by Ellen Smith
Will looked down at his tightening waistband and dad jeans and wondered if he looked the part of a middle school band director. Probably.
Will made a bridge with his left hand and aimed for a solid red ball. He scratched it to the right and sighed.
“Nice,” said Tristan. “Is this what you came early to show me? Or is something else on your mind?”
Was it okay to tell a pastor to shut up—and in a church, no less? Will decided not to risk it.
“Who’s doing who the favor here?” he said instead, as Tristan shot a striped yellow ball solidly into the pocket.
“You are,” Tristan said. “But you never ask to play pool unless there’s something you want to talk about.”
“Completely untrue.” Will finally managed to get the red ball into the pocket. Not bad.
“Last month, we met up for pool and you asked me if I thought Mara was getting in over her head taking the new job.”
“That came up naturally.”
“In December, you wanted to talk about your brother. Right before Thanksgiving, you were talking about all the stuff going on at your school—how’s that going, by the way? Some of the kids here go to your school. They say there’s been some more violence.”
“Nobody’s actually shot anyone, if that’s what you mean,” Will said. “And you’re forgetting that we met up in January and played pool at the bar. No heavy talks, no burning questions, just pool.”
Tristan pointed his cue stick at Will. “I suggested that one.”
Will slipped and barely avoided hitting the eight ball. He was off his game today.
“So?” Tristan asked. It was his turn, but he just looked at Will, eyebrow quirked.
“So what?”
“Are you going to tell me?”
Will sighed. “Mara and I got these letters”—he tried to ignore Tristan’s triumphant smirk—“from the Justice Department.”
Tristan instantly looked serious. He and Will had been roommates the first year of college and every year since. Tristan was all too familiar with the legal gymnastics Jason had put them through. “Is Jason appealing his sentence again?”
“No. Well, kind of. He’s applied for a time wreck.”
“Huh.”
That was it. One syllable. Tristan’s face was unreadable—the kind of face that would invite parishioners to keep talking.
Except Will wasn’t a parishioner. “So you think it’s a bad idea,” he said.
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you do.”
Tristan appeared to be weighing his response. “I’m not sure how I feel about it, to be honest.”
“See, here’s what I don’t get.” Will laid his pool cue down on the side of the table, lining it up with the edge as he spoke. “The whole time I was growing up, the pastor preached about forgiveness. Had a fight with your friend? Gotta apologize and forgive each other. Kid brother took your allowance? Talk it out and then let it go. Everything was just repent, forgive, move on. And now we’ve got this totally clear-cut case of letting someone apologize for their crime and taking back what they did, and everybody’s judging whether it’s really a good thing or not.”
Tristan frowned. “You lost me. Who’s everybody? Who knows about the letter?”
“Just Mara. And you.”
“So Mara thinks this is a bad thing.”
Will shrugged. “She seems to be open to the idea.” Especially now that we know there’s nothing else we can do for her shoulder.
“So only you, Mara, and I know about the time wreck letter. You say everybody’s judging whether a time wreck is a good thing or not, but Mara seems open to it and I’m not sure how I feel.” He sighed. “Wanna go ahead and cut to the chase?”
Will couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Okay,” Tristan said. “Your church back home did a number on you. You’ve talked about it, I get it, you don’t have to go over it again if you don’t want. But look—is your focus on what your old pastor or your mom or your church back home would think, or is your focus on what God thinks?”
I have no idea what God would think. Will felt hot all over, as if he were about to hear the real answer. He was a sinner. It was blasphemy to even consider it. He was going to hell.
But when he looked up at Tristan, his friend didn’t look angry or anything. Just kind, and a little sad.
“I don’t have an answer for you on this one, if that’s what you were hoping for,” Tristan said. “The church hasn’t voted to take a position on time wrecks one way or the other. Some denominations have denounced it and some say it’s moral as well as legal. Last time the topic came up in the synod, we were still praying about it.”
“I wish I could be sure what the right thing to do was,” Will said.
“You and everyone else.”
The heat faded from Will’s chest and he started to feel almost normal again. “You sound like a real pastor or something.”
“Shocking, isn’t it?” Tristan laughed and made a bridge with his right hand. “Ten in the pocket.”
The striped blue ball shot forward and landed in the pocket with a solid thunk.
* * * * *
Mara was still asleep when Will got home. He’d figured she would be. She hadn’t responded to the text he sent on his way home, telling her that he was picking up her prescription.
Will put the paper bag down on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. He watched the book on Mara’s chest rise and fall in time to her breathing. She’d been sleeping just like this the first time he saw her. Will didn’t count the shooting as their first meeting. He hadn’t really known her then. True, he hadn’t been able to get her out of his head after the shooting—but he’d held her bleeding shoulder. Called 911. You didn’t just stop worrying about someone after you met like that.
Will had called the hospital every few days, checking on her status. For a while, she’d been listed as “critical.” Then her condition was only “serious.”
When the hospital said she was out of ICU and in her own room, he’d gone to visit her. It seemed right, just to see for himself that she was okay.
Mara’s hospital bed had been half-reclined, with four or five of those thin hospital pillows arranged behind her back. Her head was nodded back, eyes closed, looking peaceful despite all the medical equipment surrounding her.
She was beautiful. At first, Will thought it was just relief when he was standing in the doorway. She hadn’t died. There were a lot of dressings and bandages around her right side, but she looked a lot better than she had lying on the floor of the Student Union. Much, much better.
Mara had opened her eyes then, making Will forget everything he’d planned to say. “You look good,” he’d said.
“Excuse me?” She seemed to jolt upright, wincing as she did. “Who are you?”
“I didn’t mean it like that! Sorry!” Will said. He held up both hands. “I’m not a creeper, I swear.” He glanced down for a moment, trying to retrace his steps. “I’m Will Sterling. I was in the Student Union with you. I mean, I’m not the shooter. I just saw what happened. I called nine-one-one for you and I came by today . . . to see if you were okay.”
She was going to call the nurse. Or security. Will started to back away a little when suddenly, Mara laughed.
“Hi, Will Not-the Creeper,” she said. “Ow. Oh my God. I have to stop laughing.”
“Does it still hurt?” Will said. Another idiot point for him. He hoped she wasn’t keeping score.
Mara had stopped laughing, but she was smiling. “Well, yeah, but don’t tell anyone that. And for the record, I wasn’t asleep just now, either. I’m trying to convince them to let me go home.”
“What’s wrong with sleeping? Didn’t you just have surgery?”
“The last one was about a week ago. But every time the doctor comes in, she says words like fatigue and pain management and convalescence and I end up staying here lo
nger. So the party line is: I’m doing great, I’m not tired at all, and I’m ready to get out of here.”
Will looked around the tiny room. It was good that she had the room to herself, at least, but the atmosphere was still pretty darn depressing.
“I can’t blame you for wanting to go home,” he said.
“I want to go back to normal,” Mara said.
The truth of it made them both look away for a minute.
Will spoke next. “So since you definitely weren’t asleep when I came in, what’re you reading?”
“The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,” Mara said. “Have you read it?”
Will eyed the cover. “I don’t really read science fiction.”
Mara didn’t seem put off by that. “You’d probably like it anyway. It’s funny. What do you usually read?”
“Thrillers, true crime, stuff like that. I like Jack Reacher.”
“I read the first one of that series. The Killing Floor, right?”
“Yeah.” Will perched on one of the molded plastic chairs. He wondered if he was overstaying his welcome, but Mara smiled at him. Will settled back in the chair. “What else do you like to read? Just sci-fi?”
“I read everything. I like historical fiction a lot too, a little fantasy—”
“Oh! Have you read Harry Potter?”
“Yes! I can’t wait for the next book to come out.”
“Have you seen the movie?”
“I loved it. The second movie is supposed to be out in November, right?”
“November fifteenth,” Will said.
“I can’t wait.”
Then, without thinking, Will said, “Me neither. We should go see it as soon as it comes out.”
Had he said we? He had. He’d just asked out a girl he didn’t know within minutes of talking with her. Will never did things like that. He tried to think of a way to backpedal.
But then Mara smiled and said, “I’ve got to get out of the hospital first,” and Will thought maybe he hadn’t made a mistake after all.
No, Will thought now, looking down at his sleeping wife. It definitely hadn’t been a mistake.
He touched her hand. Mara’s eyelids fluttered open, and she smiled.
“You’re back,” Mara said. “I saw your note. How was the rehearsal?”
“It went all right. Played some pool with Tristan beforehand.”
Mara smiled and wiped the sleep from her eyes. “I figured you would. Did he beat you?”
“Hey!”
“Sorry. Did you win?”
“Of course not.”
Mara squeezed his hand. “Next time.”
“I feel bad, leaving you here all alone after the day we’ve had.”
“Don’t.” Mara yawned. “I wasn’t even awake. To be honest, I may just keep on sleeping until it’s time to get up for work tomorrow.”
“You should probably eat something,” Will said. “And take some of the painkillers you had to jump through hoops to get.”
“No wonder I’m so tired,” Mara said. She yawned again, wider this time. “All that hoop-jumping.”
“Come on. Get up. Just for a little bit. We’ll eat some dinner and then tuck in for the night.”
Mara sat up slowly and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She got up as if every movement hurt. It probably did. Mara often said she felt like a twenty-six-year-old trapped in an eighty-year-old’s body. She took a deep breath and then shuffled off to the bathroom.
She shouldn’t have to feel like this. A stab of guilt prodded Will. And she shouldn’t have to stay home and sleep while I go out and have fun.
Tomorrow, he vowed. He’d plan something special for her. She deserved that much, at least.
Is Time Wrecking the New Forgiveness?
By the Right Reverend Peter Lancaster
Much has been made in recent years of the role of the Church on the issue of timeline rectification. Some congregations have declared themselves wholly in support, while others are staunchly against. In many other congregations—including my own—the issue of timeline rectification has been a source of division and contention.
I differ from some of my brothers and sisters in that I don’t see timeline rectification as inherently wrong or sinful. The procedure itself requires that the offenders apply for a rectification, complete a rehabilitation program, prepare to make amends to the victims, including obtaining their consent, and indeed change their actions for the betterment of all. In this way, we can see that timeline rectification accomplishes the very essence of repentance and forgiveness: the offender recognizes his or her wrong, chooses to change, makes amends, and “goes forth and sins no more.”
Rather, the Church’s concerns should be in the implementation of timeline rectifications. Our concern is one of moral rightness, and in that case, God’s justice—which requires no government to administer—is more than enough. The government’s concerns involve other issues: the safest and best recourse for society’s greatest victims, the efficacy of prison and parole, even the costliness of the procedure itself.
The largest source of my concern is in the efficacy. Laypersons, such as you and me, are unaware of any timeline rectifications that have been committed. Our consciousnesses have moved seamlessly from the original life map (or life maps) to the current one. But surely, someone must be watching to ensure that offenders have indeed changed? Surely the government has some record of these offenses that have been erased, some tracking that ensures that, even in the new life map, the same offenders are not slipping back into their old ways?
The government itself tells us that it does. Each year since 2000, the Department of Timeline Rectification has released a report on completed timeline rectifications. Consider this report from 2010:
In 2010, the total number of prison releases (711,125) exceeded prison admissions (703,798). Of these prison releases, 2,448 were timeline rectifications.
The number of total timeline rectifications had increased from 2009 (2,331) to 2010 (2,448). This continues a trend in steadily increasing numbers of timeline rectifications since 2000.
Of the 2,448 timeline rectifications in 2010, 24 percent were re-arrested in the new life map. Eighty-one percent of these arrests were from the same crime that was rectified, while 19 percent were for a different crime.
As a pastor and a Christian, I am heartened that the government is, at least, ensuring that these former offenders are being given a second chance at life in society, while also being monitored to ensure that change is a real and present force in their lives. On the other hand, as a citizen, I have growing concerns about the amount of data that the government may be gathering about myself or others without our knowledge or consent. These are issues that merit ongoing conversation, not argument. It is my hope that, with time and patience, we will all be able to speak to each other about this and all concerns as brothers and sisters, not as enemies.
Comments:
TRU4U says:
Amen, brother.
LittleLovely says:
EXACTLY the point I was trying to make this morning!! We’re getting sidetracked on the issue of whether we should allow time wrecks. They’ve been allowed since 1999/2000. Meanwhile, the government is keeping records on which of us have committed crimes and whether we’ve repeated them, EVEN IF WE DON’T REMEMBER OURSELVES!!!
Mark says:
Big brother is watching.
AprilShowers replied:
I love that this is news to you. That’s so cute.
Lourdes replied:
Well, it’s better than if they weren’t keeping track, isn’t it? Would you really want ex-cons released back into society with no follow-through? All this “Big Government” phobia has gone a little far. We need to keep track of some things. You know. For safety.
RealTalk411 says:
But don’t we, as God’s people in the world, have a responsibility to speak up to injustice? While I ag
ree with you that there’s a corollary between true forgiveness and timeline rectification, I do see “time wrecking” as an injustice. Would be interested to hear your thoughts on the issue of repentance vis-à-vis the “rehabilitation program” conducted for the timeline rectification procedure.
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Chapter Nine
MARA
The next day at work seemed to drag on for an eternity. It didn’t help that it was Friday and the rest of the office had checked out for the weekend already. Meanwhile, panic set in whenever Mara saw the to-do list that had piled up when she was out yesterday. Elliott had helpfully outlined a list of action items and put exclamation points after the most critical.
Jerk.
At the desk beside Mara’s, Colleen was spinning lazy half-circles in her desk chair. “Did you have some fun on your day off yesterday?” she asked. “What’d you do?”
“Just doctors’ appointments,” Mara mumbled. The computer had refused her password twice and now she was in danger of being locked out of the system. Then Mara would have to call the help desk to reset it and wait for approval. Then she would have to come up with yet another secure password with numbers and punctuation marks and capital letters and find another place to write it down for when she inevitably forgot.
Unless, of course, she could find where she’d written down her current password. Mara willed herself to calm down and remember, but her brain was clouded in a thick, gray fog.
“I guess you have a lot of doctors’ appointments, huh? Must be tough,” Colleen said sympathetically.
“I’m fine,” Mara said, rifling through her top desk drawer. Not there. She scooted back in her desk chair and opened the file cabinet drawer that held her purse. There was her water bottle, her lunch bag, her wallet, her book . . . nowhere she would have hidden her password. Mara closed the drawer harder than she’d intended and it clanged shut.