Page 67 of The River Is Waiting

“For what? I didn’t even do anything.” Instead of saying what I’d like to, I break into a jog to get ahead of him. “What’s your problem anyway?” he calls to me. When I don’t answer, he says, “Well, you won’t see me tomorrow. I got court. The lawyer told my stepmother he’s asking for a continuance. So you can think about me having a day off while you’re stuck here working all day.”

The little shit has no idea how tough court runs are. If I wasn’t so fed up, I’d warn him. I’m still going to press my case with the boss, tell himit’s someone else’s turn to work with Solomon, but maybe at lunchtime, I can give the kid a heads-up about court so he doesn’t freak out. Whatever the hell is wrong with him, he’s as fragile as glass underneath that bravado. Better if he’s forewarned. When I don’t hear his footsteps behind me, I look over my shoulder to see what’s up. He’s just standing there, kicking at the dirt and looking pathetic. Putting up with Solomon isn’t easy, but it can’t be easybeinghim either.

When I get to the barn, I’m stopped in my tracks. Cavagnero’s not there. In his place are Piccardy and his lacky, Goolsby. They’re chatting with each other, ignoring the rest of us. Ratchford and Harjeet are whispering something about Cavagnero, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. What the hell is going on?

“Okay, listen up!” Piccardy says. “Officer Goolsby and I are supervising this crew from now on, so—”

“Where’s Cavagnero at?” Tito asks for all of us.

Piccardy ignores the question. “We expect a decent day’s work out of all of you, and as long as you comply, we’ll get along fine.” He looks at me when he says the next. “We know how to deal with slackers and rule breakers and, trust me, you won’t like it. Now, Officer Goolsby’s going to call the roll.”

Goolsby calls Solomon’s name last. There’s no answer. “That’s the kid,” Tito volunteers. “Sometimes he’s late.”

I see Solomon coming over the rise. “Here he is.”

As he approaches, Piccardy says, “Glad you could make it. Someone from the crew said youused to belate, emphasis on the ‘used to be.’ Get it?” Solomon looks confused. I wonder if he realizes Piccardy was the one who grabbed him from the back and dragged him out of the visiting room. “I just asked you a question, Clapp. Do you get my point when I say youused to belate?” When Solomon looks over at me, I mouth the answer. He looks back at Piccardy and says, “Yes, sir.”

Piccardy nods and turns back to the rest of us. “Before we give you guys your assignments for today, are there any questions?”

Ratchford asks whether what someone told him is true: that Cavagnero fell off a ladder while he was cleaning out his gutters and broke his hip.

“Fractured his pelvis,” Harjeet adds. “That’s what I heard.”

Piccardy frowns. “What happens to staff is none of your business,” he says. “Anyone have a question that’s work-related?”

“I do,” Tito says. “Is Culinary Arts still gonna make our lunches?”

Piccardy smiles and turns to Goolsby. “We’ve got our work cut out for us, Officer Goolsby,” he says. “These fools have been spoiled rotten.”

Piccardy announces our work assignments. Israel and Harjeet get the plum job: weeding and tending to the fall beds of asters, mums, and flowering kale that decorate the front yard, then washing and waxing the warden’s and deputy warden’s cars. Solomon, Ratchford, and Tito are handed push brooms and told they’ll be sweeping the walkways and the parking lots. When Solomon tells Officer Goolsby that Cavagnero always has him work with me, Goolsby says, “Oh, yeah? Gee, thanks for letting us know. Now get over to the parking lots and start sweeping.” This earns Goolsby a thumbs-up from his mentor but leaves Solomon looking shaken. The poor kid may still be within earshot when Piccardy asks Goolsby whether he knows who he is. When Goolsby shakes his head, Piccardy makes his finger a gun. “Woof, woof. Bang! Bang! Bang!” Goolsby says Solomon’s nothing like he pictured him.

Piccardy saves the last assignment for me and, just as I guessed, it’s the crappiest job. Handing me a rake, a short-handled shovel, and a bucket, he tells me to clean out the decaying leaf sludge beneath the long row of barberry bushes that separates the back lawn from the woods. I nod, denying him the satisfaction of seeing that I’m pissed to be singled out for this work detail. As I start off toward the job, he catches up and walks alongside me. “Too bad about Cavagnero, huh?” he says. “I bet you’re going to miss him. I understand you two were pretty tight.”

“Tight? I wouldn’t say that. We get along okay. He gets along with everyone.”

“Ain’t that sweet,” he says. “From what I hear, he’s probably notcoming back. He’d be out for months anyway, so he’s looking into early retirement.”

“Well, like you said, Officer. What happens to staff is none of my business.”

He smiles at the “gotcha” I just landed, but then he retaliates. “So how’s your wife, Ledbetter? It’s Emily, right? How’s Emily?”

Rather than whacking him in the face with this shovel I’m carrying, I keep walking toward those barberry bushes. “Enjoy,” he says, then turns and walks back toward the barn. Fuck him and fuck his boot-licking assistant, too. If Piccardy doesn’t let up, I’ll quit rather than put up with his bullshit.

It rained most of the night before, so the ground where I’m working is saturated. Within the first hour, my work boots and socks are soaked. Worse than that, the muck I’m scooping up is mice- and bug-infested and they’re not happy that I’m screwing with their domain. There hasn’t been a frost yet, so I’m spending half my time swatting away flies and mosquitos. By midmorning, I’ve pulled two ticks off me. The one on the back of my neck had already begun to embed itself. It’s warm for October—Indian summer, the TV weather guy said last night—so I dressed in just my scrubs this morning, no jacket. Now I’m covered in bites. The only good thing about this shitty work detail is that it’s closer to the river, which I can hear loud and clear after all that rain. I wish I could see it, too.

At noon, the crew reconvenes at the barn, but there’s no sign of Solomon. Has he freaked out and made matters worse for himself? Walked off the job? I remind myself that, whatever happened, I’m not responsible for him. I just hope that short fuse of his hasn’t gotten him in trouble. Well, Piccardy isn’t here either, so at least that’s a win.

Goolsby passes out our lunches and tells us we have twenty minutes. “That’s ten minutes less than what Cavagnero gives us,” Harjeet points out.

“Gaveyou,” Goolsby says. “Who are you—the union rep? Like I said, twenty minutes.” Piccardy’s star pupil is coming right along.

I open my bag lunch—a thin gray slice of bologna between two slicesof white bread, two bendable carrot sticks, a stale mini-doughnut, and an eight-ounce plastic bottle of water. The bologna’s a launching pad for bacteria so I pull it out and just eat the bread. Goolsby’s nearby, so the guys are keeping their voices down, but I tune in to the chatter. “You know who she is, right? Works in the office, blond hair, nice rack. She’s got to be pushing fifty, but I’d still tap it.”… “He’s Zabrowski’s nephew. Got into some kind of trouble at the women’s prison. They transferred him here so that Unk can keep an eye on him.”… “How come they want to impeach him but not her? What about Benghazi? What about her fucking emails?”… “Houston’s had home-field advantage and the Nats were running out of gas. That’s why it was the Astros in six.”

Solomon hasn’t done anything stupid, has he? He was working with Ratchford and Tito. “Hey, where’s the kid?” I ask Ratch.

He rolls his eyes. “We were busting his chops a little, nothing serious, but he started yelling at us, calling us lowlifes. Then he sat down, puts his face against his knees, and starts wailing. When we told him it was lunchtime, he didn’t move. Kid’s a real wacko, huh?”

I nod. “DOC never should have put him here. Cavagnero was kind of looking out for him, but now… Okay, here he comes. Hey, Solomon!”

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