Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [80]
For years, Thomas had felt hopelessly out of date and had learned the hard way that he had to give up his idea that most Christian couples wanted to please the Lord and each other and could learn to quit being so selfish. His last counselee had wanted to know whether he should tell his pregnant wife about his pregnant girlfriend. Lord, have mercy.
Thomas was grateful that little of what he discussed with inmates—at least so far—had to do with their wives or girlfriends. Those still married enjoyed rare visits, but there was no touching, not even pressing hands against the Plexiglas, let alone conjugal visits. Few marriages survived, and those that did were not seeking outside help, especially from a chaplain.
But now as Thomas sat across from the love of his life, he was as close to sharply disagreeing with her as he had ever been. She continued to insist that she was feeling better and had just been run-down, when it was vividly clear to him that she was deteriorating.
“Gracie, I love you and know you can’t be well. You move in slow motion. The bruising on your arms is not going away. You’re pale and drawn. Now you must see a doctor.”
She asked to put it off for another few weeks. But the holidays were approaching—her favorite time of the year. She would want to entertain, to go caroling, to bake, to wrap and send presents. She was clearly not up to any of that.
“Promise me,” he said. “Two weeks from today you’ll get a checkup.”
“We’ll talk about it then,” she said, and it was all Thomas could do to keep from slamming his fist on the table and demanding that she promise.
His last resort would be to enlist Ravinia’s help. For all the heartache she had caused them both, Rav still deeply cared for and worried about her mother.
Addison
The laborers’ shack was worse than Brady could have imagined. When he arrived, most of the men were crowded around the television, watching a boxing match, drinking, smoking, and cheering. The smoke-clouded place was a mess, clothes and garbage everywhere, and it stank.
Manny, tall, bronzed, and in his early twenties, met Brady at the door wearing only sweat shorts. The others looked away from the TV just long enough to greet him. They appeared to be brothers, but he knew better. They teased each other and threw things. Trash and full ashtrays lay everywhere.
The shack was tiny, just two stories linked by a stairway so narrow that only those heading the same direction could move at one time. A small, hopeless kitchen and a foul full bath were on the first floor, along with the TV room and a small side room that seemed to be everyone’s dumping place.
Upstairs was another full bath and two bedrooms, each of which had four bunk beds jammed in it. Hooks and nails on the wall served as closet space, and one bunk had a wood chest at one end.
Manny pointed out the lower bunk in the corner. “That would be yours, amigo, for half price until you get more work. You gonna get more work?”
“Hope so. Alejandro’s looking.”
“You got all day, man. Sling burgers or something.”
“Good idea.”
“So, you in? Everybody kicks in for beer and chips. Everything else, we’re on our own.”
“I don’t drink.”
“No? Oh, man! Well, if you don’t pay, you can’t even have one, comprende?”
“Sure.”
“You do weed?”
“Some.”
“That’s on you. It’s around, but everybody pays for his own. Pepe supplies us, if you don’t have somebody. But don’t take anybody else’s. That’s bad news, man.”
“Got it.”
“So, how about it? What can I tell the guys?”
“Well, the rent is gonna hurt me until I can find more work, but shoot, yeah. When can I move in?”
“Take a walk with me, Petey,” Brady said a few minutes later. It wasn’t easy, but he carefully explained everything.
The boy was silent.
“I know it’s gonna be hard, but I’ll be around.”
Peter shook his head and appeared to be fighting tears. “I can’t believe