Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [64]
“Mr. Tatlock!”
Brady shut down the machine and climbed down to shake the Laundromat owner’s hand. He was reminded of the man’s beefy firmness. “What brings you here?”
“You do. I’m impressed that you’re keeping up with your payments. Shows me something. But I need a favor. I tried to get a ticket to your musical there at the high school and was told they were sold out, all six shows.”
“True. How’d you hear about it?”
“There are posters in every store window, but don’t you know it’s all over the trailer park? You’re a celebrity, Brady. Now don’t you kids in the show get some tickets for your friends and family?”
“Yep.”
“Yours already all spoken for, or would I be able to buy a couple off of you?”
“We’re not supposed to sell ’em, but I’ve got a couple to spare if you could take the value off my balance.”
“I could live with that.”
“Really?”
“I’d love to take the wife. Be able to say I knew you when you were nobody.”
“I’ve been giving mine to other cast members because I don’t have that many people who want to come. But I have a few left.”
“Any for the second Saturday show, first weekend?”
Brady nodded, thinking. “You could do me a favor too, sir, if you don’t mind.”
“Name it.”
“Think you could bring my little brother? He’s dying to see it, but I wasn’t sure how I’d get him there.”
They worked out where and when Peter should meet the Tatlocks. Brady felt giddy the rest of his shift; he found himself maneuvering the forklift like an old pro, finished ahead of time, and didn’t break a single stop. And for a time he had been able to push to the back of his mind even his impending midterms. The last one on came Friday just hours before the curtain for opening night, which would make it the toughest chore he could imagine. Even if he had studied. Which he hadn’t.
Adamsville
It still amazed Thomas that the emotional drain was as taxing as physical labor at this stage of his life. He should have learned it many times over in the pastorate. He had never been one for working out and was not an athlete, not even a weekend warrior. The most exercise he got was mowing the lawn. His job was sedentary, and except for getting in and out of the car and walking the halls for the occasional hospital call, he’d done nothing in decades that should have physically taxed him.
But when criticism came, contentious meetings or aspersions on his abilities, he had often returned home desperate to just lie down. That was how he felt now, and what had he done that day? Stood around at a short party. Walked a few hundred yards with the warden inside the prison.
He knew what was weighing on him—the stark reality of the Adamsville State Pen. That and having lost his appetite until he pulled into the driveway.
Just as he had feared, Grace had done too much. She looked the way he felt, but the cozy little house was almost entirely set up the way she wanted it. There were empty boxes all over that he would have to break down and store. And she had left a few wall hangings for him that were too high for her.
But it was clear she had busied herself all day. He felt whipped because of the assault on his sensibilities, but she had truly earned her exhaustion. She proudly led him to the tiny spare room at the back of the house, which was bright because of windows on three walls and sat next to a half bath. Grace had moved in all of Thomas’s boxes of books and his files.
“Oh, hon, you could have made this a sewing room or your own reading room.”
“You’ve always wanted a home office,” she said. “And now that you don’t really need one, you have it! We ought to be able to find a desk at a garage sale or somewhere.”
He smiled. “If you’re sure, I’d love that. I can read and pray in here. It’ll be perfect.”
Grace fixed a light supper, which Thomas devoured, even eating her leftovers. “I could have made more,” she said. “And we have dessert in the fridge.”
“I’ll get it,” he said.
“I’ll pass.”
He helped her clear the table and do the dishes. “You need to get off your feet,” he said.
Grace