Burn Down the Ground

It doesn’t matter who my father was;
it matters who I remember he was.

—ANNE SEXTON

Dear Kambri,

Thank you so much for the “USA Today” and for more money in Trust Fund. I wish you were rich so you can send more.

I am in solitary for 30 days. What I did was insult the interpreter Mrs. Heath. Called her “Bitch Whore” after we argued. Anyway I don’t care if I stay in cell, and I don’t have money for the Commissary anyway.

Will you visit me? Don’t forget to sneak a pack of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit from the Free World. Prison rules say don’t dress sexy or short skirt. I bet you know how to do it right. Wear big, loose shirt for hiding a Dairy Queen hamburger.

Love, Daddy

Daddy is Theodore R. Crews, Jr., or Inmate #13A46B7 to the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. He lives in Huntsville—a city of thirty-five thousand located sixty-seven miles from Houston on Interstate 45 toward Dallas. It’s a nondescript Texas city, known for decent barbecue, Sam Houston State University, and Huntsville Prison—the former home of “Old Sparky,” a wooden electric chair handcrafted by inmates that was used to execute 361 men between 1924 and 1964
.

The prison is a lot less ominous than I expected. Except for the barbed wire, it reminds me of a school. It is a large, drab institution devoid of any color but with armed guards instead of hall monitors and a warden instead of a principal
.

I have never been to a prison before, so as I drive up to the gate my stomach is in knots. An overstuffed officer wearing cowboy boots, a ten-gallon hat, and a white handlebar mustache approaches my car and rattles off orders in a thick Texan drawl
.

“Pop the hood, open the trunk, and show me your ID.”

I fumble with my wallet and hand him my driver’s license. He takes a glance and declares with a mischievous glint, “New York City? Get a rope!”

I let out a nervous laugh but question his judgment. Is it really wise to joke about hangings at a prison famous for executions?

He must figure that a woman in high heels from New York City
would not be hiding a jumbo pack of gum in the waistband of her neatly pressed Banana Republic slacks. When his metal-detecting wand shrieks where the pack of gum is hidden, he dismisses it. “Don’t you worry, honey, it’s just your belt buckle.” I am not wearing a belt. Juicy Fruit, however, is wrapped in foil
.

I venture into the visiting area, a large open room that resembles a cafeteria with vending machines along the wall. There are two long tables with prisoners lined up on one side and visitors on the other. This is the contact visiting area, available only to immediate family members of inmates. What you see on television, with thick glass separating inmates from their visitors, is a non-contact visit. Those are for convicts on restriction for misbehaving, or non-relatives
.

Dad isn’t supposed to be allowed to see visitors here—he is serving a punishment of a year in segregation for striking a guard—but the warden is letting us have a contact visit because I traveled so far
.

Always one for small talk, I am surprised at how friendly the guards are. I imagined they would be stoic, with close-cropped hair and hands resting on their weapons
.

They give me warm smiles and polite nods and say things like “How’re you doing today, ma’am?” and “Sure is a beautiful day, isn’t it?” If I just look past their uniforms and guns, we could be anywhere
.

I wonder if they know Dad. Will they treat me differently when they see whom I’m here to visit? Should I apologize to them in advance?

My father comes out of the caged holding area. I expect to see him wearing a fluorescent orange jumpsuit or bold prison stripes. Instead, he’s clad in all white, from the short-sleeved shirt over long johns down to his cotton pants and Chuck Taylors. He looks more like an orderly at a hospital than a hardened criminal
.

My delight at seeing Dad quickly turns to shock. The last time I saw him he was perfectly fit, but now he is hunched over, slowly shuffling his feet
.

Did he break something? Was he in another fight? Has he just aged? Has it been that long? Yes, it has been that long. Christmas 1997, nine years ago, when he spent the holidays with me and I bought him a VCR for that dilapidated trailer of his.

I glance away and try to pull myself together. I look back and flash the biggest smile I can muster. With extra enthusiasm, I wave “I love you” in sign language. He weakly waves back but doesn’t answer, choosing instead to concentrate on his pained walk
.

I have let Dad rot in here alone.

My eyes well up with tears just as my father kicks up his heels and dances a jig. He signs, “Ha ha! See what could happen? You should visit me more! I’m an old man!”

I stand stunned for a second, my mouth literally falling open before I rouse myself to sign with big, sweeping gestures and a huge smile, “You J-E-R-K!” Dad gives me a hug—not a long one. A guard is standing close, hand ready at my father’s elbow, waiting to lead him to his designated chair across the long wooden table from me
.

But the strongest steel bars can’t cage charisma. Dad resumes walking with his trademark strut—cockiness dripping from every pore
.

There’s nothing to cry about. He is totally fine.

I maintain my composure and act like every woman spends Christmas sneaking Juicy Fruit to her father in prison
.

KINGPIN