Jewelweed (22 page)

There was so much he intended to make right. But how could anything be made right if the person he'd let down had gone on and become someone else—a man with a new set of concerns, closer to the end of his life? This older father standing in the driveway, the hurt was part of him. Blake could see it and it would never go away. Making amends would be of little consequence.

Nate took another couple of steps toward them, limping again. His aging seemed to Blake like a scar inflicted by the time he'd been away—caused by Blake's absence. If someone was loved in the right way, they didn't get old. With the mallet of neglect, he'd beaten his own father.

“Are you coming?” asked Station, standing outside the van.

Blake stepped out.

“Hello, Dad.”

“Good to have you home, Blake.”

His father walked forward, his gentle eyes stopping at the sight of Blake's swollen face. He reached to embrace him.

“Forget it, Dad. It's nothing,” said Blake, backing away, trying to interrupt the sudden journey of tears toward his eyes. “It's nothing.”

“Come inside. Thank you for bringing him, Mr. Station.”

Blake looked away, pained by the kindness his father had shown to this worthless bastard.

Nate held the door open and Blake went into the house. Station followed. The smell of warm food in the kitchen made Blake want to go back outside. It seemed sacrilegious to savor these smells with Station in the house.

“We'd like you to stay for supper, Mr. Station.”

No, we wouldn't, thought Blake.

Station looked around the room.

“There's plenty,” said Nate.

“I'm only here to make a few things clear.”

Once again, Blake's conditions of release came out of an inner pocket in the leather coat. “I know you've seen this before, Mr. Bookchester, but I'm required to personally hand you a copy. Did you get rid of the firearms?”

“I took my twenty-two to my cousin's, and please call me Nate.”

“Alcohol?”

“She has that too.”

“There can be no firearms or alcohol here. As you already know, Mr. Bookchester, we have the right to search without notice. If drugs, firearms, or alcohol are found—”

“I know that,” said Nate.

“For the first week I'll have someone pick Blake up in the morning,
take him to work, and bring him home. When he gets his license, he'll be restricted to commuting to and from work for the first month. He will keep to a twelve-hour curfew, seven days a week. If I ever come here or call after seven-thirty at night and I don't talk directly to Blake, he goes back to prison. He's not allowed inside a tavern, or to associate with any other felons. He can't leave the state of Wisconsin for any reason without prior written permission. Because his crime was drug-related, he can be called anytime for drug tests, and he must report within seven hours of notification. Not showing up, showing up late, or failing the test will send him back to prison. Do either of you have any questions?”

Nate shook his head.

“Mr. Bookchester, you have a legal obligation to notify us about anything related to your son that may compromise the terms of his release. Failure to do so makes you complicit in any wrongdoing. Is that clear?”

Nate nodded.

“You're responsible for your son, and he's responsible to me. Is that understood by you both?”

“Yes,” said Nate.

Blake stared around the living room.

“Blake, is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, then we're done here.” Station walked outside, stopped, turned around, and spoke through the open door. “You have a comfortable home here, Mr. Bookchester. It reminds me of where I grew up in Iowa. There were four of us, counting my parents. It was the best place I ever lived, but we lost it. Do you know why?”

“I don't,” said Nate.

“My sister got sick. While she was in the hospital my father was laid off from the factory. When he found out he was responsible for the monthly insurance payments, he drove the premium to the company in Des Moines and handed it to them in person. They said it was late—three days late. And they refused to cover the hospital bills for my sister. The following year we lost the house and moved to Davenport.”

“Your sister?” asked Nate.

“She died a couple years later.”

“I'm sorry.”

“My father should not have been late,” said Station. “Those were the rules and he should have known them.”

And with that he turned and walked to the van. Blake watched him until Nate walked over and closed the door.

“Our supper is getting cold,” said Nate.

Blake sat at the yellow Formica-top table. Nate set a plate of batter-fried chicken in front on him, along with garlic mashed potatoes, homemade egg noodles and gravy, baked beans sweetened with maple syrup, a garden salad, a dish of peeled scallions, homemade cornbread, butter and honey, a giant glass of cold milk, and a mug of steaming hot coffee with cream.

Blake took a bite out of a drumstick and ignored the taste. It had been so long since he'd eaten anything good that he feared being unglued by the sensations. When he chewed, the left side of his head lurched with pain.

“Is everything all right?” asked his father.

“Everything's fine, Dad. No one could have made a better meal—all my favorites.”

“I found a farm that raises the best chickens. The family takes good care of them. No chemicals and not too expensive, either. And I found a place to buy open-pollinated corn, ground just right for cornbread. Can you taste the hint of cinnamon?”

“Yes, of course—cinnamon. Noticed it right off.”

“Are you ready to tell me what happened to your face?”

“It doesn't matter, forget it.”

“How'd it happen?”

Blake felt his five-year-old self walk down the hall, leap inside him, take command: Dad wants you to explain. You can't tell him everything. He's kind, unsuited for the world you know. You can handle this, you've done it before.

Using all the psychic strength in his possession, Blake cast aside his younger self, determined to start over on firmer ground. He took a deep breath and said, “They've got rules.”

Then for several moments Blake couldn't continue. He couldn't talk and hold his fork at the same time, and he set it down. “The Department of Corrections won't release anyone straight from maximum security. They're afraid you won't be ready for the outside, not socialized enough, so they assign you to a month of GP before they let you out.”

“I don't know what GP is,” said Nate.

“General Population is a lesser security classification. Instead of staying locked in your own cell, you share one, watch TV in the common room, and eat in the cafeteria. Everyone in GP knows who's getting out, and the lifers—guys who will never get out—sometimes pick fights. They've got nothing to lose. Having their sentences extended means nothing. If you fight back, no matter who starts it, you are sent to Maximum or Administrative Segregation, and no one is ever released from there.”

“These men actually try to keep you from getting out?”

“Some of them.”

“What kind of twisted men would do that?”

“The same kind you or I would be if we had no hope of ever getting out.”

“What good does it do them? What do they get out of it?”

“Dad, you don't have to understand. Don't try.”

“If we're going to get through this together, everything has to be out in the open. I need to know what happened and why.”

Blake looked up from the table, but he could not meet his father's eyes. He feared that a channel would open for the knowledge of prison to flow through. Some things didn't need to be understood. Originating in the lowest levels of spinal function, they should be kept there. The only way Blake could survive in prison was by not thinking about what he knew, the way a lizard knows snakes. Some of the guards taught you cruelty, and from many of the inmates you learned malice. Those spirits lived, but they did not merit understanding.

And yet the bond between him and his father went even deeper, and he had to answer.

“Guys serving life sentences have status. It diminishes when someone gets out.”

“I don't understand.”

“You don't need to.”

“I want to.”

Blake picked up his fork and began tapping it rapidly against the Formica tabletop. “You learn to respect the guys doing more time than you. That's just the way it works. You think about how much time you've
got left and imagine what it would be like to have more. The lifers get the most respect. They're looked up to. In some cases they use their status in decent ways, to teach younger guys how to get along. But it throws everything off when someone actually gets out. It disturbs the order.”

The fork-tapping grew in pace and intensity, until Nate reached across the table and touched Blake's hand.

“Why don't the guards prevent fighting?” he asked.

“The guards don't prevent anything. Most of those guys are in there because of the guards. Prison reduces everyone inside, and there's less left of some guards than there is of the inmates. It's just the way it works when people are divided up like that. You couldn't possibly understand it.”

“Not all guards can be bad.”

“You're right. They aren't. But they're still guards.”

“So you let them hit you?”

“I wanted out,” said Blake, trying to keep his voice from rising.

“It must be hard not to defend yourself.”

“I wanted out.”

“Why aren't you eating?”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Can I get you something else?”

“No.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Everything's fine, Dad, perfect. I just can't eat right now.”

Nate took a sip of coffee, then another. “I'm not hungry, either,” he said. “Too bad Jack Station didn't stay. Maybe he was hungry.”

“Why did you invite him to stay?”

“It seemed right.”

“You don't have to respect people like that, Dad. It's wasted on them.”

“I don't want to believe that,” said Nate.

Blake's anger flared briefly inside him—a burst of lightning that thankfully stayed within the rain cloud. He started to say something else, thought better of it, and took a drink of coffee. Then he looked straight at his father. “You seem good, Dad. How are you, really?”

“I'm fine. I tried to arrange a couple days off, but I've got a run tomorrow
and won't be back for four days. The company is pushing us pretty hard lately, especially the independents. It's the busted economy, they say. I'm sorry—I wanted to be here.”

“What time do you have to leave?”

“Before sunrise.”

“Better get some sleep then. I'll clean this up and pack lunches for tomorrow.”

“I can do it, son. You just got home.”

“I want to. It will keep me busy.”

“Your room's made up, and there are some old clothes in there. Should be everything you need. A pair of my boots—we used to wear the same size. There's plenty of food for the week in the refrigerator, and some cash in the cabinet above the sink if you need something while I'm gone.”

“Thanks. Say, who's this cousin with your rifle and beer?”

“Bee,” said Nate. “My cousin Bee. She lives in Red Plain. I'm seeing her.”

Blake didn't know what to make of “seeing her.” It both tried to communicate something and didn't.

Packing away the food proved unusually satisfying, as did washing, drying, and stacking the dishes. As Blake worked, the last of the light drained out of the sky, leaving the outside world muted all the way to the glowing horizon.

He put two sack lunches in the refrigerator, side by side, then wiped off the table and counter. He stayed calm as long as he kept moving.

There was still an inch of coffee left in his mug. He drank it at the table, listening. June bugs and moths thumped numbly against the screen, eager for the humming fluorescent light above him. A catbird tried to sing himself to sleep somewhere nearby. Toads creaked like winding wooden clocks behind the house. Water ran through a basement pipe and the door to his father's bedroom closed, followed by muffled footsteps, a sliding wooden drawer. Blake heard a car passing on the road, and he went to the window and watched red taillights moving off slowly.

The house felt insubstantial—a veneer, almost. Even the moths seemed to know they could eventually break through. Blake felt exposed.

Then he stood up, ran his hand over the wall, found the light switch, and closed his eyes. Feeling his way forward, he sat back down at the table
and waited, drawing out the moment. The sounds around the house became concentrated. The suspense became delicious, exciting. When the bugs stopped beating against the screen, Blake opened his eyes.