Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [53]
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