Beyond the Death of Ira Nesbitt

By Dorothy E. Rainville

Beyond the Death of Ira Nesbitt is a heart-wrenching tale of love, sacrifice, and redemption. Ira Nesbitt lives in a small town far away from any large city, working at the local mill to support himself and his family. His parents spend their evenings getting drunk at the local bar, leaving Ira to care for his younger sister, Angie. But when Ira’s father starts to suspect that Angie may not be his daughter, he begins to treat her badly, leading Ira to plan her escape to another town.

One fateful night, Ira’s worst fears come true as his father beats Angie mercilessly. In a heroic move, Ira lunges at his father to save his sister, sparking a chain of events that changes the course of their lives forever. As the story unfolds, we witness Ira’s struggles and triumphs as he fights to protect his family and create a better future for Angie.

But amidst the chaos and tragedy, there is a glimmer of hope. In a selfless act, Ira changes the beneficiary on his life insurance policy from his parents’ names to Angie Nesbitt, ensuring that she will be taken care of even after his death. Beyond the Death of Ira Nesbitt is a poignant and powerful novel that will stay with readers long after they turn the last page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Sep 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9781649791740

Dorothy E. Rainville

This book was written in 1973 by my wife, Dorothy E. Rainville. She unfortunately passed away on September 10, 2021, at the age of 78. The manuscript had never been sent to a publisher throughout those years. After her death, I found the manuscript, keyed it into the computer, and sent it to Austin Macauley Publishers in Spring of 2022.

Book preview

Beyond the Death of

Ira Nesbitt

Dorothy E. Rainville

Austin Macauley Publishers

Beyond the Death of

Ira Nesbitt

About the Author

Dedication

Copyright Information ©

Summary

About the Author

This book was written in 1973 by my wife, Dorothy E. Rainville. She unfortunately passed away on September 10, 2021, at the age of 78. The manuscript had never been sent to a publisher throughout those years. After her death, I found the manuscript, keyed it into the computer, and sent it to Austin Macauley Publishers in Spring of 2022.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my husband, Morris, and to Charmaine and Cathi, two wonderful daughters. It is also dedicated to Lillian, a beloved child who lived but for only an instant in time. And finally, I dedicate my book to Kenny, who needs no explanation.

Copyright Information ©

Dorothy E. Rainville 2023

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 publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Rainville, Dorothy E.

Beyond the Death of Ira Nesbitt

ISBN 9781649791733 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781649791740 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023909452

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

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Summary

This book is about a young lad named Ira Nesbitt who, through the ignorance of others, loses his life in a tragic accident. Following the death of his body, Ira’s soul is elevated to a new plane of existence, where he meets a very wise old teacher named Jezurah. Jezurah explains the Akashic records, karmic debt, reincarnation, and the evolution of man and helps Ira prepare for his next incarnation on earth.

Ira, like many of the rest of us who refuse to accept reincarnation as a fact, suffers the agony of being able to see and hear his baby sister Angie, but is not able to make contact with her until he accepts the truth about death. Another tragedy that Ira has to endure is the fact that he no longer has a body and yet he is hopelessly in love with a woman named Marion. He is determined that the physical union between him and his beloved Marion will take place.

From Jezurah, Ira learns the truth about the evolution of man—the truth that very few mortals on this earth know about! But Ira knows the mystery that every man searches for!

Sunday morning had arrived and here I was, no closer and yet no further than I was yesterday. Desperation hung heavy and every fiber within me ached to be free. I wanted nothing more than to have the courage to cut loose from my family and fly with the wind. I wasn’t quite sure where I wanted to go but dear God, anyplace else must be better than here. All I knew is that I wanted to get far enough away as to not be reminded of this miserable house here in Brookfield ever again. I wanted to move to a town that didn’t reek of stale beer and sickening paper mill fumes. Today the wind was blowing from the north and the stink of the mill smelled heavier than usual. I fumbled in the drawer for a shirt to wear then I picked up the comb but decided against using it.

"What the hell’s the use?" I said to myself in the mirror. I shoved the comb angrily into my pocket and stood there staring at myself. I didn’t like the image of myself that stared at me from the mirror. There I was, a young man of seventeen who had worked his ass off to get good grades throughout High School and for what. There was no place left to go. I was just a kid with no past and no future. Just one name, Ira Nesbitt, to add to the town registry. Ira Nesbitt, the kid who had great dreams of going to college. The fool who promised himself that he would never end up working in the mill like the old man.

But here I was getting ready to leave for my first day of work at the mill that I hated so much. I bent closer toward the mirror to get a better look at myself. Then I laughed at myself for thinking that I could ever get away from this place. And then tears took place of the laughter and I cursed the day that I was born. My brain got screaming over and over again, Run, you damn fool, run while there is still time. The next thing I knew, I was flying down the stairs toward the front door. I made it through the door and was almost to the road when a voice called out.

Don’t forget, you promised to take me to the park when you come home, Ira. I stopped dead in my tracks and turned slowly around. Fifty feet from me stood Angie, dear, sweet, defenseless Angie. She was only four years old. The baby that the old man never wanted and the old lady never cared for. Angie was a cute little kid, rather on the skinny side but oh how I loved her. Since the day the old lady brought her home from the hospital, I couldn’t remember a day going by that I didn’t rock and hold her and care for her. I couldn’t stand it when the old lady would take off drinking and leave her crying and wet in the crib.

I looked down at Angie and noticed that her shoes were on the wrong feet. She slipped her tiny hand into mine and gave me one of her million dollar smiles. We walked slowly back up and sat down together on the porch step. Here Angie baby, let me fix your shoes properly. Angie giggled and chattered happily about going to the park, but I wasn’t listening to her chatter. I was too deep in thought. I nearly choked from the lump in my throat. I held back the tears as I thought of this poor little kid growing up in this town without me to look after her. If I left, who would make sure that she would get properly fed and dressed. If I leave, what will become of her? I had no money to take her with me. How could I care for her when I didn’t have any money to look after myself?

Dammit all anyway, what’s the use, I have to go to that mill today. I took the comb from my pocket and ran it gently through Angie’s hair, then I kissed her blond curls and headed toward the gate for a second time but this time, I walked slowly. Seconds later I heard the old lady’s voice roaring at Angie to get the hell inside the house. It was right there and then that I decide I would take Angie with me when I left. As soon as I had enough money, this town would number two people less in its population.

The mill was hot and sweaty and I dreaded every minute of the working day, but the thought of leaving was on my mind constantly and that’s what kept me going. It didn’t matter how long it took; me and Angie baby were leaving and the sooner the better. Plans were formulating in my brain. First, I would need a set of wheels under me, then I would need at least fifty bucks each for me and Angie. Yes sir, a hundred dollars should keep us going for at least a while until I could get a job. I planned to work during the day and finish my schooling through night classes. I would get a sitter for Angie and would be home early enough from night school to be with her. Angie felt safe as long as I was with her at night. Little Angie was always afraid of the dark but as long as I was around she was okay. The more I thought about it, the more I liked my plan.

Sheer willpower got me through the first six weeks at the mill and I bought an old car. Within a few days, I got it in good working condition. Stage one of my plan was completed. Now for stage two I thought to myself. Just another hundred bucks and Angie and I were on our way. As fate would have it, everything didn’t go as planned. The mill was shut down for three weeks of holidays and I had no holiday pay coming.

The next three weeks were the longest days of my life. I stayed close to Angie and spent a lot of time tinkering around the car. The rest of the time I spent listening to my old man and old lady arguing. And when the old man wasn’t annoying her, he would be telling me some bull-shit story from his past. His drunkenness got on my nerves but I couldn’t leave Angie in the house with him and the old lady when they were on a spree, so I stayed home and listened over and over to his same monotonous stories. Everything in this house depressed me so much over the next few weeks that there were times when I thought that the whole world was as lousy as this town. But when I got discouraged, Angie would find a way to brighten my spirits. Each time I saw her I knew that my plans weren’t about to change. It didn’t matter how long it took. Maneuverability was the formula called for and I had the car so I knew I could move when the time came.

At times, I was scared of the future but these gut feelings I had must never be allowed to take precedence over the execution of my original plan. What the hell did it matter if we left. As far as I was concerned I owed nothing to no one. As a matter of fact the score on life has always and will always be a one-sided card game, where only the affluent and the dictatorship of society holds the winning hand. If it weren’t for all the smooth talking, money grabbing bastards who insist on ripping up trees to make paper out here in this God forsaken town my old man wouldn’t be here. As long as the old man made enough money to stay drunk, he didn’t give a damn where he lived. I was just one of the kids—a little guy from a small government neglected town, where our meals were dependent upon the stinking paper mill. A town one hundred and twenty-eight miles from nowhere. A town where there was only yesterday left to talk about and a town where logically there was supposed to be a tomorrow but no one ever discussed the fact.

Even though the population was seventeen hundred people, it was like living in an isolated rural farming area where the offspring had no choice but to intermarry and move in alongside of mamma and poppa. The sustenance of life for the women was gossip and for the mill workers the monotony breaker was the local run down Shipley Hotel at the corner of Patter Street and Avenue Road. I often wondered who the idiot was that gave this street its name. Avenue Road was nothing more than a neglected stretch of ruts and bumps that that resembled a graveyard for discarded chip bags, cigarette buts and the hotel’s empty beer bottles. When I closed my eyes, I envisioned that at one time some man had a dream that it was possible that this miserable stretch of service road could become a central point in a huge and wonderful city that would be lined with schools, stately homes, an arena and a magnificent library full of knowledge.

But in reality, these were only day-dreams; for when I opened my eyes, reality hit me in the face. All there is on Avenue Road are broken down rejects called houses, one general store and a rundown school house with two teachers that each appear to be one hundred years old. Both these teachers have been here since the mill opened and their methods of teaching haven’t changed. One teacher is named Elaine Packard. She is the youngest of the two teachers. Everyone including me liked her as a teacher even though her ideas were old fashioned. The only reason I liked Miss Packard was because she loaned me books to take home and read. The old man used to tell me stories about the two teachers that ran the school. Of all the stories I liked the one best about Elaine Packard.

In her younger days, she was supposed to have been a real good looking chic who set the whole town council on its ass. The council at that time were always busy running all over hell’s half acre on business trips spending the town’s money and accomplishing absolutely zero. There was one councilman named John H. Whitmore. He was a useless guy who never did anything for the town, but because of the fact that his family name totaled nearly one third of the town’s population, John Whitmore was constantly being re-elected.

Anyway, it was related that John H. Whitmore had an insatiable appetite for sex. This appetite he had knew no bounds nor would he stop short of any perversions. He continually boasted of his sexual conquests and as far as my old man tells it; John always had a ‘hard on’. In fact, the middle initial ‘H’ in his name was supposed to stand for ‘Horny’. John’s bedtime stories became wilder and wilder and it got so that no one was able to separate truth from fiction.

One night at Shipley’s Bar, John was supposed to have taunted Dr. Ferlin over the fact that his wife was a good lay. The Doctor, a rugged looking son of a gun, calmly finished his beer than pinned John against the bar. Then, without anesthetic, the Doctor opened John’s skull using a broken beer bottle as a scalpel. Fifteen minutes later, the same doctor had to do a repair job on John’s head. It took one week in the hospital for John head to heal. Afterwards, it was rumored that John received brain damage that left him impotent. I guess many of the town’s women felt great frustration and loss but it was said that as sure as hell not one man in town felt sorry for him.

As a matter of fact, every married man felt a great sense of relief. John and his dirty stories had planted seeds of doubt in their minds over their own spouses. As my old man tell it, even my own mother, was not above suspicion. The first time I heard him make this statement, I laughed because, by just looking at my old lady, anyone could tell that she was certainly no prize catch. She was a fat, frumpy old bag with sagging breasts and graying hair. Mom, I’m sure had some good qualities, but I couldn’t think of any. The old girl reeked of body odor and dime store perfume. She constantly slobbered when she drank, and had the rotten habit of removing her teeth and leaving them in a glass of water in the bathroom every night. The old man never seemed to mind her bad habits though. For many a night, I lay in my room and listened to them going at it in their own bed. I often wondered how any man could make love to a fat slob like my old lady, and this is why I laugh when I think of John H. Whitmore and my mother together. In fact, if their union ever did take place, John must have either been desperate or dead drunk.

A few months later, all hell broke loose when it was reported that John was back in action. This time it was said that one of the mill workers who had come home early, and caught his wife and John in bed stark naked. John ran like hell and of course the wife yelled rape, but no one believed the story because of John’s infirmity. John looked pretty pleased over the whole affair and within days he was back to telling his old stories again. At this point, someone got fed up and dared John to go after the pretty Miss Elaine Packard, the school teacher whom everyone knew was a pure as the driven snow. Chastity was one of Elaine’s greatest virtues. She was a well-tailored, good looking virgin who had made it quite clear that she wanted nothing to do with the men from our town.

The townsfolk respected Elaine. She would live in town from Monday to Friday and retired each weekend to her parent’s cottage at Staynor, forty-five miles from town, where she would correct and mark her student’s papers. Yes, Elaine Packard was truly a ‘hands off’ deal and the challenge was too great for John H. Whitmore. The challenge plus the fact that there was a fifty dollar wager on the dare led John to pay a few visits to Elaine. But each time he bothered Elaine, he came back the laughing stock of the town. The schoolteacher knew how to handle him in such a way that the whole town knew she had turned him down. Shipley’s Bar rocked with laughter one Friday evening when one of Elaine’s pupils delivered a note addressed to John. The note read as follows:

Dear Mr. Whitmore:

Your sexual exploits are indeed well known about town. Gossip has it that I, Elaine Packard, am to be your next conquest. Such gossip has found its way to some of my pupils. I work diligently for each children’s respect and I feel that such childish gossip on your part may be detrimental on the younger children.

Each day I teach forty one children their studies along with the facts of life. Some of my children are only eleven years of age and they have managed to learn truth from fantasy. I regret to inform you that at present, nor at any time in the foreseeable future, do I wish to indulge in your ludicrous sexual fantasies, nor do I wish to be part of any of your cheap gossip.

Signed: Elaine Packard

My old man was sitting with John when the letter came and he said John read it then turned white with shock. Someone grabbed the letter and read it aloud, then John went tearing out of Shipley’s bar cursing and swearing amidst torrents of laughter from the patrons. Councilman John H. Whitmore left town that night