The Returning by Ann Tatlock Page B

the other prisoners. They were the real criminals, the conscious wrongdoers. They had robbed convenience stores at gunpoint, sold crack cocaine on street corners, committed fraud, abused children, killed their wives. John Sheldon hadn’t done anything like that. He’d had no desire to kill a man and no intention of killing the man he did kill.
    Only after thirty-three months and probably a hundred talks with Pastor Pete did John realize there was something about the human heart that could make a man do even things he didn’t want to do. Only after all those months of being locked up did he come to understand that there was something to the idea of good and evil, and if you didn’t choose the one, you’d be chosen by the other.
    That was when he surrendered, seeing himself for what he was and knowing he’d go on spiraling downward if goodness didn’t intervene. God broke in then—safety net, savior, life itself.
    Still, John didn’t want to be here at this A.A. meeting, admitting to strangers he was something he didn’t want to be. He wouldn’t have come if it hadn’t been a requirement of his probation. He certainly didn’t need A.A. to stay dry. Killing someone, he’d discovered, had a way of putting a person off alcohol for good.
    John looked up with a start when a man across the circle began to speak. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said as he rose to his feet. “This is the regular meeting of the Conesus Lake group of Alcoholics Anonymous. My name is Larry, and I’m an alcoholic and your secretary.”
    He was a tall, gaunt man, about sixty-five years old. He had a narrow, fleshless face and thinning gray hair, and he wore a pair of baggy trousers that appeared to be held up not so much by his belt as by his protruding hip bones. He might have appeared more dead than alive except for the uncanny warmth in his eyes and a voice so rich in compassion it seemed to settle like a down comforter over the entire group.
    “Let’s open our meeting tonight with a moment of silence and the Serenity Prayer.” He shut his eyes and bowed his head. Everyone in the circle followed suit.
    In the next moment John heard the murmurs of the Serenity Prayer rise up around him. He heard himself join in, heard the words tumble from his own reluctant lips, heard above everything else Larry’s strong voice leading the group like a shepherd gently herding his flock.
    John liked Larry instantly, knew there was something good and solid about him, and would have gone on listening to the man with intrigue if, upon looking up at the close of the prayer, he hadn’t found himself gazing directly across the circle at a woman who hadn’t been there a moment before. She must have slipped in quietly when everyone had their eyes shut. She had settled in the vacant chair right next to Larry, and though she’d come in late, she looked as unrushed and serene as if she’d been there the entire time.
    Larry looked down at her and chuckled. “I hardly heard you come in, Pamela. Glad you could make it.”
    “Sorry I’m late, Larry. Car trouble.”
    “That’s all right. Car running okay now?”
    “Yeah. I called Triple A and got it jumped. That was all it needed.”
    “Good, good. Well, let’s get on with the meeting, then, shall we?”
    Larry talked on, but John didn’t listen. He was too busy trying to steal glances at the woman named Pamela. He’d never seen anything like that at the A.A. meetings in prison, had never seen anything like that in prison at all, save in his own imagination. She was no doubt the kind of creature that invaded the dreams of every man behind bars, their waking dreams, their sleeping dreams, those gut-wrenching dreams that leave a man tossing feverishly in the dead of night.
    She was lovely and classy and soft, without that hardened look of so many women who’d spent years cradling a bottle. She was young, but not so young that she hadn’t lived. She had an open, serious face and full red lips