Page 65 of The River Is Waiting

Like he did the time he came home from campus and saw that Mom had taken his framed Roger Tory Peterson lithographs off the living room wall and replaced them with the macramé God’s eye she’d made on her loom. Or the day he arrived home early and caught Mom smoking weed in the backyard with two of her Wiccan friends. After he kicked out her company, she was so mortified that she screamed back at him for once. That was the first time he hit her—the first time I witnessed him doing it, anyway. Too afraid to get between them—to get him angry enough to hurt me, too—I escaped to the brook and tried to unsee what I’d just seen by focusing on the way the water moved. Letting it soothe me. Hypnotize me, almost. I stayed out there until the mosquitos started biting.

When I got back to the house, everything was quiet. The God’s eyewas gone; the lithographs were back. I grabbed the waxed paper–wrapped sandwich Mom had left for me on the kitchen counter and headed toward my bedroom. The TV in the living room was on and he was sitting in his chair watching television with the volume turned low. “G’night,” his silhouette said. “Night,” I answered.

When I closed my bedroom door, I flopped on my bed and fell asleep in the middle of eating my sandwich. I woke up, startled. His red face was screaming at me because of the mud I’d tracked through the house. When he came closer, I thought I was about to get hit. Instead, he pushed a wet dish towel against my face. “Clean it up!” he ordered. “If your mother and you think I’m going to live in a pigsty, you’re both sadly mistaken.” It was the summer I turned ten.

I’ve been incarcerated for a year and a half and in that time, I’ve waited for a visit or a letter from my father. Nothing. Instead, it’s his sister who writes, my aunt Nancy, who lives in Utah and whose faith in God seems as strong as my father’s faith in God’s nonexistence. “Our congregation is praying for you, Corbin Junior, and prayer is powerful! I hope you got the book I ordered for you last month.” Yes, I’d gotten it:Christian Awakenings to the Glory of God.I’d thrown it, unread, on top of the other one she’d sent me that I’d never cracked:When Jesus Speaks, Are You Listening?“I know your father can be difficult sometimes, but you can rest assured that he loves you and hopes you are abiding.” Seriously? Who told her that? Jesus?

Okay, Corby, shake it off.Mind-body. Mind-body. Mind-body.…

Sixty sit-ups, sixty push-ups, five reps each of squats, curls, lunges, and side bends daily. When I get out of here in another year, I’ll probably be in the best physical shape of my life. And my anxiety level’s much more under control now, too. Some nights, I hit the mattress at lights-out and don’t wake up until the sun’s come up. Doesn’t always happen but I’m grateful when it does. Last time my mom visited me, she said I looked better-rested and noted that my physique had changed. “You’re starting to look like the muscle-bound good guy on that cartoon show you watchedwhen you were a kid. You had his action figure and carried it around with you all the time. Remember?”

Of course I remembered. The show wasThunderCats, the character was Lion-O. With his team, he used to vanquish bad guys like Mumm-Ra and Vultureman. What Mom didn’t know was that as I sat there watching that show, I’d secretly imagine the bad guyIwould vanquish, the villain I both loved and hated: my father, the esteemed professor, noted zoologist, and avowed atheist, Dr. Corbin Ledbetter.

Hoo hoo hoo-hooo…

Hoo hoo hoo-hooo…

“Fucking birds! Shaddup!”

On the bunk above me, Sleeping Beauty has awakened. His skinny legs hang over the side. Then he jumps down and shuffles groggily to the toilet.

“Good morning, Manny. Did the owls interrupt your beauty sleep?” He mumbles something, but I can’t hear it over his loud morning piss.

Okay, now that he’s awake, I can start my morning workout. I do some stretches. Drop to the floor for push-ups and sit-ups. Manny walks around me, sighing. “You exhaust me,” he says. Climbing back up to his bed, he pushes his face into his pillow and groans.

After morning chow, I head over to the Sunday morning AA meeting in D Block. I’ve perfected my arrival, getting there right after the makeshift Catholic Mass instead of in the middle of it.

I fill my lungs with the crisp midmorning air and think about one of the quotes from that book of Buddhist sayings I grabbed from the library’s giveaway pile that day. If you focus on what’s harmonious and beautiful in your present surroundings, harmony and beauty will follow you. Or something like that.

Entering the meeting, I fist-bump with Javier and take a seat. Lenny, an ex-offender who got out, stayed clean, and has been making good money flipping houses, is chairing today. The topic he’s chosen is how to handle the challenges after we’re released: avoiding the traps that will send us back here; finding an employer willing to take a chance on a recovering addictwith a felony conviction; accepting the reality that the people we love won’t necessarily want us back. Lenny’s a stickler for the rules: no cross-talking, no political opinions, no shares longer than three minutes. He enforces that last rule with a stove timer that dings when someone’s time is up.

There are fourteen or fifteen of us at today’s meeting: Tyrone, Dusty, “Meth Mouth” Freddie, Durnell, Javier, the crew from C Building, and me. At Lenny’s meetings, everyone’s expected to share. The person to his left begins and we move clockwise around the circle until we get back to Lenny. When it’s Meth Mouth’s turn, he retells the same old sob story about how he began using the day he saw his cat get killed by a car. Lenny stops him when the timer dings.

Dusty’s up next. He’s been stuck in here since 2002 and is due to be released in a few months. He says as much as he can’t wait to get out, part of him wants to stay put because he’s scared to death about walking back into an unrecognizable world of streaming, online betting, phishing, and swiping right or left. “And what the hell is Bitcoin, anyway?” he says. Smiles and shrugs all around.

I’m next and would just as soon pass, but not sharing is like “coming empty-handed to a potluck supper and expecting to eat for free,” according to Lenny.

“I’m Corby, cross-addicted,” I say. Everyone hellos me back. Before I can say anything else, the door bangs open and a new guy strolls in. Beefy face, hanging gut, ponytail, Semper Fi tattoo. He’s maybe in his midfifties. “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “I had trouble finding you.” He crash-lands on the empty seat next to me. Lenny welcomes him and tells him the topic we’re dealing with is the challenges of freedom.

“Oh, I can talk a blue streak about that,” the new guy says.

“When it’s your turn, and as long as you keep it to three minutes,” Lenny says. “Go ahead, Corby.”

I tell the group I can relate to what Dusty said. “I’ve got plenty of time left in here, but I get nervous when I think about what happens when I leave.Crazynervous sometimes. I mean, the cravings have pretty muchleft me since I’ve been here, but once I’m out, who knows? And as far as employment? After the company I was working for laid me off, I couldn’t find another job, not even some stopgap thing. And that wasbeforemy arrest got covered on TV and in the papers. If someone who was considering hiring me Googled my name, I’m sure that’s the stuff that would come up first. So who the hell’s going to hire me now? Fuck, I’m not even sureI’dhire me.”

A few of the guys chuckle, but most just look down at the floor and nod.

“And as for my marriage, my being a dad, I’m hoping she’ll forgive me and let me come back home so that we can be a family again. But what if, by the time I’m out of here, she’s moved on? Met someone else and… I mean, I try to hold out hope, you know? I just don’t want hope to sucker punch me. Okay, that’s it. I’ll share the time.”

Next up is the new guy. “Frank,” he says. “Addict, alcoholic.”

“Hi, Frank” all around.

Turning and looking directly at me, he says, “I’ve been where you’re at, brother. My love affair with booze and blow cost me two careers, two wives, and now my second extended ‘vacation’ at this resort. So my advice to you is—”

Lenny puts up his hand like a traffic cop. “Hey, Frank? We don’t allow cross-talking in this group. Whatever you have to say, say it to everyone.”

“Oh, yeah. Okay.” When he changes course, it becomes obvious that Frank is one of those guys who wants everyone to know how smart he is compared to the rest of us dumb fucks. Within a three-minute ramble, he refers to Carl Jung, theI Ching, and an episode from the original Star Trek TV series called “Tomorrow Is Yesterday.” Unable to follow what his point is, or even whether there is a point to this word salad, I write him off as a blowhard and stop listening.

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