by Roger Bruner
Dad mmm-ed.
“All that to say—”
“We told you he was long-winded.”
Aleesha got her licks in that time, and we all laughed. Everyone but Jo. I hoped she was just tired. She didn’t seem to be getting into the spirit of things. I hoped she didn’t regret coming.
“Hmm,” Rob said. “I forget where I was. I’ll have to start over.”
We laughed, hissed, and booed. Even Graham’s frown curled slightly upward. Not into a real smile, but close. Kind of.
Jo’s expression remained closer to a frown, though.
“Okay, folks, short version. Breakfast is at seven thirty. A hot meal—with real coffee. We’ll have a prayer and devotional time after that and then start cleaning out the construction rubbish at a reasonable rate of speed. Think you can handle that, Kimmy?”
I nodded. It sounded like Rob was trying to make things as easy on me as possible. Of course, he didn’t know how much better I was doing. Not counting the nightmare on the plane, that was. He would probably have been even more considerate if he’d known about that. He was the kind of man who’d do
anything to keep me from suffering a relapse. “You okay, Jo?” Rob said.
Hmm. So I wasn’t the only one to notice her apparent disinterest.
“I guess.” She might have meant for her words to sound positive, but her tone of voice distinctly said, “No, and don’t bother asking.” That shocked me.
“Maybe we should cut this meeting short,” Rob said.
Nobody protested. But then Rob kept on talking.
Jo had that same hangdog look I’d seen earlier. Something was wrong. But could I get her to tell me what?
chapter twenty-five
When I first woke up, I couldn’t remember where I was. I had a hazy recollection of Rob suggesting that we stay in Graham’s spare room—at least until we could clear enough rubbish from a unit of our own to lay our sleeping bags flat on the floor. This way we’d have heat and access to a shower. The units would remain unheated until the electrical hookup took place in another ten days or so.
Rob invited Dad to room with him in the unit he referred to as “my home away from home.” I wondered what they’d find to talk about. Dad had never been one to enjoy small talk about sports and cars, and two mature men like them certainly weren’t going to sit around and talk about women. Other than their own wives …
Would Dad cry on Rob’s shoulder about Mom? He had to still be grieving. It had only been four months, and I was. Grief and guilt were doing a real number on my insides. I’d begun gulping antacids down like candy and trying to keep Dad from noticing.
I looked around the room without getting up, but my roomies had already left. Gone to breakfast, maybe?
No, my watch read almost eight thirty, and we were supposed to have breakfast at seven thirty. Why didn’t they wake me? I’d give somebody some painful grief if she—no matter which she—kept me from getting at least two cups of steaming hot coffee. Although I was hungry enough, food wasn’t at the top of my priority list.
At least I felt rested. Great, in fact. And no dreams that I
could recall. Not that I would have forgotten another nightmare.
When I stood up—still with no noticeable fatigue—I noticed a piece of paper beside my sleeping bag. Wondering if it was a note or a piece of trash, I stooped down to pick it up. I rocked back and forth a time or two trying to maintain my balance and almost fell on my bottom.
Flashback to the pebbles at San Diego International. Minus the pebbles. Flashback to falling out of the cart. Minus the cart. I might have gotten over my fatigue, but I hadn’t grown coordinated overnight.
I rolled back on top of my sleeping bag with the paper in hand.
Mr. Rob—Aleesha must have written this—told us not to wake you. He wants you to be at your peppiest. Leftover breakfast in the kitchen. Go outside and listen for work noises when you’re ready.
If that didn’t make me feel I’d been unnecessarily pampered, I don’t know what would. But how could I fault my friends for loving me and wanting to take care of me? Especially when my fatigue problem wasn’t that far in the past, and not even I could be 100 percent sure it would stay away.
And to think I’d questioned my dad’s faith.
The smell of fresh coffee led my nose—followed by the rest of my body—straight to the coffeemaker on the countertop. The carafe was huge—and still half-full.
Mmm. Hazelnut. Or was it southern pecan? I loved those nutty blends, even if I couldn’t keep them straight.
Next to the coffee was a box filled with a donut assortment. Before I could grab the first chocolate donut hole I came to, I saw another note—this one taped inside the box top.
You only get a hot breakfast at 7:30. Or you can fix one yourself.
Smart alecks. How did they expect me to eat at seven thirty
if no one was going to get me up?
I’d show them. Maybe I was dangerous in the kitchen, but I wasn’t helpless. Not as long as a fully charged fire extinguisher hung within easy reach. That’s the first thing I made certain of before getting started.
Splattered batter from earlier—it hadn’t fully dried yet—decorated the griddle that perched on the stove’s largest burner and the stove surface as well. Looked like Graham had fixed pancakes. Hmm.
I opened the fridge.
Sure enough, I found a huge stainless steel mixing bowl containing enough batter to feed a small army. I grinned. Small army described our team more accurately than any other term I could think of on an empty stomach. A covered plastic container was full of those big sausage links I liked so much, and—glory be!—they were already cooked.
I’d show those jokers I could fend for myself, but first I downed a cup of coffee and swallowed half a donut hole to tide me over while the griddle heated. The results were worth waiting for, even though our family dog might have turned her back on the non-sausage part of my meal.
I’d purposely overlooked the additional note that read, The price of cooking your own breakfast is washing everyone else’s dishes. Humph! Was this Rob’s idea of coddling me? Did he think scrubbing that much cookware was a softer, easier job than cleaning up construction rubbish? I’d show him.
But before I could make a clean getaway—pun definitely intended—he cleared his throat and walked into the kitchen. Smiling at me, he pointed to the note. “You didn’t see your first assignment of the day?”
I rolled my eyes in protest, but his stern look sent me to the sink, which was already half-full of slightly sudsy water. It had gotten obnoxiously lukewarm from lack of recent use. I
ran some more hot water in the sink, squirted a few additional drops of detergent under the spray, and swished my hands around until the suds looked inviting enough for a bubble bath. Doing dishes in the hottest available water and not scrimping on detergent were two sanitary procedures my mom had successfully pounded into my head.
“We’re like the New Testament church,” Rob said. “You have to work to eat. Unless you can’t, of course.”
So much for coddling. What a relief to have Rob treat me as normal.
“You missed out on part of our discussion last night,” Rob said. I narrowed my eyes in curiosity. “You fell asleep on the sofa, Kimmy. You should have seen us trying to brush your teeth for you. We’ll show you the video sometime.”
Unable to figure out if he was teasing, I licked the roof and the sides of my mouth before touching the back of my teeth with my tongue. I could still taste breakfast, but not last night’s highly garlicky lasagna. Maybe they really did brush for me.
“Thanks, I think.”
“You were definitely zonked when we zipped you into your sleeping bag. That’s why you’re still wearing yesterday’s clothes. The girls didn’t want to wake you up to change you into nightclothes.”
Hopeful that Rob was teasing but fearful he wasn’t, I looked down. Nope, same clothes. Flashback to both my first night in Santa Mar
ía when I slept in my travel clothes and the second night when he and Aleesha gave me a dose of codeine medicine without waking me up.
“What’d I miss, Rob?”
By that time, he’d grabbed the dish towel and was drying as I rinsed.
“You remember that the warden really approves of this hostel?”
I nodded and yawned. Simultaneously. And loudly. “Did I mention he belongs to one of our sponsoring churches?” I nodded.
“I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he’s also one of the main contributors.” I nodded again.
“He’s invited us to come over and hold worship services every evening you’re here.” My eyes opened wide. “He really wants us to come.”
My heart started bouncing around out of control. Like popcorn kernels going crazy in a bag in the microwave. “We’ll go inside the prison?”
Rob laughed. “Warden Jenkins is a great guy, but he’s not about to let his inmates come outside and sit on the grass like your English teacher probably did sometimes in high school. Not even for Christian activities. Inmates are referred to as insiders for a reason.”
Oh … yeah. I could only imagine what kind of dumb look I must have had on my face.
“So, what will we do there?” I pretended to be calm, but I thought my stomach was going to erupt any second. “What specifically, I mean?”
“You sing, don’t you, Kimmy? That’s why you brought that karaoke box to Santa María. Right?”
“I don’t have it here, though.” My courage was slipping away fast. Sing for prisoners? Uh, insiders. And what would they do if they didn’t like my singing?
“I’m sure they won’t care if you sing a capella. Warden Jenkins has been trying to get somebody to donate a piano for that meeting room, but no success so far.”
I sighed. Mom’s piano sat at home unused. Neither Dad
nor I played. Of course, shipping it to California would probably cost twice as much as buying a new one locally. Uh, if one of the towns nearest Red Cedar was big enough to have a music store, that was.
“The prison has some well-worn hymnbooks,” Rob continued. “So you won’t need to worry about whether they know the words.”
“Oh, you want me to lead them in singing?” That sounded better. Safer, anyhow.
“The men would appreciate some solos, too, I’m sure.”
“The …” I almost choked on my gulp. “The men?” This isn’t a …?
“You thought this was a women’s prison?” He smiled. “Afraid not.”
“Are there any hard-core offenders here?” I gulped again. “Like murderers and rapists and people like that?”
He nodded without smiling. “Possibly.” He was quiet for a few seconds. “Probably.”
“I … I don’t think I can do that, Rob.” I was trying to ignore the still small voice that kept saying, “Oh, yes, you can. Where’s that spirit of faithful obedience you demonstrated in Santa María?”
“You believe in personal evangelism, don’t you, Kimmy?” His voice was kind. Encouraging. “Witnessing to the lost? Sharing your Christian testimony?”
Play fair, Rob! “You know I do, but—”
“Many of the guys are already Christians, Larry Jenkins says. But he’s cautioned me that some of the men only pretend to be believers. They’ll do anything to get out of their cells for a while. Even sit through a Christian worship service.” He hesitated. “This won’t be a captive audience, even though it is.”
I probably disappointed Rob by my failure to laugh at what he probably meant to be a cute crack, but I couldn’t let myself
get sidetracked. Not while I still had major misgivings.
“You … you aren’t going to ask me to preach, too, are you?”
He shook his head. “Some of the insiders come from very conservative backgrounds. Very conservative as in they wouldn’t permit a woman to preach to them. You’d feel comfortable giving your testimony, though, wouldn’t you?”
I nodded. These guys would think it was tame, though. For men like them, I would’ve preferred having a Saul/Paul conversion story. Something that would knock their socks off and show them God can forgive anything. Something like, “Four months ago, I murdered my own … “
That thought jolted me into reality. I’d murdered Mom all right. God had forgiven me, but I hadn’t forgiven myself. I didn’t think I ever would.
“You can read the Bible …” Rob must have wanted me to understand how much I could do at the prison.
“Of course. In English and in Spanish. Even if I don’t know what it means in Spanish.”
“And you can listen …”
“When I’m not busy running my own mouth.” I’d almost forced thoughts of Mom out of my head for now, and my confidence was growing, although not very fast. “But …”
“Kimmy, you’re not doing this by yourself.”
“Sure, I know the Holy Spirit will enable me, but—”
“You’re part of a team. Remember?” He looked like he was trying to suppress a smile. “The five of us will be there—Graham has his own reasons for not going—and each of us will play an important role. We’re still working on Jo—maybe she’ll do Bible reading and testimony—but Aleesha will sing, too.”
No! She’s so good. Nobody will want to hear me after hearing her.
“But mostly she’s going to do dramatic readings and monologues.”
My sigh of relief made the dish towel billow like a ship’s sail on a blustery day.
“Your father has agreed to preach.”
Huh? My dad, preach? I almost smirked when Rob said that. Of course, Dad was a university English professor with a doctorate. Maybe a couple of them. He was also a sincere, Bible-toting Christian. But would those things qualify him as a preacher?
Then I thought about what I’d learned in Santa María. The only qualification for anything God asked was faithful obedience. What was that saying? Something like, “God doesn’t call the qualified; He qualifies the called. “
Still, what if Dad’s mild-mannered temperament carried over into his public speaking? I couldn’t imagine those rough-and-tough insiders politely ignoring a speaker they found disappointing. Boring was probably high on their list of don’t-you-dares.
And was Dad up-to-date on political correctness? Would he say something he thought was innocent and get us all into trouble? How much motivation would these insiders need to beat us up or to …?
I don’t think Rob noticed that I’d started trembling.
Of course, death might not be that bad. Dad and I would make a premature trip to heaven, reunite with Mom, and live not just happily ever after, but eternally so. My responsibility for Mom’s death wouldn’t matter anymore. In fact, we wouldn’t remember any of the bad from our earthly lives.
Yes, death might be a good thing, although I wasn’t very comfortable imagining what dying might feel like. Especially at the hands of a group of rowdy insiders at a place like Red Cedar Correctional Center.
But we’d have armed guards protecting us, wouldn’t we? Heavily armed. And wouldn’t the insiders be handcuffed? For
that matter, wouldn’t we hold the services in the passageways between the rows of cells? Where the insiders couldn’t reach us … unless we stepped close enough for a strong arm to grab an unsuspecting victim through the bars. Me, probably.
My anxiety gave way to panic. That scenario might not have matched the one in my second nightmare, but it came close enough to make me start trembling uncontrollably.
Was this God’s punishment for what I’d done to Mom?
chapter twenty-six
Rob asked Jo to help him clean out one unit. “I want to get to know you better.”
Graham, on the other hand, announced his plans to give his apartment a second coat of paint that day, starting with the room we’d slept in.
Mister O’Reilly, if you enjoy being a loner, that’s fine with me. But if you don’t want us staying in your apartment and sharing your bathroom, why don’
t you just say so? You don’t have to exterminate us with paint fumes as if we were two white rats—because I had only a tinge of Mom’s coloration and no Asian facial features, nobody ever thought of me as half Vietnamese—and a black one.
Dad was working on a unit by himself, leaving Aleesha and me to work together. We’d picked the unit that most appealed to us—the one in the right-hand corner of the U, adjacent to Graham’s apartment. It seemed like the safest one. We would move our sleeping bags and suitcases in as soon as we de-junked it.
What a difference from the churchyard cleanup in Santa Maria. That rubbish—up to two feet deep in places—had consisted of unknown materials, many of which were awkward, unpleasant, and even potentially dangerous to handle.
But at the hostel, we only needed to remove leftover materials, distinguishing between the “still usable” and the “beyond all hope”; to pick up spilled nails and put them in a bucket for future use; to rescue any hand tools that might still be lying around; and to sweep up. No one would have believed
how deep the sawdust was; walking through it was like toeing my way through sand at the beach.
After doing all of that, we’d brush off the walls—the ceiling, too—with a wide, long-handled broom and sweep the floors again. Only then would the unit be ready to paint.
“You’ll probably want to clean out all the units before doing any painting,” Rob told us; but since his comment had only been a suggestion, Aleesha and I proposed an alternative plan.
“Why not paint as soon as we finish cleaning each unit?” she said.
“That way,” I explained, “the rooms won’t get dirty again before we paint them.”
Rob nodded. We couldn’t fool him, though. “Besides, it’ll give you a welcome break from cleaning up.”
I winked at him.
“Great idea, Kimmy, but you’re missing a step.” I shot him a questioning glance. “I left a step out in describing your job duties, I mean. I need to teach you to look at these units the way the building inspector will. Hopefully, you’ll catch little things that need fixing before he does. Once a unit is inspection-ready, you can paint it. You’ll need your keenest eyes and your most critical, judgmental spirit.”
