JJ08 - Blood Money (26 page)

“You
wanna call your mom?”

“Not
now.
I will later. From the
dorm
is
fine.”

“I’ll make sure the
dorm
officers know about your situation. They’ll turn on the phones for you when you get
ready.
If you need me, just let them
know.”

“Sounds good. Thanks again.”

He stood, seemingly a different man than when he sat.

He shook his head. “It just happened so
much
faster than I thought it
would.
I feel like someone just sucker punched
me.”

I knew how he felt.

“C
haplain Jordan, I’m gonna be honest with
you,”
Chaplain Cunningham said. “I’m very disappointed in your
behavior.”

He was an overweight, middle-aged white man with wavy brown hair and glasses. A Southern Baptist literalist, Fundamentalist, his narrow worldview and rigid belief system made
my
religion unrecognizable to him.

We
were in
Matson’s
office. Just the three of us—me, Matson, and Cunningham. The door was closed.
“You’ve
always been on the fringes,” Cunningham continued.
“Haven’t
ever really fit in with the rest of
us.”

There were about a hundred prison chaplains in the state and apparently I had never really fit in with them.

“I’ve tolerated a certain amount of unorthodox behavior out of you because . . . well,
you’re
liked and respected
by
your coworkers and the inmates you serve and . . . I guess I kept thinkin’
you’d
find the
way.
But
we’re
here to help lost men find their
way,
not to
give
you time to find
yours.
How can the blind lead the blind?”

“What
he’s
sayin’, Chaplain,” Matson said, “you’ve been given plenty of rope but rather than climb up it
you’ve
hung yourself with
it.”

I nodded. I knew this day
would
come. In truth, I had lasted longer than I expected.

He was right. I
didn’t
fit in with him, his agenda, or the other
chaplains.
And I never would.

“I’m just afraid
you’ve
lost your moral
authority,”
Cunningham said. “Living with another
man’s
pregnant wife.
It’s
a double sin.”

I
didn’t
say
anything.
Just listened.

“Now brother, hear me out on
this,”
he said. “I’ve prayed about it and I believe God wants you to step down, to resign your position. Chaplain
Singer’s
a good man. He can step in when he returns and see to the spiritual needs of the compound. The institution will be in good
hands.

Whatta you say? Will you do the right thing? From what I understand
you’d
be happier being some sort of police officer
anyway.”

Suddenly I was his brother and he was asking me not telling me to
go.

“You’re
asking me to quit?” I said.

“To
find somethin’
that’s
a better fit for you.
You
must feel that you
don’t
fit
here.”

But must I feel I
don’t
fit anywhere?

“You’re
not firing me?
You’re
asking me to . . . find a better fit?” I asked, hearing the incredulity in
my
own voice.

I had found somewhere I fit,
hadn’t
I? I fit with Anna.
We
fit as if formed for one another, as if we always had, as if what Rumi had written was particularly and uniquely true of
us.
Lovers
don’t
finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all
along.

“We’re
giving you the opportunity to resign instead of firing
you,”
Matson said. “Why not do yourself a favor and leave with some dignity? If you will . . . if you’ll
go
quietly
today,
no fuss, no
muss,
I’ll
give
you a glowing letter of reference.”

“If I
don’t
quit, when will you fire me exactly?”

“Don’t
let it come to
that,”
Cunningham said. “Do the right
thing.”

“Do you
have
any idea how many times I’ve thought about quitting?” I said. “Do you
have
any idea how much easier my life would be if I did?
You’re
right, I
don’t
fit in with you and the warden and the other chaplains, and
you
all remind me of just how much every chance you get. But I do a lot of good here. I know I
do.
I see the fruit of it in the inmates and the staff in the trenches, in the grit and grind of everyday life here––somethin’ you’ll never see from your office in Tallahassee.
You
don’t
like me. I get it.
You
don’t
approve of me or my theology or my lifestyle. Fine.
You
don’t
have
to.
But I’m not quitting. I’m not going anywhere until you finally force me
to,
which if you were able you
would’ve
already done instead of asking me to resign. If I’m wrong about that then fire me on the spot because you
won’t
get my resignation willingly––if only because you want it so bad and part of me wants nothing more than to
give
it to
you.”

“Don’t
think
we
can’t
fire
you,”
Matson said. “This is my prison. I can––”

“Chaplain
Jordan,”
Cunningham said. “Our attorneys are looking into it. Eventually they’ll find a
way
for us to . . . but why not
save
us all the hassle and
go
quietly?”

“See previous
answer,”
I said.
“Now,
if you
have
nothing more to say to me, I’ve got to
go
bury my
mother.”

Neither of them said anything and I walked out.

I
really
didn’t
remember much of what I said at
Mom’s
funeral.

I remembered how sad the whole thing
was,
how pathetic and poorly attended, how awkward Nancy and
Jake
looked on either side of Dad, how bad Mom looked lying in the coffin, how the quiet church creaked, how everyone looked at me as I attempted to honor this
woman
I had had such a complicated relationship with, how I had mostly just looked at Anna.

I remembered confessing to the small crowd how lost and alone I felt, how
numb,
how inept I felt at doing something I had done so many times before.

I remarked on how surprised I was by how affected I was by the loss of
her,
how even given the grace of so much time to prepare, I
wasn’t
prepared at all. Not
really.

I shared how I felt vulnerable in a
way
I never had before. Abandoned. Exposed. Like the last of the little barrier island between me and the vast senseless sea, between me and death, had finally finished its erosion and washed
away
forever, that between me and the grave gone.

I read the obituary I had written. And then the eulogy.

I tried to tell them, her friends and
family,
what she was like when she was controlling her addiction, and a little, for integrity and
honesty’s
sake, what she was like when it was controlling
her.

I told them of the fun times and
firm
foundation she provided for me when I was young—something that had given me the strength to deal with the later
ways
her abuse of alcohol ravaged our
lives.

I re-created the adventures she had taken me on—our day trips to
Wakulla
Springs and the Junior Museum, the capitol and the beach, the summer nights at Miracle Strip and the skating rink––the elaborate Christmases, the extravagant birthdays, the ordinary days at home building a tree fort outside or a sheet and blanket tent inside, making homemade ice cream and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and watching Saturday morning cartoons.

She had been a good mom when it mattered most, when we were young and forming, and a difficult and challenging mother when we were adults, something that, through grace, had been changing for some time
now.

I did pretty well, held it together until
Merrill’s
mom, the
woman
who would always be Mama Monroe to me, came up to me after the graveside service and wrapped me up in her massive arms.

Merrill was there with
her,
beside
her,
but
didn’t
say
anything.
He had already said all he needed to say and I needed to
hear,
but what meant the most was what went without saying, what he
didn’t
have
to verbalize because of the lifetime of his extraordinary friendship.

“I’m your mama
now,
boy,
understand?” Mama said. I began to
cry.

“You
sort of already
were,”
I said when I could. “No sorta
now,
shuga,” she said. “I’m your mama.” Merrill nodded.

“Mama hear you need somethin’ a mama can do and you
didn’t
call
her,
Mama gonna be mighty unhappy with you. Understand?”

“Yes,
ma’am. Thank
you.”

“Y
ou really captured
her,”
Nancy said.
“You
were truthful and kind––something
I’d’ve
said
couldn’t have
been done where she was concerned.”

I had found her having a cigarette in the shadow of an oak tree cast in the back corner of the cemetery.

She had been out of my life so long, it was like I
didn’t have
a sister, and the too-thin, stylishly dressed New
Yorker
in front of me was as much stranger as anything else.

“I’m glad you
came,”
I said.

“Started not
to.
You
can’t
imagine how close I came to not
coming.”

Most everyone who had attended the internment were still milling about
Mom’s
awning-covered graveside, visiting, comforting, reminiscing.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Don’t
try
to counsel me,
John,”
she said. “I’m
not.”

“I was doing
okay,”
she said. “Things are goin’ well for me. Having to come back here . . . for this . . . is going to regress me some, but . .
.”

She held her cigarette up slightly and considered it.
“Haven’t
had one of these in . . . a very long time. Had to bum it from creepy old Hugh Glenn. Can you believe
he’s
here?”

All of them were––all those in office, all those running for office, all the suspects from the killing at Potter Farm.

“Dad would be there if Imogene died.”

“He
would,
wouldn’t
he?” she said, shaking her head.
“Haven’t
missed any of the polite political bullshit.”

“Didn’t
think you had missed
anything.”

“I’ve missed you, little
brother,”
she said.
“That’s
a fact. More now that I’ve seen you.
Can’t
believe you and Anna are finally together. That only took fuckin’
forever.”

“And
you and love?” I asked.

“There’s
someone,” she said.

“For
a while
now.
Actually met in
AA.”
I nodded.

“You’re
trying not to act surprised,” she said.
“Didn’t
know I was a friend of Bill
W.’s,
did you?”

“I’m not surprised,” I said. “I’m happy for
you.”

“
He’s
good for me and to
me.”

“I’m so glad to hear that,” I said. “So glad.”

“Though I’m having second thoughts
now,”
she said. “Since I arrived and found you with my best friend, thought it only fair if I get with
yours.”

I laughed out loud at the thought of Nancy and Merrill.

“You’re
right,”
she said. “I’m probably too much woman for
him.”

We
were quiet a moment.

“She lasted longer than I thought she
would,”
she said.
“Wonder
how much longer we
have
Dad for? Not that her death will
have
any impact on him . . . but
he’s
gettin’ up
there.”

“He may not be the next family member to
go,”
I said.

“Did I tell you I had a meeting in the
World
Trade
Center the morning of nine-eleven?” I shook my head.

She
hadn’t
told me anything in a
very,
very long time. “I should be dead. Really just a comedy of errors that I’m
not.”