Riven (40 page)

Brady wondered if anyone would rebel against this. At times it felt juvenile and confining, but he knew he had brought this on himself. With every motivational class taught by Bill and every group therapy session led by Jan, the men were encouraged, treated with respect, and expected to succeed.

That had helped during his first forty-eight hours, through all the side effects that went with the medication prescribed to treat his meth addiction. At least they didn’t expect him to kick cigarettes. The men had to smoke outside and clean up their own mess, and they were reminded often that if they failed here and were ever sentenced to a supermax facility, they would have the fun of quitting smoking without any help. No nicotine patches or gum, no counseling, no tapering off. Just cold turkey and all that that entailed.

Brady was fascinated to see men who looked like younger versions of Bill—muscled, tattooed, defined features, a deep, painful look in their eyes—turn from scowling to smiling. It was as if they were eager to please. He felt it himself.

Was it possible he could get through all these classes and courses and therapy sessions and actually graduate, get a certificate of completion? Before, that would have seemed silly, a sorry substitute for a high school diploma. But now Bill was urging the men to start thinking about getting their GEDs and then even considering junior college or a trade school.

Brady had for so long been just a druggie, he had to think about what he might do with his life in the straight world.

He envied Bill and Jan; they seemed to genuinely care for each other. Life had passed Brady by in many ways, and now he wondered if he would be attractive to any woman. Being a con had been no kind of life, but at least it was an identity. People who knew him knew him as a bad guy, a tough guy, somebody you didn’t want to mess with.

What was he now? Happy, hopeful, earnest, perhaps finally getting some traction in the real world. But
who
was he? There were days, he had to admit, when he felt like a sap, like the yokels he had always criticized. Dorks, stooges, nerds. He felt like a goody two-shoes, whatever that meant. Was that the price for staying out of prison and actually making something of his life? Could he be cool and respected without being a criminal?

One afternoon following a class Bill taught on maintaining one’s composure during a job interview, Brady was in his room studying—actually studying—his notes. He had scribbled the list from what Bill had written on the board, trying to memorize or at least settle in his mind all the things one had to know to impress a potential employer. Could he do it?

He had to be well groomed, dress appropriately, maintain eye contact, smile, listen, not talk too much, be open and honest . . . the list went on and on. It had been almost comical to see tattooed Bill with his goatee and long, curly hair talking about how to present oneself in a corporate setting. “Rule number one,” Bill had said, “you definitely don’t want to look like me.”

Most intriguing to Brady was Bill’s counsel on being straightforward. “I would tell the interviewer, ‘Look, I no longer have anything to hide. I’m an ex-con, and I served this many years for this crime. I have no excuses and no one to blame but myself, but I’m a new man, and I’m eager for a chance to prove it. If you give me this opportunity, I will accept any safeguards or restrictions that make you feel comfortable until I earn your trust. I successfully completed the intense rehabilitation program at Serenity Halfway House, and here are my certificate and my references, whom I encourage you to call personally.’

“See?” Bill said. “Everything on the table. No surprises. The first time they suspect you’ve left something out or are trying to pull something, they move to the next candidate.”

Brady felt as if he was really digesting this stuff. He couldn’t imagine himself sitting across from a hiring agent without making up some shiny history and ignoring the fact that he was a career criminal, but it was a concept.

“Brady Darby?” It sounded like Jan calling from the bottom of the stairs.

Brady rushed to the landing. “Yes, ma’am.”

“There’s a Carl and Lois here to see you.”

Brady bounded down the stairs. He embraced his aunt and vigorously pumped his uncle’s hand. He couldn’t quit smiling or telling them how great it was to see them and what a surprise it was. “I thought you’d make me come your way again,” he said, laughing and leading them to a front room where they sat on couches to talk privately.

“Well, I would have, Brady,” Lois said, “but we kept checking on you and heard good things. We had to see for ourselves, and I gotta tell you, you look great.”

“You do,” Carl said.

“Do I really? I feel good. I’m learning a lot. I don’t know where I was when I was younger, but I sure hated sitting in classes. Now I’m soaking up everything these people have to offer.”

“We’re trying to see if we can come get you some Saturday night and have you at our home overnight so you can come to church with us.”

Brady’s smile froze. It was always about church. “Yeah,” he said. “That’d be cool. What’d they say?”

“There’s all kinds of hoops we’ve got to jump through. We have to prove we’re blood relatives, sign our lives away promising to not let you out of our sight, report any suspicious activity, have you back here by a certain time, all that.”

“That’s way too much hassle, Aunt Lois. It’s all right. I’ll be out of here in a few months, and I can come then.”

“Nonsense, Brady. You need to start gradually seeing what the real world is like again. Anyway, you want to meet some nice girls, don’t you?”

“You have no idea. ’Course, whether they want to meet me is another thing.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. If they know you’ve served your time and are on the straight and narrow again, loving Jesus, going to church, all that . . .”

“Yeah, well . . .”

“Where do you go around here?”

“They’ve got a list we can choose from, but you have to arrange for somebody to go with you. I just join the—what do they call it?—interfaith deal they have right here.”

“What’s that?”

“Some guy from a local seminary comes in and gives a thing he calls a homily, kinda like a sermon. Just as boring but a little shorter, know what I mean? Doesn’t say much. Then he tells us to have a quiet time and pray to whoever we want to however we want to. It’s all right, I guess.”

“It most certainly is not, Brady. He doesn’t even sound like a Christian, does he, Carl? I’m going to keep pushing to take you to our church, okay?”

It wasn’t okay, but what was he supposed to say? “If you want.”

“There’s a girl we know,” Aunt Lois said, “about your age, maybe a year or two older, whose late father became a rescue-mission preacher and jail minister when he came back to the Lord after serving time. She would be sympathetic to what you’re going through and wouldn’t judge you on your past.”

“Never been married?”

Carl shook his head, then turned and looked out the window. Brady wondered what to make of that until Aunt Lois said, “She’s got a bit of a weight problem, but she’s a wonderful person and has a nice smile.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’ll meet her sometime.”

“I’ll send you a picture. By the way, what do you hear from your mama?”

Brady snorted. “Ma? You couldn’t prove by me she’s even alive. I know she’s in Tennessee. Haven’t seen her since Petey’s funeral.”

Aunt Lois and Uncle Carl glanced at each other. “You seriously haven’t heard from her since then?”

“Can’t blame her. Who wants a son behind bars?”

“You really don’t know she’s married again?”

“You kidding me? I know nothing.”

Carl leaned forward. “She’s on husband number three, Brady. And Nashville’s a distant memory. She’s waitressing again. In Little Rock. Her husband drives truck.”

“Hold on. Number three?”

“My,” Lois said, “you
have
been out of touch. She married some guy in Nashville a few months after she got there. Said he owned a grocery store. Turned out he just worked there, and not often. He beat her, and she eventually had to get a restraining order on him.”

“That doesn’t break my heart.”

“Brady! She has her faults, but nobody deserves that.”

“She does.”

“All right, we’re not going to discuss this. Thing is, this new guy at least has a steady job, but he’s gone most of the time. She’s not well, you know.”

“No?”

“Some kind of a lung thing, and of course she still won’t quit smoking.”

Brady hoped it would kill her, but he knew Aunt Lois wouldn’t want to hear that.

“Well, Brady, it’s great to see you doing so well. We have high hopes for you. Pray our request will go through and we can come get you for church one of these weekends.”

He’d pray about it all right, but certainly not in the way Lois hoped.

On the other hand, they were the only family Brady had and maybe his only friends too. It had been wonderful to see them, even if it meant his mother would be on his mind for a few days until he could find something else to think about.

A brief letter arrived a few days later, including what Aunt Lois referred to as good news and bad news. Brady agreed but would have ascribed opposite adjectives to each.

Aunt Lois’s good news was a picture of one of the plainest women Brady had ever seen. If she was less than ten years older than he was, no one could tell. He shook his head. She probably was wonderful, devout, and who knew, might make a great wife. But even though he knew he was shallow to be so concerned about mere looks, a guy should be attracted to a woman to consider a future with her, shouldn’t he?

Aunt Lois’s bad news was that they had received a cordial but definite rejection of their request to take Brady away from Serenity overnight “at this time.” The Department of Corrections had reminded them that Brady Darby was still officially a ward of the state but that it would be happy to reevaluate the request in due time.

“They didn’t say when ‘due time’ was,” Aunt Lois wrote. “But if we all keep praying, it’ll happen. Meanwhile, you hang in there. I have enclosed your mother’s address, in case you want to get in touch with her. I’m sure she’d be glad to hear from you and know you’re out and doing well.”

Fat chance. If his mother wanted to hear from Brady, she’d have to let him know herself. He didn’t expect to hear a thing from her until she thought he had a job and something to offer.

Aunt Lois closed: “I have also included the address of the young woman in the picture. Why not get acquainted by mail? You never know what might come of this.”

Brady tossed everything in the trash.

45

Adamsville

Thomas stood cautiously and without expectation outside the cell of a short, forty-year-old illegal from Guatemala. Jorge Lopez had been incarcerated at the Adamsville State Penitentiary for six years, though Thomas had a hard time imagining this innocuous-looking con pulling six armed robberies and making four escape attempts from other facilities before being sentenced to life here.

Jorge had never asked to see Chaplain Carey.

Until now.

Jorge had studied English as a second language by correspondence, resulting in a strange but most understandable accent. Thomas thought it made the man sound sophisticated, almost courtly. He didn’t slur or use contractions, and he pronounced every syllable with care.

“I appreciate very much your honoring my request, Reverend Carey. I am curious as to what privileges might be afforded a lifer such as myself who converts to your brand of American evangelical Christianity.”

“Let me be sure I understand what you’re asking, sir. Are you curious about the Christian faith, Jorge, and specifically evangelicalism?”

“Oh no. I was raised Catholic, was baptized and confirmed. But I understand that evangelicalism is more accepted and may win me privileges that Catholicism may not.”

“In the system, you mean.”

“Yes. I am not scheduled for even a parole hearing for thirteen more years. Is it true that if I were to convert, I might see that expedited earlier?”

“No. In fact, the opposite is true. I’m afraid it would appear manipulative on your part and could work against you. You wouldn’t want me vouching for you.”

“Very well, then. Thank you very much and I apologize for taking your time.”

“Not at all. Tell me, Jorge, do you understand the differences between Catholicism and Protestantism?”

“Oh yes. I have studied both very carefully.”

“How would you characterize the differences?”

“Well, the one seems more liturgical, creedal. The other more personal. I believe there are more similarities than differences, but I also understand where Protestantism originated and what Martin Luther believed was needed to reform the church.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“And does one or the other appeal more to you, prison privileges aside?”

“Yes. Catholicism.”

“Interesting. You know, many men here misunderstand Protestantism to be the faith of grace and see Catholicism as the faith of works.”

“Misunderstand?”

“I mean,” Thomas said, “that they carry the differences to the extreme, thinking that if you are saved by faith and not works, you are free to live however you wish, once you have your eternal destiny decided.”

“I see. And yet I find Catholic literature also emphasizes grace, though perhaps not as exclusively.”

“You are very perceptive, Jorge. I find that many who choose between Catholicism and Protestantism choose the latter because they find it more accessible, even in a way easier.”

“I can see that. But I suppose I prefer the faith I grew up in as a child.”

“Do you still practice it? You have never asked for any literature that I am aware of.”

“No. I am no longer a religious person.”

“Yet you were once?”

“Yes, as I said, as a child. I loved going to church with my parents and brothers and sisters.”

“Do you fear for the fate of your soul?”

“No. I believe when we die, we are simply gone, body, mind, and soul.”

“You realize your religion does not teach that.”