The Post

By Patricia Jones

The Post

Lauren Rawl is a professor in a small catholic college in the foothills of the Bighorn Mountains of Wyoming. She experiences a life changing event which involves her struggle to cope emotionally when she learns of her adult sons drug addiction, and the frustration of not being able to fix him, consensually or legally. After much urging, Lauren begins attending Al-Anon meetings and, with the support of other attendees and that of friends, she slowly is able to manage her feelings of shame, loss and helplessness. To further complicate Laurens life, she becomes entangled in assisting law enforcement in investigating the disappearance of a female student in her department. Plus, she is drawn into a problematic relationship with a man whose wife is hospitalized in a coma.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493157785

Patricia Jones

Patricia Jones was a native of Baltimore but lived inNew York City with her daughter. Throughout her writing life, her work appeared in Ms., Essence, Family Circle, Woman's Day, and the New York Times. The Color of Family is her third novel.

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The Post

Patricia Jones

Copyright © 2014 by Patricia Jones.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 03/03/2014

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Contents

Dedication

Prologue

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

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all the parents, spouses, children, siblings, and friends who struggle with the heartbreak of a loved one mired in addiction.

Prologue

Wyoming Territory, 1863-1890

Despite the fact it was late July, the morning was foggy, damp, unpleasantly cool and miserable. Three men and their animals, bent over by the chill wind, picked their way around large boulders and clumps of lodgepole pines as they followed a faint trail that hugged the edge of low-lying foothills.

They had picked up the trail, called the Bozeman, worn by wagon wheel tracks in some of the bedrock and barely visible markings in the sandy shale in other places, near Fort Caspar. After leaving the fort, they had traveled steadily northward until the southern tip of the Bighorn Mountain range became visible. And, as they moved closer, the mountains drew them like a magnet. The previous night they had camped along the Piney Creek five miles to the south. Knowing they were in Crow Indian territory, they had forgone a camp fire and eaten hardtack and jerky, not wanting to attract Indians scouts that might be near.

One of the figures led a grey, raw-boned mule which was laden with their few personal items, cooking utensils, and the meager amount of food that remained. The other two were mounted on a brown, speckled Percheron horse on which they had left Prairie Flower, Minnesota, more than four months earlier.

As they approached a junction of two small streams, a forested copse became visible through the low-lying clouds. The tall, lean person leading the mule stopped and waited for the slower moving horse to catch up, as it picked its way carefully over the rocky trail, to catch up.

He pushed the hood off his thin, sandy hair and shook the skirts of his dark, wool garment attempting to rid himself of some of the moisture that had accumulated. The figure riding the rear position on the horse slid carefully to the ground, straightened and stretched his frame, stiffened from the morning ride and his advancing years, and slowly limped to his companion near the mule. The third man threw the reins over the head of the Percheron and glided off the broad back of the horse. Because he was short and plump, the last few inches to the ground were a leap of faith. He slapped the sides of his robe as well, clearing himself of dampness, then joined his companions.

After a brief conversation, some gesturing and readjustment of the mule’s load, they moved forward into the forest, and continued along the trail. By early afternoon they had left the wooded area and were winding their way up a steep foothill. Overhead, the fog and dampness, that had dogged them through the morning, was slowly disappearing and small patches of blue could be seen in the sky. They moved ahead reinvigorated. At the peak of the hill they looked down to a valley that spread before them as far as the eye could see. The valley was filled with lush, knee-length grasses, swaying in the gentle breeze. The undulating grass was green, the mature, flumed seed pods, in shades of brown, fawn, and reddish-gold, crowned each stem. As they paused, taking in the scene, the sun broke through the remaining clouds and turned the grass blades into crystal jewels.

The travelers were monks of the Benedictine order who had received permission from the abbot of their monastery in Minnesota to travel into the western territories. Their intent was to continue the monastic life style, perhaps attract others to join them, and to be of benevolent service to their fellow men along the way.

As if in one accord, the three raised their arms and their faces to the heavens with beatific smiles on their features at the view before them. More discussion followed, hands pointing further up the trail, and they proceeded, knowing they had found what they had been searching for.

They selected a flattened parcel of land near a hogback ridge snugged at a right angle to the very lowest foothill of the mountain as the site on which they wished to settle. That evening, following the sound of rushing water, they discovered a river in close proximity which flowed out of a nearby canyon. The location they chose was just off the trail they had followed for more than a week, and by their reckoning the site would protect them from the winter storms that would sweep along the north side of the mountain. The contemplative view of the grassy valley they had discovered lay arrayed below them.

The days of July were fast disappearing and they knew they had little time to build a structure to protect them from winter ahead. They set to work chopping lodgepole pines, and clearing and leveling out an area where they planned to construct their domicile. The logs were stripped of bark and sized to their needs.

They fashioned that first small abode of the logs, chinked together with mud and grasses into a small, dirt-floored cabin with barren sleeping rooms and a public gathering space which afforded a cooking area in one corner and a place for meals. They gathered river rock and fashioned a fireplace in one end of the cabin near the eating spot. The roof was made of interwoven willow branches from along the river, covered with sod. Once the weather deteriorated outside, they built a table and benches, simple cots, shelves and a counter for their cookware and work space.

Concerned for food for the upcoming winter, they fished the river daily and smoked most of the fat rainbow trout they pulled from it. They scoured the hillsides searching for wild onion and root vegetables, gathered long-stemmed grasses and fastened them into bundles for the animals. They met a mountain man who passed their way and on his return through the area gave them a quarter of a large buck deer, which was promptly salted away for the future.

And, as they were putting the final touches on the cabin in late September, they awoke to the first skift of snow. They gathered enough firewood from the remnants of the logs, branches and bark to get them through the winter for cooking and warmth. They added a small lean-to on one end of the cabin for the horse and the mule.

Shortly after the monks, Brothers Paul, Sebastian, and Timothy, settled in the area there was a sporadic procession of travelers along the trail, many of whom were journeying to the gold mines in Virginia City, Montana, to make their fortunes. A corner of their cabin was utilized by more than one weary traveler caught without shelter during severe weather.

That first winter was difficult. They ate sparingly, yet the aroma wafting from stew they kept on the hearth greeted any visitors that came their way. On occasion they saw Indian scouts moving slowly, in single file, like apparitions, along the trail, and supposed that the braves sensed they were not a threat and didn’t approach them.

The military had sent more than one contingent of cavalrymen into the area to establish a number of forts along the Bozeman Trail. The presence of soldiers was for the protection from Indians for those traveling through the area or those who settled nearby.

The three clerics offered religious services to any in the area who craved a spiritual uplift, conducted graveside services for those who died of old age, or some malady, or were killed in skirmishes with the Indians. They gave guidance and strength to many wayfarers so that they were able to continue on to their destinations.

Spring was slow in coming and, as they were able, the monks worked an adjoining south-facing plot and cleared it of trees and brush. To their consternation, the Percheron horse disappeared from the shed one night just as winter was beginning to loosen its grip. Footprints outside the shed pointed to a raiding party of Crow warriors. The monks considered themselves lucky to still have the mule, which they harnessed up, pulled stubborn tree roots, then worked at turning over the ground. They also rigged a bell at the entrance to the lean-to to warn them in case the roving warriors returned for their mule. Once the soil was worked to their satisfaction, the vegetable seeds they had so carefully sheltered on their journey west were brought out, sorted, and placed in the ground.

The nearby stream provided water for their garden. It was carried in buckets each morning to irrigate their plants the first summer, and Brother Paul directed the other two in where the water should be most advantageously placed. Thru a series of small dams, in succeeding years, they constructed a waterway from the river, which they used for domestic use and in watering the garden. Later, they were successful in cleaning and developing a larger plot on which they grew wheat—cut, thrashed and ground it into flour. Travelers on the trail, and soldiers patrolling from one of the nearby forts, shared with them wild game that was abundantly available. The wife of one of the adventurers gave the monks a start of sourdough bread, and fresh-baked bread became a regular staple for them when milled flour was available. Brother Sebastian assumed the roll of baker and cook, mixing the dough on those mornings he planned to bake. He always saved a small amount back as starter for the next batch and kept it fresh in a nook in the coolness of a nearby spring. On baking days, he would let the new batch rise, and knead it several times during the day as he passed through the small kitchen area. Then in late afternoon, he would divide the dough into two or three rolls for baking in the large Dutch oven they had acquired from another traveler who had decided it was too heavy to transport further.

Brother Timothy began offering basic learning for the children from ranching families that were springing up in the area. Some of the children traveled several miles each day to reach the small school that was evolving.

When Wyoming attained statehood in 1890, the county in which the monks had established their monastery was named after the president currently in office at that time, Benjamin Harrison.

A small trading station and a blacksmith shop were built and established thriving businesses nearby, adjacent to the river. Following that, cabins built by trappers, explorers, and families who chose to settle in the valley, began to appear, scattered in close proximity.

At the turn of the century, the order to which the monks belonged sent a small cadre of Benedictine nuns to the monastery. At the time nuns began arriving, a much larger, two-story, native stone structure of granite was being erected at the site. The new building included several classrooms, with the upper story consisting of small rooms to house the expanding number of students who were boarded at the school during the week. Shortly thereafter, a small chapel was also constructed adjacent to the stone building.

When the new stone structure was built an extensive underground tunnel system was built, so the story went, as a place for protection for the monks, the nuns, the students, and on occasion, travelers, to escape the perilous Indian raiding parties. Consequently, the monastery, or safe house, became known as The Post, affectionately named after the three monks—Paul, Sebastian, and Timothy. Plentiful tales abounded about people concealed in the tunnels for days on end while small bands of Indian braves rummaged around the buildings looking for food, clothing, and weapons.

As the years progressed, Brother Paul died as a result of a harsh winter and his failing health. The youngest of the trio, Brother Timothy, moved on with one of the wagon trains to another monastery further up the trail in one of the mining communities. The oldest, Brother Sebastian, remained, growing into an aged man until the ravages of the unforgiving land finally took his life.

Not only did the school attract numbers of students from families in the area but also from adjacent counties. It afforded them an education and provided boarding for the elementary-aged children. As time passed, older students from nearby farms and ranches were able to break away from some of their duties during the winter months to learn, and the school was expanded both in numbers and additions to the structures. Originally built of stone from nearby, later additions to it consisted of complementary brick and even some cedar that blended into the surrounding hillsides. The order was periodically infused with younger nuns and even some novices who brought new ideas and spiritually uplifted their weary counterparts. During the second decade of the new century, the school expanded to include the high school grades.

In due time, a stage coach line began running from Fort Caspar in central Wyoming to Montana along the Bozeman Trail. In the early years, small bands of roving Indians startled passengers who rode the line by appearing along the trail. Or, they could be seen from outcroppings observing the stage coach as it rumbled over the uneven, cratered, and rocky track. Seldom did the braves approach the stages which were heavily guarded. Most of the travelers in those days were single men checking out the possibilities of selecting a piece of land or young men looking forward to finding a lucky strike in the gold mines further along the trail. Because the coaches also carried mail, there were various stage stops along the journey, usually nothing more than a small cabin inhabited by a man and his woman. They fed and cared for a change of horses and saw that the mail was delivered to the appropriate persons. The woman could usually be counted on to put together a meal for the travelers. As sometimes happened in stormy weather, passengers, drivers, and all would be bunked in whatever lodging was available.

As small towns sprang up throughout the area with their own schools and the need for a live-in school declined, the emphasis at The Post turned to post-secondary education. And, as the years passed, the attraction for young women to enter the order as nuns declined, especially those qualified to teach college courses.

This necessitated the hiring of secular personnel to be hired as faculty and staff.

Chapter 1

Collier, Wyoming, May, 2013

Lauren never knew how she made it through the last two weeks of the spring semester. Her fellow faculty members in the management department must have speculated why she was concealed in her office until just before her scheduled classes, then just as quickly disappeared after her class was completed. She would gather up whatever papers or books she needed, stuff them into her briefcase and slip out the side entrance, with little or no contact with any of her peers. But perhaps most of them were engrossed in preparing for final exams and helping students through the concluding days before graduation and the upcoming summer break.

She hoped her students were unaware of the effort she made to keep her emotions under control, to be patient with sometimes superfluous questions, and to force a smile when it felt like her face would fracture with the effort of answering their queries. She knew she had appeared in front of her classes more than once with bags under her eyes, sad, weary, reddened and swollen. She thought wryly that she had become an expert at disguising splotches, new wrinkles and weariness from her face.

Lauren sat staring at a framed photo on her desk, tears making small rivulets down her face as she speculated as to how her life had taken such a cruel twist. Perhaps, had she not left Chicago for the position she now held, none of this would have happened.

She dabbed a tissue against her cheeks trying to absorb the tears that kept coming. She was not naïve in comprehending she should be exempt from the heart-wrenching situation with which she was faced. Her mother had told her on more than one occasion it was the challenges in one’s life that grew the character which helped to cope with what life throws at an individual. But surely her mother hadn’t meant this.

Lauren Rawl, college professor, mother of two adult sons, a tad above average height, leaned back in her office chair and reflected on how her life was surely being confronted with a chance to foster her moral fiber. During the past ten days she had felt like a zombie, sleep-walking through her days, tossing and turning at night while sleep evaded her. Then, she would drag herself from bed as dawn made itself known around the wooden slats in her bedroom shades. She would wash the sleep from her eyes, and then walk down the hall to the kitchen to brew a cup of tea. Her morning walks were one thing she still anticipated. As the spring days had lengthened, she switched from long-legged wind pants to shorts, although she still wore a fleece hoodie over a tee shirt, and her well-worn walking shoes.

Returning home, she would strip off her clothes, shower and be dressed by 7:45 a.m. In recent days she’d had no appetite, but had forced herself to eat a slice of toast with her second cup of tea. Usually, she was out of her house by 8:15. She had plenty of time to get to her office a little after 8:30—could even do a quick errand if called for after leaving her home on Conover Street.

It seemed everywhere she turned in her home was a photo that reminded her of happier days, which she reasoned, was likely why she was tarrying as little as possible at home. When she was home, she tried to keep busy with household tasks or taking comfort in her long-time pursuit of planting, maintaining and weeding her extensive flower beds.

Another gush of hot tears coursed down her cheeks. As she reached for yet another tissue, she realized she had gone through more boxes of Keenex recently than she would have though possible. Previously, she’d no understanding that it was likely for one human being to produce as many tears as she had.

Lauren shook her head momentarily, trying to adjust her thoughts. She raised her head and looked out the window of her office. The mountains loomed just across the campus, rising crest upon crest. In fact, she had to bend forward at an angle to see the summit of the closest peak. Her mind revisited the indoctrination for new faculty she had attended three years ago at The College of St. Christopher, named after the patron saint of travelers. The college, affectionately known as The Post, was situated on the site of a former monastery in the foothills of the Bighorn Mountains of Wyoming. Historical pictures of the early outpost—the monks clad in their hooded, black, woolen robes, some of the travelers and, of course the early students and the nuns in their traditional long, black habits and cornettes—adorned the hallways and meeting rooms of the modern campus.

Cap Huntington, her department chair, had scheduled a meeting of the faculty in the management department to conclude the spring semester. Lauren would have skipped the final assemblage had Cap not made it mandatory. The agenda indicated they would finalize class assignments for the fall semester and there were other items on which he needed input from all members of the department. Until time for the meeting to begin, she busied herself in evaluating and marking a series of blue book exams her marketing class, consisting mostly of juniors and seniors, had recently completed, before joining the others.

Fifteen minutes later, Lauren slipped into a chair at the table in the conference room reserved for the gathering as other members of their small department assembled. She ran the fingers of her left hand through her short bob, letting the strands of her auburn hair slip through her fingers, as she settled her slim, well-toned, forty-seven year-old body more comfortably. She had gotten into the practice of wearing slacks and a sweater or a pants suit as she was today… lime green, short-sleeved… because she felt her right leg was unsightly as the result of a scar just below the knee from surgery to repair some torn tendons from a running mishap several years earlier. Opening the folder Cap’s secretary had provided for each of them, Lauren glanced over it as she observed Cap glide into his chair and begin shuffling papers in preparation for the meeting. He was an energetic man in his early forties, on the shorter side in stature, a sprinkling of freckles over his nose and upper cheeks, rust-colored hair and a matching, vigorous mustache over his upper lip. His widespread green eyes complimented his facial features, clearly revealing his Irish origins. Cap’s specialty in finance, along with his gregarious personality, made him a good person to work with the department members and the students in scholarly pursuits. Lauren was not the only one in the department who suspected his air of self importance was his attempt to compensate for his slight build. Today he was dressed in a short-sleeved tangerine polo shirt worn with Dockers slacks. She suspected he was headed to the golf course for one of his frequent rounds, after the meeting.

Lauren lifted her head and smiled as Sister Clementine Pehringer entered the room and slipped into a seat across the table from Lauren. Sister Clem, one of the last remaining nuns still teaching at The Post, and Lauren had become allies and friends when Lauren had joined the department. She was a short woman on the chubby side, in her late thirties who still wore the traditional short, black cornette, trimmed in white, on her head. A few members of her order in the nearby convent still wore full habits, including the white wimple designed to cover their heads and necks. Sister Clem, however, opted for contemporary dress in a pressed, light blue cotton blouse with a print skirt featuring the same color of blue. Her feet were shod in flat, laced, black shoes, worn over black stockings. Though she was unassuming in height, she was tall in presence with a face that always wore a pleasant countenance. Lauren had contemplated how long her light brown hair was, but had never deemed it appropriate to ask her friend. Sister Clem was one of two accounting instructors in the department. The other being Lamar Woodall who claimed the chair next to the nun.

Two more members of the department drifted in, each with a mug of coffee in one hand and notebooks and just-retrieved mail tucked under their arms. They were chuckling as they shared some story one of them had been telling. Gary Lindsey and Jed Hawkins settled in seats next to Lauren. Cornelius Stoker, the oldest member of the department whose specialty was economics, shuffled in and stuffed a pipe, which Lauren had never seen lit, into his vest pocket. However, he did use the pipe, which exuded a faint odor of his cherry-wood tobacco, when speaking to his peers to emphasize a point. He was the department’s throwback to the sixties with an aura of eccentricity, in that he wore his hair, which had long since turned white, down to his shoulders.

Cap cleared his throat and looked around the table, beginning the meeting. Gail Atherly, his secretary, took her seat next to Cap and laid out her materials. She was a slim woman with dark shoulder-length, curly hair who did the clerical work of the department members.

Cap reminded his faculty that final grades for each course were due in his office twenty-four hours after administering the semester-concluding exams, and that all faculty members were expected to participate in commencement ceremonies on Sunday. He asked that each of the faculty leave a summer phone number with Gail where they could be reached if necessary. He went around the table confirming with each person the courses each would be teaching for the fall semester and told them he would need an updated syllabus for each course. Although it had become a standing occurrence, Cap officially invited all of the department members to an end-of-year gathering at his home that evening.

Lauren jotted a note to herself to speak with Cap when the meeting ended regarding commencement. She loved participating, in seeing the students she had advised, taught and guided over the past three years, graduate. The shining faces of the graduates as they marched down the aisle of the auditorium to solemn music, seeking the faces of their loved ones as if to say I made it! or Look what I’ve achieved! always made her feel a great sense of accomplishment. The pomp and pageantry of the ceremonies with the students, faculty and administrators garbed in their robes and mortarboards was impressive. Each faculty member wore a hood attached at the upper chest which extended down the back with the colors of the university from which he or she was awarded their highest degree. In addition, each discipline such as education, music or management had a universal designated color which was also a part of the hood. As a part of the ceremony each graduate would receive his own hood with the colors of his major and the colors of The College of St. Christopher which were emerald green and white.

But this time she would be compelled to miss the ceremony.

Cap glanced down at a sheet of paper before him. It seems the college is looking at a new health insurance carrier…

Before he had an opportunity to complete his statement, Gary Lindsey interjected, "What is