Page 101 of The River Is Waiting

“Not a clue,” he says. “Anything else?”

“How much snow are we supposed to get?”

“I heard six inches, but I doubt it. It’s never as much as they forecast. Okay, if there’s nothing else, good luck. We don’t want to see you back here.”

“Hey, one more question,” I tell him. “Who’s on duty first shift?”

“This morning? Dang, I read it on the schedule, but I can’t remember.”

“It’s not Anselmo and Piccardy, is it?”

He cocks his head. “Why you asking about those two? You hear something?” I tell him no, I was just wondering. “They’re both on administrative leave,” he says. “And don’t ask me why because I’m not discussing it.”

Administrative leave means they’re in trouble for something, doesn’t it? Have those two motherfuckers finally gotten nailed?

Morning chow is sparsely attended. Just as well. I’m too jumpy to keep up my end of a conversation. I eat with my head down, grateful that this will be the last gummy-oatmeal-and-powdered-egg breakfast I’ll have to swallow—reason enough not to screw up and have to come back here. Maybe one day this week, I’ll go into work with Mom and order one of those California omelets with the avocado and bacon. Maybe ask Skip about a dishwashing job while I’m at it. Gotta start somewhere.

Leaving the chow hall, I try to listen in on a conversation two guys in front of me are having. I miss a lot of it, but one of them says he heard three female guards filed a joint complaint. The other one says he heard the whistleblower was keeping track of all kinds of shit. They’ve got to be talking about Piccardy and Anselmo.

Manny’s awake when I get back, but for once he doesn’t have any intel about why those two are in trouble. “Could be a hundred different things,” he says. “Including whatever happened that night Anselmo gave you shit about stealing the salt shaker.”

He’s fishing, but I don’t take the bait. All I’ll tell him is that Piccardy showed up unexpectedly that night. “So they double-teamed me.” Hestands there, waiting for me to say more, but I don’t. I’m taking my humiliation with me when I walk out of here and never saying anything to anybody. Whatever those two have gotten nabbed for, I hope they both get shitcanned, but it’s not going to have anything to do with me.

At quarter of seven, Manny puts me through another of his sentimental goodbyes, then leaves for his job at data processing. Fifteen minutes later, my escort arrives, right on time. It’s Pawlikowski, one of the older guards. “Ready?” he asks. I grab my plastic bag of stuff but tell him to hold on a second. Go to the back window and look out. It’s stupid; Mom’s not supposed to get here until eight thirty, but maybe she’s come early because of the snow. Nope. No cars, no tracks. When Pawlikowski unlocks the door, I leave the cell without looking back.

But we’re only about ten steps down the corridor when an announcement comes over the PA. Because the morning count hasn’t cleared, all movement throughout the compound is suspended until further notice. “But that doesn’t mean me if I’m getting discharged, does it?” I ask Pawlikowski. I’m starting to panic.

“Sure it does,” he says. “I’ve got to lock you back in, but take it easy. It should clear pretty soon.”

It doesn’t. Half an hour goes by. Then three-quarters of an hour. My nerves are electric and I can’t stop pacing. Can’t stop checking the empty lot. Why does it have to snow today of all days?

Then there she is. And my God, here comes Emily, too. The doors of both cars swing open and they get out, hug, talk. Maisie’s running circles around her mother and grandmother, catching snowflakes on her tongue. It’s real now! I’m getting out of here and Emily and Maisie have come to meet me. My eyes are stinging as I blink back tears. I think I’ve done more crying in this place than I’ve done in my whole life before I got here.

The count clears a few minutes later, but the walk over to the main building where I’ll be discharged is so slow, it’s torture. “Bad knees,” Pawlikowski says. “All that jogging I used to do back in the seventies. And this snow is slippery so I gotta move slow. Could have retired two years ago,but me and the wife are raising our grandson and my retirement won’t cover all the things he needs.” He doesn’t say why the kid’s parents aren’t raising him and I know not to ask.

When we enter the building, Pawlikowski leads me to the holding cell and locks me in with two other guys who are getting out. Then, with a weary sigh, he plops down on a metal folding chair by a door markedDISCHARGE. Coincidentally, I recognize one of the guys I’m waiting with; he and I rode to Yates chained to each other on that hot August afternoon back in 2017 when we both were processed in. He has no recollection of me. Good. That ride’s not something I feel like reminiscing about. The other guy keeps letting them rip and it’s stinking up the cell. Where the fuck’s the Febreze when you need it?…

Jesus, how long have we been waiting here? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Why’s nothing happening? The other two don’t seem like they’re in any particular hurry to get out of here, but my mind is racing and I can’t sit still. When I call over to Pawlikowski and ask him what’s taking so long, he shrugs and tells me to just relax. Relax? I’ve been putting up with DOC’s hurry-up-and-wait shit for two and a half years and I’m champing at the bit to get free of it. So fuck you, Pawlikowski, and fuck the fucking Department of Correction, too.

Finally, from the other side of the door, someone shouts, “Abraham!” Pawlikowski struggles himself off his chair and unlocks the holding cell door. Luckily, Abraham’s the farter. Pawlikowski lets him out and unlocks the discharge door, and whoever’s processing us out asks Abraham for his full name and date of birth. Maybe I’ll be next.

Fifteen minutes later, I hear, “Holloway!” Shit! I’m number three out of three. Figures. I feel bad for Emily, Mom, and Maisie. They’ve already had a long wait and it’s not over yet.

I have no idea how much more time has passed when they finally call my name. Pawlikowski delivers me to the two COs working the discharge counter. One of them’s a young bodybuilder type like Piccardy, Officer Ostertag according to his name tag. I’ve never seen him before. The otheris Stickley, aka Butch, the guard from the visiting room. When I hand over my bag, she dumps everything onto the counter and starts checking items against my list. Ostertag third-degrees me to make sure I’m the real me, not someone who’s trying to bust out of here. In the middle of answering his questions, I spot a folded newspaper at the end of the counter. One of the headlines says, “Yates Correctional Officers Under Investigation.” When Ostertag catches me looking at it, he grabs the paper and shoves it under the counter. Then he hands me the exit clothes and laceless sneakers they sent over from Property. Pointing to the bathroom door, he tells me to take off my uniform and that when I’m down to my underwear, he’ll search me. After that, I can change into the civvies they’ve provided. “And you know the drill,” he says, handing me a pee cup. “Leave it on the top of the tank when you’re done. And don’t fill it to overflow like the last dingleberry.” He nods toward a small puddle on the bathroom floor. Then he stands at the open bathroom door as I do what he says.

Once all that’s accomplished, I figure there can’t be much more to this rigmarole. I emerge from the bathroom wearing what feel like clown clothes. The shirt’s too small, the elastic waistband on the khakis has had it, and the sneakers fit me like Bozo shoes. Stickley says everything on my list checks out except for one thing. “Lucky stone,” she says. “What’s that?”

Oh, shit. All that time waiting around during the lockdown and I didn’t remember to put it in the bag. “It’s just a stone I picked up at the river out back when I was working on the grounds crew. It’s kind of like my good-luck charm, I guess you could say. I forgot to pack it, but maybe if you let me—”

She cuts me off, shakes her head, and crosses the item off my list. “Lucky stone,” she mumbles. “You men are more superstitious than a bunch of old ladies.”

I smile at that. Ask her what time it is.

She checks her watch. Says it’s twenty past ten.

“Oh, wow. Is there much more you have to do before I get out?”

Ostertag’s the one who answers. “You’re not getting out, Ledbetter. Not today anyway. Your urine’s dirty.”

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