* A non-fiction, first-person account of human frailties falling victim to circumstance, this book is bristling in the vernacular, sexually explicit, and graphically descriptive in parts. * A married, 36-year old male teacher is falsely accused of having an affair with Ann, an 18-year old female student, in an Alternative School setting. * The involvement between this unlikely pair simmers in the heat of false accusation before bursting into a torrid love relationship. * The unknowing couple are stunned to learn they are not alone; the path they have traveled is neither unique nor novel, but a quite heavily traversed and well-worn thoroughfare. * The story ends in tragedy as Ann, stalked by Misfortune for most of her life, falls victim to a final adversity, an inoperable brain tumor. * Ann dies, the memories remain, and the love lives on.

No Distance Between

By Charles A. Sullivan

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Charles A. Sullivan
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-7852-2

Chapter One

Introducing the accusation, Ann, the place, the time, the historical setting, and the Alternative School.....

The accusation came early—shockingly early, much too early—a crocus showing its pointed bud before the passing of winter in violation of Nature's order. It stunned me, angered me, numbed me, hurt me, and broke me. It sure as hell wasn't a fuckin' joke.

Like a dagger, that accusing finger was unwavering, swift, piercing, and, in many respects, final. It was no accident, no mistake, and no veiled or cloudy threat of mysterious origin or questionable intent. That accusing finger was direct and cutting, a weapon of lethal impact. Let it be certain—the person behind that accusing finger wasn't kidding around. She was deadly serious.

For me to be on the receiving end of that pointing finger was no light matter of painless consequence. It wrenched my family, severed me from many dear and long-time friends, exacted its toll on my physical being, and scrambled my brain. It damn near cost me my job. It said I wasn't a very good teacher or counselor. Even worse, it said I wasn't a very good person. How good a teacher, counselor, or person could I be, after all, if I were playing around with a student—a thirty-six-year old teacher, counselor, and married man fooling around with an eighteen-year old female student?

And that was the accusation.

* * *

"What the hell's the matter with you?" I shot back with infuriated rancor, my eyes bulging in disbelief. "You think I'm fuckin' crazy?"

"I'm just asking," she said stabbingly.

She wasn't apologizing, I knew that for sure.

"You're fuckin' crazy," I raged.

"The way things look, I just—"

"I don't give a shit how things look," I interrupted with sting and disgust as I turned to leave. "You're sick, woman! 'Am I after her body,' " I repeated with caustic scorn. "What kind of asshole question is that? If you had any idea what that kid's been through, maybe you'd do something to help instead of running off at the mouth and being so suspicious." I hardly stopped to take a breath. "Christ, she's been in this school since September, and you still don't know one fuckin' thing about her."

I threw my hands up in despair. I was steaming, my blood boiling like a tea kettle of provoked water enraged to furious turmoil by a scorching flame. I wanted to keep ripping into her, make her pay for it, and return the insult. Like an unfairly blamed schoolboy, pounced upon by a playmate for having allowed the ball to hop over the playground fence, I wanted to punch her in the face and beat the living crap out of her. But I wanted to get out of there, and away from her, even more.

Fran had whisked me into the closet we had converted to use as a darkroom for our photography class and had confronted me with the accusation. Was she speaking for herself or for all five of the full-time teachers who, with me, comprised the professional staff of our Alternative School? It didn't make any difference. I felt sick. I just wanted to get the hell out of there.

I flung the door open and left her standing alone as I stepped into the chilly hallway and looked around. The afternoon was late, and most of the kids, except the "regulars," had left for the day. Julia, Lois, and Dawn were engrossed in animated conversation on the stage, our lounge area. Marlene and Freddy were playing ping-pong in front of the stage, while Arlene watched from the sidelines.

"Hey, Charlie, watcha doin'?" called out Arlene. "Ya want winners after me?"

My heart was pounding, my thoughts in ragged disarray, fractured and scattered like an elegant piece of Limoges China dropped on a tile floor, but I still had enough wits about me to sweep together the necessary words for a disguising response.

"Yeah, maybe a little later," I answered in hollow-hearted reply.

Two staff members, Marilyn and Lisa, were working at the table in the side conference room. I instinctively looked for Ann. That was dumb. I knew she already had left. But I looked, anyway—a habit. Then I turned quickly and took the few steps to the office. I closed the door behind me and flopped heavily into the chair behind my desk. I just sat.

How the hell could this be happening to me?

* * *

I had met Ann for the first time the previous spring. It was mid-May. I remember it vividly. It was Monday, May 14, 1973, downstairs on the first floor of Teaneck High School in Teaneck, New Jersey. I had come down from the Guidance Office on the second floor in search of a student who had cut Mrs. Heafy's physical science class the Friday before. Heafy wanted me to talk to the kid and see what the problem was.

The bell had just rung for sixth period, and a tall, slim girl in jeans rushed down the corridor toward me. An attractive girl with long, shiny, brown hair almost to her waist, she had a worried look about her.

"You're Mr. Sullivan, aren't you?" she inquired intently.

"Uh huh," I nodded.

"You think I'll get accepted into the Alternative School? I turned in my application, but I haven't heard anything yet. You know when they're gonna decide? I really wanna go, ya know. I hope I get in," she spurted in quick, begging sentences before continuing with a frown. "I'm gonna be a senior next year, and I can't take another year in this place. You know when they're gonna let us know?"

A smile had begun to crease my face before she had reached the midpoint of her exuberant burst. I toyed with the idea of pulling her leg and telling her she had been rejected because she was too excitable, but I just laughed.

"I'm pretty sure you'll be accepted," I said with designed reassurance. "If all our applicants are as enthusiastic about the A-School as you, we'll have one heck of a group, right?"

"Oh, that would be super. I'm so excited! When will we know for sure?" she pressed.

"It won't be long," I answered. "I think everybody will be notified very soon, probably by the middle of next week. We're still takin' applications, ya know. The deadline isn't 'til Friday."

"Yeah, I know, but I'm really anxious. Okay," she sighed with a spin, apparently resigned to another week of wait. "Thanks a lot."

"Hey," I called as she was about to hurry away. "What's your name? I don't know—"

She turned back with a quick, effusive motion that spoke silent appreciation for the opportunity to identify herself, to say who she was and be recognized, be remembered.

"Ann Jordan."

"Ann.....?"

"Jordan—Ann Jordan. Yesterday was my birthday. I'm eighteen now."

"Oh, wow, that's really neat," I exclaimed, not quite certain why such detail had been offered. "Happy birthday! See, now, next year, I bet we'll be celebrating your birthday in the A-School," I laughed.

With crossed fingers, we were looking for a hundred students, give or take, to start our new school. The way our applications were coming in, I expected we'd be close to our target number by week's end and probably accept everyone who had applied.

"Oh, I can't wait," she bubbled. And she was gone.

* * *

There was still a heck of a lot of work to be done through June and the summer months before the Alternative School could...