16. Day Seventy-Three
Day Seventy-Three
Whistler
On day seventy-three, a man in bunk six asks me if the lights ever go all the way out.
He has asked four times since breakfast.
"Only when the county forgets to pay the sun," I tell him.
He doesn't laugh.
The joke has nowhere to go.
His name is Foster. Nineteen, maybe twenty. First night in county. He arrived after midnight carrying his shoes because intake took the laces. Since then, he has checked the locked door every time keys pass on the tier.
I used to believe talking made every fear smaller. It works when the fear needs air. Some fears are already breathing too fast.
"Emergency lights stay on," I say. "Generator catches in six seconds."
"You count it?"
"I count most things."
That answer helps. His shoulders drop half an inch.
County gives a man a schedule and calls it time. Wake at five-thirty. Breakfast at six. Count at seven, noon, five, and nine. Laundry cart on Monday and Thursday. Fifteen minutes of phone if the system recognizes your face. Lights dimmed at ten-thirty but never dark.
The first eight days I spent here, I counted walls because every number felt like a route out.
Now I count seventeen.
Seventeen breakfasts. Seventeen night counts. Two more laundry Thursdays. Three calls with Nadine if nobody ahead of me argues with the machine.
I still talk. The men in this unit know which guard waters the coffee and which vending slot drops two crackers if you hit the button with the side of your thumb. I can turn a five-minute shower line into an argument about the best barbecue in Georgia.
The difference is I know when the noise is for them and when it's for me.
At three, rain strikes the narrow windows. Hard enough to turn the glass gray. The fluorescent lights flicker.
Foster stands.
"Sit down," Officer Dobbins says from the desk.
The lights cut.
One second.
Two.
Somebody swears.
Three.
The emergency strips burn red along the floor. The generator catches at six, exactly as promised, but Foster is already at the door.
"Open it."
Dobbins rises. "Back away."
"I can't—open the door."
His palm strikes the metal. Once. Again.
Two officers appear beyond the glass. One unclips the spray from his belt. Foster sees it and stops breathing altogether.
"Kid," I say.
He turns toward me, eyes wide and absent.
The word hits my own ear wrong.
I cross the dayroom slowly and sit on the floor six feet from him.
"Foster. Look at me."
"I didn't do anything."
"I know."
"I can't breathe."
Normally I'd give him a story. Tell him about the county eggs or the guard who sings old Conway Twitty under his breath. Fill the next minute until it can't hurt him.
Nadine's voice arrives instead.
Competent isn't the same as careful.
"Show me where it hurts," I say.
His fist presses the center of his chest.
"All right. Keep your hand there."
I don't tell him he's fine. I don't know that.
I breathe once where he can see it. Slow in. Slower out.
He tries. Fails.
Tries again.
Dobbins stays standing, but the spray doesn't clear the belt.
Rain pounds the windows. Boots pass in the corridor. The whole building makes enough noise for both of us.
Foster gets one breath all the way down.
Then another.
"My wife is due next month," he says.
I wait.
"She says she won't bring the baby here."
I wait again.
The rest comes because I leave room for it. The missed court date. The night shift that ran late. The public defender whose name he can't remember. The father who told him county was what happened to men who didn't listen.
Nothing I say can unlock the door.
So I don't pretend.
When he's breathing normally, Dobbins tells him to return to his bunk. Foster goes.
Dobbins looks at me. "Thought you talked more, Sharp."
"Me too."
He almost smiles.
Mail comes after dinner.
Nadine's envelope has her hospital's return address because she knows the mailroom rejects anything without an address it can verify. Her handwriting is narrow and upright. Even the stamp appears supervised.
The letter is one page.
The hospital review is closed. No board report. Evelyn rolled from her back to her stomach and terrified Crow. Beau's whistle has improved, which Nadine considers a questionable use of lung capacity. The repaired porch step still holds. She's still there.
At the bottom, she has written:
Seventeen is a number. It's not forever.
Then, beneath it:
Come home.
I read those two lines until count.
At ten-thirty, the lights dim without going out. Foster lies on his bunk with one arm over his eyes. Rain moves away from the windows toward the county line.
I take out the pencil worn flat on one side and the paper Ledger sent with the release calendar.
For ten minutes, I try to write something good enough.
Everything sounds like noise arranged into sentences.
Finally, I write the truth the way Vale taught me to give it. No extra verbs. No joke waiting behind it.
Nadine,
You. Me. Bad timing. Real anyway.
I love you.
Eddie
Four lines.
I fold the page before I can explain any of them.
Across the tier, Foster asks if the lights are going to hold.
"Yeah," I say.
He believes me.
For the rest of the night, neither of us needs to ask again.