Thomas McMann stood in the small cement room. A wooden bench, affixed to one wall held two paper sacks, the sum total of the possessions that he had on his person when he was arrested seven years ago. In his left hand was a backpack, made from an old pair of jeans. It had in it a few hand-written journal pages, and a couple of small momentos from a fellow inmate of his. Beside the paper sacks was a plastic bag, and it contained the clothing he wore when he arrived at the Oregon State Prison.
One last time, he took off all his clothing in front of a guard, and then put back on the black jeans and white t-shirt that was in the plastic bag. Once dressed, the guard smiled.
“I don’t want to see your ass back here, Tom. You’re better than this.”
Tom smiled, and nodded. “I don’t think you will. I’ve done my time, paid my debt. I’ve got a few things I want to do, and I’ve got a few more things I’ve got to work through.”
The guard, a stocky, powerful man proffered him a sheaf of paperwork. Tom took it, and looked over his discharge papers.
“You’ll need to check in with your parole officer once you reach the halfway house. I know you aren’t going to be on parole for very long, but you know the drill.”
“I’m just thankful that there’s work in the area. Eugene’s not a big town, but I’ve been told that the skills you guys gave me are in demand.”
“We didn’t do anything, Tom. You worked hard, kept your nose clean. Heck, I’ve had harder times sitting my six year old.”
Tom chucked.
“I made my mistake, I pled guilty. You have to stand up for what you do even when it’s the wrong thing. I don’t claim to be innocent, but I do claim to be honest, and to try to do the right thing.”
Officer Hiram Nelson put a hand on Tom’s shoulder.
“You’ll make us proud, Tom. I know it.” He turned toward the closed-circuit camera in the room and then tilted his head toward the door leading to the exit room. “Open out”
A series of hard, mechanical clicks followed, and Tom picked up the paper sacks, the plastic bag and his backpack and walked out into the adjoining room. No one waited for him. He was alone in this world. Officer Nelson followed.
“You can leave when you like, the bus runs from out front in about twenty minutes.” He handed Tom an envelope containing eight hundred fifteen dollars, and a dozen bus tokens. The money Tom earned while working in the prison construction program, at little over a dollar and nineteen cents per day. The bus tokens were complementary. Both men turned as a secondary door opened into the room.
Officer Nelson smiled, “Warden.”
Tom came to a semi-attention posture, when Warden Banks put her hand down.
“Just wanted to say goodbye, Tom. You’ve done well here, and it was a pleasure meeting you. Next time, however, let’s make it coffee at Barnes & Nobles or something like that.”
Tom chuckled, “count on it, ma’am. No more forgery for me.”
Warden Banks smiled at him, her weathered face had seen many men come and go, and she could tell those that would come back, and those who would not. She would even put money on it with the other guards, but not a single one of them would bet that Tom would be returning to prison anytime soon.
There was silence as he put on his jacket, loaded everything into his backpack and shouldered it. It was her turn to look at the camera.
“Inmate release.”
The clicking sound followed, and she opened the door for him.
Typical for Oregon in March, the cloud cover was thick in the mid-morning. Tom walked out of the facility, toward the north a block and found the bus stop. In mere minutes, he had gone from having to take his clothing off in front of total strangers to complete freedom, and he realized that it was going to take some getting used to.
The instructions on his sheet were clear, and he did not get lost enroute to the halfway house. He checked in, was show his room, given the rules, then called his parole officer, and made his initial appointment, day after tomorrow. He sat on his bed, and thumbed through his cash. A single tear ran down his left cheek, his throat trembled.
Carefully he took the entire sum of money, removed twenty dollars and put it in his wallet. He walked outside, found the local Bank of America, opened a savings account and put the rest in, getting a temporary ATM card. He walked the streets of Eugene for a few minutes, just being an ordinary person. He marveled at how he knew he was an ex-con, but no one else did, and that gave him hope.
Walking away from the center of town, he did not realize he was going closer and closer to some of the more residential areas, and stopped himself when he saw a schoolyard crossing sign.
His heart began to beat harder, and his throat ran dry when he saw the parochial school, St. Rose’s Academy. A cluster of children played on the equipment, yelling, running, jumping. Immediately, he turned away, his throat running dry. He closed his eyes.
Tom was a pedophile. He knew it. It was his deep, dark secret. He had never actually had sex with a child, but he knew what he was, what he liked. He knew it would be the wrong thing to do, to molest a child, the way he had been molested. His hands trembled, and he walked at a quick pace, back into the town proper, and into a Seven-Eleven. The cold cherry Slurpee served to take the edge off his pumping heart, although the sugar rush was intense to someone not used to it.
Tom vowed that he would now be able to get some help for this problem. He knew better than to say anything to anyone in prison, but here, outside, he could get help. Some counselor, some therapist, someone could help, and he knew it. That kind of thinking kept him safe, kept him sane. Now, anonymously, he could go get some help, and move on.
For today, however, he had his freedom, and that was something special. He bought a newspaper, corn dogs, corn chips and a two liter of soda, and took them back to his small room, with its’ comfortable bed, and relaxed for the rest of the day.
From his room on the second floor, Tom watched people, which was a hobby for him. He, like one of his great heroes, H.P. Lovecraft, would watch people go back and forth, and would imagine the things they did in their lives. Unlike Lovecraft, Tom did not consider himself much of a writer, but from time to time would pen dark poetry. He spied in the alleyway an interesting person, and jotted down some notes for a short piece of fiction.
The man in the alley wore tattered jeans, a patched jean jacket, was tall, and had dark olive skin and brown dreadlocks with a touch of grey in their roots. His beard was neither long nor short, and through his appearance alone it looked like he drifted at the fringe of society. When he opened up the dumpster to the halfway house, Tom became concerned. He had seen a lot on the news about identity theft, and knew that people got a great deal of information through the trash. Tom thought some more and then went downstairs to the kitchen.
Mrs. Anna Hartman, the halfway house’s owner stood against her sink, her back toward the window, drinking a glass of water.
“Getting settled in, Tom?” She asked.
“Uh, yeah. Um, Mrs. Hartman, there’s some guy in the back rooting through the dumpster.”
“Oh?” She said. She turned, and looked through the window. “That’s just Jay.”
“Jay?” Tom asked.
She shrugged. “Some bum. I’ve seen him picking up cans in the alley, and when he saw me take my garbage out one morning, he asked if he could have the cans and bottles. I said to knock himself out, I don’t care.”
“Okay,” Tom said.
“I shred the important stuff, but the cans and such, I figure are fair game. Especially here in Oregon, you can get a nickel each.”
Tom nodded.
“He’s an alright guy, homeless I figure. He takes the cans, puts everything back, doesn’t make a mess, asked first. Real polite. I see him walking the streets from time to time with a big bag full of cans. Heck, as far as I’m concerned, he’s doing us a service.”
“Oh,” Tom mouthed.
“So you’ve got your first PO appointment set tomorrow, right?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Good, you’re off to the right start.”
Tom smiled and nodded. He wanted to succeed at the rest of his life.
* * *
Tom awoke with a start from the street noise early the next morning. His eyes were fuzzy for just a second, unused to his surroundings. Today was his first appointment with his parole officer, at nine o’clock. He got out of bed, stretched, and then made the bed out of habit, if nothing else. He felt weird, locking the bathroom door behind him, and realized this was the first shower he had taken without someone watching him for seven years. Having a sense of privacy was going to be an odd change.
Breakfast was a quickly consumed fast food meal, and he was grateful for the strong, acidic coffee. The halfway house manager gave him bus directions, and he made his exchanges without difficulty. At eight forty-five he checked in with the receptionist, and at precisely nine o’clock a neatly dressed man came down the hallway.
“Thomas McMann,” he called.
Tom stood, “right here.”
The man extended his right hand. “Henry Barker, I’ll be your Parole Officer for the next six months. Come on back to my desk.”
Tom followed Henry back to a small cubicle, filled with bookshelves, diplomas and stacks of charts. One of them was open on his desk, with a picture of Tom, his police record and fingerprints. There were also two letters on top.
“I see you’ve got your resume all figured out, that’s good. I know that in prison you were on a few of the construction crews. I also have two letters of reference from the warden and the teacher there. I don’t see this kind of thing very often, so I’ll spare you the, ‘straight-and-narrow’ speech.”
Tom gave him a half smile. He had no idea about the letters of reference.
“I have an interview lined up for you this morning; it’s with a construction crew. Problem is right now they have too many people, so what they might do is put you on a landscaping crew for now. It wouldn’t be what you were trained for, and it won’t be as much money.”
“No problem.” Tom said. “If it’ll get me working, that’s all I care.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Henry said. “Nothing like a go-to attitude to get you hired.”
Henry picked up a manila envelope and put in photocopies of Tom’s resume, and the letters of reference. To this he paper clipped two business cards, one of his, and one for the job, and handed the entire thing over to Tom.
“Most of his jobs are pretty local, you get dropped off and picked up from their central business. Mostly commercial, some residential, but they won’t have you doing that initially, I don’t think. Anyway, good luck, and call me if you need anything. I’ll need to see you again in two weeks.”
“Thanks Henry,” Tom said.
“You’re welcome.” Henry replied.
Tom left.
By noon that day, he had a job, and in a week he had come to earn a slight bit of trust with his employer. He showed up on time, did as he was told, and a little extra. He was on a lawn maintenance crew and liked it. He enjoyed being outside, could care less if it rained. Tom spoke enough Spanish to be able to understand a lot of what the immigrant workers were saying, and was able to translate back and forth to his immediate supervisor.
* * *
Over the course of a few months, he made friends with his co-workers, his supervisor, and even the owner of the company.
Unlike many of the other former convicts, Tom had no tattoos, his hair neatly combed back, and he could mingle in white-collar culture without much difficulty. It was for this reason he was held back one day from the normal construction crew, and asked to go into the main office.
“Tom, I’ve got a job I need to assign to someone I can trust, and I think you’re that man.” Ricardo Mendez, the owner of the company said.
“Sure thing, Rick.” Tom replied.
“My daughter’s school has hired my company to do their landscaping, but they need someone clean cut. I can’t put many of the ex-cons on the crew because they look like hell. You don’t. This is a one-man gig. Think of it like a permanent solo assignment. You check in with me every couple of days.”
“Hey, I can do that,” Tom said happily.
“I thought you could. You keep this up, and the next time I need a crew chief, I’m gonna be thinking about you real hard.”
Tom smiled. He felt proud of what he was able to do since his release, and his life was looking up. Rick gave him the address and told him to check in with Father Mulcahy this morning, and then report. He scribbled the address to St. Rose’s Church on a post-it and handed it over.
It was not until Tom got there, did he realize that the Church was attached to the parochial school he had walked away from a few months earlier.
The children played there, innocently.
Tom’s heart pounded.
He closed his eyes.
Stalwartly, he walked past them, crossed the street to the Church proper, and walked in. Tom wasn’t Catholic, and did not cross himself as he entered. This subtle non-action drew attention from one of the priests, a tall, thin man with Sandy graying hair.
“Can I help you?” He asked.
“I’m looking for Father Mulcahy. My name is Thomas McMann. Ricardo Mendez sent me over to do some landscaping.”
“I’m Father Mulcahy, welcome to my parish. Please, let us discuss what needs to be done in my office.”
“Certainly, Father.” Tom said.
Over steaming mugs of hot coffee, the men poured over an elaborate redecorating scheme. This particular design had come from a lot of planning and would take many months of work to achieve the effect that was sought over. With different layers of blooming flowers carefully mixed with one another, it would be beautiful, a piece of living artwork. Tom knew he could do it, and knew that it would be glorious when he was finished.
“Ricardo usually employs ex-cons, so I was somewhat trepidatous to hire his firm. May I inquire what your line of work was before you came to work with him?”
“Prison, seven years. Forgery.” Tom said blankly. He put it bluntly in such a manner, hoping that Father Mulcahy would simply fire him before he was ever hired.
“Forgery?” The Priest said. “Nothing violent, then.”
“No. I’m not a violet person, by my nature.” He heard a child squeal in the background and his hand softly trembled. He had come so far. Maybe, just maybe this job could work out. If he could suppress these urges here, then he wouldn’t need to see a counselor. He’d made it this far, he reasoned.
“That’s good to my ears. I had enough violence in Korea to last me a lifetime. As you won’t be around any financial matters, I don’t think there will be an issue, but I will be honest in saying that we will be keeping our eyes on you as a matter of habit. I’d ask that you please keep your appearance as tidy as you can, with the children around an all. Appearance is very important. Not like some of the bums that are out there.”
Father Mulcahy gestured outside as Jay walked down the street, bearing an enormous load of cans in a clear garbage bag. He waved at the children who giggled and waved at him. He shook his long, floppy dreadlocks in the sunshine, and his load of cans made an odd clanking noise as he walked. The children squealed in delight, as two nuns glowered at him.
“Jay’s all right. He does odd jobs at my halfway house.”
“You know him?”
“We’ve met once or twice. I know him by name, but I’ve never had coffee with him or anything like that.”
Father Mulcahy nodded. “He asked me if he could dig in our dumpster for cans, and I told him that digging in the garbage is a filthy habit and that he should get a job and cut his hair. He laughed at me, and said that he would take that as a ‘no’ answer. I’ve tried to give him money and food since, but he refuses. Some people are very difficult to help.”
“Father, the only help I want is a job. Ricardo Mendez gave that to me. Maybe I can talk to Jay, if I see him around.”
Father Mulcahy smiled at him. “Excellent idea, Tom. So when can you start work?”
“I have to go see Ricardo after we’re done talking; I’d like to take these diagrams with me. I’ll need to walk off the footage to give him some rough measurements of what kind of bulbs and seeds you’re going to need.”
“Excellent, excellent. I won’t keep you then. If you need anything, my door is always open.”
“Thank you father, but right now, I’d like to get to work.”
Tom left, returned to the office, and spent the rest of the morning discussing the project with Ricardo. They estimated the different types of plants needed.
“I think I’ll start over here,” Tom said, pointing to an area on the opposite side of the church, the farthest point away from the playground. “I can lay out some tarps tomorrow morning before you have the peat moss delivered, that way we can set up a work space that’s out of the way. Keep the whole project looking nice.”
“Great work, Tom. Why don’t you go get some lunch while I get someone on these orders. Heck, why don’t you take the afternoon off?”
Tom looked stunned.
“You mean it?”
“Go catch a movie or something. You’ve earned it. Tomorrow, nine, I’ll have the trucks at the church, so be there at eight to get it all laid out.”
“I’m on it, Ricardo,” he smiled.
* * *
The first three days of the project were very busy, Tom supervised truckload upon truckload of materials to be delivered to a cordoned off area of the parking lot. Once the materials were arrived, Tom carefully began to cut the sod around the north end of the church. He learned a walking route that took him four blocks out of his way, and deliberately went around the playground area and school. He thought that he had things under control.
One lunch, he sat on the concrete steps just outside the church, eating a bologna sandwich and drinking a soda. He had made it a habit to eat in this location, although it was in view of the playground. He’d close his eyes from time to time, and the thoughts came. They were nasty, vile demons, and he fought to retain control.
One girl, in particular he felt attracted to. He saw the distinctive shadowing under her eyes, and knew she had downs syndrome, and was probably an orphan of some kind. His mouth watered, and his hands trembled. His sandwich finished, he stood up to go back to the dumpster to throw the bag away, and get away from the temptation.
He flipped open the top, tossed the bag in, and then turned away, thinking he could get to watch her in her little plaid green jumper for just a few more minutes. He did not see Jay in the alleyway walking toward the end of the street; Tom was lost in his own little world.
Carefully, Tom returned to his spot. His lower jaw trembled. He came to an important conclusion, that this was not a good place for him to be. No, this was a mistake. A bad, bad mistake. He had to figure out a way around this, some sort of accident. Yes, that would be it. A cut on his hand or something like that, just to give himself some kind of breather.
Happy with this plan, Tom stood up and left the front of the church, returning toward the back. He eyed the brickwork, and then smiled. It would hurt, but it would be worth it – anything to get away from this place, and these temptations.
He looked in the church’s windows, saw no one was in the offices, gritted his teeth and slammed his head forward as hard as he could smashing his face into the wall.
His jaw and face screamed in pain, and he bled from his nose. He tripped and slammed his head right into the concrete curb, adding to his self-injury. His skull made a sickening sound, and momentarily, he lost consciousness.
Jay ran from the dumpster to him, and carefully rolled him into the grass.
“Tom? Tom can you hear me?” He said.
“Ugh,” Tom replied. His front teeth were chipped and he felt blood trickle into his mouth.
“Let’s get you into the bathroom buddy.”
Tom gagged on the mixture of blood and mucus forming at the back of his mouth and spat it out on the grass.
“I think we need to call you an ambulance or something,” Jay said. His voice was preternaturally calm.
“Uh, no, probably just to go home, lie down or something.” Tom said, regaining his voice.
Jay helped him up, and had Tom use him as a brace, getting the two of them into the men’s room. It was clear that Tom’s nose was broken, and he was shivering.
“You really do need to see a doctor, Tom.” Jay said quietly.
“No, uh, gotta go home.” Tom said. He realized that this accident did nothing for his feelings. Nothing at all. He realized his injury did not put him off. Suddenly, he started to cry from years of his emotions being pent up.
“Tom.” Jay said.
Tom blubbered.
“Tom I watched you from the dumpster. I watched you smash your face into the wall. Why?”
“No, no.” Tom’s eyes became pinpoint pupils.
“I won’t tell anyone, Tom, but if you want me to help you, to get you to a place of safety, to get you cleaned up, you’re gonna have to be straight up with me.” Jay said. His soft brown eyes looked up from the thick, round locks, and they comforted Tom like a father would his young child.
“Don’t wanna… Hurt.” Tom said.
“You don’t want to hurt, or is there someone you don’t want to hurt. I’ve seen you on those steps, watching those kids, Tom.”
Tom’s cry went from soft tears to a malicious choking sound as it all poured out of him at once, gagging and gasping for air.
“Let it out, Tom. Let the pain out. It doesn’t do you any good inside, does it? All cooped up in there, rattling in your skull.”
Tom cried harder than he ever did at any time in his life.
He babbled on about how good the little girls looked to him, how their skirts caught his eyes, and how he never, ever wanted to hurt any of them, but he had these feelings, and had always had these feelings, and he didn’t know what to do and now he was going to get fired, or go back to prison, or something.
When he paused, exhausted, Jay spoke to him quietly:
“Okay Tom, now listen to me. Listen to the sound of my voice,” he spoke in a monotone and clasped Tom’s hands together, putting his own around them. “I want you to imagine all those feelings you have are right here. Right in your hands. Imagine a dark ball with all of the evil, and all of the vileness you can possible create.”
Tom’s eyes widened as in his mind, a black river poured into his palms. It gushed over both men, onto the floor, covering the tiles.
“That’s it,” Jay said. “Let it all out. Let it all go. I’ll take it from you, okay? I’m good at this kind of thing.”
Tom nodded. At a certain point, the blackness in his mind ran empty, and the last droplets of it, came out of him.
Jay waved his hand, and the black ooze of the floor jumped up at his beck and command. Slowly, it all pooled into his hand, compressing into a ball, like a fish tank of ink.
“Away we go,” Jay said. He poured the stygian blackness from his hand to a urinal and flushed. Jay then washed his hands.
“Can we get you cleaned up now? I think the worst of it is over, eh.” Jay said.
Father Mulcahy came into the bathroom, startling Tom.
“What’s going on here,” he demanded.
“He hit the brickwork, and then the curb,” Jay said.
“And you just happened to be standing there, helping him go down, I imagine.” Father Mulcahy said.
“That’s a very unkind thing for a man of the cloth to be saying, Father.” Jay said. “I think we should call an ambulance.”
“And the police. Assault is a serious matter, Jay, or whatever your name is.”
“He didn’t do anything, I tripped.” Tom spoke up.
“Tom, you don’t have to defend him. He’s just a drug dealing hippy.”
Jay bit his lips and took a deep breath, “Father, I won’t be going anywhere, so please, let’s get him taken care of. Then if you wish to verbally spar with me, we shall. First things, first, please.”
Father Mulcahy pulled out his cell phone and called 911. When the ambulance arrived, Tom walked out to greet them and sat on the stretcher. They had parked in front of the church, and the children stared at the group of them, their fingers clung to the chain link fence. Jay never left Tom’s side, and Father Mulcahy never allowed Jay to leave his sight.
Tom felt much better, and looked over at the kids staring at him. He expected the tide of thoughts, the desires, the urges to come, but they did not. He felt his breathing stay calm, felt his pulse not rise. Some how, Jay had helped him through this. He turned to thank him, and as he did, his peripheral vision caught the movement of a ball, rolling from the play area to the street.
The little girl whom he had found so attractive as little as an hour earlier ran after it. Instead of being sexually aroused at her he had feelings of protection, wanting to defend her.
A car came careening down the street, at several times the speed limit.
Tom leapt off the gurney, and into the street, where the child stood frozen with fear, her eyes transfixed upon the driver who was talking on her cell phone.
Jay was the only other person to act, and saw that Tom’s reaction time was just a fraction of a second off, that while he would knock the little girl out of the way easily; the speed of the car would strike him square on. With a subtle motion of his hand, he caused Tom to trip on an unseen object, in essence shoving him forward a few feet. Instead of the car running square into him, it merely glanced. The little girl cried once she hit the ground.
The police arrived and cited the driver. In the confusion, Jay hefted his garbage bag full of cans, and headed out to redeem them.
The next day, Jay read the paper while having morning tea. The headline was about an ex-convict who saved an orphan girl from a drunk driver. He stopped by the half-way house on his way out of town, knowing Tom wasn’t there, and asked Mrs. Hartman if she would be kind enough to tell Tom that he had to leave, that the work that he needed to do here was done, and it was time for him to move on. Mrs. Hartman said that she would deliver the message, and that she was sorry to see Jay go.
“There’s still a lot of work to be done,” Jay said. “Too much for one man, certainly, but it’s good to help when you can.”
Mrs., Hartman smiled at him, watched as he put on his tattered jean jacket, hefted his backpack, and began to walk down toward the highway.
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