US 2 Part 2

Sunday. It was the first Sunday since my admission. The day of the week with the longest free activity time. The day I dreaded most had arrived.

I was holed up in my cell. I was confident I could stay put forever, but then Tony Kenner stood up. Even though there was no work duty, he left the cell and walked the same path he did on weekday afternoons.

Of course, I followed him. Freedom of entry and exit was just as Curtis had told me the day before. If this were a game, a new map had just been unlocked.

We could freely enter the auditorium where religious services were held, the counseling offices, and so on. Judging by the signs at the crossroads and what Curtis had told me, he was probably… heading to the office of the one and only Catholic chaplain?

“Haaa.”

All I had to do was maintain a proper distance and be careful of my footsteps, so why did my mouth have to fall open? I had been holding my breath for no reason and just let out a blank-minded sigh.

Huh? I hid my body around the corner and peeked out with just my eyes. Tony Kenner had turned towards the office of a Protestant pastor. It was definitely not the place he worked on weekdays.

I swallowed dryly in the quiet corridor. If I showed myself here, there would be no escape. Because three offices were clustered at this corner, where the hallway ended.

Two of the rooms were dark. Well, it seemed like a big event was happening in the auditorium. I wondered if there was something special going on after the regular Sunday service.

With a sharp intake of breath, I entered the dead-end. The intact window of the lit office was frosted glass, and near the floor, there was a strange ventilation grate. It was a device you’d only see in a very old office building. Not a sliding vent, but a handspan-sized hinged opening.

I got on all fours like a dog and peeked inside. The first thought that came to mind upon seeing the unfamiliar face was.

‘This is a senior chaplain’s office… Huh?’

The owner of the office should have been an old man. But some young guy was alone with Tony Kenner. My mouth fell open in a capital D as I looked at the office nameplate again. D:

‘It is a senior chaplain’s office. Hmm.’

I tucked in my limbs like a cat and craned my neck. It was incredibly difficult to spy from the corner without sticking my head out too much. The tendons in my neck stood out. Ah, I can’t do this for long. I’m going to get a crick in my neck.

“…very satisf…, and this is…”

Even with all this effort, I couldn’t hear well. The unfamiliar guy was speaking very carefully. His volume was low, and it’s natural for a person’s voice to fluctuate. That was all I could make out, bits and pieces.

The young guy unbuttoned his clergy shirt. He adjusted his sitting position, pulling his knees apart, and… I lost my mind. Like a grandmother who watches her telenovelas every morning while cursing at them. O:

From my point of view, their bodies overlapped, making it even harder to see. I had no choice but to stick my head out further and further. I even swallowed my spit.

There was no way the sound could have leaked out. I had swallowed it by creating a vacuum in my mouth.

But then. A head, like a ghost’s, turned towards me. If it were a machine, the joints of its neck and head would have made a creaking sound.

Our eyes met, with Tony (fucking) Kenner. I’m fucked.

Of course, I ran for it. I power-walked away without ever looking back. I heard the phantom sound of footsteps following me. Panting like a dog on a summer day, at some point, I realized.

Thump-thump-thump. It must have just been the large vein in my own ear expanding. Not the sound of Tony Kenner coming to split my head open.

At the C-wing crossroads, I chose the path to the auditorium. I joined the flow of the massive crowd. It didn’t seem like they did this on such a large scale every week, but in any case, the Protestants were holding a big event.

Chaplains, clergy, and volunteers had almost all joined in, and I could see quite a few mid-level housing unit managers. I grabbed everything I could from the entrance.

Chocolate cookies, pamphlets, stapled packets of paper—I took whatever they were giving out and went inside. It wasn’t hard to find a safe seat. The spot to Curtis’s right was empty. As I slid in, he glanced back at me twice.

“You?”

“What.”

“Huh? Anyway, hallelujah.”

Curtis resumed the chat he was having with the guy on his left. I felt the fine hairs on my ear stand up. Without looking back, I sharpened my senses.

The service began. At the beginning, I didn’t hear anything properly. I just followed others’ actions so as not to stand out.

“Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered…”

I had long since tossed the pamphlet aside and started reading the packet of papers. Still, I couldn’t block my ears, so I heard some bullshit from time to time.

“…I acknowledged my sin to you, and I did not cover my iniquity; I said, ‘I will confess my transgressions to the Lord,’ and you forgave the iniquity of my sin…”

An indulgence faster than the speed of light. This is why I can’t trust religion. Say I caved in the skull of the guy next to me right now; even if he couldn’t forgive me until his dying breath, all I have to do is confess to God and my sins are forgiven.

I focused on the letters and let the bullshit wash over me.

[Checklist]

General Counseling

Drug Treatment Counseling

Alcoholism Counseling

Parenting Skills Counseling

RSAT (Residential Substance Abuse Treatment) Linkage Counseling

It was an introductory brochure for a new counseling psychology program they were implementing. There were activities that inmates could apply for, even if they weren’t required by work assignment, Bureau of Corrections mandate, court order, or regulation. It was that kind of thing.

It was identical to the program review report I had signed at intake at the beginning of the week. The housing unit manager co-signed it, and the inmate kept a copy as proof.

My focus sharpened at the phrase stating that it could be a plus factor during parole hearings. It was good to have such a history on your record for programs completed during your sentence. Even if it was just a single line.

I muttered in Korean that no one could understand.

“How cheap, why do they only put this at the Protestant meeting?”

“Shh.”

Curtis made a sound beside me. With his crystal-grade piety. In truth, the atmosphere wasn’t particularly solemn. There were many people who inserted ‘amen’ where they wanted, or mumbled softly.

This time, I deliberately switched to English so Curtis could hear me grumble.

“Do they really consider this for hearings? What’s the difference from what they had before? I thought there were regular correctional counselors. Did they get fired as soon as I got here?”

Curtis glanced at my hand. Recognizing the open page, he started to add his own thoughts.

“No. They said it’s a completely different program. A doctor. A Ph.D. Someone whose family name carries a lot of weight in the political and financial worlds is doing it almost as a volunteer. There’s a rumor that he’s writing some dissertation and getting our consent for his experiment. Or that he wants empirical data? Something like that.”

“Are we the guinea pigs?”

“What does it matter? If it seems okay, we do it. If not, we don’t.”

At some point, Curtis nudged my arm with his elbow.

“There. That must be him. Dr. Christensen.”

I slowly raised my eyes. My first impression of M.D. Ruarc Christensen was a quiet giant. His ancestors’ roots were surely in the land of Great Danes. His last name suggested as much.

He could have been on the cover of GQ magazine just as he was, and it wouldn’t have looked out of place. Dark blond hair, cold blue eyes, an impossible physique, and a suit that, regardless of its actual cost, proclaimed he lived in a different class of world.

He entered through the front door of the auditorium with the warden. The chaplain holding the microphone just happened to be reciting this part of Psalm 32.

“Many are the sorrows of the wicked…”

Ah, right. A wicked man with sad eyes. From the sermon I was half-listening to as background music, that word, of all things, stuck with me. In truth, how would I know if that guy was wicked upon our first meeting?

But it wasn’t a matter of every single strand of hair. The man had a kind of perfection, as if… he had planned even the spot where his shadow would fall. It triggered an instinctive rejection in a microbe like me.