Michael Lister: Blood of the Lamb

“May I speak with you alone for a moment?” I asked.

Stone shook his head. “Don’t have time. We have a meeting with the secretary, the regional director, and the governor in just a few minutes. Then a luncheon at central office.”

I shook my head.

“What is it, Chaplain?” Stone asked angrily.

“During the interview it was mentioned that Nicole was coming into the institution as a part of the program tonight,” I said. “That can’t be-”

“It’s all taken care of,” he said. “As soon as Mrs. Caldwell and Nicole have sung their songs, they will go into your office for the remainder of the program. They will stay in there with both doors locked until the inmates have been escorted from the building.”

“I can’t-”

“You have nothing to do with it,” Stone said and, turning his back to me, looked at the others. “We’ve got to get going. Can’t keep the governor waiting.”

Only when it was time to go did Bunny look for Nicole; Bobby Earl not even then. As she gathered Nicole and her things, I noticed bruises on Bunny’s upper arms and wrists. It looked as if she had attempted to cover them with makeup and clothes, but the makeup was wearing off and the clothes shifted as she moved.

I glanced back at Bobby Earl, wondering if he were responsible. Did he beat his wife?

They made their way to the door before Stone turned around and said, “Have everything ready when we return. We’ll be on a very tight schedule and they have a plane to catch tonight.”

I didn’t say anything, only smiled at Nicole. When she smiled back, I knelt down beside her and said, “Hi. I’m John. Do you like that drawing?”

“Uh huh,” she said, nodding her head vigorously. Her hair had been straightened and put up in a ponytail that bounced as she nodded. “Who drew it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But Mr. Stone can tell you. Do you draw?”

“Uh huh.”

“I’d like to see one of your drawings.” I said.

“You would?”

“Uh huh,” I said enthusiastically.

Her face brightened into a large smile, her dark eyes sparkling as she said, “I’ll color one just for you. Do you want one of Jesus?”

“I’d love one of Jesus,” I said.

“Chaplain Jordan, I know we’ll be running on a very tight schedule this afternoon,” Stone said impatiently, “but if we happen to get back early, I want you to sit down with Bobby Earl and discuss some ideas he’s got for your chapel program.”

I stood up and looked at them, stunned, bristling at even the suggestion.

“I want to help in any way I can,” Bobby Earl said, then winked at me as they all walked out.

After unlocking the chapel and letting Officer Whitfield into the library to listen to some preaching tapes, I met briefly with my inmate orderly, Mr. Smith. Once in my office, I popped in a cassette of Gregorian chants and spent some time in thought and prayer.

I felt frustrated and angry at my reaction to Bobby Earl and what I suspected his brand of religion would do to the inmate population. Many of the men who attended chapel teetered on the precipice between genuine faith and love, and irresponsibility and over-simplicity. I was afraid the apocalyptic excitement of Bobby Earl’s hellfire and brimstone preaching would cause them to plunge to their spiritual deaths.

What was a man like Bobby Earl even doing here? There was nothing the inmates could do to expand his television empire.

I picked up my phone and punched in Anna Rodden’s extension in Classification. It rang several times, but there was no answer. I hung up, and like the unexpected answer to a prayer, Anna walked into my office.

“Hey, stranger,” she said, closing the door behind her.

As I came around my desk, she dropped the envelopes and inmate requests she was carrying into a chair, and we embraced. She was tall and athletic, and our bodies fit together like they were made to. The hug was quick, but the connection immediate and intense, and I had to release her and step back while I still could.

“I’ve missed you,” she said. “Doin’ time’s not nearly as much fun when you’re not around.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It’s good to be back.”

“How was training?”

“I can think of more fun ways to waste time,” I said.

And then, for a long moment, we stood there, neither of us seeming able to move.

On the right side of Anna’s neck, a thin scar ran down at a jagged angle. Slowly, I reached up and gently traced it with my fingertip. I liked to feel the small rise of the scar tissue beneath the skin, the vulnerability of the wound, the power of healing. It was the wound that caused this scar, and the blood it shed, that had saved my life, and had given me the opportunity to save hers.

She breathed in deeply and swallowed hard.

“Sorry,” I said.

She shook her head, waving off my apology, and I somehow made it back to my chair and sat down, while she took the empty chair across from my desk.

After being away from the institution for two weeks in chaplaincy training, I had more to do than I could fathom, but all I wanted was to be with Anna.

“I had a lot of people ask me about us while you were away this time,” she said.

“ Us? ” I asked, instinctively glancing at her ring finger before I realized what I was doing.

“If we’re having an affair,” she said. “They can’t understand us.”

I said, “Neither can I.”

She smiled and her dark brown eyes lit up.

The faint chant of prayers rising from the chapel drifted through the air like incense-Muslim prayers, prayed to Allah in Arabic.

Allaahu Akbar, Allaahu Akbar… Ash hadu allaa ilaaha ill Allah.

Tossing back her shoulder-length brown hair, she pulled a small plastic bag from the pile of mail and inmate requests on the chair beside her. “I got you a little something. Two little somethings actually.”

She handed me a small plastic bag with blue musical notes on it.

I withdrew two CDs from the bag. The first one was Dan Fogelberg’s latest, which I had picked up along with Jann Arden’s to enjoy on my drive back from central Florida.

“I wanted you to have them the moment you got back,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said, as if I didn’t already have them.

“The other one is Jann Arden, and you’re going to love her. She’s so honest and… well, melancholy, yet with an underlying optimism, or at least hope.”

I couldn’t have described her better. “I can’t wait to listen to them,” I said. “Thanks again.”

Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar… Laa ilaaha ill Allah.

An inmate passed slowly by my office door, lingering near the narrow panel of glass, staring at Anna as he did. A moment later, when he walked back by, I could see that it was Harmless Harry, one of the most notorious rapists the state of Florida had ever known. My fists clenched involuntarily.

Hayya’ alal Falaah… Qad qaamatis Salaah… Qad qaamatis Salaah.

I heard the conversation of two Latino inmates from somewhere in the hall. Their Spanish, the Latin of the Gregorian chants, the English we spoke, and the Arabic of the Muslim prayers swirled together into a linguistic potpourri that permeated the air.

“I did a lot of thinking while I was away,” I said.

It sounded more ominous than I had intended.

“Yeah?” she said, tilting her head and raising her thick brown eyebrows. I had her complete attention.

“I’m not sure I can be an effective chaplain if I’m spending so much time investigating.”

Her expression encouraged me to continue.“

Things always get out of control,” I said. “I change… and if I have to choose…”