Absolution Denied

Copyright © 2012 by W. Bennett

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-2997-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-2998-0 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 6/7/2012

Contents

Prologue

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

PART FIVE

For my Children

Brian, Paul, Pamela

Special Thanks

To Murray Osborne for generously giving of his time and teaching skills.

Prologue

W ould it be possible to see Mr. Hansworth this morning?

Do you have an appointment? the receptionist asked while peering officiously over her glasses.

No, I don’t.

Mr. Hansworth is a very busy man, Mister…?

Kirkland. Alan Kirkland.

Could I ask the nature of your business, Mr. Kirkland?

I have something here I’d like him to take a look at. The man was holding a thick manila envelope.

The receptionist forced a smile. And what, may I ask, is the content of your envelope?

If it is all the same to you, I would prefer to discuss that with your boss.

Her little facial snit showed displeasure with the perceived slight. Kirkland instantly understood his blunder and quickly added, I truly am sorry, but it’s rather personal.

Somewhat satisfied, the receptionist said, I’ll see if he has time for you.

She left her desk and was back in under a minute. Down the hall, she said. His is the second office on the right.

***

Jack Hansworth was sitting with his feet propped up on the corner of his desk, his chair tilted back, a half-cup of coffee on the blotter pad in front of him, a pencil clamped between his fingers and flicking it like a baton. He was reading the editorial section of the Sun. Except for the up-to-date IBM computer sitting on his desk the office was all early1980s vintage. Florescent lights glared down from a suspended ceiling, a ceiling with a couple panels missing. Half closed Venetian blinds cast muted light bars across the carpeted floor, carpet worn thin in traffic areas down to, and through the pattern. The reek of stale coffee hung in the air like rancid cologne. Stacks of old newspapers of every shape, description, colour and size were piled in wire bins along one wall. A line of ancient gray filing cabinets took up the entire length of another wall.

Good morning, Mr. Hansworth. My name is Alan Kirkland. It’s good of you to see me on such short notice.

Not bothering to stand, Jack Hansworth merely pointed to a chair. Have a seat.

Hansworth made no attempt at a formal introduction, nor did he smile. Obviously he didn’t like strangers popping in on him without an appointment. His tone of voice said as much. Kirkland sensed an air of self-importance about the little man. Hansworth was as disheveled and unattractive as his office. Kirkland instantly surmised that Hansworth suffered badly from the little man syndrome. His feet barely reached up onto the desktop. Kirkland guessed him at about fifty, or thereabouts. He was almost totally bald, slightly overweight, wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses, which only worsened his appearance.

Kirkland said, Thanks, but no, I won’t take up any more of your time than is necessary. Dropping his envelope onto the desk, he went on, I have a story here, one I believe you should use for one of your editorials. It might read like fiction, but I assure you, every word of it is the truth. Everything in that envelope can be verified, and has been verified.

Without as much as looking at the envelope, Jack Hansworth said in a flippant manner, I research my own material, Mr. Kirkland. I am an editorialist, not a storyteller. And I never purchase my material.

Alan Kirkland came back with, And I’m not trying to sell you any.

Hansworth showed no expression.

Jack–-I hope you don’t mind me calling you, Jack? Kirkland went on.

Hansworth shook his head indifferently, but no, he didn’t like having strangers speaking to him in friendly terms. Jack Hansworth had his chosen close circle of friends and he wasn’t looking to make any new ones.

Jack, I’ve been reading your editorials ever since they first appeared in the Star. And I do admit, at one time I really looked forward to reading them. And it wasn’t only your style of writing that I admired, but the topics you chose. But as of late–-for the past two or three years in fact–-reading them has become downright tiresome. In this past year alone I’ve read three of your pieces that I know to be reworks of previous articles from years back; a changed word here, a reworked paragraph there, a different title. And I have to say that it’s pretty flat stuff for a man of your talents. Although you haven’t lost your mastery of the English language, I’m afraid the fire of your imagination has all but gone out.

Is that so? Hansworth shot back, coldly. I’ve been in this racket a long time. Too long to have someone the likes of you coming in off the street and start telling me my business. I earned my stripes a long time ago. He then pointed to the door. You’ve had your minute and I’m a busy man.

Surprisingly, Alan Kirkland made no attempt to leave. From reading your latest editorials, he went on, I’d say you haven’t been nearly busy enough, Jack. I know that your syndications are dropping you like leaves in an autumn wind. I read where even the Star, the paper that gave you your big break, has dropped you. Tell me Jack; how many more like that can you handle before you’re out on the street?

With that Hansworth’s feet dropped to the floor with a loud thump. Picking up Kirkland’s envelope he flung it back at him. Alan Kirkland, half expecting the reaction, easily caught the flying envelope. As I just said, I’m a busy man. Now get out.

Jack, said Kirkland, his voice still very calm, I know what I just said was a hard truth for you to handle, but then the truth often is. I can certainly attest to that fact. Just recently I was forced to accept some very bitter truths about my own family. But something I do know is this; Jack Hansworth is a very skilled writer when he gets his hands on a worthwhile subject. But as of late, Jack Hansworth has been wallowing in the literary doldrums, grasping at anything to fill up his column, and doing his reputation a lot of harm in the process. Jack, people grow tired of reading columns of facts and figures concerning the failings of politicians, governments, and organizations–-your lifelong specialty. Times have changed. The internet and TV give readers an overload of all that drivel. However, human interest stories never go out of style, and I’m offering you one of the best you’ll ever get your hands on.

Alan Kirkland then dropped his envelope back onto Hansworth’s desk. Jack, I didn’t come in here to censure or ridicule you. What I want is for you to read what is in that envelope and then to use your skills to make it shine. What’s in that envelope is not the kind of editorial material you’re accustomed to dealing with, but it is an incredible story. I’m handing you a new target to shoot at, so you really should at least give it a look-see. As Kirkland was turning to leave, he said, Jack, you can let your pride overrule common sense and throw that envelope in the recycle bin, or you can read it and run with it. But one way or the other it will get printed in a newspaper. It’s too incredible a story not to let the world in on. My phone number is on the introduction page–-in case you change your mind.

Alan Kirkland then left Jack Hansworth’s office, closing the door gently behind him.

Jack Hansworth picked up the envelope from his desk and tossed it in the waste basket.

Asshole!

PART ONE

1

2001: Alan Kirkland groped about in his drape-darkened bedroom slapping at the alarm clock. Even after knocking the clock off the night table the noise continued. It was the telephone making the racket.

Yeah? he grumbled, after realizing his error and pressing the receiver to his ear.

Good morning, Alan. This is Martha.

Alan and his sister, Martha, saw little of each other over the years, but they did stay in touch. At sixty-one years of age, Martha, the elder of the two, was five years her brother’s senior.

Martha, he said, squinting at the clock, do you know what time it is? It’s seven o’clock.

Oh dear, did I wake you?

Yes, as a matter-of-fact you did. I was up late last night watching the playoffs.

I’m so sorry to disturb you, Alan, but this is very important. It couldn’t wait.

Okay then, he said, rubbing his eyes, trying to clear the sleep, doing his best not to sound angry, what’s so important as to rob your poor brother of his sleep?

Alan, I’m selling the old family home and moving into an apartment. But while I was cleaning out the attic–-getting the place ready to list with real estate–-I came across something I found to be–-well–-very unsettling.

With the mere mention of cleaning out the old family home Alan Kirkland’s thoughts shot back to his boyhood days in Hamilton. He recalled how cluttered the old place had always been, not dirty, just messy. It seemed his parents never threw anything away, a penchant obviously picked up from surviving hard times, and one dutifully carried on by their daughter. A retired legal secretary, Martha Kirkland never married, had few friends, didn’t seem to want or need any, claimed to be peopled-out. She preferred a solitary existence. She looked after her parents until the end of their lives and for her guardianship was rewarded with ownership of the old family home. Alan dropped in and visited his sister whenever he was in the Hamilton area, which wasn’t often, and with each visit he swore the house was more cluttered than the last time he was in it. He could well imagine what the inside of the place must look like now, especially the attic and basement. While growing up in the house he often feared his bedroom ceiling would collapse some night and crush him to death in his sleep. Junk was piled to the rafters. When winds were high the house tended to creak and groan under the load, and on those nights he would lie awake waiting for all those trunks and boxes to come crashing through the ceiling.

Martha, I hope you’re not undertaking that monumental task on by yourself? At your age you should not be doing any heavy lifting.

Actually, I am doing most of it by myself, she said, stoically, but I do hire my neighbour’s boy when I need help. He’s a college student and can use the money. It’s slow going, but I am gaining ground. In fact, I should be able to list the house by month’s end. And the Salvation Army people just love me for all the donations I’ve made to their Thrift Store.

Yeah, I just bet they do. I’m sure they’d just love to receive boxes of musty old clothes from the 40s and 50s. Well, I am glad to hear that you’re selling the old place. And I think you’ll be far better off and have more time to enjoy life after you do. All I’m saying is this; just go easy and don’t hurt yourself.

Alan, I’m not a cripple–-not yet, she scoffed.

Okay then, he said, getting her back on track, and just what have you discovered that’s so important?

An old bible!

A bible! said her brother. Let me get this straight; you woke me to tell me that you found a bible?

That’s correct, said Martha. A very old bible. I found it while I was clearing out the attic. It is the Spenser family bible. It obviously belonged to our Grandmother Kirkland, and as you know, her maiden name was Spenser.

Yes, I am aware of that, Alan said, trying to sound interested. Momentarily he wondered if perhaps his sister was beginning to go a little senile, or perhaps turning to God in her golden years.

Alan, I have a question for you.

Shoot, he sighed, trying not to yawn aloud.

Do you ever remember hearing our parents–-or our grandparents for that matter–-mentioning a James Spenser Kirkland?

No, said her brother without hesitation. Why do you ask?

Because his name was entered on the genealogy pages of the old bible I found in the attic.

And what was he to us, a distant relative or something?

No, said Martha, hesitating for a long moment, sounding almost afraid to speak the words. He was our father’s brother. He was our uncle.

Impossible, said Alan, not giving it a second thought. I’ve never heard that name mentioned before. I think you are mistaken, Martha. He must have been a cousin or some distant relative. I’ve personally met all our uncles and aunts from both sides of the family–-many times in fact–-and I know that our dad was the only boy in the Kirkland family. There was no James. I’m positive of that!

And that’s what I always believed, too, Martha came back like a shot. Alan, I know what I’m talking about here. This James Spenser Kirkland was our uncle–-our father’s brother. He was not a cousin, nor was he a distant relative.

Alan Kirkland was still struggling to clear his mind of sleep. Perhaps it was a misprint? he said, now in the sitting position on the bed. Or a name printed in the wrong section of the bible?

For heaven sakes, Alan, don’t be ridiculous. It was our grandmother who entered those names. How could she have misplaced, or misspelled, the name of one of her own children?

Good point, Martha! Good point. I stand corrected.

Martha then went on with her tale of discovery with noticeable impatience in her tone. There are several old steamer trunks up in the attic, mostly full of old clothes and other bric-a-brac. But there was this one small trunk and it was locked. I’ve never seen it before. I discovered it tucked away back in a corner of the attic. I had Trevor–-that’s my neighbour’s boy–-pry the lock open. Inside I found a lovely old wedding dress, which I presume belonged to our Grandmother Kirkland. It is a small gown, and as you probably recall, she was a little woman. And under the dress I found an old Peek Frean cookie can. You know the kind I’m talking about, the ones people used to give as gifts at Christmastime? And there were these documents inside the cookie can. And down on the very bottom of the trunk is where I found this old Spenser family bible.

And you say that this James Kirkland’s name was listed in the bible?

It was, said Martha, emphatically. In fact, his was the last name ever logged in it.

By now Alan Kirkland was far more awake. And you say he was our uncle and not a first or second cousin? You’re sure about that?

Positively! He was our uncle. And his middle name was Spenser.

The same as Grandma Kirkland’s maiden name? Alan Kirkland added. Spenser?

It was. And it was spelt the same way, too. Further proof that he was Grandma’s child.

After a slight pause Alan asked, And did you find anything else concerning this James Kirkland?

I did indeed, said Martha, sounding triumphant, knowing that her brother was now on side.

Well then, let’s have it? he said, and for the first time sounding interested.

As I’ve already mentioned; inside the old cookie can I found documents. One is a birth certificate issued in Saint John, New Brunswick, stating that a James Spenser Kirkland was born to Sara and Felix Kirkland–-our grandparents–-on the twelfth of November 1899. There’s another certificate showing that he was baptized on December 2nd of that same year. There’s also a high school diploma showing that he graduated high school, with honours, in June of 1917. There’s also a telegram informing him that he had been conscripted into the Canadian Army, dated April 1, 1918.

Unbelievable, said Alan Kirkland, now wide-awake and sitting ramrod straight on the edge of the bed with his feet on the floor. So therefore, I must agree, that such a man did indeed exist.

I can’t see how it could be otherwise, said Martha.

A lengthy silence followed as Alan gave deep reflection to his sister’s discovery. Coming out of his thoughts, he said, So, Martha, tell me more about this old bible?

Martha cleared her throat and began. Well, it’s a lovely old leather-bound book. It was printed in London England in 1824. It lists all the Spenser family members as far back as 1779 in Manchester and Liverpool, which was a pleasant surprise for me. The Kirkland name was first entered in the bible in May of 1890, the year Grandma and Grandpa Kirkland were married. Grandma’s brothers and sisters are all listed there, and in proper order. Our dad and our two aunts, Beatrice and Mildred, are also listed, and in the proper order. Then there’s Mary, the little girl who died in infancy. Next comes this James. Those five names are all listed in the same block, and on the same genealogy page. And something else I found to be very strange, she went on without a pause, I’ve always believed that Mary, the girl born in 1897 and who died in infancy, was the last child our grandparents had. But she wasn’t. This James Spenser Kirkland was actually born a year following Mary’s death. He was really the baby of the Kirkland family, not Mary. And his name was the last ever entered in the old bible.

Hmm, mumbled Alan Kirkland. Very strange. It’s like this James had been disowned by his own family.

My thoughts exactly, said Martha.

"And are there any more names listed in the bible–-besides this James?’

No, said Martha. Not you, not me, not our brother Dwight. The last name ever entered in the bible was this James Spencer Kirkland. It looks as though, after his birth, the bible was put away and never opened again.

Well, Martha, said her brother, after a momentary pause, you certainly have my attention. I wonder whatever became of him?

I have absolutely no idea. But there’s something else, Martha said with noticeable hesitation in her tone. There was also a letter in the cookie can. It was addressed to our grandmother–-his mother. It’s a very strange and disturbing letter. I’ll read it to you if you wish?

By all means, said Alan. I’d love to hear what it says.

Martha began. The cancellation mark on the stamp shows that it was posted in Bangor, Maine, on June 3, 1918, and is addressed to Mrs. Sara Kirkland, 116 Calais Road, Saint John, New Brunswick. Obviously that was our grandparent’s address when they lived down east.

Alan heard paper rustling.

Dearest Mother:

By the time you read this letter all of my actions will have been exposed to public scrutiny. To be sure, it is a cowardly act putting on paper something that should be said in person. But, sadly to say, I lack the courage it would require to face you. Nonetheless, what is done is done, and what the future holds for me I cannot tell. It is quite useless now for me to dwell on what may have been. My sins have all been recorded both in heaven and on earth. When one knowingly breaks the laws of both God and of man, as I have done, when he crosses the bridge of forbidden indulgence, he must stand ready to pay a heavy toll. Of my own free will I have chosen the path I now walk. I blame only myself for it.

This, Dear Mother, is not a plea for forgiveness; it is merely a feeble attempt to explain my weaknesses. Throughout my life I’ve always believed a fight was something a man did with his fists, a sword, or a gun, and the enemy could always be recognized with the naked eye. Never did I believe that a man’s greatest adversary hides within his own heart and is nourished by his passions. Please believe me, Mother, when I say that I did not surrender to temptation without a good fight. However, I lost to an enemy that was too cunning, too quick, and too little understood. I was defeated before I knew the struggle had begun.

I can only imagine the pain and degradation which will befall you and my family when my weaknesses are exposed to the world. You are the dearest mother a boy ever had, and what I have done to you, and to my brother and sisters, I know there can be no absolution. I only ask that you believe me when I say this; I did not go in search of sin, it was there waiting patiently for me to come along.

As you can easily understand, this will be the last contact you will ever have with me, Dear Mother, and for that I am greatly saddened. But, I must accept the loss of your love, and the respect of all those who know me, as part of the cost of my transgressions.

Goodbye, Dear Mother,

James.

A tortured silence followed as both brother and sister pondered the haunting words of an uncle neither had ever met.

It was Alan who broke the quiet. Well, Martha, I must say, he was quite a fine writer. He writes like one who was well educated. Another pause followed before he added, "And now it’s probably going to drive me crazy until I find out the nature of James Kirkland’s passions. What in the world could he have done to make him write