Women at the Well

Marsha Holmes arrived at the county jail at night during a late October thunderstorm. Blinding lightning flashes kept her trapped in her white Honda Accord. When the lightning stopped, the unremitting curtain of icy rain muted the jail’s parking lot lights. Clouds obscured the glow of the moon leaving dense darkness between her and the door. She pulled her hood up and tied it snugly beneath her chin. In one swift movement she stepped out of the car and opened her oversize umbrella. The wind immediately turned it inside out, leaving her defenseless. In her dash across the half-flooded asphalt to the red brick building, she passed under the aging, overhead sign that proclaimed, “Carly County Correction Center.” If one believed in omens, and she did to some extent, this dismal, wet welcome was a signal that she shouldn’t be here. Maybe she was making a mistake. Thankfully, the solid door opened easily admitting her to a six-foot square antechamber lighted only by a single, dim overhead bulb hanging by its electrical cord. As expected, the interior metal door was locked. Second thoughts crept in again. She could still return to her car. If Sue Randall hadn’t stared straight at her during her announcements at church the past few Sundays, Marsha wouldn’t be here, cold and wet, pressing a silver intercom button. Neither in nor outside the jail, she waited, in a space between spaces, like the twilight zone stories she used to watch on TV. A small window in the door allowed her to peer into the lobby. There was a reception desk but no one in the area. Why had she agreed to attend even the training session? Well, there was that verse from Matthew’s Gospel that kept coming to mind, “I was in prison and you didn’t visit me.” Marsha did many good deeds, but she never before had even a fleeting thought of visiting a jail, let alone being part of an ongoing ministry. She had never even attended a Bible study, except for helping with the children’s classes. Oh well, this would be a short-lived adventure. After tonight, she could honestly tell Sue that she had explored the possibility. She ignored the water dripping from her red raincoat onto her boots, righted her umbrella, and pressed the silver button again. A voice was mixed with static, “Zst, zst, zst.” She never could decipher those things. “I’m Marsha Holmes. I’m here for the volunteer training.” Whoever was inside apparently understood her, because a faint buzzer sounded. Guessing that the lock had been released, she pushed the door open and walked through. Alone in the shadowy lobby, she was aware of a bleachy aroma. Not a bad sign. She studied the glass-enclosed, vacant reception area. It looked to be ordinary glass, not bullet proof. She took off her jacket and shook it gently at arm’s length sprinkling a mist of water on the gray, tile floor. A clanking sound directed her attention to the right of the reception window where a four-inch-thick door was opening. A linebacker of a fellow wearing jeans and a sweatshirt stood in the door’s opening. His bulky frame propped the door ajar. His greeting was cheerful, as if his mood hadn’t been contaminated by three days of the foulest weather the town of Devon had ever endured. “I’m Commander Jake McAfee. I’m not officially on duty tonight—just came in for the training. All the others canceled. We thought you would, too. It’s a stinking night to be out.” The only one to show up. Was she foolish or brave? Just eager to get it behind her, she decided. “I agree about the weather.” She combed her fingers through her straight, silver hair and pushed it away from her face. And then, like Alice entering Wonderland, she stepped through the opening that separated freedom from a locked world. The commander let go of the door, and they started walking down a bright yellow, concrete block hallway. Bam! The door slammed behind them. Marsha jumped. “Ahhh!” McAfee stopped. “When you hear that door close, you know you’re in jail. You can’t get in or out without an escort.” That wasn’t the most sobering fact she would hear that evening. They walked about sixty feet on clean, dry tile with Marsha’s squeaking boots announcing her arrival. “Conference Room,” declared the sign above a closed door. It looked like a place for training sessions, or maybe lawyers met with clients here. She noticed the window in the top half of the door and a larger, adjacent window. This glass wasn’t clear. Reinforcing wire was embedded between layers of thick glass. Ah, that looked more like the prisons in movies. As Commander McAfee stretched a tag attached to his shirt to touch a receiver on the wall, Marsha peered through the window. A long fluorescent fixture hung over a six-foot-long cafeteria-style table. Six worn and soiled upholstered chairs were arranged around it. Marsha would have replaced them years ago, but this wasn’t her business. This was the county jail, the business of local taxpayers. Commander McAfee wasted no time on small talk. He put his beliefs on the table. “The world is in trouble. Our country is in trouble, because we’ve erased Jesus from our schools and culture. If more people would choose Jesus as Lord, our troubles would be few. I may not go to church as much as I should, but I want you to know I support Chaplain Andy’s work here.” She should say something in agreement, but was too surprised by his sermonette to produce a sound. He continued by giving a history of Christian ministry at the county jail. “It was difficult in the beginning for Chaplain Andy to gain respect. He had a history with the law, you know, from inside the bars.” She nodded. Marsha actually knew nothing about Chaplain Andy’s past or his work at the jail.