Page 68 of The River Is Waiting

As he walks toward me, I get up and move away from the others so that I can talk to him in private. He’s red-eyed, red-faced. I ask him how the parking lot detail’s going. “Terrible!” he says. “They keep making fun of me.”

“Yeah? What did they say?”

“I made one honest mistake when we were walking over there, okay? Called it brooming instead of sweeping and they started laughing at me. And I was like ‘Hey, it makes sense. What did we use when we raked leaves?Rakes.’ Or when someone plays baseball, what does he bat with? Abat!’ And Ratchford goes, ‘Yeah, but when some guy in the outfield makes a catch, he uses his glove, not his catch.’ Then Tito grabs his crotch and says that when he fucks a woman, he uses his cock, not his fuck. Ratchford said he couldn’t believe I got to be my age without knowing not to call it brooming. So I said maybe he and Tito had to do lowlife jobs like sweepingwhere they came from, but I didn’t because we have a cleaning lady. Then they started calling me Richie Rich and shit and they wouldn’t let it go.”

I tell him he’s got to be careful about knocking where people came from because that could hit a nerve. “So they can make fun ofmeall they want, but I have to be careful about whatIsay? I hate this stupid crew and this stupid job. At least I’m getting away from here tomorrow.”

“Yeah, about that, Solomon. Court runs are tough. Don’t think of it as a day off. They’ll wake you before the sun’s come up, shackle and belly-chain you, load you into the van, and chain you to whoever else has court that day. Then they’ll drive around the state for hours picking up cons from other facilities. It gets hot and stagnant in the back of that van. If you start feeling nauseous, put your head down and take some deep breaths so you don’t vomit.”

For once in his life, he shuts up and listens instead of giving me an argument.

“When you get to the courthouse where your case is being heard, they’ll put you in a holding cell with a bunch of other guys. Some of them may be mean, some of them sick or smelly. Just keep your mouth shut. And when you and your lawyer finally get in front of the judge, it’ll take maybe five minutes to get your continuance. Then it’ll be back to the holding cell, then back in the van for several hours while they drop off everyone they picked up before. By the time you get back here, it’ll be after dark and you’ll be hungry and thirsty. But don’t drink anything during the day. They might not let you out of the cell to pee. You don’t want to end up peeing your pants.”

“Why are you telling me all this? To scare me?”

“Why would I want to scare you, Solomon?”

“Because you hate me after what happened in the library.”

His bottom lip pokes out and he looks close to tears. God, the poor kid is so maddening but so vulnerable. “I was pissed at you for that, yeah, but I don’t hate you. I just don’t want you to expect tomorrow’s going to be a vacation day because it’s not.”

“When do you think Lieutenant Cavagnero’s coming back?” he asks.

Doubtful that heiscoming back, but rather than telling him that, I just shrug.

“I just want to work withyou,” he says. “You’re the only one who understands me.” He’s wrong; there’s no way I’ll ever be able to fathom that damaged psyche of his. But seeing him in pain like this makes me feel guilty about how intent I was to get him off my back. Like it or not, he’s mine.

I put my hand on his shoulder and tell him that, for the time being, the work assignments aren’t in our control. “But when you get teased, you have to try to laugh it off or give it back a little. Just don’t say anything more like you had a cleaning lady and they didn’t.”

“But wedidhave one,” he insists.

“That’s not the point, Solomon. What you don’t want to do is push your privilege in people’s faces. Make them feel like you think you’re better than they are.”

“But you just said that when they make fun of me, I should give it back! Now you’re saying the opposite!”

“No, I’m not. And lower your voice or this conversation’s over.” But it’s over anyway when Goolsby announces that it’s time for us to get back to work.

I haven’t seen Piccardy, but who’s complaining? Okay, speak of the devil. Here they come, up over the rise and heading toward the barn: Piccardy and his best buddy. But what’s Anselmo doing here? He worked third shift last night. Doesn’t he have anything better to do than hang around at Yates with his bro? He’s carrying a pizza box and a liter of Coke and it looks like Piccardy’s gotten himself a salad and a bottle of water. No soda or mozzarella for him. The jerk’s always bragging about his low body fat percentage, like anyone but him gives a shit. Goolsby’s eaten with us, but not these two. Piccardy apparently gets as much time as he wants. Your tax dollars at work, Connecticut.

Before heading back to my assignment, I sidle up to Ratchford andTito. Tell them I realize they were just horsing around with Solomon, but maybe they should ease up a little. “He’s pretty fragile.”

“Yeah, fragile like an egg,” Tito says. “Cracked.”

“Okay, Dad. We’ll cool our jets,” Ratchford promises.

Back at my post, I rake a pile of muck out from under a barberry bush, scoop it up with my hands, and drop it in the bucket. Pick up the bucket, carry it over to the woods, and empty it. Standing there, I listen to the siren song of the Wequonnoc.Come and I’ll cleanse you of this place, it seems almost to be promising.

Should I risk it? Is it worth getting a ticket to wander off for a few minutes if they catch me? But why would they know when they’re back at the barn having their pizza party? Fuck it, I tell myself. Go for it!

I can feel my heart jackhammering as I run past pines and sycamores and scampering squirrels, dodging brambles and boulders embedded in the soft dirt.

Then there it is!

I move closer and stand there, savoring the thunder of it in my ears, the sun diamonds sparkling on its surface. Thanks to a jagged rock embedded in the river’s path, I feel its spray on my face, the taste of it on my lips and tongue. It’s exactly what I need—just a minute or two to take it in after all these months of cement and sensory deprivation.

I look across the river to the sheer rock ledge on the other side. It’s maybe seventy or eighty feet high, unscalable by someone attempting an escape, like that guy back in the seventies who’s something of a legend at Yates—and a cautionary tale. He got halfway up, then lost his footing and fell to his death, bashing his brains against a boulder at the bottom.

Escaping’s not even something I fantasize about. With almost half of my sentenced served, I’m not about to screwthatup. Seeing the river in motion and hearing it up close is all I need. At my feet is a fallen maple leaf. I pick it up, toss it into the river, and watch the current carry it south. It’s the same direction I’ll be traveling when I get out of here—hopefully heading home to Emily and Maisie.

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