Chapter Thirty-Four #2
I fall asleep pretty easily, but an hour later I’m wide-awake and worrying about the future: not only what’s going to happen when they let me out but also what happens between now and then.
The attention I’ve gotten because of the mural has fanned the flames of Piccardy and Anselmo’s hatred of me.
My pulse starts racing and I move every which way trying to get comfortable.
I’m up for an hour or more before I can get back to sleep.
I sleep past breakfast, so I miss the first walk to the chow hall under the new buddy system.
Manny reports that things went fairly well; only two guys got tickets for noncompliance.
His “buddy” was a new arrival on our tier, a young guy named Austin.
“What a hunk,” he tells me. “Green eyes, curly brown hair, and you can tell he’s put in some serious time at the gym. I think I’m in love.”
“Yeah? Sounds to me like you’re in lust.”
He puts his hand on his hip and bats his eyes. “Is there a difference?”
When I ask how old this guy is, Manny says early to midtwenties.
Although he doesn’t admit to it, my cellie is fifty-four.
What’s that saying? Hope springs eternal?
He brags a lot about the hookups he’s had, but come to think of it, I’ve never heard Manny talk about being in any long-term relationships.
Kind of sad, really. The only constant in his life seems to be his sister, Gloria.
Later, when we line up for our ten-thirty lunch, Manny pushes past me and some of the other guys so he can buddy up with his new heartthrob. I’m at the tail end of the line. They must have run out of buddies, because I’m solo, which is fine with me.
God, what a day: sky-blue sky, the sun shining on the vivid oranges and yellows of the dying leaves. It’s a “five-out-of-five” fall day, as they say on the TV weather.
Up front, leading the parade, Officer Anselmo yells, “Get the lead out, ladies! The longer you take to get there, the less time I’m giving you to eat.
” Behind me, his lackey, Goolsby, claps his hands and imitates his mentor.
“Come on, gentlemen! Let’s see some hustle!
” Piccardy usually works the same shift as these two, but he hasn’t been around this week. I’m enjoying the respite.
Halfway between our block and the chow hall, my eyes land on that ginkgo tree I’ve noticed before. Its scalloped leaves have turned a brilliant royal yellow. It looks spectacular and carries me back to an October memory during the twins’ first year.
Maisie, Niko, and I were out at the reservoir where I took them sometimes for midmorning weekend strolls while Emily stayed home, doing her schoolwork.
She and I were just a normal couple still, unmarked by tragedy and prison.
We both had jobs; we were doing okay financially.
Monday through Thursday, we dropped the kids off at a daycare we liked and Emily’s mom took them every Friday.
I drank a little too much on the weekends, maybe, and enjoyed the occasional recreational drug, but neither was a problem yet.
We were happily unaware of the bad shit that was about a year away from happening.
It was breezy that morning out at the reservoir but warm still.
Maisie had fallen asleep in their double stroller, but Niko was awake and alert, his arms reaching up toward all those dancing colors in the trees.
“Come here, buddy,” I said, and lifted him out of the stroller.
Held him up to a low-hanging branch of a majestic red maple.
Just as he was reaching out to touch a leaf, a strong gust came up.
Fluttering vermilion leaves fell down around us.
When I managed to grab one and give it to Niko, he squealed with delight at his treasure.
On our way back to the car, I stooped to pick up others for his collection: a yellow elm leaf; the coral, burnt orange, and scarlet yield from a row of oaks and sugar maples.
He clutched, studied, and babbled to his bouquet on the drive back to our house.
He was responding emotionally to the palette of colors he was holding.
Of the two of them, Niko was the one who was already showing an artistic sense.
Had the artistic temperament, too. When Maisie, awake by then, reached over and grabbed at his leaves, he howled in protest and swatted her.
“No!” I yelled, and they both froze. Then Niko handed his sister two of his treasures.
“What are you smiling at?” someone asks, yanking me out of my reverie.
“Hmm? What?” It feels like I’ve just been caught doing something wrong.
Boudreaux’s walking beside me. “Where did you come from?” I ask him.
“I was walking up there with Daugherty, but Anselmo sent him back on account of he got a bloody nose. Told me to buddy up with you instead.”
“How did he get a bloody nose?” I ask. “You pop him one?”
“Nah, he was picking it too hard. Didn’t mean to spook you just now, but man, you was someplace else. And from that shit-eatin’ grin, I bet you was thinkin’ ‘bout some nice piece of ass. Am I right or am I right?”
“Guilty,” I say. And I do feel guilty, but not in the way he thinks. Do I have any right to enjoy a happy memory of my little boy? Do I need to tamp down recollections like the one I just had to atone for what I did? For the pain I caused?
“I knew it, brother,” Boudreaux says. “I can read people’s minds by reading their faces. And your face was saying loud and clear that you was having yo’self a poontang memory.” Yeah, right, I think. The Amazing Kreskin must be shaking in his boots knowing what a powerful mind reader Boudreaux is.
Entering the chow hall, Boudreaux and I get in line behind Lobo, Angel, Manny, and the new guy he’s crushing on.
Rashan, the head server, ladles creamed chipped beef onto my tray—slop on Styrofoam.
One-Eye adds a watery scoop of canned peas.
The third server—he’s not familiar—tops things off with two slices of white bread and a powdered-sugar doughnut, cellophane-wrapped.
As we get off the line, Goolsby points to an empty table like he’s the fucking ma?tre d’.
The six of us take our seats, lean forward, and start eating as fast as we can—everyone, that is, except Manny, who can’t ever keep his mouth shut, and his new friend, who doesn’t know speed-eating is advised.
“Hey, you guys, this is Austin,” Manny says.
“He was telling me he used to compete in motocross races when he lived in Florida.”
“Cool,” Angel says. “What did you ride?”
“A Kawasaki KX Two-Fifty.”
Lobo wants to know where in Florida he lived. “Grew up in Ocala,” he says. “Raced in Tampa before I screwed up my leg during a practice run.”
“He came up here to go to the business school at URI,” Manny tells us. “And get this. He worked part-time for a caterer who did parties at Taylor Swift’s beach house in Watch Hill. This past summer, he was a waiter at this big Fourth of July party she had. And guess who some of the guests were?”
No one guesses. We’d rather eat.
“Give up? Nick Jonas, Ryan Reynolds and Blake Lively, Miranda Lambert, Lorde!” Manny, a teenybopper in his fifties, is way more excited about the guest list than the rest of us, Austin included.
Anticipating Anselmo will cut our mealtime short as usual, I shovel it in as fast as I can.
It weirds me out that every time I look over at him, he’s watching me.
Meanwhile, Manny keeps talking a blue streak.
I feel sorry for this Austin guy. I remember when I first got here how Manny overwhelmed me with his advice and mentoring.
“Chow’s over!” Anselmo shouts, maybe eleven or twelve minutes into what’s supposed to be our twenty-minute meal.
All around me, guys stand to obey, stuffing sopped-up bread into their mouths and packaged doughnuts under their shirts.
Austin, whose meal is only half-eaten, looks shocked that lunch is over.
I spend the afternoon reading another one of the Easy Rawlins titles Lester Wiggins recommended.
During five-on-the-floor, I see Austin standing by himself, looking a little lost. “About Manny,” I tell him.
“Don’t be afraid to tell him to back off.
He enjoys taking new guys under his wing, but you don’t want to suffocate under there, right?
” He nods but doesn’t smile. Then, speak of the devil, Manny approaches us carrying two Styrofoam cups.
“Coffee, Austin?” he says. “I got instant in these. Come on. I’ll show you where the hot pot is. ”
A few minutes later, they’re back, neither of them talking or holding coffee.
There’s a red mark under Manny’s eye that looks like it’s starting to swell.
I don’t know for sure what happened, but I think I can guess.
When we’re locked back in our cell, I ask Manny whether his eye’s okay.
He says it’s fine. Changes the subject by telling me about a rumor he’s heard: Piccardy’s wife asked him for a divorce.
“Maybe that’s why we haven’t seen him for several days,” I say.
“He must be taking time off to do some soul-searching.” We both laugh at that.
A hundred and fifty pages of Easy Rawlins later, Goolsby yells that it’s chow time again. When the doors pop, I see Anselmo at the other end of the corridor. These two must both be doing double shifts. “Grab a buddy and line up!” Anselmo shouts.