Riven

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  “He deserved that beating, and you know it.”

  “Nobody deserved that.”

  She flipped him an obscene gesture.

  “Yeah, that’s nice. I’m so glad I’ve got a classy mom.”

  She swore. “Get out of my sight.”

  “Gladly.”

  Brady stomped back to his and Peter’s bedroom and undressed, banging doors and drawers and dropping onto the bed.

  “Sorry, Brady.”

  Brady fought his rage. He didn’t want to break down in front of Peter.

  “Oh, it’s not your fault, little man. I shoulda known she’d be ticked. I can’t take you with me every night, so just get along with her any way you can. Stay out of her way. Do what you’re told. And if you ever feel scared, like she’s gonna do something to you, you know where I am, and you come running.”

  15

  Noon, Wednesday | Denny’s Restaurant | Adamsville

  Thomas didn’t have much of an appetite, and he wished Jimmie Johnson would get to the subject: the Careys’ future.

  But Jimmie was eating ravenously, sometimes talking with his mouth full and about only inconsequential matters. Finally he wiped his mouth and pushed his plate forward and his chair back. “Ever done prison ministry, Thomas?”

  “Cook County Jail when I was a student in Chicago. Jail stuff in small towns. A prison in Alabama. Nothing extensive.”

  “How’d it go?”

  Thomas shrugged. “I always felt terribly for the prisoners. But I could never tell if I was getting through. Just preached Christ, you know. Never got into teaching or discipling, anything like that.”

  “But you could.”

  “Sure.”

  “Ever thought about becoming a prison chaplain?”

  “Can’t say I have. You have no more churches that need an old expository preacher?”

  “You’re not that old, Thomas, but you do carry yourself that way. Ever been told that?”

  “I have. I don’t guess I care that much about appearances.”

  “Sure you do. You’re well groomed, clean, neat. A little dated, but more than presentable.”

  Thomas sipped his coffee. “Now there’s high praise.”

  Jimmie laughed. “I’m just trying to encourage you, because I’ve got to tell you, if I’d been through what you’ve been through, I’d have thrown in the towel a long time ago. All I hear about you is that you’re a wonderful servant, but people tend to walk all over you. If I have to be honest, and I know no other way to help, your preaching doesn’t get high marks. Nobody says you don’t know your Bible, but you’re no—”

  “—Billy Graham. Yeah, I know. I should put that on my résumé. But I’m not a quitter, Jimmie. And if it’s true I get bullied now and again, are you sure a prison chaplaincy is the right move? I’m not sure I could handle the endless jokes about a captive audience and all that.”

  “You’d get your share of those. I don’t know, Thomas. My fear is you’re out of options. But I’m not going to try to talk you into anything.”

  Thomas turned and stared out the window, exhaling loudly. “Well, where’s the opening?”

  “The state penitentiary.”

  “Right here? It’s a supermax, isn’t it?”

  “State-of-the-art for the worst of the worst, they tell me. There are something like twenty-two thousand inmates in this state, and the worst nine hundred or so are here at Adamsville.”

  “Quite a mission field.”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  “That would be a baptism of fire, Jimmie, when the worst place I’ve been is Cook County and that more than twenty-five years ago. How’d this position come open anyway?”

  “Our guy’s retiring. Been in the system forty years. Lots of rules and law changes make it almost impossible to get a chaplain in there, but because we had one for so long, and the administration loved him, we can grandfather in someone new if we act fast.”

  “Who would the new guy work for? You or the state?”

  “The state, but while it includes benefits, they don’t pay much, so we subsidize. It’s still not much, Thomas, but it’d be regular and you wouldn’t have to worry about congregations coming up with your salary.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “You’re open to this?”

  “Grace and I will pray about it.”

  “See why I didn’t want her to come? She couldn’t visit the prison anyway, and if she did, she might be against it.”

  “Can I visit?”

  “We can see. But Chaplain Russ is happy to talk to you, provided you’re at least curious.”

  “Oh, I’m at least that.”

  “Then you’ll forgive me if I wave him over?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He’s here, just in case. That’s him in the corner.”

  A large, ruddy, robust man in his late sixties smiled shyly and raised his brows. Thomas offered a subdued salute, and Jimmie beckoned him. He brought his sandwich and coffee with him.

  After quick introductions and a laugh when Thomas said he felt conspired against, Ross said, “Reverend Carey, I’m not gonna try to sell you on this. Fact, I might try to talk you out of it. It’s not for a weak man, not for someone looking to take a break.”

  “Oh, I assure you—”

  “’Cause let me tell you what ASP consists of, bein’ a security-level-five institution. First off, it’s got a death row. There’s nine in that pod right now. Then you’ve got your real baddies, lifers who have murdered, raped, abused, whatnot. Then you’ve got your attempted escapees from other facilities. There’s none of that here, understand, because this place was built in what’s called an envelope design. Other words, say a guy somehow escapes his cell—which hasn’t even happened since this place opened ten years ago. These guys are in their houses—that’s what we call their cells—twenty-three hours a day. They get an hour alone in the exercise unit, which is just a few feet away from their cellblock, and every three days they get to go to the shower. That’s the only chance they’d get to try to pull something. But let’s just say they did. From the exercise area or the shower, they subdue a corrections officer—don’t ever demean those professionals by callin’ ’em guards, by the way, or worse, turnkeys or screws—and somehow get out of the cellblock. That’s just the first of eleven envelopes they’d have to open to even get out to the yard, which is surrounded by walls, guarded by sharpshooters in the towers, and covered by razor wire. And every one of those envelopes is constantly watched, live and on monitors, and every door can be unlocked only with the cooperation of an officer in a control unit.”

  “So, like you say, it’s not going to happen.”

  “Exactly. And you can imagine what that kind of living does to a man, especially a convict.”

  “If these guys are in their cells, their houses, all that time, when do you have chapel services?”

  “Oh, you don’t. You gotta understand, these guys are not allowed any physical contact with each other. Zero. The only time they’re in the proximity of anybody is when they’re cuffed and shackled and searched and escorted by officers either to the shower or to exercise.”

  Thomas stole a glance at Jimmie, who looked curious and also seemed to gather that Thomas was intrigued.

  “So you’re not teaching or preaching or counseling. What are you doing? Going cell to cell?”

  “Oh, no preaching, that’s true. And no, I can’t visit any inmate without his filing an official request. The only contact is through the front door of his house, though if he goes through proper protocol, we can meet maybe once every two or three weeks in what’s called a separation unit. That’s a secure room with a Plexiglas shield between the inmate and the visitor, and it’s usually used by lawyers. A tiny slit allows single sheets of paper to be passed back and forth. Other than that, I have no contact with inmates except through the front door of their houses. I can’t be there unless they’ve invited me, and I’m not allowed to proselytize.” />
  “Sounds pretty restrictive,” Thomas said. “How do they even know to ask for you?”

  “Oh, they all know. Everything gets around, and new inmates are given a packet that tells them all of the regulations, services, and restrictions. That tells them a chaplain is available.”

  “Sounds like really hard, depressing work.”

  “It is. Let me tell you, you don’t do this job for the warm fuzzies or the thank-yous. If you get any of those, it’s a sure bet someone is running a con on you, pardon the pun.

  “Inmates work on the softies, the ones they call ‘chocolate hearts,’ because they’re always melting for a sob story. You’ll have to learn that the hard way, because I figure as a pastor you feel for people.”

  “And you can’t feel for these lost souls?”

  Russ seemed to consider that. “Well, you can try, but here it’s different. You can’t let ’em see your soft side or you’ve already lost. You’ve been a pastor, so you’ve had people trying to act spiritual around you, more spiritual than they are. But you can usually tell, can’t you, by the look in their eyes?”

  “Yes, it is easier to tell real transformation that way.”

  “Well, I’ve seen that look two, maybe three times since I’ve been on this job. And only once since being at the supermax. And that time? I was wrong.”

  Thomas looked at his watch, worried about Grace. “I don’t know, Jimmie. I appreciate this, but I don’t know.”

  “Hey,” Russ said, “then don’t do it. You got to be called to this, my friend. But here’s the upside if the Lord is in it: You may never know this side of heaven when you’ve made an impact. But these are the saddest, neediest souls on the planet. I’ve prayed with guys on their way to their executions. Who knows what happened with them? I’ll know someday.”

  “Can I see the place, take a little tour?”

  “Actually, you can’t. See, the warden is the caesar, okay? And it just so happens that he reports to the state’s executive director of the Department of Corrections, who is handpicked by the governor. Here’s the deal. The executive director himself replaced the warden here three years ago, loves it, and runs his DOC shop right out of the prison. So our warden reports to himself! Ha! Name’s Frank LeRoy—we call him Yanno—and he and the gov are like this.” Chaplain Russ held up two fingers, drawn together.

  “You call him what?”

  “Yanno. Comes from his favorite expression. You make a request, he says, ‘Yeah,’ not meaning he’s gonna grant it but that he hears you and understands what you want. Then, in the same breath, he gives you his answer.”

  “No.”

  “Exactly. You talk to Director LeRoy, you’re gonna hear ‘Yeah, no’ more than once, guaranteed. ’Course we know better’n to call him that to his face.”

  “Yeah, no,” Thomas said.

  Russ roared. “I like this guy! Anyway, Yanno is not big on outsiders coming in for a look. In fact, there’s no way.”

  “I can’t see the place before deciding whether I want to consider this?”

  Russ shook his head. “Works the other way round. You pray about it, talk with your wife, decide whether you’re called to it; then I go to Yanno and get you in for an interview with NCIC. That’s the National Compliance Integrity Commission. They run about a ten-day background check, and if you’re clean, Yanno is the last hurdle.”

  Thomas smiled. “Oh, I’m clean.”

  “Squeaky,” Jimmie said. “Trust me.”

  “Well, that may be,” Russ said, “but if you’ve forgotten a speeding ticket, even a double parking rap, they’ll know.”

  6 p.m. | Forest View High School

  Brady had had a particularly good day on the boards, as Mr. Nabertowitz had instructed him to call the stage. Not only had he nailed all his lines, hit all his notes, and even shown more flair in his dancing, but he had also prompted more than one coactor on his or her lines. That drew a smirk from Alex North, despite that he was one Brady had helped, but it brought heaps of praise throughout rehearsal from the director.

  “I need to talk to you before you go,” Mr. N. said as he dismissed the cast and crew.

  “Okay, but I can’t miss my bus. I get home just in time to have dinner with my brother and get to my job.”

  “Your job? You’re working now?”

  “They let me do it on my own schedule, so it’s all right.”

  “No, it’s not all right, Brady. I told you I was going to keep track of how you’re doing in class, and I’m not getting good reports.”

  “I’m working as hard as I can, sir. I don’t think I’m failing anything.”

  “You don’t think? You have to know, son. You can’t afford one F, or your GPA dips to where I can’t use you.”

  “Man, I can’t let that happen!”

  “No, you can’t. Because it’s not just you, Brady. It’s every other kid involved in this thing. And it’s me. I risked a lot going with you in this role, and I’ve told you and told you that if we have to make a late change, the whole thing becomes a mess. Now don’t let me down.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “My plan?”

  “See, that’s your problem, Brady. You don’t think ahead. You’re on the brink of failing three courses. What are you going to do about that to ensure it doesn’t happen?”

  “I don’t know. Get all my homework done. Study harder, more, for tests and stuff.”

  “You’ve got to be proactive, son. You know what that means?”

  “I’m not stupid!”

  “I wasn’t implying you were. I just mean you need to get to those teachers, tell them you know you’re in trouble and that you want help. They can assign tutors to help you during study hall. They’ll help you themselves. Believe me, almost any teacher would love to be asked for help. They want to see you succeed. Now will you do that?”

  “Sure.”

  Not a chance. I’m not playing preppy for anybody.

  16

  Peebles

  Grace had sounded okay on the phone before Thomas pulled out of Adamsville, but he insisted on bringing home dinner. “You rest until I get there. We have a lot to talk about.”

  “Give me a hint.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Please, Thomas.”

  “Well, maybe you can think and pray about it before I get there. It’s a prison chaplaincy.”

  “Oh, my.”

  He chuckled. “My response exactly.”

  Thomas spent the entire drive ticking off the pros and cons and soon began to weary under a burden of guilt. The situation, strange and exotic as it was, would clearly be a nine-to-five weekday job. He supposed he might be called in some evening for the occasional emergency, but otherwise, he would have a routine he had not enjoyed as an adult.

  What kind of a man was he to long for that? Rising every morning at the same time, being able to have devotions and breakfast with Grace, getting home at a decent hour, not having to worry about the phone ringing, the endless committee meetings, the people problems he’d had to endure for so many years.

  As he drove, Thomas found himself daydreaming about the structured existence he had always yearned for. He had felt called to preach and teach and pastor, but everything that went with it had proved a distraction. And his daughter was right; it wasn’t in him to fight all the forces that wanted to use and abuse him.

  Could he make a difference in prisoners’ lives? He certainly couldn’t hurt, couldn’t make things worse for them. He imagined, and Chaplain Russ had confirmed, that real results would be scarce and hard to evaluate. But that was God’s work, wasn’t it? Wasn’t Thomas’s role simply to be faithful and diligent?

  By the time he reached a Chinese carryout place a few blocks from the borrowed home, Thomas realized he had allowed the glamour—yes, it seemed that way to him—of a new life, an ordered day, to outweigh all his misgivings. He realized he had been beaten down, wearied, wounded by a
ll the shots he’d taken so recently. From being summarily dismissed by the folks in Foley, to the condescension of the search committee chair in Vidalia, to the tough discussions with Ravinia and then her blatant rebellion against all she had been taught . . . from the mess with the Pierces at Oldenburg, to even the kind but stabbing assessment of Jimmie Johnson, all the while worried about what was happening with Grace—well, he was just weary.

  Inside Thomas felt stooped and old and depressed, yet as he waited for his order, he caught a glimpse of himself in the ornate mirror behind the counter. He stood ramrod straight, shoulders back, head high, and smiling. Genuinely, warmly smiling.

  A young family with a noisy toddler amused him, and the girl at the cash register had a refreshing countenance. But Thomas knew his renewed vigor was from the Lord and that the prospect of the new job—despite its sobering environment—was making him his old self again.

  Addison

  It was clear when Brady stepped in the door that his mother was payday drunk. Trouble was, he never knew what kind of a drunk she’d be. Sometimes she was sullen and quiet and sad and just sat dozing or smoking as she watched TV. She might weep and complain about life and plead for someone to tell her they loved her. Brady was long past succumbing to that temptation.

  It was the other times that bothered him, when she’d had just enough booze or little enough food—who knew what combination might set her off—to make her angry. Then no one could do anything right. Nothing pleased her.

  For now she was sitting, but she was clearly out of it. And as the time came for Brady to head to the work site, he debated taking Peter with him. Of course Peter didn’t want to go, and he kept assuring Brady he would keep his distance and that, yes, he would escape if he had to.

  But then, all the while Brady was on the forklift truck, improving his dexterity with the machine (and thus hopefully his elapsed time), he was listening and watching for his brother. Would Petey come running? And if he did, would he have eluded her in time? If he showed up with so much as a mark, Brady was prepared to make his mother pay. He didn’t even know what that meant. Would he beat her? threaten her with the old sawed-off his late father had stored somewhere in the back? Would he kill her?