The Glorious Prodigal (23 page)

“He’ll do it. He’ll do it,” Zach said. His lips trembled and he shook his head. “You earned your keep this time, boy,” he murmured. He stood up and reached out, and as Tom rose to his feet, the two men embraced. “God bless you, Tom.”

“It was all your doing, Dad. I’ve got letters here from Richard and Diane. They’ll tell you all about it.”

“So he’s free now?”

“Yes. He’s free, but he’s got some hard things to face.”

Zach Winslow had faced some hard things himself, but now the good news had thrilled him, and he said with a rising tone of excitement in his voice, “He’ll do it with God on his side. He’ll do it, Tom!”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Homecoming

The two thin blankets offered scanty protection against the biting cold that gripped the cell. As Stuart Winslow came out of the black unconsciousness of sleep, he pulled the blankets closer and dreaded stepping out on the cold concrete. He slept fully dressed with two pair of socks, but the cold still numbed his face where it lay exposed.

Coming awake was like emerging foot by foot out of a deep well, at first total blackness, then unconsciousness, then his mind slowly seemed to come awake one cell at a time. Now the feeble rays of the electric light brought a flicker from the darkness, and he did what he had done every morning since he had been confined. Turning to his left, he opened his eyes and peered at the small calendar pinned to the wall with a broken nail. There had been a picture of some rabbits on it, but he had grown tired of it and had torn it off. Now just a simple rectangular page with the year 1916 at the top and the days of the months below, all checked. The month was December, and the first two days had been checked off by a firm
X.

“December third,” he murmured, and without meaning to, he went through the computation that had become a habit with him. “Three hundred and sixty-five days times seven years is 2,555 days. Add two days for two leap years, that’s 2,557 days. I came in on November 20, 1909, and this is December the third. That leaves thirteen days.” He added them up easily and the figures seemed to loom in his mind.
I’ve awakened in this cell 2,570 times,
he thought. The number seemed enormous, but then he took a deep breath, and a sense of joy came to him.
But if I had to stay twenty years, think what that would be! Thank you, Lord, for getting me out of this place today!

The familiar noises of the prison were beginning to sound now. The guards were rapping their sticks on the cells as they made their first count. From all the cells came the familiar snortings and sneezes and coughs, but Stuart had ceased to hear them years ago. But this morning they all seemed louder to him, and suddenly he sat up, threw the cover back, and swung his feet out over the bed. With one agile leap he came to the floor, and as he did, Pete Jennings said, “Getting out today. Bless your heart.”

“I can’t believe it, Pete. It still seems like a dream.”

Jennings shivered and came out from under his covering. He, too, slept fully dressed, and he pulled the blankets around his thin shoulders. “The Lord sets the prisoners free. You’d better get shaved. You don’t want to face the world with a five-o’clock shadow.”

Stuart laughed and, moving over to the small washstand, shaved with cold water. It had been hard at first, especially during cold weather, but now as he drew the safety razor across his cheeks and then brushed his hair, he felt something inside that he could not express. The first three years in prison had almost killed him, and the last four had been hard. But now that was all over. He heard a voice say, “All right, Stuart. Come along. We’re giving you an early start.”

Stuart quickly reached out and grabbed Pete and pulled him to his feet. He gave the slight man a tremendous hug and then said, “You’ll be hearing from me regular, Pete, and you’ll be getting anything you need. Take all my stuff over there.”

“God bless you, brother,” Jennings said. “I couldn’t be any happier if I was getting out myself.”

There was no more time for Stuart to express the gratitude
in his heart for all that Pete had done for him, for the guard said, “Snap it up! You’ve got things to do.”

As Stuart stepped out and heard the doors clang shut behind him, it sent a thrill all the way down his backbone. He had heard that door clang shut thousands of times, shutting him out from life and liberty, but now he was walking away from it for the last time. Quickly he followed Donovan down the concrete walk. And as he went by cell after cell, hands reached out and voices called, “Have a party, Stuart.” “Don’t forget us.” “Don’t try to drink all the whiskey in the world, man.”

These and more ribald comments followed him, but they were all good-natured. Strangely enough, none of the inmates seemed envious of Stuart, and he could not understand why.

Donovan guided him to a section of the prison where he had never been—a medium-sized room manned by an inmate. “Get him his going-away present, Slim.” Donovan grinned.

The inmate, a tall, emaciated individual, grinned back and began to sort out the outfit that every inmate received on his release. “Would you like a Hart, Shaffner, and Marx suit, Stuart?”

“I’d go out of here naked if I had to, Slim.”

Stuart put on the brown suit the guard handed him. It was ill fitting and shoddy. The shoes were cheap and poorly made, but at least he got a pair that seemed to fit his feet.

“Have a blast out there.” Slim grinned.

“You trust in the Lord, Slim, just like I’ve been tellin’ you.”

Slim shook his head. “The Lord can’t use no maverick like me.”

“Sure He can. Jesus loves you just like He does me.” He went over and shook Slim’s hand and then quickly turned and left the room.

They made one more stop, and Stuart picked up his violin case. As he did, Donovan said, “I’m gonna miss all that music of yours.” Then he said, “Come on. We’ll go by the kitchen and get you a quick breakfast.”

The men had not been called in for breakfast yet, but the cooks all knew Stuart. They gave him a plate piled high with grits, bacon, and four fried eggs along with a chunk of fresh bread. Stuart wolfed it all down, and when he finished, he bid good-bye to all the cooks.

“You’re all set. Come along,” Donovan said.

Following Donovan outside, Stuart passed through the inner gate, then approached the outer gate. He was surprised to see Warden Armstrong standing there. “Good morning, Warden,” he said.

“I got up early to say good-bye to you, Stuart. Here, the law says we give you ten dollars, and I’ve added twenty more of my own.”

“You didn’t have to do that, Warden.”

“I know, but I wanted to. Now, I don’t want to ever see you back here again.”

“You won’t. I can promise you that.”

“Here, I brought these for you. It’s cold as the Arctic out here today.” The warden handed him an overcoat, saying that it was too large for him, and a hunting cap with earflaps. “It’s gonna be freezing all day and even worse tonight, so there’s a pair of gloves in the pocket, too.”

It was unusually cold for central Arkansas, and the air was frigid. Stuart quickly put on the garment. He took the warden’s hand before he put on the gloves and said, “I want to thank you for all you’ve done for me, Warden.”

“God bless you, Stuart,” Armstrong said simply. “Stick with Jesus and you’ll be all right.”

Armstrong stepped back and nodded, and the short, stocky gatekeeper threw the gate open. As Stuart stepped through and passed outside, he heard it clang behind him and he stopped for one moment. He looked up at the sky, which was gray and threatening to snow, but it was beautiful to him. He looked back, waved at the warden and the guard, then began trudging down the road.

As he moved along, he thought of all the things the warden
had told him when he had called him to his office a few days earlier. Stuart could still hardly take it all in. The governor had pardoned him, with a strict condition that he never get into another fight or he’d be back in the slammer. That was no problem, Stuart thought. He had no intention of ever fighting anyone ever again. The warden had also revealed the shocking news that he had uncovered a conspiracy among some of the prison guards—headed up by Felix Munger—to confiscate all of Stuart’s incoming and outgoing mail and to disallow all visits, with the intent that Stuart Winslow would be buried alive at Tucker Farm, never hearing from or being able to make contact with any family member or friend ever again. The warden was ashamed and deeply contrite that he had allowed such a plot to be carried out—never even suspecting that Munger would try to get even with Stuart when his authority over a new prisoner had been so humiliatingly stripped from him. The warden had assured Stuart that Munger and his accomplices had been found out, and all were now charged with fraud and mail tampering and were awaiting their own fate behind prison bars. Armstrong and Winslow had shed tears together over the evil that had so affected their lives and had prayed together, the warden asking for and receiving forgiveness from the prisoner.

Stuart shook his head as these thoughts tumbled through his mind and his feet carried him closer to home with each step. He wondered how his family would react to all this. Would they, too, be able to forgive him and let him start his life over again? He silently prayed a prayer of thanksgiving.
God, you’re the one who got me out of there. Now I want to do nothing but serve you the rest of my life.

****

The snow began falling an hour after Stuart left the prison. It came down in tiny flakes. As it continued to fall, the old cotton fields were soon striped with a soft white carpet of snow. As Stuart moved forward down the road, he was aware
that there was very little traffic, but then Tucker Farm had been built deliberately away from civilization as much as possible. He had hoped for a ride but none came. By noon his feet were frozen, for he had gotten them wet by crossing a ditch, and now he could hardly feel them. The snow was falling harder now, and although two vehicles had passed, they were both official cars of the penitentiary and had orders not to pick up any inmates.

He stumbled on his numb feet until finally he came to a crossroads and was glad to see a small general store. He stumbled inside, and the heat hit him almost like a fist. A large potbellied wood stove glowed a cherry color, and he moved over and stood beside it, soaking up the warmth.

“Just get out?”

Stuart turned to see an extremely fat man with several chins and a pair of careful gray eyes.

“Just this morning,” he said.

“Thought so. Nobody much comes from your direction unless they’re from Tucker. Sit down and warm yourself. Help yourself to that coffee. There’s a mug over on that shelf.”

Gratefully Stuart seized the cup and filled it from the pot. It was black as tar and stronger than any he had ever had, but it was the most delicious coffee he had ever tasted in his life.

The owner came over and plumped himself down in a cane-bottom rocker that threatened to give way under his weight. “I like my coffee strong. How about you?”

“Well, I like it any way I can get it on a day like this.”

“Going far?”

“Pretty far. All the way to Lewisville.”

“That’s up north, ain’t it? In the Ozarks?”

“Yes.”

“Went there once trout fishin’. Close by, anyway. You got a long way to go. When you get over to Harrison, you can catch a bus.”

“No money for that. I’ll have to hoof it. Maybe I can catch a ride.”

“Not likely. People around here are afraid of ex-cons.”

“Then I’ll just have a nice walk.” Stuart got up and said, “Need to buy a few things.”

“Sure. What will you have?”

Knowing that he needed provisions for camping out, he bought some sliced ham and had the storeowner slice up cheese for him. He picked up a bottle of pickles and a loaf of bread. He threw in some potted meat and cans of mixed fruit—two each of apples, oranges, and pears—as well as a can opener, small tin plate, and utensils. He walked over to the glass front of the counter and grinned. “I’d better have some of this candy. Just pick me out a dollar’s worth.”

The owner got all the groceries, totaled it up, and Stuart paid for it. “I got a canvas sack here. It’s part of a cotton-pickin’ sack. We’ll put it all in there. You can put that fiddle in there if you want to. That way your case won’t get wet.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

Stuart fixed himself two sandwiches, ate some of the pickles, one of the apples, and then bundled everything up. “I’ll be headin’ on. Much obliged.”

“Good luck to you,” the man said. He hesitated, then said, “You probably had a pretty rough time, but there’s a lot of young fellows like you havin’ a bad time in France about now.”

“Yes. I know. The war’s a terrible thing.”

“Don’t look like it’ll ever stop.”

Stuart nodded and then left the warmth of the store. The cold hit him like an icy fist. He pulled his flaps down over his ears and was grateful for the cotton sack. It had a strap that he could put around his neck and carry it down to one side swung from his shoulder.

“Going to be a cold walk,” he murmured, “but I’ve got plenty of time.”