CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CONNECTICUT, AGE THIRTY-TWO
The dark circles had deepened beneath my brother's eyes over the years since he'd been locked up. Mine weren't much different. But he said nothing to me, nor did I say anything to him. Not about that anyway.
“God, I'd give anything for a fuckin' smoke,” he complained, scrubbing the palms of his hands over his bristly face. “Maybe next time, you can shove some down your pants and sneak them in.”
“Oh, that's a great idea,” I grumbled sardonically. “Do you want to do more time in solitary?”
The last time my brother had been caught with a cigarette in his dorm's communal bathroom— not smuggled in by me—he'd been thrown into solitary confinement for a week. I hadn't been aware until I'd shown up that following Sunday to visit with him, only to find out he wasn't able to make it.
He hunkered down in his seat and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “No,” he replied with a pout. “But, man, desperate times. I haven't craved a smoke this bad in … God, it's been years.”
From the tired look in his eyes, I believed him.
I leaned back on the bench, resting my booted foot on the bar bracketed to the wall. With an inhale, my lungs filled with the stale air I had grown more and more accustomed to over the years since my brother had been at Wayward. The sour sweat and heady perfume no longer choked me the way it used to. Actually, being here, in this loud room, full of prisoners and their respective loved ones, had started to become a comfort that home no longer was.
Nobody hated me here, but outside these walls? It felt like the entire world was against me. An exaggeration, sure, but tell me if you'd feel any different when you could seldom leave your house without someone screaming obscenities in your direction … or worse.
“You been sleeping?”
I turned from the window to look at my brother. “What do you think?”
“You should talk to someone.”
“Why do I need someone else when I have you?” I lifted the corner of my mouth to offer a teasing smirk, but it was forced, and he knew it.
“Whatever happened to that doctor you used to see? What was her name?”
“Dr. Sibilia.”
Luke pursed his lips and nodded. “Right, yeah, her. Why don't you talk to her?”
I cocked my head. “And what is it you think she'll do for me?”
He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I dunno. She could help—”
“What? Is she gonna miraculously get you out of here? Or do you think she can somehow do something to make the Wheelers stop their shit?”
“No, but maybe she can—”
“ Talking to someone isn't going to make shit go away. It's not going to make life easier; it's not going to make me happier. So, I'm just getting by, from one week to another, and that's all there is. Isn't that what you used to do? Get by ?”
My brother folded his arms on the table and looked off to the side. He glanced at another one of the prisoners—a guy he had once mentioned was named Wolf or Dog or something stupid like that—and lifted his chin in an acknowledging nod. Then, Luke looked away and let that friendliness drop from his face.
“That's why I mentioned talking to someone. You're keeping all this shit locked up inside, and it can't be good for you, man. You don't do anything, you don't go anywhere, you don't—”
“Where the hell am I going to go?” I laughed, incredulous. “I can barely go grocery shopping without the cashier giving me a fucking look . Like, Oh, there's Charlie Corbin, whose brother is the reason why poor old Ritchie Wheeler isn't here anymore . I don't think you completely understand what it's like—”
“Oh, right. Sure. Because you don't tell me all the time.” He glowered at me.
But he was wrong. He didn't know everything. I'd made it a point to keep some of it to myself, just to keep him from feeling too bad about the situation he'd left me to deal with.
Still, I continued, “They don't talk to me, Luke. They don't make eye contact. They barely even look in my direction. They treat me like, like—”
“Like the brother of a murderer,” he finished for me, an air of exhaustion in his tone, like he was sick of having this conversation. “I got it. I just wish you'd do something more to stand up for yourself. Even if you're not gonna throw fuckin' bricks at Tommy's car—”
“Oh, great idea. They could get me on destruction of property.”
Luke groaned and went on, ignoring my sarcasm. “You need to do something . You need to take care of yourself. What the hell are you gonna do for the rest of your life, huh? I'm not around anymore to push you, and I'm not around to protect you. You gotta learn to stand up for yourself, even if that means ignoring their shit for the sake of living your goddamn life. Ignore them, and they'll learn to ignore you.”
I pressed my lips together and dropped my gaze to the tabletop. Luke hadn't been home in two years. Twice a month for the entirety of that two years, I'd made the trek up to Wayward Correctional Facility, and nearly every time I had seen him, the conversation had steered in this direction.
He had said they'd eventually move on.
He had said they'd grow bored.
But it seemed to me that, the more I kept to myself and didn't retaliate, the worse their attacks got.
Hell, just this past week, Tommy Wheeler had stabbed a crudely made wooden cross with his brother's name painted on it into the center of my front yard. He had waited for me to step outside to shout, “You helped to kill him by fucking existing ,” before spitting on the grass and storming back down the street toward his mother's house.
I called the cops, and they came to slap Tommy on the wrist. They encouraged me once again to file for a restraining order, to which I said I'd think about it, and I’d meant it. But the truth was, I had grown to be terrified of Tommy Wheeler. Maybe even more so than I'd ever been of his cold, nasty older brother, and I was worried a restraining order would only piss him off even more and push him over the edge.
Luke didn't know any of this.
I swallowed the urge to tell him and instead asked, “So, how's your job in the laundry room treating you?”