Riven

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  From the leased hospital bed Thomas had moved into their bedroom, Grace was often too weak to converse. But she would sing softly or hum all hours of the day.

  The highlight of her week, however, was Saturday, when Ravinia would bring Summer by to see Grandma before carting her off to Dirk’s. Somehow the rambunctious youngster had come to understand that she had to tone down her enthusiasm when visiting Grace. She would sit still and talk softly and—when allowed—actually crawl into bed next to Grandma and assure her that she was there and that everything would be all right.

  Thomas wondered if Summer would always possess that gift of mercy and maybe someday become a doctor or a nurse.

  “Grandma,” Summer said, “who watches you when Grandpa is at work?”

  “Wonderful friends from church,” Grace said. “They love Jesus and they love me.”

  “If they ever can’t come, I will.”

  43

  Adamsville County Jail

  Brady Darby was being processed out after his longest single stretch ever behind bars.

  A black girl with a look that said she had seen and heard it all sat behind a computer and passively gazed at him, perched on a chair with one of his knees bouncing. He needed some meth, and he wasn’t likely to get any before arriving at the halfway house in his new civvies with a modest amount of cash in his pocket.

  Thirty years old, and that constituted the extent of his worldly goods.

  “Anybody need to be informed of your release?” the girl said, long, ornate nails poised on the keyboard.

  “Haven’t heard from my ma since I been in here,” he said. “Maybe my aunt Lois.”

  “You got a phone number for her?”

  “No, but I remember her address.”

  “Let me have it and we’ll try,” she said. “You know where you’re going, right?”

  “Some Hug-a-Thug place is all I know.”

  “Serenity in Addison.”

  “Addison, really? That’s where I grew up.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  Well, that clearly made her day.

  She gave him a thick manila envelope and instructed him to follow a colored line on the floor to a waiting area for a van. A corrections officer used a wand to scan the bar code on his envelope, and Brady was directed out a door that led to an underground garage.

  As he joined half a dozen others waiting for the van, Brady shivered in the cool air. A couple of the others chatted, but Brady avoided eye contact. He just wanted to get aboard and see sunlight for the first time in years.

  When the van finally emerged at street level, Brady shaded his eyes, and when he grew accustomed to the light, he didn’t recognize the area around the county jail. Everything had changed. Five years before, he had arrived at a facility that seemed isolated in an industrial park. Now the street was crowded with chain restaurants, shops, and condos.

  The first parolee was dropped at a Greyhound station and greeted by a couple of thugs who would no doubt have him back in the joint within twenty-four hours. The same would be true for Brady if not for this program.

  He was cautiously hopeful. He had a craving for dope and a woman and any kind of excitement he hadn’t had for five years. But he was going to give this thing a chance. Still, he’d learned not to turn over any new leaves or even make any unrealistic promises to himself. His only goal was to never get himself busted again.

  Brady knew he wasn’t ready for total freedom and might not be for a long time. Accountability, Lieutenant Dale had emphasized. Well, if that’s what it took to transition a guy like him from the joint to sobriety and then to real outside freedom, Brady could handle that. He wanted that.

  Two more men were dropped at the airport, met by men in suits. Brady had no idea what that meant. Relatives? Friends? Someone who had promised them help or jobs? Flying somewhere—that sounded cool.

  “Next stop, Serenity!” the driver called out.

  Brady glanced at the other three parolees. Maybe they’d be program mates.

  “That where you’re goin’?” one said.

  The others nodded.

  “Me too,” Brady said, and they all traded fist taps.

  “Should be interesting,” the first said.

  “I’m not expecting much,” another said.

  I am, Brady thought as he peered out the window. The van cruised past his old haunts on Touhy Avenue. He felt like an alien.

  And the old trailer park? It was now the Addison RV and Camper Resort, jammed with row after row of all manner of the same, hooked up to power and water for the weekend or for a few weeks. Looked like a nice place to live, only no one lived there longer than a few days at a time anymore.

  Adamsville

  One Saturday Ravinia insisted on coming back after dropping Summer off.

  “You don’t have to do that, Rav,” Thomas said. “You know I can manage.”

  “No, I want to talk to you. I’ll be back.”

  Thomas did not understand how Grace slept through the night anymore, after having been in bed most of every day. Even now, as he sat in the living room watching for Ravinia’s return, he could hear Grace’s deep breathing.

  When Rav arrived, she strode from her car with a look that evidenced a serious purpose. What was it that could not wait until their next meeting at ASP? Bad news about her and Dirk? Thomas hoped not. He believed the best chance for Rav and Dirk spiritually was for them to come back together.

  Ravinia breezed past her father with a “Be-right-with-you-do-you-want-anything?”

  He shook his head and heard her making herself some tea. Something felt right about his daughter treating their home as her own.

  Finally she sat across from him in the living room, cup and saucer in her lap. “This may surprise you, Dad, but I need to tell you there are things I miss about my faith. Now don’t go getting excited. I’m just saying I miss . . . I don’t know, I guess I miss Jesus. He was the best part of the whole deal.”

  “I can’t argue with that. He is the whole deal.”

  “How I wish that were true, but I’m not here to reignite old arguments. It’s just that I want you to take Summer to church and Sunday school every week, starting tomorrow. I’ll watch Mom Sunday mornings.”

  “Oh, Rav, come with us. I can easily get someone from the church to—”

  She held up a hand. “Don’t, Dad. I just don’t want to be responsible for Summer missing out on something that was once so important to me. I’m not coming back, maybe ever. I’m not ready, and that’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  “I’m listening.”

  She had been speaking directly and quickly, as if she had something specific on her mind, and yet now Ravinia suddenly stalled.

  Finally she set her cup down. “Dad, you and Mom are the reason I’m no longer on good terms with God.”

  Thomas had heard that before, years ago. As it would with anyone, it triggered his defenses. He fought to keep from challenging her, defending if not himself then Grace for sure. He knew what he and his wife were: old fogies, conservatives. Some called him and his kind fundamentalists. And sure, of course they had made mistakes with Ravinia. But she couldn’t, shouldn’t, blame them.

  Yet this was as close as they had gotten to any real discussion of God in years. “I’m still listening,” Thomas said.

  She raised her brows. “I know you are. You’ve been saying that a lot lately, and I sense it’s true. I didn’t feel listened to a lot as a child, especially as a teenager. I mean, I know I didn’t have much to say, much of value anyway. But you and Mom had an answer for everything. Some verse or some hymn or some platitude. It didn’t have to make sense, as long as it was common knowledge. But you’re listening more and talking less these days, Dad.”

  “Glad you’ve noticed. You know, the older you get, the less you’re sure about.”

  “Tell me about it. But here’s what I’m saying: your faith is so simple and pure and straightforward that I can’t criticize you for it. My pro
blem is that God seems not to care about you.”

  “How can you say that, Rav? Having Summer here is a gift from God. And I have work, a decent income. We love our church. We’re fine.”

  “You’re not fine! You’ve said yourself that you haven’t seen any results for your labor in years! And it hasn’t been just since you started working at ASP. I don’t see much accomplished there from my efforts either, and I don’t expect to. But what about all your years in all those pastorates? All you’ve got to show for that are horrible, petty people who took and took and took and used you and Mom up, never once giving.”

  “Oh, there were those—”

  “Of course there were, but they were outnumbered by the ones who wanted you as puppets, to keep things the way they had always been. For as long as I can remember, and even after I had left home, every one of your pastorates ended the same way. In disappointment. In unfairness.”

  “People are human, Rav. You can’t expect—”

  “You can expect better than that, at least once, somewhere along the line. Dad, I saw you give and give. You never quit, and if you ever even got discouraged, you never let on. But how long does the wilderness experience have to continue? Is it literally going to be forty years for you, and then, what, will God still not allow you to enter into any promised land?”

  “The only land promised me is on the other side.”

  Ravinia sighed. “A nice sentiment, but not good enough.”

  “Heaven is not good enough?”

  “Well, if you buy into that and it turns out to be true, I’m sure it will be wonderful for you, but I’m talking about the here and now. You should have more than two good decades left. Can’t God cut you some slack, give you a break, let a few crumbs drop off His table? Maybe you can handle this; that’s your nature. But watching from my vantage point just makes me bitter.”

  Ravinia was plainly fighting emotion. Was it possible there was more?

  “What is it, Rav?”

  “It’s Mom. I can hardly bear to see her this way. Why her? What has she done? I mean, all right, if I’m going to be honest, she has driven me crazy over the years. It was as if she never let me grow up, be my own person. She had an answer for everything, and frankly, I never thought she used the brain God gave her. Did she ever acknowledge the other side of any issue? To her there was always one and only one answer to every question. It must be nice to be that sure of everything, and I know she meant well.

  “But I wanted her to think. I didn’t expect her to be so open-minded that she changed her bedrock views. I wouldn’t have respected that. But to at least acknowledge that people who disagree have brains and hearts and souls too—was that too much to ask?”

  “There’s something to be said for simple faith.”

  “I’m not just talking about that. And after all that vitriol, this next isn’t going to make sense, but just bear with me and let me get it out. Where I was going with all that frustration over Mom and the way she thinks—or doesn’t think—is that I have never once questioned her motives.

  “All right, as a bratty teenager, I probably did. But not once since I left home have I doubted that Mom loves me and you and God, and that with her, what you see is what you get. Believe me, I’ve learned the hard way that there aren’t too many people you can say that about these days. But she’s pure gold.”

  “When you talk of her like that, Rav, that’s the woman I recognize. That is the love of my life.”

  And finally Ravinia broke down. “Don’t you see, Dad? I love her too! I have come to accept her just as she is—pure, selfless, loving, a servant. Maddeningly perfect. But look what’s happened to her. How does any of it make sense? If anyone deserves to be in that bed, becoming dependent on others for their very existence, it’s me! Don’t you ever question God? Look what He’s done to—okay, look what He’s allowed to happen to Mom, the love of your life.

  “You have pledged your life to God, and this is what happens to your wife? I don’t get it, and frankly, I’m not going to get over it, Dad. How can I respect a God like that?”

  “Please don’t say that, Rav. You know your mother and I believe we deserve nothing but death and hell, so anything short of that is a bonus. We have so much to be thankful for.”

  Ravinia rose and stretched and took her cup and saucer back to the kitchen. “Thanks for hearing me out. I know it wasn’t what you wanted to hear, but at least I feel like I can be honest with you.”

  “You can. And you must know I’d like the opportunity to debate the point. . . .”

  “Maybe someday. I’ve got to go.”

  Serenity Halfway House | Addison

  Brady had hoped Serenity, especially with a name like that, would look like the idyllic facilities he’d seen on TV and in movies. Maybe it would have a long, tree-lined road leading to a huge circular drive before a massive pillared colonial brick building. People in white coats would be strolling with bathrobed patients as they worked together to fix all that ailed them.

  In fact, Serenity proved to be a three-story brownstone, though not the kind you’d see in the ritzier areas of New York City or Chicago. No, this was a rather stark structure with heavy-gauge steel screens on the doors and windows and a very shallow front lawn—if it even could be called that—of shrubs and sod, enclosed by a tall, heavy, black iron fence and locking gate.

  As soon as the van rolled up outside, the driver chirped, “Welcome to your new home, gentlemen, and I wish each of you all the luck in the world.”

  He leaped out to open the side door, and as Brady and the others got off, a couple emerged from the brownstone, went through a rather complicated procedure to unlock the gate, and held it open.

  The man was tall and broad with a black goatee and curly hair to match. He wore a sleeveless denim jacket that exposed tattoos from his hands to his shoulders.

  The woman was only a couple of inches shorter, also dressed in denim, and was robust with sandy blonde hair going gray.

  They appeared to be in their early to midforties, and both were beaming. She did the talking. “Welcome, welcome, welcome,” she said, shaking each man’s hand. “I’m Jan and this is my husband, Bill. Introduce yourselves to him. I know even a broken-down old lady like me looks good to guys who have been locked up as long as you have, so I like to show off my guy and make it clear from the get-go that I’m not available. Everybody clear on that?”

  “I am,” Bill said, and Brady got the impression that was their stock joke.

  When Brady shook Bill’s hand, the man’s eyes bored into his and made him look away. “You’re welcome here,” Bill said. “You do your part, and we promise to do ours.”

  The men were led inside and introduced to other staff, who appeared to be mostly just custodial or clerical. A few other men milled about, some sweeping, one mopping, and they seemed happy enough.

  Brady noticed that Bill never left Jan’s side as she asked the four newcomers to follow her upstairs. “We like to give each of our new guests their own small room after you’ve been living in a steel dorm for so long,” she said. “The bathroom is down the hall. Be considerate and work out with the others when you want to use it.”

  Brady liked being called a guest. But he was getting antsier for some dope. His last taste of meth had been just before he processed out, and that was too long ago. He had come prepared to fight through his cravings and start right in on staying straight, but just then he would have done any drug in sight.

  As if he could read Brady’s mind, Bill waggled a finger and beckoned him to follow. He showed Brady to his room, no bigger than a cell at County, but with a wire-meshed window, drapes, a nice pastel yellow on the walls, a single bed, and a chair and desk. There was also a small closet. “I know you haven’t got anything to store in there yet, but you will.”

  Brady couldn’t stand still.

  “Listen, Darby, you suffering?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’ve you been on?”

  “Met
h.”

  “At County?”

  Brady nodded.

  “That’s the good news. You weren’t likely getting good stuff, so you might have it a little easier. We got something that can help. You need it right now?”

  “Unless you want me to go out that window, yes, sir.”

  “All right, settle in here and I’ll be back to get you.”

  “Settle in?”

  “Just get used to your surroundings. Bet it’s been a while since you’ve been in a room by yourself.”

  “Try five years.”

  “There you go. Just take a breather. I’ll be right back, I promise. I know what you’re going through.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Oh yeah. Drugs? I did ’em all, pal.”

  “You serve time?”

  “Time was my middle name.”

  “How long you been straight, sir?”

  “Coming up on ten years. And call me Bill.”

  “Thanks. And your wife? Same history?”

  “Not even close. I met her in a house like this one. She’s a social worker, been straight and sober her whole life. Got me cleaned up, then got me into this work. Nothing better. This succeeds, man, if you do your part, as I say.”

  “Think I can find a wife here?”

  Bill laughed. “You never know. ’Course our guests are all men, but when we have group sessions, we get a mix of all kinds from the outside. Keep your eyes open. Just remember, the worst love combination of all is two addicts.”

  Brady opened the drapes all the way and squinted into the sun. He raised the window. Wow. Except for the wire mesh, it was nice.

  He opened his envelope and spread the contents on the desk. It was good to just sit and read something, even if it wasn’t much, just stuff about the halfway house. It said that Bill and Jan were in charge and pretty much handled everything—the counseling, the classes, all that. And they had all kinds of orbital professional personnel to help with physical and mental issues.