Page 59 of The River Is Waiting

I throw up my hands in frustration. “Because he wouldn’t wear his freakin’ work gloves!”

“Patience is a virtue, Ledbetter. Give him time. How did you two get along yesterday?”

“Okay, I guess. He opened up to me a little at the end of the day. From what he was saying, he took some pretty rough abuse down there on tier two, but it went under the radar. Now that I’ve given it some thought, I’m not so sure putting him in with Daugherty was such a good idea either.”

“No? Why’s that?”

“He’s giving the kid ‘legal’ advice and I don’t necessarily think it’s out of the goodness of his heart.”

“Maybe I could get the room assignments switched. Have them put DellaVecchia in with Daugherty and the kid in with you.”

I tell him I realize inmates don’t get to make decisions about who rooms with whom. “But honestly, being Solomon’s babysitter on the job is hard enough. Having to do it twenty-four seven would drive me nuts.”

He tells me to relax—that he was just thinking out loud. “I guess we’ll leave things the way they are for now. But I’ll keep an eye on the situation.”

Solomon’s back on the job the day after that, but he’s late again. When I call him on it, he says, “We live on the same floor. Why can’tyouget me up?”

“Because that’syourresponsibility, not mine. When the squawk box says it’s twenty minutes until breakfast, you drag your ass out of bed like the rest of us. By the way, how are your blisters?” He says they still hurt. “Guess you should have listened to me about the work gloves, huh?” He shrugs. Under his breath, he calls me an asshole. Look who’s talking, I feel like saying, but remind myself that I’m the adult.

The crew’s job today is to spread grass seed. Each pair of workers is equipped with a wheelbarrow and five forty-pound bags of seed that we’re expected to scatter by hand. Solomon and I are assigned to the stretch of lawn behind the medical building. I load four of the bags into the wheelbarrow, grab the handles, and tell the kid to pick up the last bag and follow me. I start wheeling toward our area, but when I look back, he’s just standing there. “What’s the matter?” I ask him.

“It’s heavy,” he says. “Why can’tIuse the wheelbarrow?”

Doesn’t he realize there’s a 160-pound load in there? “Be my guest,” I tell him. I pick the bag off the ground and start walking. Behind me, I hear a couple of grunts, a few “motherfucker”s. When I look back, I see that he’s tipped over the wheelbarrow. “Need some help?” I ask.

He says he guesses so. “Can we switch? These handles are hurting my blisters.”

I look away so he doesn’t see I’m grinning. “Sure. No problem.”

When we get to where we’re going, I rip open two of the bags and pour the seed into the wheelbarrow. Demonstrate how to scoop up a handful and scatter the seed with a flick of the wrist. He does a decent enough job at first, but then he starts getting lazy—pours handfuls of seed at his feet instead of scattering it. He tells me the wind will do it. “There is no wind,Solomon. And it’s supposed to rain tonight, so these little piles you’re making are going to get wet and rot. You have to spread it.”

“Get off my fucking case!” he shouts. But he complies. Does what he’s supposed to for about six or seven handfuls, then stops. Asks how much longer before lunch. I look up at the sky and tell him that, from the sun’s position, I’d say we’ve got another ninety minutes, give or take. He groans.

At noon, we head back to the barn. I suggest that Solomon join the rest of us and stop acting antisocial. He says it’s not an act—that heisantisocial. Still, he doesn’t turn his back on the crew this time. With this kid, every small gain is a win. The conversation with the other guys is lively—a lot of good-natured teasing and talk about football, but nobody speaks to Solomon and vice versa. I’m relieved that when lunch is over, nobody’s made a crack about dead dogs.

Heading back to work, Solomon and I are stopped in our tracks by what we see in front of us: an amazing number of wild turkeys pecking away at the seed we’d put down. Two of the bolder ones are in the wheelbarrow, gorging themselves on the loose seed. “Let’s count them,” I tell him. “See if we get the same number.” When I’m done, I tell him my number is sixty-eight. “How many did you count?” But he hasn’t counted. When I follow his gaze, he’s just been watching that same mother hen and her chicks from a few days ago. At least I think they’re the same ones. Why is he so drawn to them?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

November 2018

Day 469 of 1,095

This call originates from a Connecticut Department of Correction facility. If you wish to accept this call…

“Hey, Em. Thanks for picking up. How’s your weekend going?”

“Okay.” She reminds me about that math workshop she had to go to yesterday—the follow-up to the one back in September. “Maisie was ornery about having to go to Grammy’s for the day,” she says. “When we got there, she got out of the car and just stood there. So I had to pick her up and carry her inside with her whimpering and kicking my legs. But by the time I got back and picked her up, she was excited about the ‘buberry’ muffins she and Grammy had made.”

“Yeah? How were they?”

“Raw in the middle and so salty, they were practically inedible. Mom said Maisie poured the salt in before they could measure it, but she just let it go.”

“Really? Your mother let something go? Wow.” I tell her I was talking to my mom yesterday, and she said she wished Em would call her more often to babysit—that she hasn’t seen Maisie in almost a month.

“That’s because the last time we visited Vicki, I smelled marijuana. I can’t have her getting high if she’s going to take care of my child.”

Ourchild. “Did she know you were coming or did you just dropin? Because there’s no way Mom would smoke weed if she was watching Maisie.”

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