An hour after Beauty left, Carl got a message that the warden wanted to talk with him. He had done nothing wrong that he knew of, so he assumed it had something to do with the dog-rehabilitation program. He was unprepared for the reason behind the summons.
“Your parole has been approved,” the warden said.
He was an older man, about Carl’s age. Both had put in about the same amount of time at that prison. There was one big difference, though. The warden had control over his environment and could come and go at will. Carl could barely imagine walking out those doors.
Carl sat there, blinking, unable to absorb the warden’s words.
“Excuse me?” Carl said.
“You have been granted parole.”
“But I didn’t even finish my interview with the parole board. I got up and left.”
The warden smiled. A decent man, Carl had decided years earlier, with a hard job.
“From what I understand, you were more interested in your dog’s comfort than the possibility of your own parole.”
“I was afraid Beauty was suffering.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, the board was on the fence about allowing you to get out. It could have gone either way. Fortunately for you, two of the board members are dog lovers. Your compassion for Beauty was the tipping point. They did ask that you not be told until you finished your dog’s training.”
Carl could hardly believe his ears.
“You mean I…get to leave?”
“There’s some paperwork we have to do—and you’ll need to check in with a parole officer for a year before you can leave the state—but you should be out within the week. I wanted to tell you now so you’d understand when the volunteers don’t bring you another rescue. Obviously, we wouldn’t want you to leave during another dog’s rehabilitation.
“Obviously,” Carl repeated, his head spinning.
“Any questions?”
“Where will I live? I have no family.”
“That’s being arranged. Most prisoners have to stay in a halfway house for a while, but your friend the preacher has found a place for you. I believe it has something to do with his church. He’s coming in later to tell you about it. I wanted to be the one to tell you about your parole, though. It’s one of the few parts of my job I actually enjoy.”
“George has made arrangements for me?”
“That’s what he says. It’s good you have a friend like him on the outside. The halfway houses can be brutal places, and I have no control over that. Any other questions?”
“What—what will I do on the outside?”
“I suppose anything you want…as long as it’s legal. If it were me, I’d probably go fishing for a month. At least that’s my plan when I retire in three years.”
The warden stood and offered his hand. It felt odd to Carl to do so, but he also stood and shook the warden’s hand.
“Good luck,” the warden said. “I’m hoping—for all our sakes—that we never see you again. I don’t want to break our record.”
“Thank you.”
Carl knew exactly which record the warden was referring to. Approximately 50 percent of the men who received parole ended up back inside the prison walls, with the exception of those prisoners who entered the dog-rehabilitation program. The recidivism rate for the dog-training prisoners was about 11 percent. It was a win/win/win situation for the dogs, the prison staff, the families who received a well-trained dog, and the prisoners most of all.
The old dog that had kept Carl alive beneath the porch that winter night when he was a child had given him yet another chance at life as an adult through Carl’s love and understanding of abandoned animals.
He had no idea what sort of living arrangement George had scraped together for him, but he knew one thing for certain—he was determined not to be the one who made that recidivism rate go up. Now that the miraculous had happened, he would make certain he never went back once he got out.
Chapter 14
Filling out job applications definitely took a toll on a man’s ego. At thirty-four, Joe had never had to look for a job. As a missionary kid, he had never worked what most people would consider a real job. When his father sent him to the States to get a college education, he’d had the grades and athletic skill to get scholarships.
Now he stared at yet another of the week’s applications, wondering what to write. It had been a month since he’d flown back from LA, and he still didn’t have a clue how to support his growing family without uprooting them and moving away or being gone from his wife and children for long stretches of time.
Everything in his life had revolved around baseball. Nothing he’d ever achieved fit into the little boxes of employment. He couldn’t even list flipping burgers at McDonald’s.
Plus, he’d quit college after his junior year. College had seemed unnecessary at the time. He’d been invited to join the Dodgers’ farm teams, and knowing how short an athlete’s career can be, he hadn’t wanted to waste another year on college.
Joe filled out the application as best he could and handed it to a bald Amishman with a scraggly beard, who put it on a stack of other applications and thanked him politely. Coming here was probably a mistake since Joe knew next to nothing about lumber or lumber stores, but he had heard they were hiring and figured he’d give it a shot.
One of the problems of getting work in this area was that the few regular-type jobs he qualified for were already being taken care of by Amishmen who were probably doing a better job than he could.
Tomorrow he would put in an application at the feed store and then maybe one of the cheese factories. He had pretty much exhausted all possibilities this past month.
When Joe got home, he pulled three steaks out of the refrigerator to grill. He was good with steaks and burgers, and it didn’t take a genius to throw some potatoes into the oven to bake. There was lettuce for a salad. Rachel would be pleased to have supper already started when she got home. She was picking up Bobby from Naomi’s, and he was looking forward to having his family together again.
Hunting for work was a lot harder on a man’s self-esteem than he’d realized. It would have been so much easier to have simply accepted that stupid TV commercial. He knew Rachel was right, but the toll for having integrity sometimes carried an awfully high price tag.
It occurred to him that he did have that friend who owned the car dealership, and who would probably be happy to give him a job selling cars. The only problem was, it was in Texas. It would just about kill Rachel’s aunts if he moved his family all the way to Texas. Those three women had been too good to him. He couldn’t hurt them like that.
And then suddenly Rachel and Bobby were home and Bobby came running to him. Joe scooped him up, gave him a hug, and sniffed the air.
“Did I just hug a horse? It sure smells like it.”
“You smelled me, Daddy. I’ve been playing with Ezra’s pony! And we made butter!”
While Bobby enjoyed his daddy’s attention, Rachel went through her ritual of locking away her gun before she did anything else. He was grateful for her care. Bobby was way too curious to have an unlocked gun in the house.
Her gun secured, utility belt and jacket hung up, squad-car keys on a nail beside the door where she could grab them in an instant—only then did she come to the table where he was wrapping the potatoes in foil, to give him a kiss.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“The nausea seems to be letting up.”
Joe finished wrapping the last potato and sat the pan in the oven. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“Me, too,” Rachel said. “I looked it up, and some women have it the whole nine months. I’m hoping I’m going to be one of the lucky ones. Thanks for starting dinner. I’m going to go put Bobby in the bathtub and then I’ll come back and help. My stomach is better, but I’d still prefer not to eat steak next to sweaty-little-boy-and-horse smell.”
“No problem.”
A few minutes later, with the
potatoes in the oven and the steak marinating in the refrigerator, Rachel and Joe had a moment to sit together on the couch. Rachel curled up beside him and snuggled beneath his arm while they listened to Bobby splashing in the tub above them.
“Sounds like Bobby had a great day at Luke and Naomi’s,” Joe said.
“He did, but Naomi told me something that concerns me.”
“About what?”
“Someone set fire to some hay bales near Samuel’s place. They took bales out of his field and burned them in the middle of the road.”
“That’s weird.”
“It’s probably just a teenage prank. Kids from town sometimes like to come out and bait the Amish in order to entertain their friends. Occasionally there are bad feelings because the Englisch boys tend to be overlooked for summer jobs if there are Amish boys available.”
“Because the Amish boys are better workers?”
“Usually, and because most of them are more skilled at manual-labor jobs.”
Joe felt immediate sympathy for the Englisch teens but chose not to share that with Rachel.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of it eventually,” Joe said. “So what’s this about him and Ezra churning butter?”
“Naomi is a resourceful woman.” Rachel smiled. “She put milk from their cow in a gallon jar and let the boys turn it into butter by jostling it in the pony cart. She said it gave purpose to their play. It’s the whole Amish work-ethic thing. She invited me to share her freshly baked bread and the strawberry jam she made today along with the butter the boys churned.”
“And you didn’t stay?”
“I didn’t need the calories.”
“Not sure I could have passed it up, although knowing the butter was churned by two little boys kinda takes away the appeal.”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky and be the one who is picking up Bobby the next time she bakes.”
He fondled a strand of hair that had come undone from the tight bun she usually wore to work. It felt so good to have her home and at his side again. “I get the feeling you enjoy going over there almost as much as Bobby does.”
“Naomi and I have been friends for as long as I can remember. I think we’re something like third or fourth cousins too. I can’t think of any home I’d rather Bobby spend time in.”
“Did you tell her about the pregnancy?”
“I think I’d like to wait a bit longer. That kind of news travels like wildfire on the Amish grapevine. It would get to my aunts quickly, and I don’t want Bertha clucking over me yet. The first thing she’ll start in on is that I should quit my job.”
“Of course she will, but they’ll be so excited when you tell them.”
“I’m only ten weeks along. The doctor says it will probably be a couple more before I start to show. I’d like to wait another week before I take on all that advice.” She pulled several hairpins from her bun and shook out her hair. “That feels better!”
“What did you have planned for this evening?” Joe asked.
“Not Candy Land, if I can possibly get out of it.” Rachel laughed. “Since you’re fixing supper tonight, I thought I’d try to work my way through that stack of paperwork accumulating on my desk.”
“Could we do something together tonight instead?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know…popcorn and board games at your aunts? A movie at the Quaker Cinema in New Philadelphia? There’s an animation flick I saw playing over there that Bobby might enjoy. I’d just like to spend some time together as a family.”
“What happened today, Joe?” Rachel asked with concern. “What’s wrong?”
That was his Rachel. She could always recognize the slightest nuance in his voice. He mentioned wanting to spend time together tonight and instead of taking it at face-value, she heard his sadness. It made her a good cop and a great wife.
“I put in an application at Keim Lumber today.”
“For what kind of job?”
“I don’t know. I just heard they had some openings. I thought I’d put in an application at the feed store tomorrow. I figured I might be handy at lifting and stacking sacks of grain.”
“Oh, Joe.” Rachel put her arms around his waist. “Do we need to have a serious talk about moving to where there are better opportunities for you?”
“Not yet.” Joe pulled her closer. “I’ll find something eventually. The last thing I want to do is take you and Bobby away from here. Not only do your aunts depend on you for help, but our son has had to adjust to enough changes in his life already. I want to keep things stable for him. Where could Bobby ever be as happy or as safe as in Sugarcreek?”
Chapter 15
Carl made up his bed with military precision, folding the sheets and blankets carefully and tucking in the corners.
This small utility room in the church basement had been intended to be used by the janitor to hang up brooms and mops, so Carl kept them there neatly where they belonged. A long shelf for supplies ran the length of the small room, and there was enough space left over for Carl’s cot and the small trunk the preacher had scrounged up, in which Carl kept his few clothes. He stored his toothbrush, comb, bar of soap, and two washcloths on the shelf beside the cleansers and floor wax. He owned so little that he didn’t need much room.
There was no window to the room. The floor was bare concrete. The walls were made up of gray concrete block. When Carl got his first paycheck from the church, he intended to buy some white paint for those walls. He’d had enough of gray to last him a lifetime. Being allowed to choose any color he wished felt quite luxurious.
As sparse and as cramped as his living quarters were, at least it was his own personal space for now, and he cherished the privacy.
He did not have to make sharp corners on his bed. No one would mind or be surprised if they looked in and saw the covers lying in a heap, but it pleased him to keep his few possessions nice and neat. He had always been that way. It gave him some control over all the disorder of his life that he couldn’t control.
He took his toothbrush, comb, and one of the washcloths to the men’s bathroom around the corner and locked the door behind him. Unlike the restroom upstairs on the main floor, this one had only one stall and one lavatory.
George, the preacher of the church, had apologized for the fact that there was no shower. Carl assured him that it did not matter. He was telling the truth. It didn’t matter. Knowing that he could wash his body without fear of being attacked trumped the best shower Carl could imagine. Having a basin of warm water all to himself, with a lock on the door that he controlled, was another great luxury.
He stripped off and lathered up with one of the extra bars of sweet-smelling hand soap that some thoughtful woman had placed in the upstairs women’s bathroom. It felt like a bath from heaven to Carl. Even his hair could be washed in the basin, not that there was much of it anymore.
Once finished, he went back to his room and rummaged in the trunk for his cleanest work clothes, also a gift from the preacher, who had purchased them from the Mennonite-run Save-and-Serve thrift store in Millersburg. George had taken Carl along with him so he could choose his own clothing, but it had been twenty years since Carl had any choice in what he wore. The task had proven to be daunting. In the end, George had to pick five work outfits for him.
Carl had now been out of prison a whole three weeks.
Today, he would repair a dripping faucet in the women’s bathroom. Tomorrow he would give the wooden pews in the sanctuary a good polish. The day after that, he intended to wash the windows. He cherished the fact that he was free to make his own plans for each day.
First, however, he would make coffee in the church kitchen. George would arrive soon to put in his morning office hours before going on hospital visits and checking on shut-ins. George always appreciated a fresh cup of coffee.
The preacher had given him permission to use his office and read any of the books that lined the walls. It was a nice offer, but Carl
wasn’t much of a reader. Making sure her son went to school had not exactly been a priority to his mother.
What Carl hoped for was to save up for a small television to keep in his room. He liked watching ball games. When he was a kid, he loved playing baseball. He and the other neighborhood boys played pickup games in an abandoned lot nearby his home. They had almost always ended in a fight, but he had liked the feeling of running the makeshift bases and snatching the ball out of midair. Remembering those summertime games in detail had helped him use up a lot of hours, lying on his bunk and staring at the ceiling, during these past twenty years.
Carl had no idea what George had gone through to get permission for him to work and live here. He was afraid it had been a struggle. It was not a large church; they could not afford to pay much. He thought that perhaps the fact that he came cheaper than most janitors had helped get him the job.
All he knew was that he was grateful for a roof over his head and for the small paycheck. He was absolutely determined not to do anything that could put George’s faith in him at risk. With the last third of his life lived behind bars, he was lucky to have any place to stay at all…even if it was a utility room in the basement of a church. It was warm and dry, which was all he really needed.
After starting the coffee, he took a box of cornflakes out of one of the kitchen cupboards and a quart of milk from the refrigerator. There were some mismatched bowls and spoons to choose from that had accumulated over the years. Carl preferred the yellow bowl with sunflowers painted on it. Yellow had become his favorite color. It was the color of sunlight.
He ate the cereal and then washed and dried his bowl and spoon and put them away. By then the coffee was finished, and he heard George’s car pull up outside. He poured both himself and George cups of coffee then added a dollop of whole milk to George’s. For himself, he’d long ago learned to drink his black. It was simpler. He walked to George’s office with the cups, prepared to enjoy a short conversation. In the few weeks he’d been here, having morning coffee with George had become a routine and Carl’s favorite part of the day.
Rachel's Rescue Page 7
