Back in prison, Ken returned to writing and decided to try to publish a book. Mercury House, an independent publisher that focuses on literary writing, took interest and published his first book, Wilderness and the Razor Wire, in 2000. Another, Beyond Desert Walls: Essays From Prison was released later. Both books were written in prison but published after his release.
Nature became the most important thing in Lamberton's life, after his family.
David Hollenbach
Kathryn Schuessler
Karen and Ken Lamberton
Lamberton
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Some inmates discovered a family of mallard ducks that came to roost on the prison yard, and he took comfort in looking for the mother duck, marking time on her egg-laying cycle.
"I could put myself in that mallard's place. You can survive here, you can do well here, you can create things here. And then you can leave," he says.
On September 20, 2000, Ken Lamberton left prison.
His lawyer picked him up and took him to his mother's so that he could change his clothes. He met Karen for lunch. Then she went back to work and he went to see the girls.
When she heard the car pull up, Kasondra, then 16, got so nervous she had to go for a walk.
"I remember waiting and waiting and waiting," she recalls. "As soon as we saw the car pull up, I had to get out of there."
Lamberton had no clue that his daughters were nervous. He remembers just walking up to find them all outside casually waiting for him.
"It wasn't any romantic homecoming," he says. "I just got right into life."
There was some adjusting. The first night Ken slept at home, when he and Karen climbed into their twin bed and she turned off the light, he thought he'd gone blind. It had been years since he'd slept with the lights off.
Though the emotional side of their relationship needed work, they resumed the physical part right away both times he left prison. Karen thanks Ken's 12 years in prison, and the fact that they couldn't really touch during visitation, for the quick adjustments. She giggles a lot as she talks about it.
"You have a really long period of celibacy this is really a drag. It's amazing how much more interested you get," she says. "We were a prudish religious family. We didn't talk about it. But now he's a sex offender and I'm a convict wife."
And their sex life is better than ever.
Life resumed some normalcy, but Ken knows his place in this household of four women.
"Every male cat in the house has been neutered," he says.
Sometimes the only way to ease the tension is to joke. When a conversation about Gregan gets too intense, Karen says, "You know, it's really too bad for Ken he was born in this culture. He could have had, like, four wives."
Ken touches her hand and says, "You would have been the matriarch. You'd never have to do another dish again."
She just smiles and reminds him, "I don't have to do dishes anymore. I have you."
Early on a Friday evening in winter, Karen and Ken stand before a lover's shrine on Tucson's south side. Called El Tiradito, the shrine is the only one in the United States dedicated to a sinner buried in unconsecrated ground a man who died fighting for the love of a woman. People come here to light a candle for his soul, trying to raise it out of purgatory. Stuck in the walls surrounding the shrine are little notes secrets of forlorn lovers come to the shrine to pray for their broken hearts.
The Lambertons are not Catholic, but they have brought a candle tonight: Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes.
As Ken lights a match, Karen smiles at him and giggles when he has trouble getting the wick to catch. Ken wonders what happens when your candle goes out. She doesn't know.
"I like the whole story of life being destroyed by stupidity and yet people still come here and pray," she says. "They're saying, 'You're still a part of this community.'"
They look at their candle for a while.
And then turn and walk away, hand in hand.