Lifers (12 page)

Jordan 

Everything hurt. Torrey had called it right when she’d guessed how I’d gotten injured.

After I’d seen what they’d done to the truck, I’d had no choice but to jog to the Rectory. It was only five miles, so nothing I couldn’t handle. But I hadn’t counted on the bastards who’d wrecked my truck waiting for me.

They’d followed me as far as the main road, yelling and cussing at me, throwing some trash that they’d stored up in their car. I’d thought that was the extent of it, so I’d just ignored them. Maybe that made them even more pissed.

They looked like high school kids, so it wasn’t as if I’d known any of them from before. But one of them had auburn hair; it reminded me so much of Allison. Then I remembered that she’d had a younger brother named Trent.

When I’d called out his name, the car sped by me, clipping my hip as it went, sending me somersaulting down the road, and leaving me sprawled out in the dirt. It sucked, but there was nothing I could do about it.

I hadn’t expected Torrey to take care of me the way she had. She was just so fucking compassionate. It spun my head. I couldn’t work out why she was wasting her time on me. If I was honest, I’d been expecting her to want some sort of payback. So far she’d just treated me good. I’d heard Dad and Momma talking about her so called reputation, but other than being a little flirtatious, she was just a really nice person to me.

I’d nearly had a heart attack when she’d called her momma on the whole couch thing. I was still sort of shocked that she’d found it funny, although that was later on. At the time, I was mortified. I’d been able to hear her yelling at her momma from the garden. I hoped I hadn’t screwed anything up between them. I probably had. I was good at that.

I limped into my room and peeled off my disgusting, sweaty clothes. I don’t know how she could have stood to be in the same car with me. You didn’t really notice it that much in prison because everyone smelled like ass. But it was different now. Every time she came near me, I caught the scent of summer flowers.

The shower felt amazing. It was a real luxury to have as much hot water as I wanted, and not have to keep one eye open the whole time for who was coming into the shower block. I still couldn’t get used to having so much privacy. When I first got out, I used to forget where I was and wore my boxers in the shower to wash them. In prison, everyone did that—for obvious reasons. But as I only had the one pair, oftentimes I didn’t bother wearing any now that I was home.

The water stung my arms and legs. I had to admit I was looking pretty busted up. But I’d had worse in prison, and had gotten several black eyes and my nose broken once. I’d been put in solitary for 72 hours even though it had been nothing to do with me, just the wrong place at the wrong time. Shit like that happened; there was no point being a whiny bitch about it. And anyway, it had healed pretty straight.

I was surprised to see that Dad was waiting in my room after I finished in the shower.

He looked at the new holes in my body but didn’t comment.

“This isn’t workin’,” he said, flatly. “I cain’t have your momma harassed like this. She’s gettin’ so she’s scared to leave her own home again.”

I stared at the bare floorboards, pretty sure I could guess what he was going to say.

“We have our home searched by strangers; comments in the street—you don’t know what that’s like for us. Then last night with your brother’s truck—well, that was the final straw. I’ll contact your parole officer and tell her you need to move out. They have places for people like you in the city; I think it would be best for everyone if you just left.”

He stood up and walked out. I didn’t bother to argue because, well, he was right. And it didn’t matter to me where I went—I still had to live inside my skin. But maybe it would be better if I went somewhere no one knew me. I wouldn’t be leaving anything behind—except Torrey.

I felt the pain of regret in my chest. Yeah, I’d miss her.

Torrey

I didn’t want to admit it, but I needed to talk to my mom.

I called her cell phone, but it went straight to voicemail. When she turned it off it usually meant she was visiting with some parishioners. I waited a while, standing in the kitchen staring into the garden as the shadows lengthened. I could see the hulking shape of the dumpster with long fingers of torn brambles hanging from it, as if they were trying to crawl out. The idea made me shiver.

I looked at the clock on the wall again, ticking away with annoying regularity.

In the end, I decided to head on down to the church in case she was caught up there.

It was close enough to walk so I didn’t bother taking my car.

It was the kind of neighborhood where people walked their dogs, and kids rode their bikes and played in the street. Real small town. Nothing like where I’d grown up.

The church was in the middle of a bunch of newish houses on the intersection of one of the bigger roads. It was large, but as I stared at the outside, I was unimpressed with the bland modern exterior. It wasn’t supposed to matter what a place of worship looked like, but I thought the right ambience helped, you know?

But as soon as I walked inside, I was swept into another world by the scent of beeswax polish. I hadn’t smelled anything like that since my grandma’s house. It brought back memories of home baking and listening to her bedtime stories.

“Torrey? What are you doing here?”

Mom’s voice floated out from behind one of the rows of chairs.

“Oh, hey, Mom! What are you doing on the floor?”

She sighed.

“Both of the ladies from the cleaning roster called in to cancel. One has gone to look after her sick sister in Gainesville, and the other has an ingrown toenail so she can’t walk.”

“Jeez, Mom. You run this place, sit on all those fu… darn committees, set up for the parent and toddler group
and
clean the church? You should ask God for a raise.”

“Don’t be flippant, and hold the blasphemy,” she said, but I caught the smile in her voice, too. “You could help me, you know.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Just so long as you know that cleaning is against my religion.”

She laughed. “I’ve noticed. Just tell yourself it’ll be good for your soul.”

“Whatever. What needs doing?”

She pointed me in the direction of some rags, a can of polish and a darn large pulpit that needed to glow in honor of God’s glory, or some such.

Grimacing, I slathered some polish on a cloth and got cleaning.

“So, what’s so urgent that you deigned to set foot inside our church?” she asked, her voice amused.

“It’s about Jordan,” I replied, diving right in.

“I thought it might be,” she said, quietly.

“Someone slashed the tires on his truck last night. And if that wasn’t enough, they sprayed paint all over it. Also, I’m pretty sure that the same someone tried to run him down this morning. You saw how banged up he was. He wouldn’t tell me about it, but it’s obvious he’s being victimized.”

“Did he report it?”

“No, and that’s part of what bothers me. He refused to involve the police. I mean, I get why he wouldn’t want to—he’s kind of allergic to the boys in blue—but if he doesn’t do something, I’m worried it’s just going to get worse.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” she said, tiredly. “I’ve been preaching about tolerance and forgiveness until I’m blue in the face: ‘With all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love,’ but it doesn’t seem to have made much difference.”

She sounded despondent—that wasn’t like my mom.

“I was hoping you’d have some ideas,” I admitted.

“Honey, Jordan’s problems aren’t your responsibility.”

“I know that, Mom, but it’s totally shit the way people around here treat him. They painted the word ‘murderer’ on his truck. Is it true?”

She shook her head immediately.

“Not in the eyes of the law.”

“But in your eyes?”

She sighed and looked down.

“Jordan is responsible for the loss of a life. It’s not for me to say more: I believe he’ll be judged by a higher power when the time comes, as will we all.”

Her answer was only partially satisfying.

“He’s really trying, but no one will give him a chance,” I said, quietly. “Even his own parents act like they hate him.”

“I didn’t know you’d met them.”

“Well, only his mom, this afternoon when I gave Jordan a ride home. She didn’t even manage to say ‘hello’ before she was asking me what trouble he’d gotten into now. He says himself that they hate him, and he has to live with that twenty-four/seven.”

She sat down heavily on one of the chairs.

“I was afraid of that. I thought having Jordan home would help them work through their problems together, but from the sound of it, that’s not happening. I don’t think they’ve even grieved properly. They’re stuck in the anger stage. They can’t seem to get past that. I tried to get them to go to counseling but they refused.”

“Jordan said he had a counselor in prison, but he didn’t say what they talked about. It might not even have been that sort of therapy.”

Mom shook her head. “As I understand it, Jordan received the kind of counseling that’s designed to help a prisoner readjust into society prior to being released. He may have had some grief counseling at the time…”

She didn’t sound very certain.

“Could family therapy help them?”

“I’d really like to think it could, honey, but getting them there is the problem. I’ve even offered to help them from the church’s hardship fund, but the Kanes are proud people.” She looked up at me. “Sweetheart, I know this isn’t something you believe, but will you join me in a prayer?”

“Mom…”

“Just listen, you don’t have to say anything.”

She got on her knees and faced the altar.

“Lord, I ask for your divine help to shine on the faces of your children, Gloria, Paul and Jordan Kane. Bring peace in their hearts and light into their darkness. I also pray for my daughter, Torrey Delaney. Show her the path, Lord, and help her make the right choices. You have turned my mourning into dancing; You have put off my sackcloth and clothed me with gladness. To the end that my glory may sing praise to You and not be silent. O Lord my God, I will give thanks to You forever. I ask for these things in Jesus’ name. Amen.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I made a joke of it.

“Hey, you’re getting pretty good at this, Mom!”

She clambered off of her knees and raised an eyebrow. “Well, gee! Thanks, honey! Good to know. Do I get a sticker with that?”

Okay, so maybe I got some of my sarcasm from her. It was kind of cool to find that I didn’t mind so much.

“Funny, Mom. You could do stand up.”

“I do, honey, every Sunday. You should come.”

“Um, no!” I shook my head vigorously, and she laughed.

My thoughts drifted back to Jordan again.

“Seriously. Do you think you could maybe talk to his parents so they don’t give him such a hard time?”

She sighed. “I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

We finished the cleaning in silence, each lost in our thoughts.

Torrey

Mom woke me ridiculously early.

“I’m sorry, honey, but I have to head on out to a meeting with the bishop in Houston. I just wanted you to know that I’ll be contacting the Kanes to see if I can meet with them. I’m going to try and do it on the way back, so I might be pretty late.”

“And you couldn’t put that in a note?” I asked, grumpily.

“Yes, I could, but I wanted to see your smiling face,” she smirked at me.

“Okay, Mom. Drive safe.”

“Will do, honey. Oh, one more thing … you said Jordan’s tires were slashed?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I remembered that there’s a junkyard over toward Corpus, about eight or nine miles out of town. I left the address on the kitchen table for you. I thought you could take Jordan over there and see if there’s anything he could get for his truck that wasn’t too expensive.”

I sat up in bed, pushing a tangle of hair out of my face.