EXCERPT – Chapter 4 from PIOUS, a novel by Kenn Bivins.
The previous owners, a middle-aged married couple, fell on hard times when the husband was laid off from his job as a foreman at a mattress factory. The wife was physically disabled and unable to work more than a part-time job as a seamstress, and that yielded very little in the way of paying a mortgage and meeting other debts. The couple moved into a small apartment in a convenient location, sold their car, and put the house up for sale. The housing market was already slowing down due to a declining local economy and there had been very few serious inquiries since then.
Now, thirty-five-year-old Ian Kaplan was beneficiary to the misfortune that people weren’t buying mattresses like they once did. He first registered an interest in the house over three months ago. With near-perfect credit, financing already secured, and a willingness to purchase the property at the asking price, the transaction should not have taken over three months, but Ian was no ordinary homebuyer. Serving eleven years in prison for having sex with a minor tends to make otherwise seamless transactions a little…complicated.
Admah City statutes mandate that Ian must register as a sex offender for fifteen years following his completed sentence and parole. His conviction carried with it a requirement to attend counseling on a regular and consistent basis during those fifteen years. As a registered sex offender, he is unable to come within 750 yards of where children or minors may congregate—a school, playground, daycare, the back of an ice cream truck. That was the main obstacle to his home purchase. He had to make certain that there were no laws prohibiting him from moving to Mechi Lane. Though there are children that live there, there would have to be a playground or similar area to consider them congregating in one area. That legal loophole and a judge signing off on it gave Ian permission to purchase the property.
Finally the day has come. Cool December rain falls more consistently as Ian carries small, neatly packed and labeled boxes from the cabin of the truck to the welcoming doors of his new home. His original plan of moving under the cover of night was interrupted by heavy rain and a mild consideration for not disturbing his new neighbors. As soon as the rain slacked off, he decided that it was best to get as much out of the truck as possible. The process would probably be over in an hour or so with two more men to assist, but Ian doesn’t seem to have many friends—at least none who are willing to help him move furniture in the rain in the early hours of the morning.
Additionally, those who have known Ian for a long time would probably say that he was always a bit of a recluse. In high school, he was that geeky kid who ate in the cafeteria alone or with the other maladjusted misfits. Whereas pubescent years for a boy are typically hormone-induced pursuits of girls and instant gratification, Ian was socially inept around the opposite sex. His public and humiliating attempts at expressing his attraction to any particular girl only served to make him more awkward as time passed. But then somewhere between high school and age twenty-three, he got the guts to talk to a girl. Unfortunately, she was only thirteen.
~
Twelve years ago, Ian was beginning an eleven-year sentence for being, as his lawyer pleaded, a “late bloomer with bad judgment.” The court had another name for him: sick.
Ian was sentenced to serve eleven years at Siddim Valley State Prison, a medium-security prison that is thirty-five miles south of Admah City. Medium-security prisons are where a majority of the United States prison population is incarcerated. Siddim Valley State is not unlike most medium-security prisons—underfunded, understaffed, and dangerously overcrowded. With the capacity to house 1,100 inmates and employ 340 security officers, the tax payers’ dollars give prisoners access to literacy programs, basic education and GED preparation, college and vocational courses, alcohol and substance counseling, anger management therapy, religious communities, and physical recreation. To those law-abiding or lucky individuals who will never be isolated during a lockdown following the murder of a fellow inmate or some other altercation, the prison curriculum may appear to be a moderately nice resort. Siddim Valley State is far from a resort or a “bad boy” retreat. It’s a hornet’s nest of con artists and abusers where fairness is an ideal that is best forgotten. It’s a lion’s den where even peaceful sleep is elusive and rare. It’s a tangled and forgotten forest where predators learn to become more efficient predators and the lines are blurred as to whether the most dangerous predators are the inmates or the correctional officers. Ian may have been considered a predator on the outside, but inside prison he was immediately labeled the prey.
His small size, criminal inexperience, and timid nature made him an immediate target during his first thirty days in the “fishbowl.” The “fishbowl” is the nickname of the temporary holding cell where new prisoners are placed during processing before they are assigned permanent living quarters. Psychological evaluations, medical screenings, and thorough emasculation by the correctional officers and faculty is all seemingly necessary “processing” before the new prisoners are released into the general prison population. The “fishbowl” is also in plain view of everyone, so the predators may select their prey in advance.
Ian was eventually released into the general prison population and tethered with a cellmate who was called Skidmark—or Skid for short. His real name was Malcolm Martin but no one uses his real name in prison. Evidently, the nickname was given or self-imposed due to his extremely dark skin and thin frame. Despite Skid’s stature, Ian was still afraid of him and Skid used Ian’s fear to his advantage as he schooled Ian on prison life. Because Ian was white, he would automatically be in danger of being declared “territory” by the blacks or the Mexicans. Territory declaration was most often acted out in the form of a brutal gang rape. Skid told Ian that he could offer him protection from those atrocities for $150 a month. While he didn’t look like he could do much in the way of protection, Skid went on to explain to Ian how he was connected to the blacks and how money was more powerful and convincing than size.
Ian was book smart and had come from a wealthy family, but he’d never had the opportunity or interest to wander onto paths in life that would have required him to possess street smarts. He agreed to protection under the terms that Skid presented and, though no one ever came to visit him, he had access to his accounts. And so his fear devolved to nervousness, which devolved to complacency in a matter of three months. Complacency is not a quality advantageous to surviving in prison.
The three hours that Ian was not locked in his cell were often spent with Skid and the blacks in his proximity. Whether it was in the cafeteria or on the yard or in the rec room watching TV, Ian felt irrationally “safe.” He didn’t talk to anyone or make eye contact with anyone other than Skid. One random day, Skid changed the terms of their protection agreement without Ian’s knowledge.
Word had gotten out, probably from some talkative and bored correctional officer, that Ian was serving time for statutory rape of a minor—a thirteen-year-old helpless girl. Though Siddim Valley State is an institution of violent offenders on whom justice has been exacted, there seems to be some line of morality that you don’t cross, even as a hardened criminal. You don’t kill your mother and you don’t touch kids.
Ironic is what it is. Ian was complacent and ignorant and innocent as he sat watching Jerry Springer reruns in the rec room one afternoon. Suddenly and quietly, those who were sitting around him got up and left. Ian’s attention was drawn to this mass exodus when he noticed Skid was also leaving without a word or a glance. Ian got up to leave with him, but a group of about a dozen large dark men blocked his exit. Ian called to Skid who never turned to acknowledge him. Then Ian desperately looked around for the correctional officer who was also suddenly absent. Then he knew.
The first blow landed across his face and nearly took his head off. Ian fell to the ground and was conscious but dazed; the second blow loosened at least five teeth from the front of his mouth. He gagged and almost choked on his own teeth and blood but was gripped from behind. A fist was shoved into his ribs similar to the Heimlich maneuver performed on choking victims, forcing him to spit all contents from his mouth. And then stark and sudden panic caused him to vomit contents from his stomach, as he was held in place over the back of a chair and savagely raped. He couldn’t cry for help, because the men who were not violating him from behind or holding him down were forcing their engorged penises into his mouth. They were barking at him to suck and if he didn’t, they would kick and punch him in his torso until he complied. This went on for what felt like hours until Ian lost consciousness and his anus gushed blood. No correctional officer came to interrupt or rescue, and there was no Skid to offer protection.
~
But that was then. Twelve years ago. Now, his rain-soaked hair and cramping fingers indicate freedom as he moves back and forth in silence emptying the contents of the moving truck into his new home. Falling rain accompanied by mist drenches his clothes as a hint of the early morning winter air sends chills through him that cause him to grit his teeth, which are now a collection of expensive porcelain veneers and dental implants.
Ian begins to breathe heavier as he travels back and forth and realizes that he may need to slow down a bit. Asthma is a condition that surfaced in prison somewhere in between infirmary visits. He stops just short of clearing the truck and leans on the box of books that he was practically dragging. Looking past his yard at the other houses around him, he sees little activity beyond his own. One of his neighbors is standing on her front lawn with her hands on her hips, overlooking a small dog that is sniffing around the lawn to decide where it will lay its early morning treasure. Ian chuckles to himself as he suspects his neighbor’s duties are more a ruse to spy on him than to allow her dog to relieve itself. He stares in her direction while still leaning on the box as if he’s waiting to catch a glimpse of eye contact with his neighbor. It never happens. She calls to her dog some indistinguishable name and they go back inside without her acknowledging Ian’s presence.
Ian exhales deeply and stands to hoist the box of books once again. He grips below the weight and musters enough energy to toss the hefty weight into his arms. As he does so, the rain-moistened box loses its integrity under the burden of books and spills its contents from beneath. A mass of books fans out and falls at Ian’s feet as he holds the emptied cardboard container.
“Shit,” he breathes.
He kneels to quickly collect the books into his arms to save them from further water damage. As he stacks all that he can hurry into the house, one book catches his attention and gives him momentary pause—a weathered and dog-eared edition of a leather Bible with half the cover missing. At that, his frustrated expression is transformed into a gentle and thoughtful calm. This ragged book was his solace in prison. Past the rape, the beatings, the humiliations and double-crosses, these pages indicated that forgiveness for what he’d done was possible.
Ian would not describe himself as religious or pious, but when a man is torn down to nothing, he needs something to resurrect him if he chooses to live. He needs a kind of hope. He needs the peace of a second chance.
~
The skies yawn awake from a cold and damp slumber as dozens of pairs of headlights begin to litter the highway for rush hour traffic. The ground is wet with the evidence of something more significant than dew, while the rain has subsided for the moment. Peace and quiet is agitated by accelerating engines, car horns, and the thud of someone’s music escaping from behind the closed doors and glass.
Off the highway on an access road tucked away out of view sits a twenty-four-hour diner named Benny’s Roadside Diner. Carpious has been meeting Russell Moser there periodically for breakfast for the past eight years. What started as a means for them to study the Bible together has since evolved into a friendship.
Seated in the back of the diner past empty tables and chairs, the duo is waiting for their food orders to arrive.
“How’s work been treating you?” Russell predictably initiates.
“Carpious empties three packets of sugar into a cup of coffee, answering, “I can’t complain at all. Or I should say that I won’t complain at all? I am blessed beyond measure with this job. I mean, the traveling sometimes takes its toll, but I’m in a place that I would have never thought possible ten years ago. How’s your week been?”
Russell laughs, “Well, I will complain. This week, my job has sucked.”
Carpious looks up from stirring cream into his coffee and studies Russell’s face, unsure of whether he should laugh as well. Russell chuckles some more and Carpious joins in with an uncomfortable smile.
Russell takes a long sip of orange juice before continuing.
“I love people and I love serving God by ministering to people’s needs, but sometimes…sometimes I need a break from all of the ugliness and depravity that I have to hear about and see. Sometimes I need a counseling session. That’s why I value these times when we can get together and I don’t have to be Pastor Russell. I can just be…Russell.”
“Well, you’re not the only one to benefit from these meetings. Talking to you always makes me feel…” Carpious looks down at the empty table in front of him while pondering what word to say next, “…accepted,” he finishes as he looks up again and stares back at Russell with intensity.
“You are accepted, brother. How many times have you heard me say that we all have our issues? Everyone wants to belong to something. Everyone has at least one insecurity or secret that they struggle with or try to keep hidden from view for fear that if anyone finds out, they’ll be exiled from the caste of humanity. No one is perfect and put together right. If we were, I would be out of a job.”
Carpious smiles and sips coffee as their waitress returns to the table with plates of food.
“Alright, gentlemen, I have a Western omelet with a side of fruit.”
Carpious raises his finger and the waitress places the plate in front of him.
“And I have scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, and waffles.”
She places two plates in front of Russell.
“Will there be anything else, gentlemen?” she says with her hands on her hips.
“No, thank you. This looks great,” Russell answers while unrolling silverware from a napkin.
Carpious shakes his head and says, “Thank you.”
The waitress leaves and Carpious continues, “It doesn’t matter that everyone has insecurities. Some things are acceptable blemishes while others are not. Some issues are not regarded as bad while others are fixated and focused on. People have a tendency to be so judgmental against some issues. You would think men and women of God would have a different perspective, but a lot of them are worse than those who don’t even know God. To them, some sins are worse than others. For example, no one ever looks at fat people with the same disgust that they would look at…say…a promiscuous person. They would swoop down on that promiscuous person with extreme judgment and name-calling and ostracism, while the fat person would be forgiven and accepted as one of them. Fornication and gluttony are both wrong according to the Bible.”
“People, whether they know God or not, don’t want to be reminded of their wrongdoings. When they see that promiscuous person, they see their own failures. They see their own sin. The fat person may not offend some, but others may have a different perspective. You can’t stop people from thinking what they’re going to think, Carpious. You can only control you.”
Carpious smiles uneasily in resolve. “I guess.”
Russell looks at Carpious with a concentrated glare, unconvinced that he is really receiving his words with encouragement, so he changes the course of the conversation with, “Shall we bless the food?”
“Yes! The smell of this has my mouth watering and ready to go. I’ll pray.”
Both men bow their heads as Carpious recites words of thanks.