The Bars That Hold Us (10 page)

‘I need to get a kite to
someone important.’

‘How important?’

‘A guard.’

‘I’m listening.’ Still he mops.

‘She’ll be knocking off soon. Cole, I mean.’ The mopping halts abruptly while he stops and stares at me. He looks around to see if anyone is paying any attention to us. They’re not. He goes back to the mopping, digesting what I’ve just said.

‘A
favor of that variety is going to cost you.’

‘I’m willing to pay.’

‘Well, judging by the nature of the favor I’d say you are, mister.’

‘So what would you want in return for making sure that
my kite gets in the right hands?’

‘Well, it’s of great risk and personal sacrifice to myself you understand?’

‘I get it. What’s it going to cost?’

His eyes dart about the possessions in my cell while his brain cogs spin, working to make a decision.

‘You got any chalk?’

‘No.’ He’s referring to a crude wine made from yeast, sugar, fruit and water. Usually on
ly the kitchen staff are privy to this forbidden alcoholic contraband.

‘You got titty mags?’

‘No.’

‘Extra chow? Can you hit me up?’

‘I could do that.’

‘But that ain’t much
, mister. This kind of thing is risky. Risky business needs compensation.’

‘I could get you coffee?’

‘Now you’re talking.’ He clicks his tongue and sounds excited, the mop moving faster with this news. I’m not about to tell him I’m stealing it from the library, so long as I deliver, that’s all that matters.

‘Is it
a nice brew?’

‘Of course; as good as you’re going to get in here old timer. So, what do you say?’

‘Depends… anything else you can bring to the table?’

I look around my cell. There isn’t much I can offer him, certainly nothing he doesn’
t already possess or can easily obtain from others willing to trade favors.

‘What about a hundred dollars put into your prison kitty?’

He smiles widely at me now, not caring who sees.

‘You got somebody who could do that for you?’

‘Yeah, I do. He comes in on a Tuesday, so he could do it then.’

‘Mister, you’ve got yourself a deal. But I still get the coffee, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the chow?’

‘Yes.’

His han
d darts out suddenly, unexpectedly. I place the kite in it, trusting. Before I can blink, it has disappeared somewhere on his person. That is our transaction sealed. I watch as he disappears out of F block, whistling as the mop removes the grime that coats this place.

It sits on the coffee table—taunting me. I want to refuse it, ignore it, pretend that it doesn’t even exist. But how can I when it is so glaringly, obviously real
? The small, neatly folded paper is a stark contrast to my dark surroundings. It sticks out like a sore thumb. While I sit amongst dark wood and fabrics in the dim light of the evening, I’m seduced into wanting to touch it.

The inmate who thrust it into my palm scared the living shit out of me when he palmed it as he brushed by. His sour, dank breath instructed me not to react which
, I might add, was next to impossible when his invasive presence was so near to the perimeter of my personal boundaries. He invaded that space, pushing me to places I don’t want to go. He made me have a physical reaction – the kind where your skin pebbles from the chill that runs down your spine and the hair on your arms stands on end. If his eyes hadn’t been so…
sane
, I would have reacted in a completely different manner.

I see now, he didn’t want to hurt me. He was just the middle guy. I lean forward, elbows on knees, my work jacket puffing up around my
stomach. I’m yet to undress—to even kick my boots off yet. All of my focus is on this nicely folded piece of paper that torments me, willing me to devour its contents.

The only problem is, I suspect who it’s from, and that lends itself to a whole new dimension of worry and heart-gripping guilt. I told myself I don’t want to feel anymore and yet this little bit of paper
makes me do just that. It entices me to reach for it slowly, almost scared to commit. If I go through with it, I’m only entertaining an unexplainable connection with someone who I can’t, or shouldn’t, under any circumstances, get involved with.

Saxon Miles
. The fact that I’m on a first-name basis with him in my head doesn’t go unnoticed—it only adds fuel to the fire.

As though my body has different ideas to my head, my fingertips reach out, extending towards the intrusive bit of paper. It seems as though I care none for my wishes to stay out of trouble—to stay sad and in the grips of grief that my lost lover
has cocooned me with. I’m intrigued, and I dare not say
hungry
. It’s not a hunger driven by food. Instead, it’s an insatiable want for the forbidden. His hands, his lips… my body starts to feel feverish just thinking about it.

I almost pick it up. A knock at the door startles me to my senses and I withdraw from the note as though bitten by something venomous.

‘Mercy? Honey, are you in there?’

My dad’s comforting voice reaches me through the front door. I’ve completely forgotten we are going to grab a bite to eat. It’s become our Friday night ritual since I started work at the prison. It gives him a chance to talk about his week at work—a way to connect with me about the job without me having to live the day to day torment that the beat would bring with it now that Danny is gone.

‘Mercy?’

‘I’m coming, Dad!’ I snatch the note up and pocket it for later.
When I open the front door, Dad’s breath is streaming out of his mouth, a sign the night is going to be a chilly one.

‘What were you doing in there? I’m freezing my ass off out here!’

‘Sorry, I was—’

‘Doesn’t matter,
kiddo, I’m starving. Are you ready to go?’ He eyes my work uniform skeptically.

‘Uh, sure. Just let me drag some jeans on, will you?’

‘Okay, but I’m going to wait in the car – your place is almost as cold as outside.’

He heads back out, his large frame disappearing into his sedan. I quickly kick off my boots and pants, scurrying around my room to find clothes that are clean and devoid of wrinkles.

When I emerge to take in my appearance in the bathroom I realize, that for the first time since Daniel died, I don’t look completely and utterly gutted. There’s no happiness or peace, but it’s definitely a step up. I take my long, chestnut hair out of its braid and let it fall in loose waves around my shoulders. Sometimes I don’t recognize the woman who stares back at me anymore. Sometimes I only see who I’ve become without him. The hardest part is I’m not sold on whether I actually want to change that. I sigh heavily. It doesn’t get easier – it just gets easier to live with.

I lock up the house and slide in next to Dad. I know he’d never
say this to any of his kids, but I know I’m his favorite despite being the only girl amongst his brood of four. My brothers are all cops, too. John and Harry work the beat with Dad, while my eldest brother, Mike, works as a detective interstate. He doesn’t say so to me, but I know Daniel’s death has been hard on him as well. Not just because he lost a son-in-law or a fellow officer, but because a piece of his daughter died that night. The more time we spend together, the more our strained relationship starts to feel like it used to.

Dad drives to our usual haunt—a b
ar on the eastside called Flannigan’s. It’s a staple for beer and hot meals to most of the metropolitan police force. I should hate it, the memories being enough to dampen my evening, but I don’t. It feels like home. Sometimes, while I’m eating with my dad, I pretend that Daniel isn’t really gone.

While the chatter and clinking of glasses goes on around me, I lose myself in the booth as the live band plays in the background of the dimly-lit bar. It’s easy to imagine that Daniel has just slipped away to get a fresh round of drinks, or has stopped to say hello to a fellow officer. Much easier than facing the reality of his death, that’s for sure.

We steal our usual table, the spot furthest from the bar. There’s nothing worse than having people shoving behind your seat while they’re waiting three deep for drinks.

Neither of us needs to see the menu. We know it by heart. Besides, we always order the same thing: Steaks, chips and salad with hot peppercorn gravy.
It’s a tradition as familiar as the outing itself. Only Daniel is missing from the scene. It’s a bitter pill, but Dad is going to make sure I damn well swallow it.

‘So, Peterson says you made it through your self-defense training without any hiccups.’

‘Jeeze, Dad, can we just let it go already?’

‘Hey,’ he says, holding his hands up in his defense, ‘I think it’s a great course. Very empowering for women on the force.’

‘Bloody embarrassing is what it was.’

‘Well, sweetie, I think most people wouldn’t judge you under the circumstances.’

‘Why? Because I’m a grieving widow who deserves sympathy?’ I snap.

‘No. Because I don’t know any other female on the force who could have fought off two thugs who overpowered her because they were intent on raping her.’

‘Oh.’

He looks at me half amused.

‘So, you’re enjoying the job anyway?’ He sips his beer, the froth clinging to his upper lip.

‘As much as I can, I guess.’

‘Good! I’m sure it’ll work out in the long run. And don’t worry about that shit assignment watching over the library repairs; I can talk to the warden and have him get you back on—’

‘No!’

He looks confused by my outburst.

‘I mean no,
thank you. I don’t want to seem like I’m running to daddy every time I need favors. You know? And to be honest, I’m okay with it.’

‘Well, if you’re sure…’

‘Yep, I’m all good.’

We’re interrupted by a waitress who dumps our plates down in front of us. My dad’s big bear-like hands pick up his knife and fork, our conversation forgotten as the sight of a juicy steak captures his attention instead.

The comfortable silence that ensues allows the sounds of the bar to filter between us, allowing me to retreat back into my self-imposed exile. I’ve never been big on the overly mushy stuff with my dad, but I guess that’s what happens when you grow up with three brothers kicking your ass day in, day out.

I don’t let that fool me, though. He knows I still lack the jovial side of my personality
that he loves so much. I’ve still abandoned the occasional punch in the arm or slap on the back—the little things that let him know I’m happy and doing okay. These sides of my personality just slipped away as the life out of Danny did the same. Death is never one-sided. There will always be ripples that roll out in waves or even just slight currents, diverting feeling and emotion from those it affects.

We finish our meal, and I’m happy it’s time to leave the bar. More patrons are starting to fill in and I’m reluctant to have a run-in with any of the guys I used to work with. That just makes for awkward conversation and unnecessary offers of a get-together that neither of us wants to be a part of.

The drive home is filled with music that Dad still likes to play from his cassette tapes. Stuff like Barry Manilow and Paul Simon. It’s comforting in a way because it takes me back to a time when he’d drive me around in the old family car for ice cream—a time when I didn’t know what pain and heartache were. Being in the car with Dad like this is as easy as breathing. It makes me forget, if only for a while.

He pulls up out the front of my house
and turns to say goodbye. Before he gets chance to utter a word, I plant an impulsive peck on his cheek, grateful that I have someone so solid—so sturdy—in my life.

‘What was that for?’ He smiles, his eyes crinkling just a little at the sides.

‘Because I may not tell you, but our time together is important to me. And… well, I appreciate you not giving up on me.’

‘Never going to happen,
kiddo.’

‘Thanks, Dad.’

I shut the car door and watch him drive off down the street. Despite all I’ve lost, I know that I should still see all the good that fills my life. Things that I should be thankful for, things that I take for granted, things that other people go without.
Today, I’m thankful for my dad
.

Inside the house is cold and still. My dad was right; it’s colder than hell in here. I leave all the lights off, preferring the darkness over the radiance of light. I move about with practiced care, relying on little more than streetlights and slivers of the moon’s luminosity that filters in behind the curtains.

In my bedroom I stop, quietly listening to the noises of my house. Sometimes the silence is deafening and I welcome the little disturbances the walls and pipes give off. A little creak here, a little creak there—all signs that life is still going on around me.

A hot shower beckons me, so I undress quickly so as not to stand naked in the brisk air for too long.
Like all things these days, I go through the motions mechanically, not caring to derive any pleasure.

After drying off, I brush my teeth before scrambling into an old T-shirt and tracksuit pants. I’m warm, and nicely relaxed from the few beers I had with dinner. I hop into bed, hoping that sleep will bring a welcome reprieve. The mind drifts. It remembers—remembers how I completely blew off supervising Saxon.

Some random plea to Clarence and I was able to swing my shift to supervision on the outside today. Not something the warden has approved yet, but something I was looking to make more permanent. I couldn’t face him. More to the point, I didn’t
want
to face him. The kiss was totally inappropriate on so many levels. Wrong for him and certainly wrong for me. The thing that scares me the most is that I don’t want to desire him. I don’t want to have any kind of feelings for him because it seems like too much of a betrayal to Daniel.