The Chaplain's Daughter Read online

  “Okay, John. What’s on your mind?”

  John proceeded to tell his wife all that had happened in San Diego. He told her about his epiphany in the hotel suite and about how he wanted things to change, for himself, for her, and for Alyssa. He told her that he couldn’t imagine dying alone in a faceless hotel room, states removed from her. He told her that he wanted to do something constructive in a career sense and that making a pile of money was going to be well down on his list of priorities. He told her that he was through with Big Pharma. Finally he told her what he had told her too infrequently in the previous 20 years. He told her that he loved her with all of his heart.

  DeeDee Boylan was a remarkable woman. She heard John out and accepted every word at face value. She could have raked him over the coals about the years that he had spent ignoring his family. She could have told him that she was used to their current lifestyle and that he should think again if he was going to mess with the numbers in the checking account. She could have told him that they could talk about it later after he had slept it off. She didn’t say any of those things. She said, “Let’s do this.”

  Life changed for the Boylans. They sold their 2700 square foot house in the hills, moved into a more modest home in the suburban city of Lacey, and lived on the proceeds from the sale of the house while John was in training. John went to school to study pastoral counseling at Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic Seminary in Seattle.

  Their daughter Alyssa, though supportive of the idea in theory, swallowed hard when she saw that their new home came sans swimming pool. Even she recognized, though, that the family was happier than it had ever been before. Her parents hugged one another and even kissed in the kitchen (“Yuck, you GUYS!”) sometimes.

  John finished training in nine months. He held part time jobs working in Seattle area school districts shortly after getting out of school. While John enjoyed these jobs, school districts in Washington State, especially in urban settings, are strapped for cash. The funding for a sub-counselor position was always just a board meeting away from being cut. John worked at Washington Jr. High in Ballard, and Issaquah Senior High before the money dried up. Then he was out of work.

  John wrote a letter to the Seattle archdiocese inquiring about work that he might find in one of the private schools in the area. After not hearing back for a couple of weeks, John called to follow up. He was told that, while there was no availability in any of the schools overseen by the archdiocese, something might be available in prison and jail work if John was interested. John was so interested that he made it from Lacey to the Seattle offices of the archdiocese (a distance of 75 miles) in just under an hour. After a two hour application and interview process, John began an internship under a retiring jail chaplain. Sixteen years, two months, 21 days later, John told the story of the earth and the world to Toby Jacks in Pierce County Jail.

  John’s first one on one with Toby lasted about 20 minutes. He gave the young man some papers that he could look at during the seemingly endless hours of boredom that Toby would experience in jail. There were some scripture passages and some philosophy. John included some humor from the comic strip Calvin and Hobbes, as well as a maze out of a puzzle book. Toby thanked John for the materials and his time.

  “Would you like to get together again?” John asked. “I can see you weekly if you would like.”

  Toby answered, “I don’t think so. My court date is next week.”

  John knew that a first court date rarely happens on time and, when it does, rarely results in release. He was going to say as much to Toby, but they had shared a pleasant enough time and he didn’t want to end on a sour note.

  “Well good luck to you then Toby.”

  Toby shook John’s hand. “Thanks.”

  Toby went back to his bunk and looked over what John had left with him. The philosophy was from the author Richard Rohr. It was about hope.

  “Not for me,” Toby thought.

  He liked the cartoon, though, and borrowed a pencil to complete the maze. The rest he tossed in the blue box that the jail provided for his personal belongings. It was almost time for dinner.

  “God,” Toby groaned. “I wonder how they’re going to try to poison me tonight.”

  Dinner came and went. Toby couldn’t have told you later what he had, and not because he had a bad memory. It was some kind of gelatinous mess on top of noodles, served with cold rubber broccoli and a carton of warm milk. The most disgusting part to Toby was that it was the best meal that he had eaten since he’d gotten to jail.

  Two days later Toby was summoned to the visitor’s room again. This time it was Max Lundquist. He shook hands with Toby and told him what was likely to happen once they got to court. He said that the fact that Toby had been inebriated at the time of his arrest (Toby had blown a 1.4 on the breathalyzer. 0.8 is drunk in Washington State) could actually work in his favor. He told Toby that the court was interested in getting another “win” in the column of the prosecutor more than they were interested in putting Toby away for an extended period of time. Max asked Toby if he understood that, if he was willing to plead guilty to being an accessory in the theft of the car, he would avoid prison altogether and serve a sentence in county that would cover months rather than years.

  Toby asked just one question, “How long?”

  Max answered, “You can’t predict exactly what a judge will say, but the prosecutor will ask for six months and the judges usually follow that recommendation pretty close. We’ll argue that you don’t have an adult record, or even any contact with law enforcement since you turned 18. You’ll probably get six months or so, maybe a little less.”

  The meeting with Max took a total of less than 15 minutes. It was to be the last that Toby heard from his attorney until court on Friday.

  Toby went to John’s church service again on Thursday night. He was curious what story John might tell this time. John didn’t disappoint. He told a story of two men stranded at sea. One is trying to get someone to see them so they could be rescued. The other man is sawing a hole in the bottom of the boat. John said that this story was where the expression “We’re all in the same boat” had originated. He said that all of God’s children are in the same boat.

  The inmates at the service groaned a little about John’s story. Toby noticed something else, though. He noticed John’s hearty laugh over a story that he had probably told a thousand times. Toby found himself looking forward to seeing John sometime after his court appearance the next day.

  Toby was scheduled to be in court at 1:30 on Friday afternoon. He was shackled in a line with all of the other inmates that had court appearances that day, and marched down the cold dank corridors to the courtrooms. Once there Toby was placed in a holding room until his time before the judge was called.

  Toby and Max stood at the dock in Courtroom 533, 15 feet removed from where the prosecutor stood. After the bailiff read the charges, the prosecutor read from his notes without as much as a glance in Toby’s direction. Toby knew that he wasn’t real to the prosecutor, nor really to Max Lundquist. At that moment he wondered if he was real to anyone.

  When it came time for Judge Thomas Nestle to rule on Toby’s case and pronounce the sentence, he made it clear that Toby was real to him. Judge Nestle took his glasses off and placed them carefully on his podium before speaking to Toby.

  “Frankly, young man, I think you’re a punk. I don’t think that you were incapacitated by drink that night at all. You willingly left your “birthday party” (the judge punctuated those two words with air quotes) and got into a car that you may very well have known was stolen. You participated as a full accomplice in the theft of the car. Looking at your juvenile record, I can see that you don’t have a lot of respect for the rule of law. Therefore I’m going to go beyond the recommendation of the prosecution and sentence you to 11 months in county jail, with credit for time served. You will be eligible, if you do good time, to be released 277 days from today.”

  Judge Nestle banged his g
avel and said, “Take him away! Next case!”

  Toby had been hoping for some kind of courtroom speech at that point. He hoped that maybe Max would deliver a rousing oratory about how Toby deserved leniency. Instead, Max put his hand on Toby’s arm and said, “There will be things for you to sign.”

  By this time the next defendant was being herded to the front of the courtroom. Toby’s time was up. He signed the papers that Max put before him without looking at them, accepted Max’s limp handshake and vague, “Good luck” and allowed himself to be shackled for the walk back to Tank 2D. Toby’s birthday had been April 10th. Assuming that he kept his nose clean in jail, his release would be set for December 28th.

  2

  Alyssa Boylan was fuming! She had gotten into a heated discussion during her sociology class that afternoon. The subject had been “nature v. nurture.” The professor had been droning on about how people are incredibly influenced by their living environment, influencing their actions. Finally, Alyssa had heard enough. She raised her hand and, when she wasn’t acknowledged soon enough for her liking, started to wave her hand in the air.

  Finally the professor noticed her urgent waves. “Yes, Miss Boylan. Do you have something to offer or are you just drying your nail polish?”

  The rest of the class laughed at this rare departure from the planned lecture. Alyssa flushed red.

  “I’m not wearing any nail polish right now, Professor Bakewood, but if I were it would be because I was predisposed to wear it through advertising and peer pressure, and not because my genes forced me to do so.”

  Henry Bakewood had been teaching at Lewis and Clark Community College for almost 26 years. His usual routine consisted of waiting for tenure and delivering the same lectures that he had been offering for years. That said he appreciated a little give and take with the students now and again. He nodded appreciatively at Alyssa’s rejoinder.

  “Well played, Miss Boylan. You obviously have something to add to the topic of nature versus nurture. Go ahead, we’re all ears.”

  Alyssa placed her palms on the arm of her chair and leaned forward. Her clear voice rang out with authority. “To assign the blame for our actions on nurture is just another way of letting bad behavior off the hook. What did that comedian say, way back when? The devil made me do it? The problem with the world today is that people in our society aren’t held accountable for the choices that they make! Why do some people make good choices and others don’t? It’s because some people believe in right and wrong and the rule of law. Others believe that social mores are just something to be gotten over. To believe that everything is the result of an unfortunate upbringing is a copout and the result of a permissive culture gone to seed!”

  Alyssa sat down to the sound of thunderous…silence. Professor Bakewood took his glasses off and cleaned them carefully before answering. His voice was gentle when he at last responded to Alyssa.

  “That is a very interesting point of view, and one that is shared by a lot of people. I would ask, though, that you do some research into the human genome project. Scientists are discovering that there is very little difference in how we are formed genetically. It may be inconvenient to realize that the environment in which one is raised has a great deal to do with how someone blends, or doesn’t, into society, but there is fact behind the theory anyway.”

  Professor Bakewood stopped Alyssa with the raised palm of his hand when she started to answer again. “We’re out of time for today. Drop by my office if you would like to continue this discussion. For now, though,” he said indicating the class as a whole, “You may go.”

  Alyssa held her books against her chest as she made her way out of the lecture hall. She had wanted to challenge Professor Bakewood further but didn’t have time now. She only had 15 minutes to make it to her job in the campus bookstore. Alyssa worked there 15 hours a week as a way to supplement the student loans and scholarships that paid most of her tuition at South Sound Community College in Olympia.

  Alyssa had a plan for her future. This was her second year at SSCC. All of her credits were going to transfer to a four year college, probably the University of Washington, next year. She wanted to study criminal law as an avenue to getting a job as a prosecutor in the district attorney’s office. After that she wanted to be a judge. Only 8% of the Superior Court judges in Washington State were female. That, in her opinion, was a crime in and of itself.

  Still thinking of what she said, might have said, should have said, and was glad she didn’t say in class, Alyssa arrived at the bookstore. She told herself that she would look for something on the human genome project when she got off work. “Might as well put that 25% employee discount to work,” she thought as she stepped behind the register to relieve her predecessor at the post.

  Alyssa was a bit of a Daddy’s girl. She had defended her father to her mother when he was off on business trips, and was usually the first person in the house to run and hug him when he got back. When he came home from San Diego with his new plan she was for it, almost as much as her mother was. Sure, she would miss some of the trappings of wealth, but even as a young teen she could tell that her parents weren’t happy when John was on the road so much. The atmosphere at home was so much better than it had been before. Her Dad was so much more relaxed now than he had been. He had told Alyssa, one night just before she went to bed, that he had changed his own thought process with respect to success.

  “Come here, Pumpkin,” John said, using his favorite pet name for his daughter. She went to the recliner in which her father sat in repose, and perched on the arm. “You can be anything that you want to be. You’re that smart and that much of a hard worker. You’ll know you have it made, though, in whatever field you choose, when you can look forward to your days at work just as much as you look forward to your days off.”

  Alyssa remembered those words as she checked customers out of the bookstore. “This isn’t what he was talking about,” she thought to herself as she waited on one gum chewing frat boy after another. “Someday, though.”

  ***

  The days droned on for Toby. One day looked just like the one before it. The only light that was available to him was the fluorescent lights that buzzed overhead 24 hours a day. There was never enough light to be able to read comfortably, and the tank was never dark enough for Toby to be able to sleep well. He mentioned this to one of the guards a couple of months after he had come to 2D. The guard grunted and said, “Don’t come to jail, then.”

  The only respites that Toby had for the tedium were John Boylan’s weekly service, and every other week when the chaplain came to 2D for a one on one visit. After a while John had started to repeat himself at the Thursday night gatherings, but Toby still looked forward to them. His favorite times, though, were when the guard called Toby to the front door to meet with John in one of the visitor’s rooms. As the number of visits mounted John and Toby discovered that they had some things in common. In spite of the Mariners shirt that John had been wearing that first night, his true passion was basketball. Toby had been a point guard of some renown during his high school years. There had even been some talk that he could have landed a Division One scholarship if he had been able to keep his grades where they belonged. He didn’t, though, and the recruiters melted away.

  John’s priority when he first met Toby was to meet him where his life was right at the moment. That’s why, though he had remembered the speedy ball handler as soon as John saw Toby, he hadn’t brought those days to the younger man’s attention at first. Gradually, though, as the two became better acquainted John and Toby talked hoop. Toby’s face lit up when the topic turned in that direction. John enjoyed those parts of the visits as well.

  One afternoon, though, the conversation between John and Toby became more serious. John asked Toby if he ever thought about what his relationship with God was, or what he would like it to be.

  Toby took a deep breath and sat back in the chair. “I haven’t ever given it much thought until I got here. I on
ly went to church for weddings and funerals, so I guess that I don’t really have a relationship with God.”

  John leaned forward in the chair. Though Toby didn’t know it, and John didn’t realize it, the posture that John assumed was the same posture that his daughter had assumed when taking on Professor Bakewood in the sociology class.

  “I’m not talking about church! I’m talking about God! Churches are all well and good (at least some of them are) but you have a relationship with God whether you ever go into a church or not. You’re a child of God! You are who you have been all along! Have you been plugging your ears every Thursday night, man?”

  Toby looked at John with a certain measure of alarm. This was different than the kindly older gentleman that talked about Kobe Bryant and LeBron James with Toby in the visitor’s room. John had a flame in his eye when he talked about God.

  “I don’t know, John! God has never talked to me! My whole life has been one screw up after another. I know that some of it is my fault, but a lot of it is just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Where has God been when I was hurting, or lonely, or scared?”

  John sat back in the chair and looked at Toby with a look that was equal parts compassion and incredulity. John pursed his lips before answering the lost soul who was seated across the table.