Stranger Son

by Jim Nelson

  "A figurehead," Ruby said.

  "There are twelve deacons," Cara continued. "They're all men chosen by the congregation. They're like shift managers at a Macdonald's. They advise Pastor Hargrove and deal with issues the congregation might have."

  "And the congregation is—"

  "The customers."

  Ruby needed a moment to absorb Cara's analysis. "How do you know all this?"

  "You spend your entire life in the church, you learn a few things." She added, chin raised, "Especially when you're a bridge daughter."

  Ruby had tossed the salad to death. Much more and the spinach would be wilted.

  "What kind of issues do the deacons handle?" she asked Cara.

  "They work with the congregation. Like people getting sick. I mean real sick. Like cancer. Or someone losing their job and unable to pay their house bills."

  "What about someone dying?" Ruby said. "Like Lea Weymouth?"

  "Exactly," Cara said. "The deacons organized church members to deliver meals to the Weymouths and helped with the funeral bill. I remember when that happened. I'd just started living with the Griffins. Mr. Griffin was on the phone a lot making all the arrangements." She frowned and shook her head. "Lea was a beautiful, caring mother. It was so horrible what happened to her."

  "So why isn't Griff on the phone helping Kyle now?" Ruby demanded.

  Cara said softly, "Pastor Hargrove shot Kyle."

  "So?"

  Cara searched for words. "I don't know. This is different than Lea. I can't explain it. But I can feel it. I heard Mr. and Mrs. Griffin talk about it twice."

  "What did they say?"

  "It's what they didn't say. Mr. Weymouth's name came up and there was this strange silence between them. I don't mean I was eavesdropping and they were whispering. I mean, I was in the room folding clothes. Mr. Griffin hung up the phone and said something about Kyle Weymouth being discharged from the hospital. They sat across from one another. They stared at each other for what seemed like ten minutes. They didn't smile or frown. They didn't even say they were happy for him being released, or worried what might happen to him. It was like they were talking through their minds. After a while, one of them changed the subject."

  "What about tonight?" Ruby said. "They must have talked about inviting us over here."

  "I didn't hear anything. I do know they didn't want all of you to come over. Mrs. Griffin only invited Mr. Weymouth. Apparently, he said you had to come as well? And that he couldn't leave Henry home alone?"

  "Well, there's no way Kyle can drive," Ruby said. "Even getting into the truck, he needs someone there to help him up."

  "Well, Mrs. Griffin was pretty put-out, but she agreed." Cara leaned over to Ruby, a stack of coffee saucers in one hand. "She thinks you're having sex with him."

  Ruby guffawed. "If you saw Kyle with his clothes off, you'd understand why that's not happening."

  "I don't understand," Cara said, genuinely confused.

  "He's stitched up like an old sock filled with marbles," she said. "Any big movements and it could all rip open. He's in constant pain. His leg is on fire. His gut is on fire. That's what he tells me every day." Sobering up, she added, "He says it feels like Hell."

  Cara finished removing dishes. She closed he hutch.

  "All I know is, they're up to something," Cara said. "Do you love him?"

  "Who? Kyle?"

  "Who else? "

  "I—no." To steel her answer: "Of course not."

  "But you want to help him."

  "I'm responsible for him and Henry."

  "Then help him now," Cara said. "I have a bad feeling about tonight."

  Fifty-one

  Cara served dinner, with Suze Griffin making a token effort of bringing out the biscuit basket and pouring the water around the table, all to keep up the appearance of not having a Hagar as the help. Cara left them to dine. Suze over-explained Cara liked to eat in her bedroom to watch her movies and chat on the Internet with her friends in Mendocino.

  Kyle managed to sit at the table, obviously uncomfortable on the dining room chair but unwilling to make a fuss. Without asking for permission, Ruby took a throw pillow from a nearby sofa to give Kyle a little more padding. Henry managed to fix the control box as predicted. Griff stood at the television working the remote and marveling over Henry's work while the food was arriving at the table.

  The dinner was pleasant enough. Kyle asked about the church and inquired about activities and developments since his accident. Griff and Suze brushed off the questions, saying nothing of note had happened. They passed on a couple of mildly amusing stories, so-and-so missing choir practice due to a mix-up in time, that sort of thing. Ruby picked at her meal and watched the conversation unfold, as mute as Henry.

  After coffee and pie, Suze made a show of helping Cara clear the table. She suggested they all move to the entertainment room to enjoy the fruits of Henry's labor. Ruby rose to help Kyle from his chair, who was already struggling to lift himself up.

  "Cynthia, why don't you let me and Kyle have a talk," Griff said.

  Henry had already wandered off to the television room with Suze and her second cup of coffee. Ruby returned to her chair beside Kyle.

  "I'll stay," she said.

  "This is just between us men," Griff said. "It's about church matters."

  "I'm staying," Ruby said, giving Griff the steady eye.

  "Kyle," Griff said with a disarming smile. "Can you—?"

  Kyle breathed deeply. His head was bowed in slight deference to Griff. He started to speak twice but held his tongue in indecision. He set his hand on top of Ruby's.

  "Cynthia's earned a right to hear." His voice broke halfway through the sentence.

  "You talk like she's your wife now," Griff joshed.

  Kyle spoke diplomatically. "With me laid up, Cynthia here has been in charge of the family finances and personal matters. There's no secrets between us."

  "Of course," Griff said with a wave of his hand.

  Kyle waited for Griff to speak. Griff took a moment to sample his coffee and dab his napkin on his lips.

  "There's been a lot of talk at the church," Griff said.

  "About what?"

  "About you," Griff said carefully.

  "Talk is talk," Kyle said. "Nothing I can do about it."

  "Were you planning to return to the fold?"

  "Return?" Kyle retracted, stunned at the question. "I never left it."

  "It's been two months since we've seen you."

  "I've been immobile." Kyle put a strong hand on his leg. "As you can see, progress is being made."

  "This is the first time Kyle's been away from the house since returning from the hospital," Ruby said. "Tonight is a big night."

  "Praise the Lord," Griff said.

  "I'm planning on attending services this Sunday," Kyle said.

  "Next Sunday," Ruby said to him.

  "This Sunday," Kyle said to her.

  "Well, when you decide, why don't you let me know," Griff said.

  "Of course," Kyle said.

  "Wait—why?" Ruby stared down the length of the table. "Why does Kyle need to warn you?"

  Griff, flustered, made an exasperated smile. "Kyle—"

  "Cynthia," Kyle said with a warning tone. "Nothing wrong with making a phone call."

  "Why do you need to warn them?" she said. "It's going to church. It's not reserving a rental car."

  "Kyle," Griff said. "Maybe you can ask Cynthia to—"

  Kyle was searching her face. "No," he slowly said to Griff, staring at her. "Maybe you could tell me why I need to phone ahead."

  Griff drank more of his coffee. He studied the tan puddle at the bottom of his cup for a moment. Without a word of explanation, he rose from the table and disappeared down the hallway behind him. He returned bearing a folded sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen. He joined Kyle and Ruby at their end of the dining room table.

  "I'm asking you to consider the good of the church," Griff said to Kyle.
"We spread the word of Christ and do so much work for the community. Certainly you see that, yes?"

  "Of course," Kyle said cautiously.

  "And the relief we provided when Lea passed on," Griff said. "You told us many times how you appreciated the church's aid and devotion in your time of need. And Henry's time of need too," he added as though winging it.

  "That's right."

  "And when the cause for the separation of Jefferson from California arose, the church came together and prayed every Sunday for a peaceful and just resolution. God provided, did he not?"

  "Not a shot was fired," Kyle admitted.

  Griff unfolded the sheet. He smoothed down the crease on the tablecloth. He turned it to face Kyle.

  "A church must stand behind its pastor," Griff said. "You understand, right?"

  "I stand behind Pastor Hargrove," Kyle said. Ruby thought Griff was stating a different sentiment, though.

  "This is a simple affidavit," Griff said with smooth, even words. "No fancy language. No lawyer language. It gives you the opportunity to renew your faith and commitment to the church." Griff set the pen near Kyle's hand. Griffin Dodge was printed in white across the pen's red-and-blue striped barrel.

  Ruby stood behind Kyle and read over his shoulder.

  "I don't understand why I need to sign anything," Kyle said.

  "It's a reaffirmation," Griff said, frowning up at Ruby.

  "I can't reaffirm what I never quit affirming," Kyle said.

  Griff leaned across the table. "Haven't you forgiven Pastor Hargrove?"

  "I forgave him long ago," Kyle said. "That's never been in question."

  "This is your chance to express your forgiveness," Griff said.

  "Hold on." Ruby crouched beside Kyle. "When's the last time you talked with Pastor Hargrove?"

  Kyle took a moment to answer. "I haven't seen Pastor Hargrove since they wheeled me into the emergency surgery."

  "Did he ask you for forgiveness?"

  "He didn't have to," Kyle said.

  "Did he apologize?"

  Kyle answered her with silence. He breathed noisily out through his nose, deflating.

  "You heard him," Griff snapped. "He's forgiven the pastor."

  "Then why does he have to sign this?"

  Griff, flustered, attempted another grin. "Are you really going to let your bed nurse run your family?" he said to Kyle. Ruby didn't appreciate the way he said bed nurse. "Is she of the faith?"

  Kyle, pressured, looked away.

  "You're the head of your family," Griff said. "You need to make the decisions."

  "I'm faithful to this family," Ruby said back. "You can take that to the bank."

  She was outraged. The Griffins had spent more time praising the Lord than asking Kyle about his health. Blake Griffin was more interested in his repaired audio-video component than Kyle's well-being.

  She whispered in Kyle's ear it was time to go. Kyle, emotionally paralyzed, couldn't agree or disagree. Ruby urged him to get up and leave. Ignoring Griff's continued objections, flushed with embarrassment and hair mussed, Kyle gathered his walking stick. He hobbled to the front door with Ruby at his side. He needed her strong hand for support.

  Fifty-two

  After changing Kyle's bandages and emptying his colostomy bag, Ruby told him she'd get busy with dinner.

  "Take a load off," Kyle said. He knocked two antibiotic pills into his mouth and swallowed them down with a wash of water from a plastic bottle. "You look bushed."

  She murmured she couldn't, and Kyle insisted. She relented and pulled over the chair she kept near Kyle's bed. Kyle used the remote to turn on the television set.

  "Tell me something," she said while the set warmed up. "Do you ever talk to your son?"

  "Not the way you do," he said.

  "To me?" she said. "He barely talks to me."

  "Henry's better when he's at work," Kyle said. "He's good with tools. He's good with his hands. He's a crack shot. And he's great on hunting trips. He's the best right-hand man any hunter could ask for." A moment of reminiscing brought out a sunny smile. "But we don't talk much. Not like he talks with you. I hear you at the kitchen table with him. You give him patience. See, your patience with him, that's key. His teachers aren't patient with him. They think he's stupid. He's not. He's smart in his own way."

  "I know," she said. "I know."

  The break for advertisements concluded and the evening news returned. The CHP incident was no longer the story of the day. The shooting had led to warnings being issued across state lines from each state's capitol building. Soon came threats of duties and tariffs and embargoes. All of the political posturing sounded fairly worthless to Ruby.

  When the anchor mentioned Folsom prison, Ruby's drowsy attention snapped to the screen. Exhausted from the usual afternoon stupor coming across her, she'd missed the lead-in and regretted it. The television took her to Represa, home of Folsom prison. A prison official with an ambiguous rank and title spoke to the camera. He wore a familiar pine-tree green uniform with the flag of Jefferson embroidered across its breast pocket.

  "Folsom absolutely refuses to release the prisoners California has requested returned."

  The interview was filmed outside the walls of the prison earlier in the day. He wore mirrored sunglasses and a flat prison guard hat.

  "Those named by California are the worst of the worst," he continued. "Most are in for twenty years or more, and they will fulfill their terms as demanded by justice and affirmed by the courts." He added, as though improvising off a scripted statement, "California's own courts, I'll add, since California locked them in here before the separation."

  Ruby peered over at Kyle for his reaction. He remained stolid and mute in bed, passively watching the replayed video of the official.

  The reporter asked for the prison official to define "the worst of the worst." "A number of individuals on the list were nonviolent offenders, after all," the reporter said.

  "Deviants, drug suppliers, and those abetting illegal persons," the official said with a crooked, smug grin. "California may be soft on that sort of behavior, but we are not." He nodded to the blank gray concrete wall behind him rising beyond the top of the television screen. "They will see the inside of these walls until the last day of their judgment. If it was up to me, they'd never breathe a free breath again."

  Fifty-three

  Ruby, not in the habit of following the news, wondered exactly what she'd missed in the story's lead-in. The next morning, after seeing Henry off to school and changing Kyle's bandages, she drove into town under the pretense of buying medical supplies and groceries.

  She parked the Jimmy on the street in front of the library. It was an old Carnegie library constructed of the russet-red rock from the mountainside. A towering statue of James Marshall in dungarees and waders stood beside the entrance glaring down at each patron entering and leaving.

  Past the book detectors, racks of newspapers and magazines occupied the near corner. A set of padded easy chairs and a table with built-in reading lamps were nearby. The newspaper corral only held the current day's editions. Yesterday's papers were stacked beneath the magazines. She discovered the prior day's edition of the Redding Daily Tribune, the state's largest paper published out of the capital.

  Eyes studied her when she first entered the library, and eyes were studying her now. No one was so brazen to stare. When she looked up from the paper, they were quick to look away, but she caught them all right. Mostly women, she thought, mothers wondering if she was a Hagar—Jeffersonians wondering how she got past the border patrol. How could they not know the Griffins had one in their household. Convenience, perhaps—the admired earn a benefit of the doubt few others enjoy.

  An above-the-fold front page story reported on the Folsom prison story, which the Tribune described as a tit-for-tat exchange between Jefferson and California. The CHP border incident had led to California deploying National Guard units outside Stockton and Sacramento for increased training and
drills. A Jefferson lawmaker complained it was a threatening tactic and requested Jefferson's all-volunteer militia to step up their patrols along the state's southwestern border.

  "Wolf packs," Ruby murmured. It was involuntary. She glanced up to see if anyone nearby had heard her. She caught more eyes around the library studying her.

  The same lawmaker noted Jefferson had assumed a great deal of California debt in the separation, in particular the costs of housing, feeding, and guarding inmates in the prisons they'd absorbed. "Maybe we should float their criminals down the American River in an inner tube," he joked. "Like how Castro used to dump his prison population into Miami."

  A representative for Amador county added separately, "It's high time we reconsidered our treatment of the criminal element saddled on us by California and its soft-on-crime culture." In a written statement, he listed exactly whom he was speaking of: Narcotics suppliers, offenders convicted of sex-related crimes, undocumented workers convicted of violent crimes, and Hagars in state custody. "Not to mention the criminal class crossing our borders," he added. "Perhaps it's time we emptied our prisons rather than overfill them with California's worst."

  "Concerned with the ambiguity in the word 'emptied,' California demanded the safe and immediate transfer of its convicts and wards of state," the Tribune reported. "Yesterday morning, Sacramento transmitted a list of names to Redding." The list was reprinted in a tinted sidebar that filled most of the bottom half of the section's last page, nearly five hundred inmates convicted by California now housed in Jefferson. The well-known names reported in the story—the ones prominently reported with their own headlines and stories—included the Hillside Strangler and the remaining members of the Manson Family.

  Among the six columns of fine-print, Ruby found her mother's name:

  Driscoll, Hanna – Aiding & abetting a known criminal; arranging a pons detachment; bridge endangerment; fleeing law enforcement

  There were only the major charges her mother pleaded guilty to. Soft-on-crime California had thrown the book at her, and for that, she was to serve twenty-five years, with parole only available after serving twelve. If she was returned to California—if Redding really did float her down the American River in an inner tube—she would have only nine more years to serve. Only.