Chapter Twenty-Two
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The intercom clicks on. What now?
“Ledbetter?”
“Yeah?”
“You’ve got a visit. I’ll buzz you out.”
Is it Emily? If so, it will only be the fourth time she’s come to see me.
But it’s Thursday. The other times have all been on the weekend.
I doubt she’d drive here on a school night.
Plus, she would have been away from Maisie all day.
It’s probably my mom again; she tries to get here every few weeks.
God, I hope it’s not my father. He cried that day in court when they handcuffed me and took me away, but he hasn’t visited or written to me once since I’ve been here.
Okay, so much the better. The last thing I need to see is his look of disdain as he surveys the room, taking in where all my failures have landed me.
Walking along the connecting bridge from our block to the visiting room in the main building, I see Angel ahead of me.
He must have a visitor, too. Maybe it’s that hot girlfriend of his that everyone’s always talking about.
… I’ve been careful not to pressure Emily about visiting more often.
It’s hard to tell from a monitored ten-minute phone conversation how she’s feeling about me.
About us. We mostly talk about safe stuff and there are a lot of awkward pauses.
If I could see her face-to-face more often, I might be able to read her better.
I know she’s stretched to the max—single-parenting, teaching, taking care of the house, going to therapy.
But three visits in over a year? Some of the women who come here visit their men twice a week. Should I be reading the tea leaves?
When Mom came to see me last Sunday, the visiting room was humming, but tonight there’s only five of us lining up at the entrance, waiting to be let in: that Sikh dude, Angel, Praise, that skinny mixed-race kid who looks like he belongs in juvie jail, and me.
The Sikh’s wearing his turban; I heard he sued the state and won the right to wear it based on religious grounds.
Looks like he’s got a shiner, probably courtesy of one of the “patriotic” idiots around here who think he deserves a beatdown because they mistake him for a Muslim.
This kid in front of me is fidgety, nerdy-looking, braces.
Reminds me of that character Urkel on whatever that show was.
He’s going to be low-hanging fruit for one of the con men around here who’ll become his buddy so he can shake him down for whatever he’s looking for.
How the fuck old is he, anyway? He looks about fourteen or fifteen, but he’s got to be at least eighteen if he’s here.
“Hey, Praise,” Angel says. “How’s your pops doing?
I ain’t seen him around lately.” Praise’s real first name is Cornell.
He’s on the janitorial crew and his nickname’s short for “Praise Jesus!” which he’ll shout in the middle of mopping the corridor or cleaning the shower room.
Doesn’t hurt anyone, but that booming voice can make you jump if you’re not expecting it.
“Ornery as ever,” he says. “Wheels himself to the library every day, checks out a bunch of books, reads half the night, wheels himself over to the med line in the morning, and goes back to the library. That’s about it.”
“You talking about Lester Wiggins?” I ask him. “Lester’s your father? I met him a while back.” He gives me the once-over before he nods. Wow, father and son doing time in the same prison. Must be weird for both of them.
I shuffle my feet a little, wondering what the holdup is.
If our visitors have already checked in, why are we just standing here?
I look out at the empty sally port, then back at the guys I’m playing hurry-up-and-wait with.
That’s when I notice that Juvie’s got a long scabby cut on the inside of his left arm.
It looks infected. Forget prison; if that cut is self-inflicted, he probably needs to be in an adolescent psych unit someplace.
I know I shouldn’t say anything, but my parenting instinct kicks in. “How did that happen?” I ask him.
He swivels around with that deer-in-the-headlights look and sees that I’m staring at his cut. He looks away and says nothing.
“This place gets easier after you’ve been here awhile.
That’s been my experience anyway. You sentenced yet?
” He shakes his head, still not looking at me.
“Well, you might want to get over to the med unit. Have one of the nurses put some antibacterial ointment on that.” If he’s cutting himself, maybe they can connect him to one of the visiting shrinks.
“You a doctor?” he asks, turning and facing me.
I smile. “Far from it,” I tell him.
“Then why don’t you mind your own motherfucking business?”
Angel lets out a laugh. “Dang! Little fuckboy just bitch-slapped you , Ledbetter.” So much for my fatherly instincts. Now I feel like jacking up the little shit for embarrassing me. Guess I’m getting institutionalized.
Praise leans in. Warns the kid that things will go easier for him if he loses the attitude. “I had to learn that lesson the hard way. Came in here when I was eighteen and had to get the badass attitude beaten out of me three or four times before it sunk in. How old are you, anyway?”
Instead of answering him, the kid crosses his arms and rolls his eyes. Up at the front of the line, the Sikh just shakes his head. But Praise—Cornell—hasn’t given up yet. “You got a name?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“So what is it then? Rumpelstiltskin?”
A half-grin betrays the kid’s sullen act. “It’s Solomon,” he says.
“Well, get wise, Solomon. It’s hard enough in here. Don’t make things harder for yourself.”
The door buzzes. We enter the visiting room and take seats at the long, wide tables.
That’s the rule: inmates seated before they let the visitors in.
Once they enter, we can stand for a quick embrace, but then everyone sits, with our company on one side, us on the other, everyone’s hands on the table where the guards can see them.
I don’t recognize either of these two. The Black CO’s probably a newbie.
Young, butch-looking, her pant legs tucked into her boots.
She’s wearing that fresh-out-of-the-academy scowl to let us know she’s not taking any shit from us.
They must teach them that face before they let them graduate.
… The white guard’s older, probably a transfer from another facility.
He’s got the Gen X essentials: goatee, gut slackening into middle age.
Looks like the type who was more into Nine Inch Nails than Nirvana back in the day.
Probably did a couple of semesters of college before he packed it in.
Decided to become a state cop instead but bombed out at the police academy and ended up here.
Hates his job, cheats on his wife, smokes a little weed after work.
… No. Stop it, Ledbetter. Don’t be such a smart-ass. What’s he done to you?
Okay, here come the visitors into the sally port.
The steel door they’ve just passed through closes behind them and they stand there, waving and waiting to be buzzed in to where we are.
I don’t see who my visitor is, but not everyone is visible in that window.
The Indian-looking woman has to be Mrs. Sikh.
Someone’s brought an antsy little kid with them; I see his head bobbing up and down.
Little dude looks like he’s about four, maybe a year and a half older than Niko.
… I can’t believe I still do that sometimes.
Forget he’s gone. Must be denial still. Last time we talked, Emily said when she goes into CVS to get diapers, she sometimes has to remind herself that a box of thirty-eight is going to last twice as long as before.
I told her I was surprised Maisie’s still wearing diapers, since she’d started to master toilet training a year ago.
“Well, she’s regressed, okay?” Emily snapped.
“Her pediatrician said it’s probably because of the big changes that have been foisted on her, and that I shouldn’t make an issue of it.
And frankly, I’d rather change a diaper than have to wash and dry the wet sheets and make the bed with clean ones. If that’s cheating, then too bad.”
“Babe, I wasn’t criticizing you. I’m sorry if it sounded like that. I know you’re stretched to the max. I’m in awe of everything you’re handling by yourself while I’m in here. Jesus, Em. It must be exhausting. I don’t know how you do it all.”
“Everything except toilet training,” she said.
“No, Dr. Ritchie’s right. She’ll use the toilet when she’s good and ready.”
“Oh, shut up, Corby.” It was pretty much monosyllables after that until our ten-minute phone call was up.…
Goatee Guard signals to some invisible CO who’s working the door. Our visitors are buzzed in. As they enter, Butch calls out the rules like she’s issuing threats. I still don’t see anyone I know.
The gray-haired woman walking toward Cornell is the one who’s brought the little guy.
Must be his grandma. She’s wearing a work smock; probably drove here from her job at a nursing home or whatever.
The little dude breaks free and runs toward Cornell.
“Slow down, Ezekiel! They don’t want nobody runnin’ in here! ”
Mr. and Mrs. Sikh share a polite embrace. She touches the bruise under his eye with her fingertips. I swallow hard; tenderness isn’t something you see much of around here.