by Roger Bruner
Graham handed me a broken tree branch to use as a club. He took a knife out of his pants pocket and opened it.
“They’re my friends, Graham. I’m scared to death, but please let me go first.” He stepped aside. “I’m coming through now,” I said as I started brushing my way through an extra-bushy thicket. “What kind of—?”
Before I could finish my sentence, I tripped over a hidden tree root. When I looked up, I found myself face-to-face with the biggest, meanest looking possum I’d ever seen, and it had the nerve to bare its ugly little teeth at me as if I’d had the courage or the desire to hurt it.
No, Lord! Couldn’t you have given me a raccoon? Or a deer? Even a wolf or a bear?
At least I still had enough presence of mind to poke my tree branch at her. She didn’t waste any time scampering off in a different direction. Graham reached down and helped me up. Whew. Close call. Thank You, Lord.
Wait, Kim. Jo told you, “several wild animals.” What else …?
“No, Kim. Not now. Stay back!” Aleesha yelled as if my
life depended on it.
But it was too late. The skunk had already sprayed me at close range before scurrying off on his merry little way.
Thank goodness, my mouth had been shut. A rarer occurrence than I would want to admit. I wondered if skunk spray was poisonous.
At least I’d been wearing sunglasses. I don’t know what the spray might have done to my eyes. I pinched my nostrils with my right thumb and middle finger, but I could still smell it.
No wonder. It was on my fingers, and some of it must have gotten inside my nose, too. Yuck!
I turned to Graham. “You okay?”
“No problem.”
He’d been behind me. Far enough behind that I apparently took the brunt of the attack. “Girl, you stink!”
Girl? When had Jo started talking like that?
I looked up at the top of the rock. Jo and Aleesha stood tall in the sunlight with their arms linked together, and they were both giggling at me.
“That’s a fine way to treat your rescuer,” I said. “Maybe we should just leave you two here.”
“You can try,” Aleesha said. “But we’ll just follow the stink home.”
Home? Oh, man! Smelling like this in the otherwise fresh air of the mountainside was bad enough, but I doubted whether my teammates would let me come inside Graham’s apartment now. I’d feel guilty to try.
Although I pictured myself sleeping outdoors and burning my sleeping bag before leaving the next day, I forced those thoughts out of my head for the time being.
Graham started leading the way back down. Jo and Aleesha stayed close to him, but they made me follow at a
distance. Whenever they changed direction, they signaled before moving on.
So I was “left behind” after all. How I wished I could leave my odeur d’skunk behind, too.
Dad and Rob’s raucous laughter almost made me angry, but at least Rob was willing to approach me. He led me into the farthest unit from Graham’s apartment and explained what we needed to do.
But first, he asked Graham to scout around—check the project supplies as well as his own—and find a quart of 3-percent hydrogen peroxide, a quarter cup of baking soda, and a teaspoon of liquid soap. Dishwashing detergent preferably. He cautioned Graham not to mix the ingredients together yet, because the resulting concoction would lose its potency quickly. It should be mixed immediately before use.
“Skunk spray contains mercaptans,” he said. “The solution we’re going to make—I’ll leave out the boring details—neutralizes them. You’ll need to get undressed—”
I must have given him a horrified look.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be outside. Feel free to lock the door.”
Of course he’d wait outside. Who’d want to be trapped in this unit with me and my glorious stink?
“Your dad’s bringing you some clothes. We’ll dispose of the ones you’re wearing. Scott’s orders. Too much trouble trying to de-skunk both you and them.”
Oh, man. Could things get any more complicated? I wondered how skunks stood being around each other.
Graham knocked and then came in.
“Peroxide no. Tomato juice.”
Oh, man! I disliked tomato juice more than any other kind. How was drinking it going to help? What? No glass? Was I supposed to drink all of it—directly from the can?
He set everything down, rubbed his eyes, and almost ran back outside. If he thought his eyes were burning, he should have been wearing my share of the stink. Maybe this was an instance of “turnabout is fair play.” I’d suffered no guilt compared to Graham’s, so he’d suffered no stink compared to mine. What in the world was my inner voice babbling about!
“Hmm,” Rob said. “Juice’ll be messier, but it’ll do.”
So I don’t have to drink it? Thank You, Lord. I touched the twenty-eight-ounce can. “This is freezing cold!”
Rob’s look was priceless. “You want me to microwave it?” He would have done it, too. He was that kind of man.
I shook my head.
“So here’s what you need to do, Kimmy. Get undressed after I go outside. Open the door just enough to throw your old clothes out.”
“Even my jacket?” I’d really grown attached to that coat. Actually, as cold as the temperatures had been this past week and as much as I’d depended on that jacket, it had probably grown attached to me.
“Especially your jacket.”
I frowned at first, but managed to emit one weak laugh before he continued.
“Combine the ingredients in the bucket using a paint paddle.” When he saw my questioning look, he held one up.
“Oh, a wooden paint-mixing thingy,” I said, trying to be cute. Acting cute while stinking so badly I couldn’t stand being around myself wasn’t the world’s easiest thing to pull off.
He shook his head and smirked.
To pay him back, I said, “I thought you said ‘a paint palette.’” He rolled his eyes. “Here’s a clean rag. Dip it in the solution and start sponging yourself off all over. Keep it away from your eyes, though. Personally, I’d also avoid your nose, mouth, and, uh, other sensitive body parts.”
I rolled my eyes at him that time. “And when I’m done?” “You need to leave it on for about five minutes.” In this unheated room? Brrr. “And when I’m done?” I repeated.
“Knock on the door and I’ll hand you a coat … Graham has a spare.”
Unless it was as big as his pajamas, it should fit fine. I just hoped it would be long enough. Long enough for a shorty like me? Now that was worth giggling at.
“And you think I’m going to Red Cedar this evening dressed that way?” I wasn’t going to miss that final service if I had to wear my skunk scent at 100 percent full strength.
“Calm down, Kimmy. After you treat yourself with that solution, you’ll do a thorough scrub-down in Graham’s tub.”
That’s a shower, Rob. Graham doesn’t have a tub. Men!
I didn’t like the sound of these instructions, but what choice did I have? Although some of the insiders had objectionable odors of their own, none of them smelled as horrible as I did. Would they all back away or maybe leave the room when they caught their first whiff of me? Or were they so hungry for a taste of the outside world that even a skunk scent would bring back “sweet memories”? If so, I felt sorry for them.
I followed Rob’s directions, and then I must have spent twenty minutes in the shower. It took that long under a stream of steaming hot water for me to thaw out. If I hadn’t run out of hot water, I probably would have stayed there forever. Or at least until suppertime.
When I came out of the bathroom, dressed in the cleanest of my dirty clothes—oh, no! I hadn’t gotten to do any laundry yet today—Rob took a whiff.
“Much better, Kimmy.” He came closer and took another whiff. “Tell me something, though …”
I didn’t like the look on his face, and I had a feeling I wouldn’t like what he was
going to say, either. “Did you use that tomato juice concoction on your hair before washing it? It still smells a bit like skunk.”
Kim-Kimminy, Kim-Kimminy, are you having a good time on your day of leisure?
chapter fifty-nine
I don’t know if God was angry at His world the day He created skunks, but I was slightly miffed at Him for protecting them in such an obnoxious way. Why couldn’t He have just dressed them in camo fur? Wouldn’t they have looked precious with those little splotches of brown and green, black and tan?
On second thought, that wouldn’t have worked. Hunters would have made them extinct by using their pelts to fashion masculine-looking fur coats. Extinct? That was the ticket.
I sighed. No, not even I would want to see those little critters become extinct …
I was going to draw the line at returning to step one and doing the tomato juice thing on my hair. Fortunately, I didn’t have to. Graham couldn’t find any more juice. Everybody would just have to tolerate a little bit of Cologne d’Heavenly Scent.
I’d gotten so much exercise in the previous five hours that every muscle in my body screamed no! at the prospect of more. So I don’t know why I gave in and agreed to walk to Red Cedar that night—unless to promote team unity and to keep Rob from having to lock me out of the van. His threat had sounded far too serious.
Graham offered to accompany me. His heroic rescue of my friends—I couldn’t have done it without him—hadn’t miraculously transformed him into a fluent speaker of any known human language, but I’d come to understand his way of talking far better than I used to. “Go, too” was perfectly clear.
I assumed from the Bible he was carrying that he planned to attend tonight’s worship service. The final one. I expected it to be emotional for our team and for many of the insiders as well. As much as we’d shared together, they might not grieve our leaving, but I hoped they’d at least miss us for a while.
Larry Jenkins joined us in the meeting room. He gave both of us a big hug. “Graham.” He stopped as if reconsidering what to say. “Mr. O’Reilly …” I gathered he was trying to show respect for his elder. Or perhaps to acknowledge Graham’s well-deserved status as an outsider.
“Graham,” the old man said as he held out his hand. “Graham.”
“Only if you call me Larry,” the warden said.
Graham nodded, but he didn’t say anything. I’d rarely heard him address anyone by name—maybe never—and I couldn’t believe he’d ever even think of Warden Jenkins as Larry. He was from an older—a different, a more courteous—generation.
I couldn’t imagine how it would feel to be on friendly terms with a former jailer after so many years of incarceration, but he didn’t show any signs of nervousness or resentment. Perhaps their bond in Christ was stronger than I’d realized.
The rest of the team showed up a few minutes later. Alfredo and Jo rushed toward one another, but—spotting Larry—they slowed down and shook hands instead of hugging.
The warden smiled at them. “Maybe all you two want to do is shake hands, but I want a hug.” At that, he embraced the two of them simultaneously and then pulled away, leaving Jo and Alfredo in one another’s arms. I wish I had a picture of the astonished look on Alfredo’s face.
Warden Jenkins saw it, too. He winked at Alfredo, who then broke into the biggest grin imaginable. Alfredo whispered
something in Jo’s ear, and she started smiling, too.
At first, I was too busy watching the lovebirds to notice anybody else. But when I looked around, the number of worshippers had already grown to eighty-some—double the high attendance record of the previous night—and they were still trickling in.
Regulations required one guard per some unknown number of insiders—even in a medium-security prison—and most of them looked uncomfortable about being there. Their eyes never stopped moving—here, there, and everywhere—and I could appreciate their apprehension. Nobody in that room was going to make trouble, but the guards couldn’t safely make that assumption or—pardon the pun—let their guard down.
I saw curiosity in the eyes of several guards who hadn’t worked any of the previous services. But whether newcomers or repeat visitors, the guards were more of a captive audience than the insiders. Their presence was a job requirement. I hoped Dad’s talk would touch them.
I waved and smiled at Mr. Gray and Mr. Hudson. Gary and Ray. Rumor had it they’d traded shifts with some other guards to be with us every night. They’d sung as freely as if they hadn’t been on duty, but they kept their eyes open during prayer time. I was thrilled to see them again tonight.
When things settled down, I led in singing Christmas carols without bothering to pass out the hymnals. One of the guys who’d come for the first time last night brought a guitar with him; from the battered looks of the old Gibson, it had lived a long, hard life—probably much like its owner.
I was glad he’d brought it. Although I’d heard that Christmas carols weren’t as easy to play by ear as regular hymns, he was so good I didn’t notice any wrong chords, and I was apt to be conscious of things like that.
I asked Mr. Guitar if he wanted to do a solo, but he passed.
“These fellows have already heard everything I know. They’d start a riot if they had to listen to me again.”
At the word riot, the guards stood up straighter and touched the handles of their guns.
“Just joking, man,” the guitarist said to the nearest guard. “We’re here to celebrate peace with a capital P.” It took awhile for the guards to ease up again, though.
Although our routine called for prayer time next, the warden asked if he could speak to the men first. “I have more news for you.” He looked around the room. “But doggone it, put me in front of a group of people and I feel like preaching.” He paused, and a spattering of laughter filled the room.
“Preach if you want to,” Rob told him.
“You can have my time if you’d like,” Dad said. Although he’d planned a special message for tonight, he was obviously sincere about his willingness to give it up.
“Don’t mind if I do, Scott, but I won’t use all of your time.” The men eyed one another with surprise. “Some of you men have been here as long as I have.” Looking around the room, he called off a couple of first and last names. “Some of you have been here longer.” He named several more. “To you, I’ve been ‘the man’ who holds a major part of your life—the world you currently occupy—in the palm of his hands. That’s true only to an extent, though. Somebody bigger than me holds your entire life in His hands. Mine, too.”
Every eye focused on Warden Jenkins. I could tell from their nods and smiles that a number of insiders in that room knew exactly what he meant. Perhaps most of them.
“That ‘person’ is God.”
“Amen!”
“You tell ‘em, brother.” “Praise the Lord!” “I know that’s right.”
Once the affirmations calmed down, he continued. He talked a lot about sin and breaking God’s laws and Jesus being the ultimate forgiver. He said Jesus was the ultimate innocent victim, too. He’d been arrested on trumped-up charges even though He’d never committed even the smallest sin, much less an actual crime. And He’d received the death penalty without the pretense of a fair trial.
Oh, man. How was Dad ever going to preach after an address like this one? He’d spent hours trying to pack all the ammunition he could into this final message. But what could he hope to accomplish now?
After a few more key points, the warden sounded like he might be winding down. “I mentioned that God holds me in His hands. He knows how this prison affects me. Sure, I’m free. I can leave here every night and go home. But I’m not free to leave my concerns about you at the gate.”
Although he looked wearier than I’d noticed at first, he smiled as he removed his hands from the podium and straightened up to full height.
“Men, I’ve tried to run this prison by Christian principles. But the State of California—and I
’m not criticizing the government—doesn’t permit me to do everything I’d like to do.”
He laughed and shook his head. “Brother Scott, you said you didn’t mind me preaching, but you’ve probably changed your mind by now.”
Dad smiled and shook his head.
“Sometimes my long-ago seminary studies take hold of me like wind in a sail, and I keep on navigating across a rather large ocean instead of returning to port.”
“No problem,” Dad said. He must have recognized that the men needed to hear a sermon like that—from someone who understood them and their circumstances far better than he did.
The warden smiled like a farm boy bringing the cows in for the night. “The truth is …” He hesitated, touched the podium for several seconds, and then removed his tie with an awkward jerk. “The truth is I didn’t come here to preach tonight. I came to make a resignation speech.”
Loud murmurs reverberated throughout the room. I was as shocked as anyone.
“I’ve resigned as warden, but I’m not leaving Red Cedar.” Every forehead furrowed as one. I held my breath. “Did you fellows know I started my career in the prison system as a chaplain?”
Many of the men looked at one another with “Did you know that?” “No, did you?” written all over their faces. I probably did, too.
“I promised that your new chaplain would be a Christian.”
I’d expected to hear more choruses of “Amen!” “Praise the Lord!” and “I know that’s right.” But the men were still too much in shock. I think we all knew what might be coming; yet until he actually said it, nobody dared to assume it. Or to hope for it.
“I figured the best way to keep that promise was to transfer into Harry Thomas’s position. I just received the approval before coming in here. Men, I’m your new chaplain, although I’ll have to serve double duty for the next few weeks.”
Cheers broke out all over, along with whooping, hollering, and stomping. Men jumped to their feet, and a number of them bounded to the front of the room to give their new chaplain a clap on the back and a hug of approval.
