Beyond Silent Cadence: As the Baffling Beat Goes On

Copyright © 2014 Leisley M. Lantram.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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.

iUniverse LLC

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4917-4005-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-4004-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-4003-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014912491

iUniverse rev. date: 07/25/2014

Contents

Chapter 1 Lofty Undertaking

Chapter 2 Strange Proposal

Chapter 3 Can It Be Fixed?

Chapter 4 Battling Conviction

Chapter 5 Delirious Dash for Home

Chapter 6 Clever Trap

Chapter 7 Fears Unleashed

Chapter 8 A New Leaf

Chapter 9 Bounteous Waves

Chapter 10 Out of the Abyss

Chapter 11 Then Came the Year 2000

To All Who Know

26709.png The educators

Nathaniel, Marietta, and Nancy

~

26711.png The encouragers

Dorothy, Elaine, Erica, and Maryanne

~

26713.png The innocent victims

Chapter 1

Lofty Undertaking

Tuesday, May 19, 1980, was a refreshing spring day in the Houston suburbs. Christa Fonteneau was enjoying the bright morning sunlight as she sipped from her first cup of creamy hot mocha, her favorite drink in the early morning. She sat in the center of the perfectly maintained patio at the wrought-iron table with its glass glistening and welcomed the slight, crisp breeze that played with her silken hair.

Her mind was filled with uncertainty, and the jumbled confusion was muddled with a puzzling, yet somehow convincing, optimism that welled up inside her. The local newspaper article triggered an idea that meandered through her brain. An antsy shiver crept over her. She wondered if the answer to her unrest lay right before her.

She slowly folded the paper and tucked it under her arm. Then she picked up the cup and saucer to carry inside. She walked to the patio door, balancing the cup in one hand. She slid the glass door open and stepped into the luxurious and immaculately clean den.

Her husband had left for work without awakening her and their two daughters. Even after his nights out on the town, she always prepared breakfast before Damon left for work, and he always said good-bye and told them to enjoy the day. Perplexity haunted her, and a piercing uneasiness stabbed into her brain. Her stomach was turning somersaults.

She drew in a wistful breath. She moved past the large, claw-footed sofa and saw that if Damon had even sat down on it, he had been meticulous enough to fluff the pillows. She stopped at the entrance to the dining area next to the two white wooden barstools. The counter appeared untouched since she had cleaned up the past evening. Across the room, his coffee cup and a plate were in the sink under the window. Her mind continued to wonder about Damon’s actions.

Christa wanted to wreck the fastidious neatness—once an amusing pleasure—that surrounded her. Stifling the desire to give in to growing resentment, she glanced around at the perfect tidiness. She walked to the sofa and dropped the paper, disheveled, onto the new trapunto orange and green floral sofa. His rage from last week popped into her mind as she stared at the paper.

That night, it had been past eleven-thirty when she heard Damon’s Corvette roar into the driveway. The house was quiet except for the television’s monotonous drone. Dressed in her cozy, two-piece, pink, cotton pajamas, she was watching NBC’s The Tonight Show in the family room. She had both feet tucked under her and was leaning on her left elbow.

A guest host was pitch hitting for Johnny, so Christa was only half listening. If Damon had not arrived, she was going to stay up until the guest star, Teri Garr, came on. She loved watching the popular actress in the 1963 movie, A Swingin’ Affair, and thinking of her brought back memories of Teri’s mother, an original New York City Rockette precision dancer.

Instead, she stood and flipped off the television and the lamplight next to the sofa. She was in no mood for his belittling. She decided it best to get to the bedroom and pretend to be sleeping. She watched the beam of the car lights sweep past the picture window. Then, she heard the garage door roll up and back down before Damon slammed the car door. She knew he would enter from the laundry room.

Able to see by the light in the long hallway, she ran to the bedroom. Her heart started to thump. She threw the extra pillows from the bed onto the easy chair in the corner before she put Damon’s pillow neatly on his side of the bed near the bedside table. It was his side so he would be able to reach the phone if the dispatch office called him.

She had become used to this race, but butterflies always fluttered in her stomach. She scooted under the covers and turned on her side with her knees pulled up into a fetal position. As she closed her eyes, she sank into the soft down pillow. In a jiffy, he entered the room and flipped on the overhead light.

She shot up quickly and managed to hide the fury she felt as he neared the bed. She did not dare mention the repulsing stench of beer and smoke. Christa had beaten that horse too many times before and received her own floggings for opening her mouth. Another aroma, a cheap sweet scent, swept past when he walked toward her. He just glanced at her face and turned to go to the other end of the bed. He never said a word.

She threw caution to the wind. You smell like Evening in Paris perfume. It was not a statement but a need for information.

So what? Can’t I even get close to another woman without you bitching, you stupid battle-ax! It’s none of your damn business!

Cut to the quick, she lowered her head. He never called her names. This was more than she could understand.

He spewed through clenched teeth, I’m tired of your stupid mouth. Get in the guest bedroom. I need some sleep.

He grabbed her forearm and jerked her from the bed. Her face burned from the slap he planted on her cheek before she had time to think about what she had started. She knew to follow his orders. She left him undressing and slunk off to the guest bedroom. Nursing her rankled ego, she sobbed into the early morning. She was not used to sleeping alone or in the seldom-used queen bed, but finally she fell asleep.

Now, she looked at the fading blue bruise where he had grabbed and twisted her arm. A lump rose in her throat, but she held back her tears. Bending her elbow toward her chest, she tried to hide the ugly mark. She quickly retrieved the beckoning newspaper. She anxiously pored over the compelling article, Teachers Needed—Federal Grants Available.

In January, her husband was promoted to a new managerial position. After the long move from Nashville to Houston, she liked the comforts of their new home, but her self-confidence had waned. For the last three months, Christa had been timid about making new friends. She was even more dependent on Damon for her ties to the world outside their home.

He had become chummy with his co-workers right away and always accepted their invitations to go drinking after work. His self-absorption grew while he immersed himself in his work. Lately, she felt he had little time for her.

Her mind was scrambled with thoughts that flashed like wildfire. Her subconscious prodded her to discover her purpose in life, and to satisfy her own deep-seated emotional needs; she needed to make some changes. She could not dwell on the challenges this effort would bring. Could she find her own dreams?

She was doing what Damon wanted her to do—being a stay-at-home mother and housewife. What would he say if she told him she wanted to go back to school? Even if he were skeptical, she believed he would okay her plan. With their daughters in school all day, she was at home alone now. He might let her go to work.

She waffled in her thinking, but she was increasingly persuaded that the time had come to alter her course of unhappiness. She was afraid that sidestepping issues of a wayward husband while taking on classwork would be exhausting. The serious responsibilities of raising small children at the same time filled her with trepidation.

After the move, she was fortunate to find an ideal babysitter who lived only two doors away. Patricia Navarro was a sixteen-year-old of Latin American heritage. With charms of a Southern belle, with beauty accentuated by olive skin and dark eyes, she was perfect for the job. Patricia’s graceful manners and laughter filled the Fonteneau home when she babysat Marrissa and Darlene, the five- and nine-year-olds. They had opened their arms and hugged her tightly the first time they met her. It was time to get in touch with her.

Soon Christa was holding the house phone in her hand, hectically dialing 555-112-0003. Listening to the phone ring—once, twice, three times—she hoped Patricia was at home. She must talk to her! One more ring, and the young girl answered. She could come right after her last class. Christa felt her load lighten and breathed a sigh of relief. That hurdle was easily met.

Whatever you want. She dreaded Damon’s probable response. His nonchalance already clearly resounded in her ears, and her doubts grew again. He would use little time to consider her idea if he showed any interest at all.

She tried to envision what going back to school would be like. The girls would be at home at night for two to three hours during her classes. Would he agree to come home if they started at six—or would she need Patricia? Her feelings fluctuated between apprehension and excitement.

With an unusual giddiness emerging, she moved from one menial task to another. She started deciding which outfits she could wear to classes and even skipped lunch to finish sorting the clothes in her closet. Her sense of style, fortunately, continued to be an asset. She had kept up with the latest trends in fashion even on her limited clothing budget. Damon’s insistence on her dressing in tastefully, flattering outfits was one of his demands that was fully appreciated.

She eagerly searched through her clothes, seeking something that would give her a semblance of confidence and spontaneity. The look was imperative for her pending visit to the college. She decided on a stylish three-piece, light pink, polyester pantsuit with bell-bottomed pants. Even though the outfit was sassy and alluring, the matching jacket with tiny white pinstripes added the desired sophistication. Because it stopped just at the top of her small but curvy hips, the jacket would accentuate her tiny waistline and show the contour of her petite frame. Her long, soft, chestnut hair would flip perfectly over the hot pink turtleneck collar, and the long sleeves would cover her bruised arm.

She sought a go-ahead, a green light to proceed. She needed assurance that she must not back down from her blossoming idea. A leisurely bubble bath provided some time