Wade ignored the other inmates that speculated on his past. The old man was prone to prolonged gazes as if looking into unseen events that lay ahead. Distant, aloof. The other prisoners gave him his space.
Wade exercised in fits at the beginning. He started by walking laps around the common room, then ventured to larger circles in the yard. Soon he busied himself with five sit-ups, then ten, then twenty. By and by the old man crawled his way to some sort of stability.
He hardly said anything at all. He buried himself in books, not stepping away until completing the volume. Sometimes he watched television with the other inmates, but did not comment on which program to partake in. Instead, he sat in the back of the group, content to watch a sporting event or political discussion.
Sometimes he was satisfied to stay in the presence of other people, even if they didn’t demonstrate any interest in him. His eyes wandered to the faces of the men on his block. He pondered their scars and scratches, the tattoos and the gang symbols. Each day passed in a haze without any real determination or push.
In a strange way, prison was like retirement. No amount of striving improved his situation. The doctors insisted that he rest, read, and consider the culmination of his years.
The silence Wade enjoyed broke only once, on a windy October afternoon when the whole of the jailhouse remained inside for the World Series. All eyes glared at the television screens as a long procession of athletes made their youthful, desperate attempts at glory.
Wade sat tucked in the corner of the common room, staring at the backs of the men, transfixed on the nuances of the play-offs. A uniformed police officer tapped him on the shoulder and signaled for him to follow.
# # #
Traci sat alone in the visitor’s area, her legs tucked beneath a steel table. Five other tables occupied the room, each with two chairs at opposite sides.
She did not want this. She could die happy if she never saw Wade again.
Her dating days were over. Even if she met Prince Charming, she’d turn and run. Hopes of romance died with the summer. But Traci needed answers that only Wade could provide.
A large metal door creaked open revealing Wade and a guard. She caught her breath and sat up. He strode to the table, shoulders straight, arms at his side. A little muscle definition highlighted his jaw. Stubble dotted his cheeks. Though he avoided eye contact, he walked tall.
Confidence? They told her Wade was near death. What happened to him?
The guard pointed to the door, “I’ll be in there if you need anything.”
Neither Wade nor Traci acknowledged him. The jailer exited, closing the door with a dull clang. Wade sat in the chair across from her, arms folded on the table. The silence hung heavy.
Who would speak first? Not her. No, let him fester.
Traci, in a rush of self-consciousness, brushed at her hair. Her appearance had degraded significantly since she last saw him a few months earlier. She had thinned down, now gaunt from worry. Nightmares haunted her, dreams in which she cried out for a young man she only knew from photographs. Dark circles highlighted her eyes. No amount of smoothing her hair made a difference. Embarrassed by his staring, she stopped fussing.
What right did he have to workout while her body fell to pieces?
At night she wandered around her house, gazing at the empty sofas and tables that, in another era, might have displayed the wear of an active child. She was too old for kids now, though her heart yearned for them. Sometimes she stared into the back yard, waiting for a little boy to hug her. But none came.
She imagined the weight of a child in her arms, the coos and cries he might make as he pushed and kicked, testing his strength. She wandered past schools, watching as children chased each other on the playground in their endless games of tag.
None of those little ones was hers. None of them would grow up knowing her love for them and none could love her in return. She drifted past as a ghost in their midst, unable to cause them joy or grief.
Sleepless nights left her face baggy and dark. Her sides ached from nervous ticks and twitches that attacked her. She adjusted her position in the hard wooden chair so as not to upset the mystery pains that had crept in over the months since they last saw each other.
Wade picked at a fleck of green paint peeling from the table.
“Thank you for coming.”
His words were met with more silence as she shifted to avoid another knot in her ribcage.
Traci slid a yellow legal pad and a pen across the table. “I need something from you.” Her hands shook. Hopefully he didn’t notice. “I need to know how it works.”
Wade’s eyes stayed on her, sure, steady. When did that happen? What became of the man who stared at the ground and rocked back and forth with nervous energy? She left him as Rain Man and he returned as Tom Cruise.
“I can’t,” he said.
“Can’t or won’t?” Surprised by the tone in her voice, she shifted gears and looked toward the door. No point in the guard suspecting trouble. Stay cool.
“Please, Wade. You have to help me. You owe me this.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I do know. I’m a grown woman, not a child.”
Wade leaned forward, hands flat on the table. “It isn’t going to solve anything.”
She leaned in too. If he made a power grab she would do the same. Traci whispered her ultimatum. “I killed my son, Wade. I need this. I need to go back and tell myself not to make the biggest mistake of my life.”
“You can’t—”
Her voice echoed, desperate, hollow. “You’ll never know what you took from me all those years ago. Never.”
Wade hung his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Write it down.” She tapped her finger against the legal pad like a Morse code operator with an urgent telegram. He shook his head and pushed the paper back.
“Write it down. What’s the matter with you?” Tears stung her eyes and ran down her cheeks. How embarrassing. How dare she show emotion before this creature.
Don’t cry, Traci, it only gives him strength.
Wade remained calm. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
Infuriated, she hit the table with her fist. “I’ve lived with guilt all these years, Wade. My heart’s sick at what I’ve done. Not a day goes by when I don’t grow jealous of the love that other people share with their kids. Every time I hear a children's choir sing, every toddler that I see in the grocery store, each one is like a dagger into my heart. It’s a reminder of my own selfishness. And no matter what I do, I can’t get rid of this pain. No matter how many times I beg forgiveness.
“I was scared. How was I going to pay for a baby when I couldn’t even take care of myself? And you came along and made me feel like I was setting myself free, when what I really did was fasten my own chains. My selfishness took the life of an innocent and I’ve spent years trying to repent for the evil that girl brought upon herself. I need to go back and warn her––to tell her what it means to do away with the love of a darling little boy.”
She pulled a clean tissue from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. Desperate, she reached for his hand. She covered his fingers with her own and stared intently at him, pleading for help.
“Please...please. I need this.”
Her shoulders heaved. She didn’t want to visit Wade. She wished him dead, out of her mind. But the idea that she could go back and fix her life was too intoxicating. If she could go back….
Wade took her hand. “But what about your faith?”
She guffawed, biting her lip. “I should have known you’d have the audacity—” She balled the tissue in her free hand.
Wade held on tight. “Listen to me.”
“No, I can't, Wade. Please.”
“If you undo your decision, you will no longer follow Christ.” His words were sure but gentle. “The old you would never have stepped in front of that church. You would never have given up on your addictions—”
“You don’t know that.” How could he? He couldn’t.
“I think—”
“You don’t know that!” she shouted, pounding the table. “You don't know that!”
He persisted. “Before Carter died, you were a wreck. Addicted to drugs, behind on your bills. You paid no attention to those around you, only leaving the house when you needed another fix. Your son raised himself, knowing his mother as the phantom that sometimes shared his house. Glorify your past all you want, but you were nothing but a—”
“You could have helped me.” She snapped at him, snatching her hand from his. How dare he. She knew what she was doing. This was not a rushed decision. Still, she hated the picture he painted of her past life. That person was so far behind her now. If she pulled out of her drunken stupor once, she could do it again. No doubt. All she needed was a chance.
“I'm sorry,” he whispered.
“You could have helped me.” Traci kicked at the ground. “You could have helped me, but you were too much of a coward. You hid the truth from me, condemned me to a life of inner anguish. You left me for dead while I was still breathing. You gave up hope so quickly.”
Wade broke eye contact, staring at the table. “We have to move past that now.”
“I can't. I can't.”
He grabbed her hand once more, gripping it tight. She tried to pull it from him, but he did not let go. His care frightened her. “Yes you can.”
“Don't tell me what I can and cannot do.”
The guard poked his head in the door to check on her, probably stricken by her screams. She waved him off with her free hand, indicating that she was okay. The guard hesitated and then stepped back outside of the door.
“I need this,” whispered Traci.
Wade shook his head.
“I need it, Wade. I can't sleep, I can't eat. I'm sick with grief. I..., I killed someone. I'm a murderer. I'm so tired of fighting, so tired of eeking through life. How could you understand? How could you possibly understand? I have nobody. No child, no husband. My entire legacy could be dispensed with in a yard sale. All I have are things. Little, useless things. I can’t go on like this anymore. I have nothing to invest and I have no life here.”
“Please—”
“Don't preach to me, Wade,” she shouted, running her fingers through her hair. Who cared if the guard came in? He could drag her away, lock her in one of the cells if he liked. What did it matter? “Please, oh I beg you. Spare me your sermons, I can't listen to you anymore. Look at me. I have nothing to live for. I'm a murderer, Wade. There is no hiding from it.”
“You can't afford to live in the past.”
She hit the table again and again, denting the thin metal.
Wade took her arm. “You’re right.” He set his hand on top of hers. His voice was weak, but steady. “I can’t know for sure what would have happened, but here is something I do know. We only get one chance to do the right thing. Our faith in Jesus—”
“Don't you dare preach to me,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “I've heard enough from you. I'm tired of your sob stories. I've had enough. Please, Wade.” She pushed the pen and paper toward him again.
A pause. Wade sat straight, releasing her hand, eyes on the tablet. “No.”
“Please.”
He stood from his chair, his face inches from hers. “Now listen to me. Your faith in Christ is supposed to be the most important thing in your life.”
“We’re not talking about that—”
Eye contact strong, he rushed to her side of the table, bending to one knee. He knelt there, inches away, imploring her. “You would not have become a believer in Christ. Do you understand? If you hadn’t aborted Carter you never would have stopped in front of that church. If those old women hadn’t found you, you would not have trusted in Jesus. I followed you, Traci. I know what it took to get your attention. You can’t throw that away.”
“Stop,” she muttered, burying her face in a tissue. “Please, stop.”
“I can’t. I know you don’t want to hear this, but if trusting in Jesus really is the most important thing a person can do, if this means everything, then you need to understand that it doesn’t matter what you’ve done. You can’t give up without a fight. The only alternative is hell. There is no other way.”
“Stop it.” She covered her mouth with both hands. “Please, for my sake, Wade. I can’t take it anymore.”
“You may think that you don’t need God, or that you can pick Him back up whenever you want. But it doesn’t work like that. You look out in this world and see the earth filled with pain, with regret. Children are starving right now. Somewhere someone is committing murder, stealing something, getting raped. The world is filled with injustice and damage, war and hatred. My heart grows sick at the envy I’ve felt toward my fellow man. And can we fix it? Stop any of it? No. You can deny it, fine. Go ahead. Put your head in the sand. Pretend that you can solve the world's problems all on your own. But I’m telling you that it’ll get you nowhere. Utopia is an illusion.
“Jesus is real. He was a real person who lived a real life. He was perfect and gave himself so that you and I might escape from hell. That is the only way. You're never going to fix the world. It’s impossible. Christ is the real fix for our hearts. Until you understand that your past is forgiven, you will continue to burn yourself to ashes.”
“Wade—” she mumbled, but he cut her off.
“Nothing boils my blood like a Christian who defects at the first sign of trouble. Like the Bible promises roses at every step. What a sham. How weak is your faith if you’re willing to trade it so cheaply? God deserves more than our faithfulness when things are understandable. He demands all of us, one hundred percent. The God of the universe looked down and saw you, lost and unable to undo your own sin, destined for hell. He has every right as a holy and just being to put an end to you right where you sit, but instead He sent His Son in your place. That’s the miracle of the gospel. Not some shallow promise of an easy life, not some lie that we can fix it all on our own. ‘God is love’ has everything to do with Him rescuing us from hell, and nothing to do with heaven on earth. Nothing.”
His voice turned soft, gentle. He bent on both knees, down below her. “I hurt you. A man who inspires evil reaps the fruit of his inspiration. I accept that. But if you go back, if you undo what we have done, you are turning your back on your repentance before the living God. You are unwinding the only decision in life that really matters. You’re doing what you and I have always done––running away from our problems rather than surrendering them.
“Forgive yourself. Let go. I’ve spent my life trying to correct my own history. My birth killed my mother, the most patient and gifted woman who ever graced this earth. I told jokes to keep my father from getting angry enough to hit me. I drove him back from the bar and paid his tab so that he wouldn’t bring shame on my family. I ran away and tried to start a new life, dedicated everything to helping other people when I couldn’t even forgive myself. My obsession with setting the world right drove away the only two women who ever loved me. I’m weak, frail. My sinews ache and my muscle finds no purchase on my bones. The doctors keep telling me that I am dying, that my anger has killed me.
“Don’t end up like me, Traci. Don’t live your life as a sacrifice to your sin. Don’t give yourself over to unjust guilt. God has given you the chance to repent of your sin, to cast it aside. You can’t turn your back on Him now. This could be your only chance.”
Traci stared at him with the cold gaze of a statue. There was no more emotion left in her, no more joy, no more anger, no more tears. All that remained was an empty shell. She held no more love for the creature before her. She lifted the pen, set it on the legal pad, and slid it across the table.
“Please,” she whispered, lips trembling. “Don’t make me beg.”
Wade stared her in the eyes. She hated his gaze, but held firm. They waited there for thirty seconds, a minute. Wade relented, slinking back to h
is chair. Pen to paper, he wrote in precise detail. He drew pictures of the steering column, numbered each step, and underlined important items. The only sound in the room was that of the pen scratching against the paper and the turning of pages as he filled them with his words. When it was all said and done, he sat the pen down and pushed it back to her.
“I think I should go.” Using the chair and table as a support, he brought himself to a standing position before turning around to face her. “Only, please do me the favor…, don't undo what I’ve done. The Lord has forgiven me of my sins. He’s already paid the price. I can’t take back my past, but I’m no longer obligated to live in it.”
Cradle Robber Page 29