19

Ten Days Later | Adamsville

Thomas Carey’s best suit had been out of fashion for a decade, but Grace had matched the navy with a light blue shirt and medium blue tie. As he pulled up to the guardhouse at the state penitentiary, Thomas felt he looked as professional as he was able. He had splurged on new socks, and he always kept his oxfords spit shined. His big Bible was on the seat, and despite his discomfort at entering the facility alone for the first time—and wishing Chaplain Russ wasn’t already a full-time retiree hundreds of miles to the south—Thomas could barely contain his excitement.

The job was his. June Byrne had been amused, then enraged, by his account of the travesty in Oldenburg. He had passed her scrutiny without a hitch. In a few minutes he would be welcomed by the warden and his staff with a coffee and pastry break; then the warden himself would debrief him and lead him on a tour.

“Let me just study your face and your car for a second,” the officer at the guardhouse said, double-checking Thomas’s documents. “We’re careful, but we like to make this as quick and easy as we can on our full-timers. Every day I’ll peek in your backseat, and I’ll watch your eyes in case you need to tell me anything—like if someone’s stowed away in your trunk—but otherwise, like I say, we won’t detain you.”

“Pardon me,” Thomas said. “That sounds great. But if someone forced me to bring him here in my trunk, couldn’t I just—?”

“Leave him in there? Sure. But what if he had an accomplice at your house and was holding a loved one hostage who might be imperiled if you didn’t get the bad guy inside here?”

“I see.”

“It’s rare, Reverend. But we try not to miss a thing. Welcome aboard.”

Forest View High School

Mr. Nabertowitz had broken his own long-standing rule and begun to allow spectators at the daily rehearsals, and the Little Theater was usually at least half full. “Normally I worry that letting people in early will spoil sales,” he said. “But we’re already sold out for all six performances, and I want all the buzz I can get.”

News of the first dress rehearsal had traveled farther and wider than anyone expected, and the place was jammed. Parents came. Friends came. Even the local press showed up.

If Brady thought he’d gotten a taste of popularity by simply landing the Conrad Birdie role, he was soon to know what it was like to be a bona fide center of attention. The cast looked great, Brady shone in his gold lamé suit, and while the staging and timing were understandably still in process, it was quickly becoming clear that this show was going to be something special.

The highlight of the afternoon for Brady had been standing next to Mr. Nabertowitz when the father character was singing his big number about what was the matter with kids these days. The actor could barely carry a tune, and when he went for the high dramatic notes, he failed miserably and disgustedly shook his head.

Mr. N. had warned the cast that he would not hold back during dress rehearsal, even when outsiders were there. “You screw up, I’m going to tell you, so be prepared.”

Not unkindly, he urgently told the boy, “You have got to get this. This is a showstopping song. You’re getting better on most of it, but you need to find those notes and nail them. Otherwise the show is stopped for the wrong reason.”

They ran through the scene a couple more times, and the actor got no closer. Finally Brady asked if he could talk to Mr. Nabertowitz privately.

“Make it quick.”

“I have an idea, if you want to hear it.”

“I’m desperate, son.”

“He’s not going to hit those notes. That’s not something you can learn. The problem is when he breaks character and acts disgusted with himself. Tell him to play it straight and belt it out at the top of his lungs, like he’s proud of himself for hitting the notes he’s missing. People love a buffoon.”

Nabertowitz studied Brady. “You might be on to something. He’s perfect in the speaking parts, and he knows all the lyrics. But we’re going to bog down waiting for him to do something he seems incapable of.”

The director called the boy over and briefed him. The actor looked dubious but said he’d give it a try. “Kids!” Nabertowitz shouted. “From the top!”

This time, when the actor got to the difficult parts, he spread his feet, squared his shoulders, planted his fists at his waist, threw his head back, and belted it out for all he was worth. He missed the notes by a mile but sang with a sneer of confidence, as if performing an aria at the Met. The audience erupted in cheers and laughter, and Forest View’s Bye Bye Birdie had its singular moment.

Brady’s performance was stellar. He hit every line and note and step with just enough charm and swagger and danger for the role, and Mr. N. crowed to everyone that he was also like an assistant director. He let it be known to all that the idea that made the father’s performance work was Brady’s alone.

All the success served to make Brady Darby the most popular, talked-about, sought-after kid in the school. He even had attention from girls—real women, cheerleader types—like he had rarely experienced before. He wasn’t stupid. He knew the type. They loved the attention of getting next to the bad boy. They weren’t really going to date him or fall for him, and while he daydreamed about several of them, no preppy girl and he were going to become an item.

But this was sure fun.

As opening night approached, so did midterm exams. Brady hoped everyone in authority—though he had been warned otherwise—was prepared to make an exception in his case. Because while he was as ready for opening night as he had been for anything else in his life, he was not ready for midterms.

Adamsville State Penitentiary

Thomas had never worked for the state before, and he was pleasantly surprised to find how nice bureaucrats were to newcomers. He was treated the same at the main gate as he had been at the guardhouse, with two officers assuring him they would recognize him from now on and telling him they hoped he’d work out the way Chaplain Russ had and stay at least as long.

That was Thomas’s dream too. He couldn’t help himself. He was an optimist. He had seen every new church and ministry opportunity as something unique from God, and while each in its own way had gone south on him over the years, nothing had ever fully taken the wind from his sails. He was committed. He would remain true. He would stay in the Word, as he and people like him were wont to say about studying the Bible every day. He would rise at dawn and kneel and pray and read and memorize. He and Grace would sing together other each evening. And he would look for opportunities to introduce people to Jesus. Adamsville State Penitentiary sure seemed the ideal place for that.

He had to admit that there were parts of ministry he wasn’t that good at. The preaching thing, for one. Oh, he had tried, had given it all he had. He had seen and heard the best of the best at Bible college and at the occasional conference over the years. He’d been inspired and taken notes and even tried copying the techniques and mannerisms of the most engaging preachers. But he knew he had never riveted a crowd, never persuaded anyone just from the strength of his own passion and delivery.

He was better at the one-on-one: teaching, discipling, encouraging. That was why this new role seemed a perfect fit. Thomas had taken Russ’s misgivings to heart and knew he would have to be wise as a serpent and gentle as a dove, as the Scripture said. That would all come in time. For now, he had a lot to learn.

Gladys, decked out in orange, including her eyeshadow, was remarkably cheery for a woman in her role. She couldn’t have been much older than he, but Thomas felt mothered by her—in a good way. She escorted him to Human Resources, where he was initiated with keys, a packet of brochures and pamphlets, and an employee manual. He signed more documents than he and Grace had had to sign to rent the tiny four-room ranch three miles from the prison.

Thomas had just arrived for his first day on the job, and already he was eager to get back home to help Grace unpack and set up housekeeping. Her health seemed to have rallied with the new opportunity and a home to call her own. He just hoped she didn’t overdo things.

Thomas worried about his wife. Soon, he feared, he would have to press Grace to see a doctor. Not only was she not herself physically, but her demeanor had also been affected by whatever was ailing her. He knew better, but Thomas had long seen her as perfect, almost too good to be true. He wasn’t complaining, but there were days he would have loved to see her as more human. Nothing ever seemed to get to her, and part of him even suspected that her equanimity had been partly to blame for Ravinia’s revulsion of them.

He’d never dared raise this with Grace, and he knew his own bland consistency in all things spiritual had to be frustrating for a young woman too. But he could identify with Rav’s complaint that she had been raised in the house of a matron saint.

Several days before, however, a bit of Grace’s sheen had worn off, and she had tearfully confessed to him what she considered a sin that had eroded her conscience.

“I wrote a letter to the Pierces,” she said.

“You didn’t.”

“I did. And I even used a bad word in it.”

“Whatever you called them, they deserved it,” Thomas said before he could catch himself.

“I need to apologize,” she said.

Thomas knew she was right, but he wished she wouldn’t. Few people stood up to Paul Pierce. He could only imagine the man fuming at the brass of the former circuit pastor’s tiny wife.

“I want to send a note of apology even before I hear back from them.”

“You think they’ll write back?”

“Of course.”

Grace had fired off the follow-up letter, but she never heard from the Pierces.

Thomas had pestered her for days to tell him what she had called the Pierces, and when she finally admitted she had regrettably referred to them anatomically, it was all he could do to hide his glee. Even now he chortled aloud when he thought of it.

Loaded with all the stuff from the personnel director, Thomas found his way back to his office. He would have to bring in a box of personal photos to adorn the walls and make it homey, but for now he just set the furniture the way he wanted it and jotted a list for Gladys—as she had instructed—of the office supplies he needed.

When he delivered it to her, she rang a tiny hand bell on her desk, and people seemed to appear from nowhere. Offices and cubicles emptied, and men and women of all ages and races—though they all seemed to dress in the same plain, cheap business wear—moseyed into the central area and lined up for a pastry and a cup of coffee.

Frank LeRoy was the last to appear. “Okay!” he said. “Thanks for coming. Get yourself something to eat and drink and introduce yourself to our new chaplain. Then let’s get back to work.”

“Yeah, no,” someone whispered, and several laughed.

“What’s that?” the warden said.

“Thank you!”

“Oh, well, thank Gladys. She arranged all this like she does everything else.”

Gladys bustled here and there, making sure everyone was taken care of, while Thomas stood awkwardly, wondering if he should try to eat and drink while greeting all these new associates. He decided against it, but Gladys brought him a plate with a doughnut on it and a cup of coffee.

“I’d better go easy on the sweets,” he said.

“Oh, go on and have one,” she said. “It’s a party.”

“Lot of calories, I’ll bet.”

“Tell me about it,” she said, beaming. “I say, ‘Get thee behind me,’ and then I eat ’em, and they do!”

Maybe it was first-day jitters, but the unexpected humor caused a snort when he laughed. He would have to engage with the warden’s secretary more when occasions arose. It was a joke, but she had quoted Scripture. He wondered where she was spiritually.

Thomas managed to hold both his plate and his cup in one hand as he shook hands with nearly everyone and quickly recited for each where he was from, that he was eager to introduce his wife someday, and how glad he was to be there.

“You seen the unit yet?” someone said.

“That’s next, I believe, after my meeting with Warden LeRoy.”

“You’d better decide after that how glad you are to be here.”