The Judge

As he was living in the Boston area I called him and asked for an interview. At first he said no, then I mentioned the court

case and he changed his mind. I drove there on Wednesday, told him who I was and how my job with Judge Summers had

led to my reading the file of his case. I also mentioned the success I’d had with writing up the homicide case earlier in the

year.

“I know you don’t recognize my name, but you would be helping me as a young writer and at the same time give you a little

publicity in your old home town.”

With that last argument he agreed to my writing the story, as long as he could approve it before publication. Then he asked,

with a grin, “Are you sure you’re not a used car salesman?”

We parted with a handshake and my promise I would get to work on it. I called Clinton Radley the next day and got his

approval to submit it. “No guarantees,” he said.

I had my first draft ready by Friday afternoon and rewrote, revised and edited it into its final form Saturday, then faxed a copy

to the ballplayer, Everett Simmons, and received a go-ahead from him. Following this I faxed a copy to Clinton Radley,

asking for his approval.

Mr. Radley called me Monday morning and was enthusiastic about the article. “I think you have done an excellent job with this

article; I’ll see to it being in print this week. When you are ready to leave the employ of Judge Summers, let me know; I’m sure

I can find a place for you here.”

This was such good news to me that I had to call Vivian Monday evening to tell her I was going to be in print again and had

virtually been offered a job at the newspaper.

“You’re on your way to becoming a famous writer. Maybe it will happen before we get married,” she said, gushing with

happiness for me.

“I don’t think you want to wait five or ten years. You don’t even want to wait until next year. As a matter of fact, neither do I.”

“Let’s do it then, what are we waiting for?”

“We’re waiting for you to finish your year at Julliard, and you’re going to do that. And I won’t be a famous writer by then;

maybe a year later, with you as an inspiration.”

“I will be your inspiration as well as your lover. Speaking of being your lover, when’s the next time going to be?”

“Probably Thanksgiving weekend, your mother said she would try to get the key to the cottage again.”

“She told you that?”

“Absolutely! She loves me too.”

The three weeks until Thanksgiving passed slowly. I kept busy reading more and more files, looking for another spark, but

none came. My article about Everett Simmons appeared in print on the Thursday of the week I submitted it and, while it didn’t

get rave reviews, newspaper articles seldom do, I was pleased, and knew my name would soon be known to readers. When

the call came I had to be ready.

* * *

Thanksgiving week finally arrived and I flew to Pittsburgh Wednesday evening. When I spied Vivian at the gate waiting for

me, my heart soared; she was so beautiful and she was mine. We wasted no time before embracing; other passengers had

to know we were in love.

On the way to her house Vivian told me that Julliard had set the date for commencement exercises for Wednesday, May 25

and with this information the wedding date had been set for Saturday, June 18. “Mother has already made arrangements at

the church and for the reception. All we have to do is show up.”

“I know you have more to do than just show up. You have to get your gown, put your court together among other things. I’ll ask

my brother to be best man and give your mother a list of friends for the invitation list.”

When we arrived at the house I was hugged by both Elizabeth and Kaitlin and got a warm handshake from Jack. Again, I was

given John’s bedroom to sleep in as he would not be home. “He’ll be here for Christmas, so we’ll have to work something

out,” Elizabeth said.

After having a scoop of ice cream with the family Vivian took me by the hand and led me to the den where we again lay in

close contact on the couch.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Vivian said, and tried to pull me even closer.

“I’ve missed you too,” I replied and kissed her, a long, passion invoking kiss.

It didn’t take long to get uncomfortable on the couch, so we rolled off onto the floor and tried putting pillows beneath us. After

we rolled off several times, bringing on giggles from both of us, we gave up. To our surprise everyone else had gone to bed

and we had the living room to ourselves.

We decided to sit on the couch and search the TV for a program we might want to watch. We didn’t lie down, but sat

snuggled up on the couch. I put my arm around her and cupped one of her breasts. Vivian kissed me then removed her bra

saying, “Now where were we?”

I returned my hand to her now unclad breast. Vivian reciprocated by putting her hand on my lap and stroking me gently; I could

feel her breast swell and my own self responding. At this point we both decided we needed to wait for a better time and

place.

Thanksgiving morning I awoke to the delicious smell of turkey in the oven and the sound of Vivian playing the piano. I

practically flew through my bathroom chores so I could get down there while she was still playing. I got the greatest smile from

Vivian when I arrived. She continued for another twenty minutes, playing what she told me was Rachmaninoff.

Following breakfast we both volunteered to help in the kitchen but Elizabeth shooed us out saying, “You two can do the

dishes after dinner.” To this we both agreed. Vivian then suggested another neighborhood walk.

This time she took me to another part of her neighborhood, past both the elementary and the high school she had attended,

to a park behind city hall. As the swings were not in use I had Vivian sit on one so I could push her.

As we walked I commented again about what a beautiful neighborhood it was. “When we’re ready to start a family, let’s do it

here,” I suggested.

“Oh yes, I would love that,” she exclaimed.

Turkey dinner was served at 2 o’clock, with the entire family holding hands while Jack said grace. It was a delicious meal, as

good as any Thanksgiving dinner I’ve ever had.

The dishes and pots and pans were not delicious. I washed and scrubbed; Vivian dried and put the dishes away. It took more

than an hour.

At 6 we had a light repast and some of Elizabeth’s succulent pumpkin pie, then they invited me to another game of pinochle. I

did better but I knew I had a long way to go before I could compete.

Friday morning, after breakfast, Vivian showed me the key to the cottage and asked me what I thought.

“I think we need some time alone, but I don’t want to be rude to your family.”

“They expect us to go; I don’t know what Kaitlin is thinking, but Mom and Dad know it’s what we want.”

We drove to the cabin and, upon arrival, found that it was cold inside. Vivian suggested we turn the furnace on and walk

around the lake while the place warmed up. “It’s a good walk, I haven’t done it for several years but it shouldn’t take much

more than an hour.”

It wasn’t an easy walk. In places we encountered fences that Vivian advised we should not climb but walk along the road that

fronted the property. This added to the time so that it took more than two hours to complete the walk.

The cottage was cozy when we returned and Vivian gave me a job to do while she prepared lunch. “I’d like a fire in the

fireplace tonight, will you bring in some wood from under the porch? You might have to split some.” The job was easier than I

thought it would be, somebody had already prepared kindling so all I had to do was gather arms full and lug it inside.

For lunch Vivian had prepared my favorite, tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches washed down with ex-Virgin wine.

That afternoon we discovered a new addition to the furniture. In front of the fireplace was a comfortable looking double

recliner. Vivian exclaimed, “That will be so great to sit in and watch the flames dance in the fireplace.”

We decided to relax for the afternoon, watching a football game or two. We sat on the couch in front of the TV and in five

minutes I was asleep.

For dinner Vivian brought out some leftovers from the Thanksgiving dinner and more of the pumpkin pie.

That evening we had to sample the new piece of furniture. I built a fire in the fireplace, Vivian took out a comforter to wrap us

in until the fireplace had warmed us and we settled in the chair.

“Now, where were we the other night?” Vivian asked as she removed her blouse and her bra and cozied up to me.

“I think we were at phase one of a long, fantastic night,” I answered. “I think you’re already on phase two.”

“Why are you not at phase two?” she teased, as she unzipped me and slipped my pants off.

Our fondling was slow and easy. I caressed her breasts while Vivian slowly stroked me to a whopper. We didn’t bother to go

to the bedroom; we removed the rest of our clothes and made love in front of the fireplace.

In the morning we woke early and made love again, raising all our senses to a high level. As we lay there basking in the

afterglow I commented, “It’s getting better and better. You’re getting better and better.”

“Perhaps it’s because I’ve been doing some reading,” she replied. “Mom gave me a book she’s had since she married Dad.

It’s entitled, ‘How to Please Your Man,’ and was written by a woman.

“There are chapters on food and cooking, clothing to wear, housekeeping, and a long, detailed chapter on sex. It details a

number of things that give men pleasure and also brings pleasure to the women. When I get braver, I’ll try some of them on

you.”

“And, is there a book on how to please women in bed?”

“I suppose there is, but you please me more than enough with what you do. I couldn’t ask for any more satisfaction.”

I countered with, “I hope you don’t feel I need any more than what we have now. I couldn’t ask for a better sex partner.

Besides, we’re not just having sex; we’re showing our love for each other.”

“I would still like to experiment. Is that okay?”

“Anything you want to do, I will love doing it with you.”

We went back to Vivian’s house Saturday morning to spend some time with the family. Vivian had a practice session then we

sat around talking, mostly about my future plans. In the afternoon Jack decided to watch football and I watched with him. This

time I managed to stay awake.

We had dinner with the family, more leftover turkey, then returned to the cottage. This would be our last night together until

Christmas vacation so we wanted to make the most of it.

I built a fire in the fireplace and we went back to the recliner. Before we sat down Vivian said, “According to the book, if you

have a good body you should flaunt it in front of your man. Do you agree with that?”

“Definitely! You have better than a good body; you have a gorgeous body and I like to look at it.”

Vivian needed no more encouragement. She had me sit on the recliner and did a very erotic strip tease standing directly in

front of me. I nearly blew a gasket when she arched her back slightly to give more lift to her breasts. I couldn’t resist; I stood

up and began nuzzling her breasts. This led directly to fantastic love making.

* * *

Back in New Haven (actually, the manor was located in Millbrook, a suburb of New Haven) I returned to work Monday

morning, looking in the files for another good story line. After almost a week of reading I was getting discouraged when Andy

asked, “Do all your stories have to come from the files?”

When I thought about it I said, “No, there must be many other stories out there besides what’s in the files.”

She then mentioned that almost 20 years ago New Haven experienced severe flooding, and as she remembered it an 8 year

old boy in her neighborhood had rescued two elderly ladies and led them to safety. She gave me the boy’s name, Brent

Meadows, and said that’s all she remembered.

That was enough for me; if I could locate that boy I could write a human interest story dating back to the time of the flood.

I called Clinton Radley and told him I had a story to write but needed to research in his morgue first. “Of course, Charlie, I’ll

make the arrangement for you to do that. What do you need to research?”

“The flood that occurred almost 20 years ago. I have some information about a young boy who was a hero during the flood. I

want to locate him, if I can, and rewrite the flood story. I would like to have it in print on the anniversary of the flood, which I

believe is December 12.”

“Go for it,” Radley said. “If it’s as good as the last story you wrote it will give you another feather in your cap.”

I informed Judge Summers what my plans were and he also said, “Go for it.”

On Friday I went to the newspaper morgue and went through their files for 20 years ago, both November and December. I

found the article in less than an hour and had a copy made. The actual date was December 11, which gave me one less day

to work with.

Finding the boy, who would now be 28, required going through records at City Hall. For this, I needed Clinton Radley to vouch

for me. In none of the records: marriage licenses, court records, property ownership, did Brent Meadows’ name appear. But I

got lucky. One of the secretaries in the offices I visited heard me mention the name and said, “You won’t find his name in any

of our records because he no longer lives in the city. I don’t know which town in the area he lives in but I do know he’s a

teacher at Central High School. You might be able to contact him there.”

I drove to the high school and talked to one of the secretaries there who told me school would be out in 30 minutes. If I was

willing to wait she would send a note to Mr. Meadows to let him know I wished to speak to him. I thanked her and sat down to

wait.

At 3 o’clock a tall, sandy-haired man walked in to the office and was directed to me. I told him who I was and the purpose of

my visit.

“But that was 20 years ago. Who’s going to remember that now?”

“That’s my point; it will be 20 years next Wednesday, which is an anniversary of the event. That’s what makes it a human

interest story. I’m the one who wrote the article about Everett Simmons, if you remember reading that story. Mr. Radley, at the

“All I need is an okay from you, and for you to tell me your version.”

“Okay, let me call my wife and let her know I’ll be delayed and you can buy me a beer somewhere.”

I liked Brent Meadows when I talked with him. From his easy-going way and his self confidence I was sure he was an

excellent teacher.

He told me he was a social studies teacher at the school and had been there five years. He spoke of the flood incident as if it

had been a minor incident in his life. Maybe it was to him now, but I’m sure it was a major event when it happened.

As he described the event, those two elderly ladies had been kind to him on many occasions. The street in front of their

house had just begun to flood when he rode by on his bike and noticed them huddling together on the porch looking very

frightened. He pushed his bike up to the porch and asked them to come with him and he would take them to a church, which

was on higher ground. They hesitated at first and when they noticed the water rising even further went with him. Within an hour

the waters had reached a depth of three feet. And he never saw his bike again. “It just washed away, I guess.”

I completed writing the piece over the weekend and presented it to Clinton Radley Monday morning. On Wednesday it had a

prominent place on the front page of the paper. I again mailed a copy to my brother and also one to Vivian in New York.

* * *

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