, she could probably fly Lindberg’s craft if they’d lower it from the ceiling. But did this graduating class care one whit more than the previous ones she’d chaperoned? Hardly.

You’re up this year, Barton had reminded her weeks ago. As if she didn’t keep track of the rotation.

Twelve hours of ear-splitting pandemonium each leg of the way! And two days of hotel Hell, keeping track of her charges. Couldn’t she be chained to her desk with the midterms instead? That’s what she should have asked him. He’d have gotten it. He’d have given her his wry smile. He was one of the good guys.

She stuffed the exams into her backpack, then patted her pocket to make sure the earplugs were still there. The class trip paid homage to the town’s home-grown hero, Alan B. Shepard Jr, first American in space, and the only astronaut to drive a golf ball on the moon. It was Derby’s tradition to send their graduating seniors to DC in the hope of instilling pride and confidence, to launch them, if not into the universe, at least into productive lives.

She had no such illusions. Eighteen years of teaching had seen to that. She was acquainted with all their feeble strategies for eluding work. Adolescent brain? An oxymoron. What baffled her were their fickle little souls.

She looped her backpack over her shoulder and grabbed her luggage handle. The bus would be warm, but she’d carry her jacket, just in case. And then Barton, all 6’2" of him, was rushing through the doorway where he stood for a moment in his signature blue blazer and khakis to catch his breath. A good-looking man, his short hair was now spiced with silver.

Oh, good. You’re still here, he said.

She spun her new bag on its wheels so it turned a full circle. Like it? she asked. Nodding to the bus, she added, Shouldn’t you be out supervising or something?

The vice principal can handle it. He hesitated, clapping his hands together like he was rallying a team before a game. Why was he uncomfortable?

I’m sorry about the timing here. I just got to school. I had to take Evan for his baby shots. Sally and the boys are sick. He closed the door and walked into the room. Clearly something was on his mind.

So what’s up? she asked.

I have good news and bad.

She waited, while out of the corner of her eye, she saw a parent balance a cardboard holder of drinks to the bus.

You’re off the trip, he said in a rush. The Smiths stepped in at the last minute.

Whoa. Awright! She slid the backpack off her shoulder. Their son wouldn’t be pleased, but that wasn’t her concern. Barton took a few more steps toward her, his movements as fluid as they’d once been on the basketball court. He’d been a star. Pivoting, dribbling, shooting, a whirl of motion. Not that she’d gone to many games, she’d been a gangly girl more inclined to bio and chem labs than sports or dating.

Jeannie. He tapped his long, slender fingers on his thigh.

He hadn’t called her that since kindergarten. Not since their mothers, the darlings of the village, had orchestrated their joint birthday parties. Balloons, cake, the works.

That bad, huh? she said, as he shifted his weight. The school board met last night, right? What is it this time? Haven’t they harassed me enough? Observing my class, critiquing lesson plans, peer reviews. How else can they humiliate me? I can’t help it if students don’t perform well on those standardized tests.

He bowed his head, waiting for her to finish. Every district in the country is focused on those exams. You know that. You know the drill.

She winced at the jockism.

You’ve put me in a bad position. Again, he said calmly. I don’t have any wiggle room this time. I mean…, His soft voice was so low she leaned in. I’m sorry. I don’t have any other choice.

His words echoed around the empty classroom, bouncing off the new chairs and round tables designed to promote co-operative learning and team building.

You haven’t been able to demonstrate an ability to reach students or communicate effectively with them in the classroom. The result? Poor scores.

He sounded like a textbook, every bit the professional he was, but there was no recrimination in his voice. He glided to the green board, picked up a piece of chalk, and tossed it back and forth in his hands creating an easy rhythm.

Just for the record, she said, her voice rising, I developed that sequence on the Vikings using all new research. It seems the extent of the Norse exploration has been greatly underestimated. Their influence under appreciated. I mean they rowed hundreds of miles upstream through Russia to reach… How pathetic she sounded! Constantinople.

I’m sorry, he said, but we’ve been down this road too many times before. You’ve been offered multiple opportunities for improvement. He cleared his throat. But now I believe we’ve exhausted all possibilities. Your contract won’t be renewed in the fall.

She looked away, out the window where the accordion bus door was closing. You’re telling me this now? Today? Minutes before the class trip. Oh, I forgot, you’ve taken me off that. What’s going on? Is it the Jenkins girl?

Suzy Jenkins. Black dress, black nail polish, mascara. Hooded, half-closed eyes rimmed in black. Slouched in the back row with the bad boys, she was the epitome of boredom, bordering on insolent. Maybe Jean should have been more alert to that term paper, its allusions to death and dying, but the girl made her uncomfortable, so she’d given her a wide berth instead of referring her to the counselor.

You do know she’s back in school, she said.

He nodded. We were all remiss in assessing that situation. Of course, there won’t be any mention of it in your record although your failure to alert the adjustment counselor probably influenced the board.

Wow, she said softly, after all these years. They’d recruited her for the job. It was what small towns did the old school board had said. Took care of their own. Not that she’d asked for or expected the position. Except now it was who she was. Jean the history teacher. As much a part of her as the sprawling Victorian at 336 DeKalb Avenue.

Outside, the bus ground into gear and slowly pulled out of the schoolyard.

Jean, he said, replacing the chalk and brushing the dust from his hands. I’m not sure teaching is your calling. Raising his eyebrows, he seemed to be waiting for her agreement.

If you’re asking if a burning bush and disembodied voice called out to me in the wilderness…

He allowed himself a grin and a brief shake of his head.

Maybe biology, she said. Or chemistry. Teaching science might’ve made a difference. But I accepted Western Civ and the Classics. Humanities! A wiggly science. No, it wasn’t a great fit, but, of course, Farley would never retire, surely now that Nancy’s run off and left him. That science lab is all he has left. She looked at Barton. Though he has shown some new vigor. Something to do with a new vitamin he’s taking? There. She’d regained some modicum of equilibrium.

Barton smiled, small wrinkles radiating out from his eyes. Jeannie, what are we going to do with you?

It sounds like you’ve already decided. The Vikings would light a pyre and cast me out to sea.

He winced. I am sorry. You know that. It’s nothing personal.

Nothing personal? What’s more personal?

Listen, he said, you’re young, young enough to find something else.

She caught her breath. Was forty young? It didn’t feel that way today. Mama and Papa, they’d been young, too. She looked away.

He must’ve sensed a shift in her mood and moved toward her. No, not pity, thank you. She grabbed her backpack and clutched it to her chest.

Sally and I… if there’s anything Sally and I can do... His hands now in his trouser pockets, he turned toward the door. Hey, he said, spinning back to face her, the Scouts are having a potluck next week at our house and… He didn’t finish.

Thanks, anyway.

He glided to the door and was gone, his absence roaring in her ears. She flicked off the lights and rolled the new bag she needn’t have purchased down the corridor. Laughter erupted from the teachers’ room. She hurried by even though she knew Barton wouldn’t have told the staff yet. She trusted him to do the right thing. He was a good man, a fair man, but, dammit, by the end of the month everyone would know she’d been let go.

She opened the heavy, pneumatic door and waited for it to click behind her. The morning rain had washed the air, giving the day a special clarity. Daffodils poked through a scrim of snow along the low-slung library. Maples were budding. When they unfurled their yellow-green leaves, it would really be spring. Banks of dirty corn snow lurking in the shadows would be gone, too. The halyard clanked against the flagpole in the courtyard, scene of pep rallies, class days, and graduations. Hers and generations stretching back to the Civil War. The Gothic tower of the main red brick building reminded her of the Smithsonian’s iconic sandstone structure. And the trip.

They didn’t want her. Not to chaperone. Not to teach. Not at all.

CHAPTER 2

Sheltered in the shade of a white pine in the faculty parking lot, her new VW bug gleamed. Bright orange. What had seemed a cheerful color in the showroom now hurt her eyes with its garishness. What had she been thinking? The gray Subaru would’ve lasted a few more years and not saddled her with monthly payments. And now, she had no job.

She drove home slowly, inhaling the new car smells, of leather, wax and something faintly medicinal. Comfrey? The gearshift was snug in her hand as she downshifted to the intersection where earlier in the day a work crew had been filling potholes. No bottleneck now, she turned off the main drag and into her neighborhood of old New England houses, a few Capes and her own Victorian. She pulled into the driveway just short of her barn, turned off the ignition and sat staring into her oversized lot. Forsythia and buckthorn grew wild along the side of the barn, encroaching on Papa’s Airstream camper propped on blocks. Beyond that, a bower of overgrown rhododendrons would soon bloom a bilious shade of pink. A nauseating color.

A hideous pink! Suddenly seized with the urge to move, she got out of the car.

She stepped around the milling cats in the kitchen, careful always to shut the door leading upstairs to her bedroom. No need to disturb Cracker, she left the holey green towel covering his birdcage. A quick change into jeans, and she was downstairs again, pulling on stiff work gloves and rubber boots from the hall closet. Outside, she sloshed through melting snow and standing groundwater in her squeaky boots. The barn’s sliding door was heavy and temperamental, but given enough heft, she rolled it open wide enough to slide inside. Ignoring curtains of spider webs, she located her hacksaw and pruning shears from the tool bench and went back outside.

Wading into the tangle of rhodys, she plunged blade into bark and got to work. Sawing, twisting, tossing brush aside. She’d cut that bower down to size. It was Barton and the board, of course, she’d like to cut down to size. Damn him, her boss, her friend, her nemesis. And damn the board. Eighteen years of dedication didn’t mean a thing. She stood and stretched, admiring her work. The hedge was thinned and a dozen bundles of brush were stacked beside the camper. Enough to satisfy a Viking. Enough for keeping those pyres and fires burning through the Dark Ages.

The afternoon sun slid over the rounded contours of the small, silver camper, a sweet vintage model even in Papa’s time. Dead vines twisted over the rusted hitch. Off came her gloves and boots. The door opened with a whoosh of dry, cold air. She opened the windows, welcoming fresh air redolent with the scent of wet leaves and nostalgia. Sliding onto Mama’s psychedelic coverlet, a patchwork of pinks and mauves, she stretched out on the mattress on the floor. The strong, astringent odor of mothballs filled her lungs, a scent only she and Mama seemed to enjoy.

This cocoon of aluminum had always felt like safety itself. Shiny round rivets stitched the metal wall panels together. She’d been fascinated by them as a child, called them buttons when she and Mama had played here. Later, as a teen, she’d imagined being conceived right here Papa’s first year of residency, imagined her parents playing house that summer, inviting friends over, passing jugs of Gallo Chablis and hand-rolled joints. She probably hadn’t been planned, but wasn’t a mistake either, just an accoutrement to their full life, the spin of a roulette wheel, when all things seemed possible, or so she imagined.

How the town had embraced them, Derby’s very own doctor and his elegant young wife, the couple who had heeded the call of the Sixties, ridden the winds of the back-to-earth movement, made a commitment to family practice in a rural setting. Yet even then, early on, Jean had sensed she was a disappointment in the town, lacking her parents’ self-confidence and social ease. Do I have to invite her? whispered to parents within Jean’s hearing. But somehow a place had always been found for her. Membership at the town pool, a slot at summer camp, the teaching job after college. Always a place for her until today when the town’s loyalty to her family and its tragedy ended.

She wouldn’t think about Barton or the fateful letter soon to arrive on his creamy stationery, one of his little luxuries, or the inevitable final line terminating her contract. We won’t be needing you…

A squirrel scampered across the metal roof, paused and pattered away.

Maybe she should’ve taken that lab job in the city or searched for a job teaching science in another small town. But she had been a coward. Afraid to leave Derby, afraid of rejection someplace else.

Mama and Papa dead before they’d even turned forty. And here she was. Older than either of them. But why? The Vikings knew what to do with people who’d outlived their usefulness. They floated them out to sea on flaming pyres. Touch of torch to wood, spirit released to Valhalla. How simple. For courage, they drank mead. She’d choose Veuve Clicquot with the pretty yellow label the color of egg yolks from corn-fed chickens. Mama and Papa’s choice. The drink of Bergman and Bogart.

Hey, anybody home? A voice shattered the perfect silence, followed by a rough round of bangs on the backdoor. The echo reverberated, bouncing off trees and barn, traveling through the thin skin of the trailer to her fingertips.

First one to hit the trailer. Chad from next-door. Another smaller voice, his brother, called her name in a sing-song voice, Miss Je-an. Something whizzed over the roof of the trailer. A stone humming through the air? Something pinged off the aluminum. A direct hit.

All right! She jumped up and threw the door open. It took a second for her eyes to adjust to the last strong rays of the sun, but she’d caught the culprit with his arm cocked, ready to fire. Chad McAlister, what do you think you’re doing?

He opened his mouth and shut it fast.

Hey, Miss Jean, the younger boy shouted, waving a folder in the air. Magazines! Had the little redhead no shame?

Chad pulled at his brother’s shirt and pushed himself forward. He drew a breath. I’m selling magazine subscriptions for school. It’s for field trips.

No, I don’t want any magazines. With all the reading material right down the street in the library, why would I want more? He stood at attention, his big brown eyes following her words. It would just be clutter I have to lug to the curb for re-cycling. Think of the waste! All those trees destroyed!

The younger boy, Danny, stared up at her. Big, reddish freckles covered his little pug nose. It was hard to believe this angelic kid was the one with the Pavarotti-sized vocals, wreaking havoc with her eardrums the first four years of his life.

Chad placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder, such a simple gesture. She sighed.

Okay, Chad. I’ll take out one subscription in your name, and one in your brother’s, but there’s to be no more pelting. No more rock throwing! Is that clear? Standing tall, arms at their sides, they nodded their heads. Beautiful kids really, and admirable how Chad cared for his younger brother. So what kind of magazine would you like, Danny?

The boy posed with his hands on his little square hips.

Animals. He likes animals, Chad answered for him. And comics, but Mommy won’t let us have any. Danny’s only learning to read.

I can, too, read.

I said you could, Bub.

I’m going to school, too. Next year, Danny bellowed.

Pre-school, Chad mouthed over his brother’s head.

Okay, she said reaching for the catalog, let’s see what our choices are. The list seemed endless. She’d no idea there were so many magazines for kids. About dogs, fireflies, turtles, for ages three to seven. How old are you?

Four and a half. And on my birthday, this old. He held up five fingers.

"Okay. Wonders of the Animal World it is. What about you, Chad? What do you like?"

Chewing on his bottom lip before answering, he said he liked nature and science fiction, but he didn’t like cats. Sorry, he said lifting his thin shoulders to his ears.

Okay with me. I’m not sure I do either. She held the catalog open so he could choose the one he wanted. More lip nibbling until he finally pointed to Ask, ages six to nine. So let me get you some money, she said.

No, you don’t pay now. You get a bill in the mail.

I want to pay now.

They followed her to the back door. Angela doesn’t even have a neck, Danny declared.

Angela? Their baby sister’s name, she was sure of it. Is that so? The screen door slammed behind her. She found the checkbook, returned to the stoop and passed the check over Danny’s head to Chad. He carefully clipped it to his folder and gave a little wave goodbye before marching across the soggy lawn, through the puddles to their house. Give your mom my best, she called after them.

Papa’s trailer was in shadow now, that earlier, awful spell broken. She settled on the stoop, hugging her knees to her chest. Color drained from the sky as the sun continued its westward slide. Dusk, the loneliest time of day. The in-between time when earth sputtered and stalled, when time itself stopped. Along the horizon a bank of clouds bloomed pink in a last gasp of color as though bidding goodbye from another world.

The carp pond had been drained for years. Only the rock retaining wall Papa had built remained, where goldfish, frogs and lily pads had filled it that night. Mama and Papa’s anniversary. Frosty margaritas for them in oversized plastic glasses, a Shirley Temple for her. Bugs swarmed. All it had taken was one mosquito to wipe out a family. One bite. The queen died, the king died. Mama, of that virus-carrying insect, and Papa of a broken heart. But what about the girl left behind?

A cluster of gnats circled her head, and soon there would be beetles, flies, Mayflies and mosquitoes to contend with. A dark silhouette emerged from beneath the high-peaked barn roof, falling, falling, before catching itself and slowly rising. The lone bat swooped low and rose above the open yard, skirting the oaks and maples in the back, as though it were getting its bearings before flying through the darkness toward the river.

CHAPTER 3

The A&P parking lot was paved with gas-guzzling SUVs. Environmental terrorists bent on destroying the ozone, the planet, and life itself. Jean slid into an empty space, shut off the engine and set the handbrake. A click of the remote, about the size of a little brown bat, and the car doors locked nicely. Again, she admired the bumper sticker, a stylized bat with soaring wings. Fascinating creatures. The more she read, the more she wanted to learn about these maligned mammals. Of course, she’d always tended to focus on one thing at a time, but that was a hallmark of serious people, wasn’t it?

She double-checked the locks. She wasn’t about to risk someone pilfering the new drill and lumber in the backseat. She’d need to be careful with finances too, but she’d think about that come fall.

She wheeled the grocery cart through the glass doors into the store where the smell of stale coffee condensing on a burner assaulted her. She set off for the produce aisle, hoping that grocery bagger Mylo wasn’t on duty. Wasn’t Tuesday his day off? Overly friendly, the guy hadn’t the slightest idea that some people actually came to shop, not socialize.

Dozens of varieties of greens greeted her. Boston lettuce, kale, spinach, Swiss chard, and fancy sacks of herbs tied with gold ribbons. The pungent smell of something rotting, not fish, sweeter than that, hovered in the air. She’d inherited Mama’s acute sense of smell, Mama who could identify different varieties of lilies by their scent alone. Jean herself preferred the moist, earthy odors of wet bark, and animal pheromones, which smelled of fresh peas popped from the shell.

How are, how are you? A male voice boomed from the far end of the aisle.

Baseball cap and Hawaiian shirt, it was Mylo. She turned away, but still he was upon her, his hand outstretched. She had to take it.

Can I, can I help you find something? he asked.

No, thanks. She reached for an avocado, on sale for a change, and such a dark, rich green. She squeezed one then a second in her palm for ripeness, before dropping them into her mesh sack.

I have that once. Whatchamacallit? He snapped his fingers, trying to conjure the word.

Guacamole? she said.

Yeah. My house, we go to Taco Tia’s once. You having a party?

Not exactly. Cracker loved fresh avocados just as much as the next cockatoo. She perused the produce aisle, closing in on that cloying scent. Pineapple, she was almost positive. Mylo reached the neatly stacked tower before she did.

My house. We have a luau once. His hands hovered over the pineapple like a hawk over roadkill. He selected one from the top and handed it to her.

No, not that one, she said. Instead she followed her nose under the counter to the crate of pineapples, where she poked her thumb into the soft flesh of one. Perfect, she announced. I’ll take the whole crate.

But those are bad, Mylo said. I have to throw away.

Not anymore, she said. Can you put the crate in my cart? He didn’t even blink. Just bent from his knees, exactly how her PT therapist had once demonstrated in order to avoid back injuries. He easily slid the crate into her cart, then stood and smiled broadly. He had beautiful teeth. A bit small for such a big man, but so straight she wondered if he’d had orthodonture.

Static crackled over the intercom, followed by a squeaky-voiced girl who summoned Mylo to the front of the store. Polite to a fault, he tipped his cap by way of goodbye. Finally, she could shop alone with her customary efficiency. She owned the aisles, knew precisely where everything was. Never needed a list. Healthy Choice TV dinners, bags of cat chow, sacks of birdseed, candy up front. Done, she pushed her cart into the check-out line farthest from where Mylo was bagging groceries.

Paper or plastic? Paper or plastic? His voice boomed. Even with her back to him, his voice was the one she heard, over the woman behind her plying licorice to her twins to quiet them down, over the checkout boy humming to the piped-in music.