Family Portraits

By Ken Carroll

‘The room was silent as all the adults stared him into the floor. With carefully enunciated words that whipped across the room, his father spoke, the almost-a-whisper voice louder than any shout could have been. ‘You’re killing me, Aaron. You’re killing me. I do my best for you. Mom does her best for you. And right now, I

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Oct 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643679198

Ken Carroll

Ken Carroll is a new author exploding onto the market. A man in his 50s, Ken owns his own business, works and lives in Northern Kentucky.

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Family Portraits

Copyright © 2019 by Ken Carroll. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, descriptions, entities, and incidents included in the story are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, and entities is entirely coincidental.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of URLink Print and Media.

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Published in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-64367-920-4 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64367-919-8 (Digital)

Biblical Fiction

07.10.19

Dedication

Dedicated to Rana Cook.

Please know that one day all things will be made right.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Spring 2005

Winter 2006

Spring 2005

Winter 2006

Spring 2005

Winter 2006

Spring 2005

Spring 1999

Spring 2005

Christmas Season 1999

Late Spring 2005

Spring 2000

Late Spring 2005

Spring 2000

Late Spring 2005

1996

Fall 2005

Winter 2006

Early Fall 2005

December 2000

Fall 2005

Fall 2005

Late July 2004

Fall 2005

Late 2004

January 2006

The Awful Winter of 2006

February 2006

Early March 2006

Family Portraits

Acknowledgments

Thanks to my lovely wife and scalawag children, Michelle, Andrew, Amanda, Amber, and Amara.

And thanks to the following friends and family whose names I borrowed:

John Procter, Betty Procter, Amber Carroll, Jerry Morris, Stephen (Bill) Cooke, Bryan Meade, Carla Main (Soloman) Stockman, and Ralph Stockman.

None of the characters in this book resemble them, except for the character of Jerry Morris, and that only to a small degree.

If you need a carpenter in Baton Rouge, Jerry is your man.

Sixty percent of the author’s proceeds are assigned equally to:

Prologue

Winter 2006

For two days he had looked at her with a solemn scowl and refused to speak to her. He had done whatever she asked of him, but he refused to utter a word. She would have pursued the matter to its conclusion before now, had she not been busy tending to all the tasks that needed tending to.

She’d made sure that John’s out-of-town relatives had places to stay, which was a chore since many of John’s family expected to be accommodated without having to pay for a hotel room, even some of the relatives she didn’t know. She was thankful that so many people at her church volunteered to provide what housing they could.

She had arranged for all the persons wanting to take part in the ceremony to meet to work out what each would do and how they would do it. She had soothed the feelings of those who wanted to participate but would not be allowed. She had arranged the music, making sure to include John’s favorite songs. She had helped choose the pallbearers. She had gone to the cemetery to pick out a burial plot. She had been through four hours of grueling questions by the police detectives. And she had managed to deal with all the idiots trying to soothe her feelings, telling her it was not her fault and that God had a plan. So no, she had not taken the time to find out why her thirteen-year-old son refused to speak to her.

That first night, that awful first night spent in her parents’ home instead of her own, when ten-year-old Amber had begun to scream in her sleep, Mareis had crawled into the bed with her and held her. Amber had awakened and buried her face into her mother’s shoulder. The sobs wracked her entire body. Mareis was soon crying too, though her tears were silent; and mother and daughter held each other until Amber fell asleep. The little girl’s sleep had been fitful, punctuated by a whimper now and then. For Mareis, there had been no sleep, slight dozing here and there, but no sleep. She had realized that her son was not talking to her, but she figured she would cross that bridge at a more convenient time.

When the ceremony was about to begin, and as Mareis sat with Aaron and Amber, she reached out to hold hands with each child. She had been strong so far, and she would continue to be strong for the children’s sake.

But Aaron refused to hold her hand. He refused to look at her. He just looked straight ahead, staring at the coffin. And the rest of day passed in a fog.

Spring 2005

There was a lady who ran the deserted streets of Covington, Kentucky, at four in the morning. Wisps of the last lingering bits of fog danced around some of the stoplights and the street signs. Block after block, the lady ran past old stores and dilapidated tenement and through neighborhoods she would not dared have entered just a few hours earlier. Some of the areas were nicer, and she noted the time when she ran past Henderson Music, glancing at her watch. She soon left Madison Avenue and jogged through Wallace Woods, past the stately old homes with the big trees and outlandish price tags.

All the way into Latonia she ran, block after never-ending block, crossing over Winston Avenue in front of the Value City Department Store and heading back toward downtown Covington.

She passed Golgotha Baptist, not noticing the old man sitting on the steps there. If she had noticed him, she would have taken him for a bum and stayed well away.

Some twenty minutes later, she ran past the jail on Court Street, turned around at the unseen river just behind the levee that was just beginning to reflect the first rays of the morning sun, and then headed to the right down Fourth Street, toward the IRS building. She soon passed the building, passed the fast food joints, and came upon the interstate overpass. There she slowed to a trot and turned around once more. She tried to breathe evenly. But soon her breaths threatened to become heaves, so she slowed to a walk. She stopped for a minute, tensed her calves, bent forward to grasp the back of her ankles and hold that stretch for a moment, and after forcing her muscles to slowly relax by making them tense and release, she finally began walking again. She took purposefully deep breaths as she walked, throwing her head back with each catch of air she inhaled. Soon, her heart slowed and she began jogging again. This time more slowly.

The black spandex shorts she wore were knee length and form-fitting. Her shirt was snug but not too revealing. She had a tight, compact figure, and she often caught the glances of appreciative men. She had rarely been interested in returning their stares.

She saw a police car cruise slowly by in the distance, probably headed toward the jail. She stayed on Fourth until she came upon Scott Street, where she turned and headed toward her office building. When she was a block from her building, she slowed to a walk. By the time she had unlocked the glass door, her breathing was less labored. She’d had a good run, and she felt a pang of satisfaction as she headed up the stairs to her private set of offices. Maybe she would be in shape enough to run a marathon soon.

A lot of time and thought had gone into the decor of her office. The sofa and chairs in the waiting room were covered in slick, genuine black leather. The lamps appeared to be smudged with off-white stucco, and they were adorned with black shades that had gold colored rims. The paintings had a surreal quality, as if being viewed through an opaque glass, and the lady was not sure if they were impressionist crossovers or surreal post-modern. The carpets were white. Pam had gone for an ultra-modern, almost futuristic look. She wasn’t sure of whether she had succeeded or not. Decorating was not her forté.

Her personal office had a small chamber off to one side that had a big screen TV, a futon, and a full-sized bathroom. She glanced in the mirror, appreciating her straight, shoulder-length hair and her tight physique. Anyone could see she took good care of herself and that she was in shape. Perky was what she had heard herself described as, and at one hundred twenty-five pounds, within a shade of being five foot four, she supposed she was.

It was in her office restroom that she showered and prepped herself for the day, catching all the news as she did so from the wall-mounted TV blaring in the background. By seven thirty, she was at her desk and beginning work. She’d been out of law school for nine years.

When she began college, she had majored in nursing. Her mother was a nurse, two aunts were nurses, she had a cousin in nursing school, and her brother was a nurse. She dropped out before the first semester ended. Some of her family had yet to forgive her.

She had been attending Northern Kentucky University, and when she decided nursing was not for her, she requested a refund of her tuition. The school refused. Pam threatened to sue. The smart aleck in the business office suggested she transfer to the school of law, where she would learn that her threat was absurd. Pam did just that, and she learned the man from the business office was right.

To say that Pam transferred directly into law school at NKU is not entirely accurate. She learned that she first had to have an undergraduate degree. She majored in English, took some pre-law courses, flirted with the idea of law enforcement, and then applied to the Chase School of Law, where her application was approved.

A year spent clerking for a superior court judge, five years of infighting and politics with a downtown Cincinnati firm, and then opening her own practice with two other attorneys from the same firm had led Pam here. They called their firm Dawson, Langley, and Finch. Most of Pam’s typical workday consisted of real estate title research and composing wills. She hated it.

Her free time was spent at the shooting gallery, jogging, surfing the Internet, and once in a while, stopping in at the Schri-La Lounge. None of her friends or family knew she’d become an expert marksman. Few of her friends and none of her family knew that the Schri-La Lounge existed.

Pam’s secretary, Diane, arrived, a massive to-do list awaiting her. Diane was called Di, and sometimes Pam called her Princess Di. Diane didn’t like the comparison, but she didn’t complain. She preferred to keep the working relationship with her boss strictly professional.

The first thing Di noticed on her list was a request that she find the phone number of the family of Jimmy Hawkins. Hawkins’s picture had been plastered all over the local network news the day before. Di sighed, booted her computer, and clicked on the Internet. Once online, it took her just a few minutes to print out a list of all the Hawkins that lived in the area. It took her another twenty minutes to chase down Jimmy’s parents. Di passed the number to Pam on a Post-it and proceeded to the second task.

Pam glanced at the note and dialed the number. A male voice answered the phone. Hi, Pam said. My name is Pamela Finch, and I’m an attorney. I heard that your son was arrested yesterday, and I was calling to see if I could be of any help.

You want my dad, the male voice informed her. Hold on.

Hello? another voice said. Pam repeated her previous statement. A lawyer? the man said. We can’t afford no lawyer.

Sir, I’m not requesting any money, Pam said, maintaining her determination. Your son has been arrested for a very serious crime. Now unless you want the public defender representing him, you may want to talk to me. There was silence on the other end of the line. Sir, are you still there? she asked, trying to keep the agitation to a minimum.

I’m still here, the man sighed.

What does she want? Pam heard a woman’s voice in the background say.

She says she wants to help Jimmy, the man snapped.

Let me talk to her. The woman’s voice came on the line. Hello? Who is this?

Pam sighed and wondered what kind of a hick family she was trying to get involved with. Their drawls were so pronounced that she had trouble understanding them, even though she had been raised in the area. Imagining a house trailer stuck in a ravine with a satellite on the top of a ridge, she began to speak—slowly.

Ma’am, my name is Pamela Finch. I am an attorney. I was calling to see if maybe I could help your boy. I understand that he’s gotten himself into some trouble. Pam frowned at hearing her own voice lapse into a mild drawl, brought on just from listening to the voices on the phone.

You better believe he’s got himself into some trouble, the woman said. Pam had her pictured as an obese woman wearing a nightgown, with curlers in her head. She shook her head to clear the image. It ain’t the first time neither. You say you want to help him?

I’d like to try.

Well. The phone was silent for a minute. That sounds good to me. What do we need to do?

You need to call the jail and tell the police that you have an attorney for your son. Tell them to have him call me. Then you need to come see me.

You realize we can’t pay you, don’t you?

Yes, ma’am.

Well, she said in a long drawl. All right. When do you want us to see you?

How soon can you be here?

There was silence again and then some whispering. I reckon we can be there in a hour or two. Where are you at?

Pam gave the woman directions, waited while the woman got a pen to write the directions down, gave the directions again, and then told the woman that she would just come to see them that afternoon. The woman said that was a great idea, and she slammed the phone down. Pam sighed, gently replaced her own receiver, and then munched on a bagel Di had procured from thin air as she waited for Jimmy to call. It didn’t take long for the intercom to buzz.

You have a phone call on line one, Di’s voice said over the intercom. It’s Jimmy Hawkins.

Pam snatched the phone, took a deep breath, and answered.

Hello, Pam Finch speaking.

Yes, ma’am, this is Jimmy Hawkins. I got a message to call you.

Hello, Jimmy. I’ve spoken with your mother. She thinks you may need an attorney.

Yes, ma’am, I sure do. And Mrs. Finch, I didn’t do it.

It’s Miss Finch. Or Pam, if you like. So you don’t have an attorney yet?

Just the public defender, I reckon.

I think I may be able to help you, Jimmy. Would it be okay if I came down and talked with you?

Yes, ma’am. I’d sure appreciate it.

I’ll be down as quick as I can. Five minutes later, Pam walked from her office, briefcase in hand, and trekked the few blocks to the jail.

Winter 2006

On the steps of Golgotha Baptist sat an old man, watching the sun come up. He’d been there for hours, watching the streets slowly lose their deserted appearance. As the morning commute began in earnest, Asa felt like he should have a reason to be sitting there, an apparent reason for anyone who noticed him to understand that he had a purpose for being where he was this early in the morn when it was so cold. Perhaps he should feed bread to the pigeons as he contemplated the meaning of life or dreamed of an old love. It was too cold for pigeons, and he had no bread. His old love spent her days in a nursing home.

Shivering a moment as he contemplated the small piles of snow plowed to the sides of the street, the old man stood and stretched, paced for a moment, and then returned to his seat. Asa sat in front of the grand old church with the stone foundation and the Greek columns, in a spot where he’d wiped away the light bits of snow fluff that had dusted the recently shoveled and salted steps, watching the day begin. He hadn’t seen the maintenance man who had shoveled the steps, and for a second, the old man wondered if the guy had cleared the snow around midnight.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Asa shook off the useless thought and wondered back to a time before the shopping center had arrived, a time when one could hear the occasional neigh of the horses from the race track.

The house just a few doors down had been a boarding house for jockeys. The bar around the corner had doubled as a betting parlor on race days, and so many people would have been surprised to know that Asa was a regular there. Those days were long in the past.

Asa wondered when the staff would begin to arrive. He knew the senior pastor hadn’t planned to be in that day. On a good week, Pastor Vaughn might make it to the church twice during business hours. There weren’t very many good weeks. Asa, the senior deacon, could not have cared less.

So very many things had happened lately, so many things that threatened the status quo. The young people, if people in their thirties and forties could be called young, wanted to change so many things. They wanted to modernize the worship services. They wanted to add contemporary lesson plans to the Sunday school curriculum. They wanted the church to drop its stance on refusing to allow divorced people to get married in the church.

Asa knew that they regarded him as an old stick in the mud. He thought it interesting that they all declared he was one who refused to listen—he and the old pastor. It was they, the youngsters, who refused to listen.

Asa shook his head and wondered why the fight could grow so weary. When was it that the older generation began to know and understand less than the younger generation? When had they become the enemy? That it had been this way when he was young did not occur to him.

He was tired this morning, so very tired. Sometimes he felt as if his frail body might snap in two if the right gust of wind came along. And while he wanted everyone to come to church, while he welcomed them all and wanted them all to learn about the joy of being a believer, he didn’t understand why they all wanted to change an institution that meant so much to so many. It had been fine this way for many years and could be fine for years to come. If the fine, old traditions of Golgotha Baptist weren’t good enough for you, then you could go to one of those modern, feel-good churches.

Asa wasn’t tired for just this reason, though. He was tired because of a certain young man. This young man was always ready to debate. He was always ready to oversee a changing of the old guard, even though he’d only gone to the church for five years or so. He was always so full of the right answers for the way things ought to be. At times, Asa wanted to throttle the young man. But as irritated as Asa could become at the young man, he knew in his heart there was goodness there. There was goodness, and there was a desire to do what was right.

Asa was tired because this young man would not be there to challenge him anymore, to make him think about things that he had always just accepted, just assumed were right. Asa was tired because the young man he was thinking of had not asked for help. Asa was tired because he had not realized that the young man, his young friend, had been thinking of suicide.

Asa sat, ready to do battle, because he was pretty sure that the church pastor was prepared to refuse to host the funeral of his good, young friend. The old pastor would be coming into the church today, whether he wanted to or not, once he heard Asa was sitting in his office. Asa sat between the two little piles of snow he had raked aside, light snow that had fallen as he had sat there, and though the morning had just begun, he was tired.

Spring 2005

Her new client was waiting for her in a small interrogation room on the fourth floor. She listened politely to the deputy’s spiel about not taking any more personal phone messages for a prisoner. She signed a release of liability form and followed the deputy down a hallway to a small conference room.

Pam walked briskly to the metal table as the deputy locked the door behind her. She placed her briefcase on the table and stuck out her hand, hoping her demeanor conveyed an all-business type attitude.

I’m Pam Finch, she said as Jimmy took her hand, shaking it with a rather limp grip. Pam’s grip was firm and sure as she took in the wiry, dusty-faced man with grease under his fingernails and in the creases of his finger joints.

Why don’t you tell me what happened? she asked.

Jimmy struggled not to leer appreciatively at the much too cute attorney as he answered, The police arrested me for murder.

Okay, who was the person killed?

Jake. Jake Swindoll.

Did you know Jake Swindoll?

Yeah, I knew him.

So why don’t you just start at the beginning and tell me what happened?

See, I was out at The Beer Well with my girlfriend, just minding my own business, when Jake comes up and says he needs to talk to me. I told him to sit down, but he says he’d rather talk to me out back. So me and Jane…

Who is Jane? Your girlfriend? Pam interrupted, still standing about a foot from the table, arms folded, as she stared at her prospective client.

Yeah. Anyway, me and Jane foller Jake out back. Jake asks Jane to stay over by the dumpster whiles me and him talk in private. So then me and Jake walk away a little bit, and Jake takes a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket. He says the twenty is mine if I tell Jane to, to…uh. Pam was surprised that Jimmy didn’t just spit the words out. You know, to…

You mean he wanted Jane to…

"Yeah, you know. So I think about it for a minute, and I tell him it’ll cost him fifty. He tells me to go you-know-where, and he starts to walk away. So I tell him to hold on, and I go over and ask Jane. She says no, so I go back over to Jake.

"Well, then Jake tells me he’ll give me the twenty dollars if Jane will take off her shirt. Jane’s kind of big under there. We walk back over to Jane, and I tell her to take off her shirt. Jane says no, and she looks like she’s about to cry, so I got mad. I pushed her; then Jake reaches over and grabs her. They kind of fight for a minute; then Jake rips her shirt.

"Jane, she starts to screaming, and then she just runs off toward the car. Jake starts laughing. So I tell Jake to give me my twenty dollars. Jake says no, and he starts to walk off. I kind of push him, and he picks up a beer bottle and tells me to come on!

One thing led to another. We start to fighting. Jane comes back over and starts yelling at us. We were both pretty drunk. Next thing I know, I push Jake, and he falls down. I yell at him to get up, but he don’t move. So me and Jane leave. Then the cops come and pick me up.

Did you have a weapon of any kind?

Just a pocket knife.

When you were fighting, did you have anything in your hands? Did you hit him with anything?

No, ma’am.

Did anyone besides your girlfriend see the two of you fighting?

I ain’t sure. They could have.

Okay. Now tell me what you’ve told the police.

The only thing I told the police was to get me a lawyer.

Nothing else?

No, ma’am. The small, wiry man seemed proud that he had made no statements. Pam took a moment to guess his weight, which couldn’t be much more than her own.

Okay, Jimmy. I’m going to see what I can do for you. Meanwhile, I don’t want you talking to anyone. I mean anyone. Not even the other people here in jail with you. Understand?

Yes, ma’am.

If I hear that you’ve talked to anyone else, you get to have the public defender represent you. I don’t want some inmate saying in court that you confessed. Do we have a deal?

Yes, ma’am.

Now I need you to read over this contract. All it states is that you want me to be your attorney.

Jimmy signed the paper she handed him without bothering to read it. Pam glanced at the signature and then slapped her hand on the metal door to signal she wanted to be let out of the room.

And no fights in jail either, Jimmy. Also, I want you to bathe every day and shave every day. Okay?

Okay, Miss Finch.

Also, I want you to write down everything that happened that night. Every detail. When we meet again, I want to know what you had for breakfast that morning, if you went to work that day, and especially what happened when you had your fight with Jake. You understand what I want? Jake nodded, soaking in every word. Now, where can I find Jane?

Over at my mom’s, I reckon. We live in the trailer in back of their house.

As the door was unlocked, Pam suggested that Jimmy do something about cleaning his fingernails, and then she left the room. Once outside, she noticed the skies were beginning to darken. She sighed and began the walk of sixteen blocks to the police station. She was certainly getting her exercise that day. By the time she had obtained the arrest reports and Jimmy’s prior conviction records, the sky had opened up. She had not brought an umbrella, and by the time she reached her office, she was soaked, as was her briefcase. If dollar store clothes and a reticent demeanor were any indication, the couple waiting for her in the lobby were Jimmy’s parents.

She smiled as graciously as she could, remembered not to shake her wet hair in front of her clients, and went to her office, wondering why they had not waited for her to come see them. Fifteen minutes later, she signaled Di over the intercom that she wanted a cup of coffee and that she was ready to speak with the Hawkins.

Winter 2006

Aaron sat straight, so straight that his back hurt and didn’t even touch the back of the pew, and he stared at the coffin. From somewhere far away, he heard the preacher or some other moron droning on about how great his father had been. Aaron stared at the coffin, and he knew that all eyes were on him. There were perhaps two hundred people in the chapel, and every one of them knew he was to blame. They might not know how he was to blame, but they knew it was his fault. He knew they could sense it.

His mom gently slid her hand over to cover his. He thought about jerking it back but decided that would be babyish, so he smoothly slid his own hand away from hers and into his lap. He knew she was looking at him, glaring probably, but he refused to look at her. Sure, it was his fault, but it was her fault too. It was her fault, and she would pay. He didn’t know how or when, but somehow he would make her pay.

Aaron heard a sniffle come from Amber, and he wished that he could sit beside her and put his arm around her. She was his little sister, and it was up to him to protect her now. Everyone should see him sitting there, the big brother protecting his younger sister. He had tried to sit by her, but his mom, or this woman that called herself his mom, had squeezed in between them.

Someone began to sing, and it dawned on Aaron that it was a song his father had loved. He remembered hearing his father sing it in the shower just a few days ago. They had even sung the song together a few times, mostly as they traveled to this place or that in his dad’s pickup. And it was then that the tears really threatened to come. They welled up in his eyes, but he would be danged if he would let them see him cry. He certainly wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. But the man kept singing that song, and he sounded like his father. Then the man’s voice would fade, and Aaron could actually hear his father, and then the singing was intertwined so that the man up front and his father were singing together. Finally, it was Aaron and his father singing together, in front of the whole church, and the whole church was looking at him as he sang, and Aaron loved it.

He loved it, and he knew that his father must love it too. Except when he opened his eyes to look up at his father, he saw the coffin, and he heard the other man singing. He couldn’t hear his father’s voice anymore. He couldn’t hear it because he was lying in that mahogany box, and he would never hear his voice again. It was all a blur when the sob escaped, and then Aaron was running from the church, his head a throbbing cloud of voices that refused to shut up as they shouted their thoughts at him. Aaron ran and ran until he could run no more.

Aaron was two blocks away before Ted caught up with him. Aaron had slowed his run to a fast walk, and he noticed that Uncle Ted didn’t seem winded at all when he caught up to him. Aaron kept walking, expecting Ted to reach out and pull him to a halt, and he was ready to jerk away. Instead, the man just walked beside him.

After another two blocks of walking, Aaron finally stopped. He crossed his arms and stared at the sidewalk, waiting for the words of wisdom that would be spouted by his uncle. His uncle didn’t say anything. When Aaron finally looked up at him, he saw that Ted had tears in his eyes as he stared at the sky. Aaron considered hugging him or perhaps uttering some wise words of his own. He didn’t know what to say though, so he kept silent.

After what seemed an eternity, Ted finally spoke. I’m going back. You want to come? Aaron thought for a moment, noticing the hoarse sound of his uncle’s voice. Aaron nodded, and the two walked back toward the church, hands in their pockets, not speaking. When they reached the church, Ted held the door as Aaron walked inside. It seemed to Aaron that all eyes were on the two as they slipped inside the sanctuary, but Aaron couldn’t have cared less. Asa, who was sitting in the last pew, scooted over, and the two sat down.

More words were said, and then the pastor asked if anyone wanted to speak. A few people stood up and said nice things. Some of the things they said were even funny, and a few people chuckled. Aaron seemed too out of it to care.

Just when it seemed that no one else was going to speak, Ted stood and walked to the front. He didn’t bother going behind the podium. Instead, he just stood in the front of the altar, with the casket beside him, and characteristically placed his hands in his pockets.

I can’t believe I’m up here. I can’t believe he’s really gone. He made a slight gesture toward the coffin, left that hand out of his pocket,