After #2
It turned out the only way to visit someone in Rikers was by riding a packed, rattling old school bus over the bridge and getting patted down at the visitors’ center.
And that was only the beginning of the degradation.
By the time Gretchen stood in a long line of visiting family members at the Central Welcome Center—which must have been meant ironically—with an enormous German shepherd walking up and down sniffing everyone, she felt like a completely different person.
Stripped down, yes, but to some unexpected iron core.
Then there was a second bus after the Rikers Island Central Welcome Center security screening. Rikers, it turned out, wasn’t a single prison—it was many different prisons spread across the island, which was ringed by fencing and barbed wire. Like some kind of horrifying boarding school.
The second bus was in far worse shape than the first, rusted and dented with sagging seats.
It smelled distinctly of feces, and the bus driver neither spoke nor made eye contact with anyone, jerking especially hard at each stop so that the visitors onboard were jostled uncomfortably.
Punishment, perhaps, for whatever it was their family members had done.
And what if Richard was guilty? What then? Gretchen no longer felt sure of anything.
—
She was left to wait in the extremely grim and very filthy Otis Bantum visiting area for nearly twenty minutes, which was several lifetimes too long.
According to Mikey Pearce, the Otis Bantum Center was one of the better options because it housed only “detained” inmates, not convicted ones.
In other words, at least some of the men there were theoretically innocent.
For that reason, it was one of the facilities that allowed “full-contact” visits.
Gretchen had set aside the rest of Mikey’s advice long before she even boarded the first bus.
It didn’t matter if someone was recording every word she said—Gretchen was going to get the answers she needed. The rest was Richard’s problem.
The visiting area was dotted with nearly two dozen tables and folding chairs, each filled with someone waiting for their inmate.
The tables were close, but not so close that Gretchen was worried anyone would overhear.
Besides, the other women—and it was almost all women, wives, girlfriends, maybe a mom or two—seemed too shrouded in grief to bother paying attention to anything or anyone else.
Finally, the side door opened, and the inmates started filing in, past the desk at the front where a guard had checked Gretchen’s ID, then compared it to the required online sign-up again.
Gretchen hadn’t seen Richard yet—the line was moving slowly, each inmate pausing to sign in.
Gretchen’s chest tightened when she finally spotted him, looking older and thinner.
A little anger leaked from Gretchen’s sails.
No, she reminded herself. Not this time. She could care about Richard, could love him forever, even. But that didn’t change what needed to be done right now.
As soon as Richard saw Gretchen, he broke into a huge smile. He even stood taller. That was the point of the steadfast wife, wasn’t it—to prop up her husband when things were at their bleakest? Gretchen felt a fresh wave of rage.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Richard said as he sat down. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“You look…tired,” she managed.
Richard nodded. “It’s, um, impossible to sleep.” He motioned in a circle next to his head with his handcuffed hands. “The noise at night. People jabbering on, arguing, snoring. It’s also freezing in here.”
Gretchen thought of the way she’d felt sitting in the police station that first night. She’d have frozen to death before she abandoned Richard. She squeezed her hands together so tightly they began to throb.
“I’ll mail earplugs and a sleep mask,” Gretchen said robotically. Already, this was harder than she thought. “And maybe some warmer socks?”
Richard smiled at her, the fine lines in his face crinkling.
“That would be great. Except probably you can skip the eye mask. That’s not going to play well with the other guys in here.
” He leaned across the table. “Are the kids holding up, all things considered? It would be okay if you erred on the bright side. I could use some good news.”
“Oh, could you?” Gretchen felt like a coiled spring.
Richard frowned, visibly befuddled. Fucking befuddled—it was a better word than she’d realized. Perfect for this absolutely ridiculous situation.
“What’s wrong, Gretchen?” Richard asked. “I mean apart from me being in here. You seem…angry.”
“Who is Shawna—some counselor, Deborah said? Why were you seeing her? Were you having problems at work?”
“No.” Richard looked offended. “I asked to see her. She’s a therapist, and I felt…like I needed someone to talk to.”
Gretchen felt even more irritated. “Did it help?”
“No, she was too…corporate.”
They were quiet for a moment.
“The kids are fine,” Gretchen said finally, attempting to swallow over the burning in her throat.
“Becks is still home, but he’s worked it out with his professors, and Elizabeth is going to hang around for a bit, which has been—nice, actually.
” And it was, now that Gretchen thought about it.
“Maybe a little time away from that place will be a good thing for her.”
Richard looked encouraged. “Oh, wow,” he said. “If something good could come out of this…”
Gretchen pressed her lips closed for a moment. “Sure.”
“I really am so glad you’re here,” Richard went on, rubbing his palms up and down his pants. “I miss you so much, Gretchen. That’s been the hardest part of being in here.”
She thought of the texts he’d sent while lying in their bed.
She thought of the watch. She thought of that Crosby Street Hotel receipt crunched in her fist. All of it, a trail of gasoline leading to a deep reservoir inside her.
She breathed in through her nose, then out in a long stream through her mouth. But it was no use.
And then, just like that: Boom.
“That’s the hardest thing about being at Rikers Island?” Her voice was trembling with fury. “Not the threat of violence, or the loss of freedom, or the inedible food, or the lack of sleep, or the fear of going to prison for the rest of your life—it’s being separated from little ol’ me?”
Richard’s brow furrowed. “What’s going on, baby?”
He hadn’t called Gretchen that since they were young and wildly in love. She could almost feel his hands on her shoulders, trying to steer her in the direction he wanted.
“I know, Richard.”
“You know what?” he asked, his own irritation starting to poke through. He wasn’t used to his charm offensive failing.
“All of it. You and Frankie. The texting. Ludlow Coffee Supply, Las Nacionales. You needed an address to send flowers? The watch.” He glanced down at her wrist. “It’s gone. I sold it. Not that I would have worn it here.”
“You sold it?” He sounded appalled.
“I needed cash. It’s a long story—you know all about those, right?” She glared at him. “You didn’t buy the watch for me anyway, Ri—”
“What are you talking about?” he demanded angrily.
“Don’t.” Gretchen calmly raised a finger.
“Please have enough respect for me after thirty-four years of marriage not to lie to my face. Think to yourself: ‘She’s probably not pulling all these details out of thin air. I mean, that would be quite remarkable.’ ” She came up for air, let him twist in the silence.
“The salesman at Cartier remembered you, Richard. He asked me about my art. Not to mention that Becks saw you two together at Ludlow Coffee Supply.”
“Becks? I don’t—” But then Richard’s eyes flickered shut. He shook his head. His shoulders slumped with resignation. “We were friends, Gretchen. That’s all.” But it was halfhearted, at best.
“Okay. The watch, then—explain that to me. No one buys that kind of gift for a friend, Richard. And learning about it in the store from the salesman was like getting stabbed in the face. So thank you for that.”
“Gretchen, come on, nothing—”
“Stop!” She shouted so loudly that a couple of the guards looked in her direction.
She lifted a hand in apology, which seemed to satisfy them.
Then she turned back to Richard. “Even if nothing happened beyond what I know—those things are bad enough. And, by the way, I also know about the Crosby Street Hotel.”
“The Crosby Street Hotel?” He pretended to have no idea what she was talking about.
“Yes, years ago? I found a receipt for a night you stayed there when you claimed you were in Chicago.” Her eyes had started to burn from glaring at him. “Tell me the truth, Richard. The whole truth, or I swear I’m done helping you.”
His mouth moved, but he stopped himself.
Instead, he looked away, across the room toward another couple grinning delightedly at each other like they were on a first date.
It was sweet. And sad—Gretchen felt sad for herself.
She was not sure about facing the truth.
What if it was even worse than you imagined?
“It was one night, Gretchen.” His voice was rough.
“Not even. A few stupid, wasted hours that I regretted immediately. It didn’t mean anything to me, Gretchen.
It wasn’t about her. I was just—” He fell silent, shrugged.
Then he turned to her, eyes searching—for sympathy, understanding, a way out.
“Overwhelmed, the job, the family. This life of ours.”
“Oh, so our life is the problem?”
Awkwardly, Richard ran the fingers of his handcuffed hands through his hair.
“That’s not what I meant. Just the friends and the obligations and the Hamptons and the tennis club.
I thought eventually I’d feel at home in it all.
” He grimaced as if the words were physically painful.
“I love you, Gretchen. So much. But I’ve never loved all of that. ”