Then one day the chaplain simply reached a point, so took leave of his duties at the prison. Sometimes he wondered if he even belonged in the clergy. If that ancient book of Christianity didn’t even exist—Christ! Even the locker doesn’t exist!—and was the book even Christian?—then maybe God had not spoken to him, and for the first time in his life he felt unsure of even the existence of God, at least in the sense that he had grown up with, that Jesus had come to earth specifically to die for the sins of all humanity.
He still believed in God—that was he now believed in a god—a superior intelligent being, just was no longer sure of the personal god there anytime, anywhere, for anyone. He had never been sure of that anyway, and had made sure that he never asked God for something, specifically, therefore had never had his faith directly tested.
Like the supermarket he was in: he never questioned what was in the food he ate, he just ate it to fill his stomach and quench the hunger pangs. He stared at the canned food in his cart, at the bags of chips, the bottled water…he had read somewhere that some of the bottled water was simply from the tap, and being sold as spring water, or some other kind of water especially good for one. How many kinds of water were there anyway? He didn’t know, and didn’t care, and before recently had not even wondered.
He guided his cart into one of the checkout lines. A self-checkout line was free but he had never tried to learn how to use it, and what the heck? He had plenty of time. He didn’t have to return to the prison for a month, and still wasn’t sure if he would return at all, leastways maybe not as a chaplain. Maybe simple social work, or he could teach reading, or whatever the inmates needed help with.
Like what most everyone did while waiting in checkout he started scanning the books and magazines. He saw a novel by Dean Koontz that he hadn’t read. He loved Koontz’s books and soon had that one included with his groceries. He enjoyed Stephen King too, and would have bought a second book, except there weren’t any King novels on the stand. With a whole month off he should have another novel.
His line moved closer to the checkout girl, to the shelves that held the magazines and newspapers with celebrity gossip, UFOs, two-headed sheep, and other stuff nobody believed but loved to read about. A very large headline caught his eye. He never read those supermarket rags, rarely even glanced at the headlines, especially such as The National Infamies, but this headline grabbed his attention and held it! From ten feet away he read, ‘Lay-down comedy from baby thought to be only two months old.’
Dear Lord. It can’t be.
It could not be. Even so, he left his cart of groceries, walked to the newsstand rack, plucked The National Infamies, returned to his cart, and first looked at the young nurse in the photograph…brunette hair, very pretty, young, maybe thirties, then began reading, ‘…Nurse Waters claims the baby not only tried to grab her boob but peed in her face twice and smirked each time…but only did things when only she was present, so nobody else saw what happened, so everybody thought she was making it up, but she wasn’t! It was all TRUE…!’
Smirked. His memory flew back eleven months to the execution of Les Paul and memory of that smirk the man had given the warden. Why to the warden and not to himself? Often he had wondered that. Eleven months ago. Two months old. The amount of time was right. Or should his birth have been immediate upon death? The theory of reincarnation was so uncertain—of course it’s uncertain! Nobody knew what happened upon death! Nobody! Nobody alive anyway. The chaplain felt his stomach leaving him. He read on, saw the baby had been abandoned at the emergency entrance of St. Winston Hospital…clear out in Nebraska? Of course! Les Paul had driven his birth family crazy and they had gotten rid of him! Who were his parents? Would it be possible to track them down? Could he get a DNA sample of the baby, and prove it was Les Paul?
Of course he would need a sample of the original Les Paul at the prison, but of course they wouldn’t believe him either so would deny his request. But the warden was retiring next month. Maybe the new warden would be more amenable.
The chaplain’s mind began making plans. He would track down the baby first. No! He would go to the hospital first. He would interview everybody in that hospital if he had to, and the whole town if need be. And he had to find that nurse. She might have seen a car! A license plate! Certainly somebody saw a car…something…he read on, ‘…baby’s cries were heard just before midnight, December 19…’ Somebody saw something! He knew it! He would go to that town…where? He read again, ‘…Wayne Ridge, Nebraska…’
Chapter 11 Foster Family #4
So that’s how Les Paul’s new life went. The hospital kept him for a while, and even though he acted like the perfect little charmer, they couldn’t keep him forever. The state took over. Foster care was next, and one family after another gave up after a few months. A year passed. Just fourteen months old and already on his fourth foster family. Then he learned to walk. One day he grabbed the leg of a stable chair and pulled himself up.
Now he would begin to control his life a little more closely. Holding on he looked over where he was. A big room with big furniture, a big television, a big stereo…of course he didn’t know the names of these things yet but he knew what they did.
His newest sister entered the room. She was six, and blond, and kind of air-headed, and squealed, “Look at our new baby! He’s standing up alone!”
Les Paul sent his most charming smile. He had already learned well, that a smile could open doors to amazing things, and hearts to the most important amazing thing of all: trust.
This little blond girl trusted him completely, and loved him as if he were her own blood brother. Not so with the little blond girl’s real brother. She loved her brother, but Les Paul didn’t.
Enter the blood brother who was eight years old, “Hi, Kelsey.”
“Hi, Scott.”
The charming smile disappeared from Les Paul’s face. Kelsey was not looking. Neither were, and Scott, innocently, walked past Les Paul, closely, glanced toward him but did not touch him. But close enough. Les Paul let go of his hold and hit the floor and started crying, screaming, screeching his loudest. Kelsey rushed to him and picked him up and cuddled him to her bosom, where he loved to be.
“Scott! You should be more careful around the baby!”
Scott’s eyes were huge, “I didn’t touch him…,” and became fearful when the father walked in.
“What’s happening in here?” the father demanded.
Kelsey scowled and pointed, “Scott knocked the baby down—he had just stood up for the first time and Scott knocked him down!”
“I didn’t mean to!” Scott cried.
But the father took the side of the smallest and his daughter and grabbed Scott by the arm and took him from the room, “You will learn to be careful around the baby, Scott!”
For just eight years old, Scott’s mind was racing, trying to remember exactly what happened. What was strongest in his mind was the look on the baby’s face as he passed him, a funny look, but Scott hadn’t yet heard the word ‘smirk’ and less would understand the meaning of it.
The father escorted Scott to his room, opened the door, and pushed him in, “You can take a little time-out, son.”
Les Paul, meanwhile, was cooing and enjoying being cuddled by a six-year-old girl, something he would come to enjoy more, and more, and more, as his new life went on.
Chapter 12 Partners
More months passed. The chaplain, no longer dressed as a chaplain, had traveled to Wayne Ridge, Nebraska, visited with the hospital staff and learned that, after making national news—and the story being picked up by all major media, but not researched further, because—after all—it was just an inexperienced nurse’s word against that of a two-month-old baby—Nurse Waters had been let go. Not fired, of course, but with economy being what it was staff resources had to shrink, and Nurse Waters was the first to go.
‘Waters’ couldn’t be too common a name so he first searched the phone book, found her name and address but n
o longer at that address and no forwarding address, but, again, ‘Waters’ was not a common name. He went to the library, signed on to FaceBook…nothing, then MyLife…again, nothing. He searched every social network he could think of. Either Nurse Waters was not into social media or she had left the country, or maybe just stepped off the edge of the earth. Having had contact with Les Paul, a worst-of-the-worst psychopath-criminal, even as a baby, he wouldn’t blame her for disappearing.
So he searched on, and began a search of the smaller towns surrounding the small city of Wayne Ridge. Days and then weeks then months, went by. Long ago his month of leave from the prison had ended, so he had called in, requested more time off, was denied, so quit on the spot. Luckily, through his whole life he had been very conservative with money, which rested in savings at a bank in Bradleyville, the same town that gave the prison—where he had worked for the last ten years as chaplain—its address.
A credit card seemed easiest to use in his travels, so he set it up with his bank and credit card company to make his payments automatically. Should his savings ever dwindle to the red zone the bank would give him a call on his mobile. But of course his savings would not last forever. But of course there were the yearly rent payments from the farm his father had left him that would continue feeding his savings. He would probably do okay. Then his car, a weather-beaten 1997 red Ford Taurus…well, it would continue running for a while.
So, if his car held out he would have money to finance his search for quite some time. Also, since he had stopped dressing as a chaplain, he was beginning to think of himself less and less as a chaplain. Yet, religion had been his calling from early on. For his entire adult life he had been a man of God, so to speak, but he often wondered if a ‘man of God’ would allow himself this obsession with finding a criminal, who yet, probably, was not even a criminal…but the story from The National Infamies stayed with him.
Les Paul was again loose on the world. He knew it!
Nurse Waters’ remark stayed with him too: ‘He smirked!’
Les Paul was alive and well, and already beginning his new life of crime—well, a smirk wouldn’t exactly be evil, but still….
****
The chaplain’s day ended. As usual, about 6pm, he entered the local mom and pop café in whatever little town he happened to be in, and had his main meal of the day. This particular town he had not yet searched. He had just sat down at a table—
“Waters! Your order’s up!”
He jerked toward the sound of the loud voice and saw her. A young, very pretty woman with dark brunette hair went to the serving window and picked up two plates—it’s her!—then balanced a third and fourth one and walked quickly to a table where sat three young men.
“Hey, baby,” one of them said as she placed the four plates, “You gonna have some time after?”
“Sorry, sir, but I have to get home.”
“So what time ya get off, anyway?” the same man asked, completely ignoring the answer she had just given. She ignored the second question and finished the setting. Then she went to the cash register by the entrance, plucked a menu, approached the chaplain’s table, and smiled, a smile that went far beyond pretty, “How are you, sir?” she asked.
The chaplain was having his thoughts and feelings. Even though a member of a religion that allowed marriage, he had practiced celibacy all his life. He noticed all three of the young men staring their way, especially the one who had spoken. It appeared the man had not given up. But now, he, the chaplain—though suddenly he felt even less a chaplain—had Ms. Waters’ attention, “I’m fine, young lady, and how is your day going?”
She increased her smile but said, possibly immediately trusting the white-haired gentleman before her, “It was going good, up until…,” she shifted her eyes toward the three young men.
“I understand.” He suddenly remembered the very small amount of physical training he had received during his five earlier years—before the prison job—as an army chaplain. It wasn’t a lot, but even that small amount gave him a bit of confidence, “Don’t worry about those boys,” he finished.
Ms. Waters increased her smile by at least ninety percent, “I won’t. Thank you. Now, what can I get for ya?”
****
A half hour later the chaplain was still enjoying his meal. Several times he had heard the chef yell ‘Waters! Order up!’ It seemed to him that the chef could have shown a little more class, maybe could have installed a bell to ring, or at least could shout a little softer. Strange, he had been hearing very close to the same thing all during his search at the mom and pop restaurants, and never before had it bothered him. And of course he wouldn’t let it bother him now, either.
“Waitress!” The new shout came from the table with the three young men. The chaplain jerked his attention in that direction just in time to see the mouth raise his hand and snap his fingers. This irked him but he remained quiet, and continued with his meal, and suddenly noticed the restaurant was empty but for his table and the one with the three young men.
Ms. Waters walked hurriedly to the table, “What can I do for you boys?”
“Don’t call us ‘boys’ for one thing,” the main mouth said.
“All right. Sorry.”
“No prob, babe, we’ll forgive ya if you join us for a drink after. You must be gettin’ off soon cause the dang place is empty.” The mouth glanced toward the chaplain, “I guess except for the old dude over there.”
Ms. Waters glanced at the chaplain too, then answered, “I’m sorry. I don’t go out with men I don’t know.”
“What the hell! We’re on a construction project right down the street and we’ve been comin’ here all week!” The mouth pushed his chair back. He appeared to intentionally cause it to make a loud noise, “You should know us by now!”
Ms. Waters stepped back, then glanced toward the kitchen. The chef, obviously, was busy elsewhere, or simply not interested. The mouth stood, at least six feet and likely 200 pounds. His friends were not lightweights either, but they remained seated.
“Ms. Waters…,” the chaplain called out.
“Yes, sir.” Ms. Waters glanced, stared for a second or two, evidently made a decision, then walked quickly to his table, “What can I help you with, sir?” She smiled that same wondrous smile as earlier.
“Don’t worry about those boys,” he said, “I won’t let them hurt you, or even bother you.” With the announcement he stood, then walked forward and placed himself between Ms. Waters and the three young men. His heart was pounding more than he had ever experienced, yet he was completely calm otherwise.
The two young men still seated exchanged glances with each other, then they both looked up at the main mouth. Anyone watching—but there was nobody—could see the two seated men were all set to grin, yet were holding it in. The mouth glanced at his buddies, then back at the chaplain. His eyes got extra big, then moderated, “Well, looks like Waitress Waters has a knight in shining armor, but with white hair.” He laughed, then glanced at his buddies. Then they laughed too, apparently glad to finally release their humor.
“Fuck it, man,” one of them said, “We don’t need her. Let’s get the hell out’a here.” They both pushed their chairs back and stood.
“Yeah,” the mouth said, and threw one last glance, “We’ll meet again, ol’ geezer.”
The three left the restaurant, and all became quiet.
Ms. Waters let out a breath, pulled out a chair and sat down at the chaplain’s table, “Thank you, sir. Those three have been bugging me all week.”
The chaplain returned to his chair and sat too, “Maybe they’ll quit now.”
“No. They won’t. It happens wherever I work, so I have to keep quitting and moving to the next town and I’m getting sick of it.”
The chaplain continued eating while listening.
“Through some little quirk of nature I lost my nursing job—and I didn’t just lose it! They said I was crazy, and even dangerous, so they fixed it so I coul
d never get a job nursing again, and I had just started…”
“Just started…?”
“Yes, I had just finished two years of school and became an LPN. I thought about two more years to become a Registered Nurse, but, that meant two more years, and, anyway St. Winston’s Human Resources Director told me almost right away that if I did well as LPN, the hospital itself would pay for two more years. Well, I kind of blew that.” She smiled, not quite the radiantly-bright one as earlier but a good smile, “I also found out I wasn’t crazy about changing diapers, and not good at it, either.”
“Oh…?”
I started late in life…” The smile dropped a bit, “Oh, I don’t mean changing diapers—well, that too, because, without any siblings and nieces and nephews, I really hadn’t changed any diapers, not till St. Winston, but, that’s another story.”
“Yes?”
She glanced at him, and increased her smile again but the smile was toned down, as if she maybe thought she was stepping out onto quicksand, but wasn’t sure it was quicksand and wasn’t sure what would happen, “I spent ten years in another profession….” The smile remained toned down. It almost disappeared.
“Yes, Ms. Waters, you can tell me.”
“I…was a dancer…an exotic dancer, including pole-dancing—but no lap dances! I wouldn’t do that!”
The chaplain looked at her quietly, “It’s all right, Ms. Waters.” He gave her a longer look, “I don’t judge, and I’m sure you were very beautiful in your dancing—“ her smile turned up for just a second or two “—and what you did before is fine. People have to do in life what they have to do.”
The Light at the End of the Tunnel Page 4
