Chapter Twenty-Eight #4
I haven’t seen Piccardy, but who’s complaining?
Okay, speak of the devil. Here they come, up over the rise and heading toward the barn: Piccardy and his best buddy.
But what’s Anselmo doing here? He worked third shift last night.
Doesn’t he have anything better to do than hang around at Yates with his bro?
He’s carrying a pizza box and a liter of Coke and it looks like Piccardy’s gotten himself a salad and a bottle of water.
No soda or mozzarella for him. The jerk’s always bragging about his low body fat percentage, like anyone but him gives a shit.
Goolsby’s eaten with us, but not these two.
Piccardy apparently gets as much time as he wants. Your tax dollars at work, Connecticut.
Before heading back to my assignment, I sidle up to Ratchford and Tito. Tell them I realize they were just horsing around with Solomon, but maybe they should ease up a little. “He’s pretty fragile.”
“Yeah, fragile like an egg,” Tito says. “Cracked.”
“Okay, Dad. We’ll cool our jets,” Ratchford promises.
Back at my post, I rake a pile of muck out from under a barberry bush, scoop it up with my hands, and drop it in the bucket.
Pick up the bucket, carry it over to the woods, and empty it.
Standing there, I listen to the siren song of the Wequonnoc.
Come and I’ll cleanse you of this place , it seems almost to be promising.
Should I risk it? Is it worth getting a ticket to wander off for a few minutes if they catch me? But why would they know when they’re back at the barn having their pizza party? Fuck it, I tell myself. Go for it!
I can feel my heart jackhammering as I run past pines and sycamores and scampering squirrels, dodging brambles and boulders embedded in the soft dirt.
Then there it is!
I move closer and stand there, savoring the thunder of it in my ears, the sun diamonds sparkling on its surface.
Thanks to a jagged rock embedded in the river’s path, I feel its spray on my face, the taste of it on my lips and tongue.
It’s exactly what I need—just a minute or two to take it in after all these months of cement and sensory deprivation.
I look across the river to the sheer rock ledge on the other side.
It’s maybe seventy or eighty feet high, unscalable by someone attempting an escape, like that guy back in the seventies who’s something of a legend at Yates—and a cautionary tale.
He got halfway up, then lost his footing and fell to his death, bashing his brains against a boulder at the bottom.
Escaping’s not even something I fantasize about.
With almost half of my sentenced served, I’m not about to screw that up.
Seeing the river in motion and hearing it up close is all I need.
At my feet is a fallen maple leaf. I pick it up, toss it into the river, and watch the current carry it south.
It’s the same direction I’ll be traveling when I get out of here—hopefully heading home to Emily and Maisie.
I have to get back before my absence is noticed, but I need to carry some of this hope with me.
Something tangible. At the river’s edge, I reach into the water halfway up to my forearm and scoop up a handful of mud and gravel.
Sitting on my palm, half-hidden, is an oval stone about the size of a quarter.
With my other hand, I pull it out and finger it between my thumb and index finger.
It’s milky quartz, white and translucent, smooth to the touch.
I fling the rest of the mud back into the water but hold on to the stone.
Tighten my fist around it and run back toward the clearing, hoping my defiance hasn’t been detected.
It hasn’t. I’m safe, but it’s a close one.
I hear Piccardy before I see him. “Okay, I got one,” he says.
“Drunk walks into a saloon and orders a shot and a beer. He sees a jar full of twenties and asks what that’s all about.
Bartender tells him whoever completes three tasks successfully gets the money.
” I try my best to tune him out by listening to the river.
Then I see them. Anselmo’s still hanging around but Goolsby’s not with them. “So the drunk says, okay now where’s the old lady with the bad tooth?” That must be the punch line because Anselmo guffaws on cue.
“Two more bushes and I’m done,” I tell Piccardy. “What do I do after that?”
“Grab a push broom and sweep out the barn.”
Okay, asshole.
“Hey, Ledbetter,” Anselmo says. “That cell of yours ever dry out after we visited you?”
It did, dickhead. Thanks for asking. “Yes, sir.”
It rains most of the next day, so work is canceled.
I keep wondering how Solomon’s doing. Maybe I shouldn’t have tried to warn him about court runs.
One thing I’ve noticed is his tendency to lash out when he gets scared or overwhelmed.
I just hope he’s able to hold it together because if not, he’ll get the worst end of it.
Midway through the morning, I’m stretched out on my bunk, reading another Easy Rawlins book, Charcoal Joe .
Manny’s writing to his sister, something he does every week.
When the intercom clicks on, the officer at the desk says, “Ledbetter?” I’m told Ms. Jackson, the new counselor supervisor for our block, would like to meet with me in her office.
Am I free this afternoon at two? I tell the squawk box I guess I can fit her into my busy schedule. The intercom clicks off.
“What do you think this is about?” I ask Manny.
He says he got called into her office last week. “It’s just a meet-and-greet. She wants to put names to faces. I guess she hasn’t gotten the memo yet about staff needing to show their indifference. I liked her.”
I like her, too. Firm handshake, warm smile, close to six feet tall.
Her hair’s in cornrows with a braided bun on top.
She’s already read my file, so I’m spared the pain of having to talk about my conviction.
“I’m more focused on the here and now,” she tells me.
“How are things going?” Before I can answer, her phone rings. “Excuse me,” she says.
I scan the room while I’m waiting. Two stacks of inmate files on her desk, a bookshelf that holds sociology and criminology texts and family pictures.
She’s hung her framed MSW degree on the wall behind her.
Aliyah Brooks Jackson, it says. Awarded two years ago—the year I entered this place.
I look back at the photos. In one, a framed newspaper clipping, she’s wearing a number and leading a pack of other runners.
The headline says, “Aliyah ‘Tubby’ Jackson Breaks State Record.” Tubby?
Did that nickname survive early childhood or were they being ironic?
In another photo, she’s a bride with her new husband.
Three smaller pictures chart the growth of a little girl from infant to toddler to schoolkid with missing front teeth.
Her daughter, I presume. That must be the daughter’s artwork on the bulletin board.
I smile, wondering how those giant people are supposed to live in that much smaller house.
Makes me think of that book Clifford the Big Red Dog .
And, of course, the giraffe family that lives next door to Maisie in the book I’m doing for her.
When Ms. Jackson hangs up, she asks me again how things are going.
I tell her about how hard it is not seeing my daughter and she commiserates, but I end up talking mostly about Solomon—his crying jags and temper tantrums, the self-abuse, his vulnerability in this hostile environment.
“An adult men’s prison is the last place where this kid should have been placed.
Lieutenant Cavagnero thought it might be good to put him outside on the grounds crew, so we had an arrangement that Solomon would only work with me and I’d kind of look out for him.
That worked okay, more or less, until the lieutenant left.
Now that we’ve got a new supervisor, all bets are off. ”
She cocks her head. “Why is that?”
She and I have only just met, but because she seems genuine and hasn’t been here long enough to have gotten jaded, I decide to risk it.
“Best-case scenario? Officer Piccardy doesn’t give a crap about Solomon or any of the rest of us, so me looking out for the kid isn’t something that interests him.
Worst case? He’s a bully with a sadistic streak. ”
Her forehead wrinkles. “That’s a bad combination,” she says. “I’ll look into it.”
She writes something down. Whatever her “looking into it” means, I hope it doesn’t come back and bite me in the ass. She says she hasn’t met Solomon yet but she’ll read his file and call him in. I tell her he’s at court today. “It’s just for a continuance, but court days can be hard.”
“And you’re worried about him?” When I nod, she smiles and says, “Well, I think it’s great that you’re stepping up. Taking on the role of his prison dad.”
“No, no,” I tell her, shaking my head. “It’s just situational because of what got set up when Cavagnero was the crew chief.”
“No need to be defensive,” she says. “Attachment can be a good thing. For both of you.” Since she’s read my file, she knows why I’m here. But if she’s jumping to the conclusion that Solomon’s a stand-in for Niko, she’s way off base.
“Good talking with you, Ledbetter,” she says. “I’ll be in touch.”
She stands; I stand. She gives me that vise grip handshake again and I’m out of there, worrying that I’ve said too much.
I could have said a lot more, but I stopped short of telling her how Piccardy is training Goolsby to follow his lead or that his best bro, Anselmo, has been coming off the night shift and hanging around in the daytime, too.
It was probably stupid of me to say anything.
Counselor Jackson is a wild card. Bottom line: if you don’t know whom you can trust, don’t trust anyone, staff especially.
There’s no sign of Solomon at supper chow. When our cell doors pop at eight for our last five-on-the-floor before lights-out, Manny and I leave our cell. “They never get back this late,” I say. “This isn’t good. Something must have happened.”
“Look,” Manny says. I follow his gaze to the end of the corridor and there’s Solomon.
He’s walking, zombielike, past his and Daugherty’s cell and heading toward me.
As he comes closer, I see that his face is puffy on one side.
He’s got a shiner. When he leans his forehead against my chest, I put my arm around him.
“Rough, huh? You want to tell me about it?”
His head moves side to side. “I might as well just kill myself,” he says.
I break from him and make him look me in the eye.
His bottom lip is trembling and tears are spilling down his cheeks.
“No, you’re not going to do that, Solomon.
Whatever happened today, you’re not going to harm yourself or let it defeat you.
You hungry?” He says he hasn’t eaten anything all day.
“Okay, stay put and I’ll get you something.
” I reenter our cell and grab a package of cheese crackers with peanut butter and an Almond Joy.
Go back out and hand him the food. The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of five-on-the-floor.
“Get some sleep,” I tell him. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Get yourself up in time so you don’t get hassled for being late. We can walk over together.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not going.”
“Yes you are, Solomon. What you’re not going to do is sit in your cell all day tomorrow and replay today.
You’re going to get up on time, walk over to the barn with me, and keep busy.
” What do they call this? Tough love? I have no idea whether that’s what he needs, but I know that wallowing in self-pity was what made me think suicide was the answer.
“Here, take this,” I tell him. “It’s not a gift.
It’s a loan. Don’t lose it.” I hand him my river stone.
He glances at it, then looks up at me. “I don’t get it,” he says.
“It’s from the river back there. It’s powerful.”
He rolls the stone between his thumb and index finger, studying it. When he looks back up at me, I can tell he’s skeptical.
The following morning, Solomon is up in time but withdrawn.
He sits across from me at breakfast chow.
The swelling on the side of his face has gone down and his black eye’s begun to change color.
When the guard calls time, we dump our trays, leave the hall, and walk toward the barn in silence.
“Here,” Solomon says. He hands me back the river stone.
I tell him he can keep it for a while—that I don’t need it back this soon.
“I don’t want to lose it on you,” he says.
I tell him to suit himself and take the stone back.