Page 85 of The River Is Waiting

I shrug. “For a prisoner maybe.”

“No, no. That’s irrelevant. Look, here’s my card. My client list includes several muralists. If you want to get in touch with me after your release, I may be able to get you some work. If it’s corporate, we could negotiate a nice price—something to start you off on the right track once you’re out of here.” I stuff the card in my pocket, thank him, and tell him I’m expectedback at my building. “Of course,” he says. When we exit the building, he goes one way, I go the other. He seems harmless enough, but you never know. He represents muralists and he might be able to get me work? Seems a little too perfect to be real, so I’m not getting my hopes up.

At the entrance to our block, I’m stopped by one of the newer COs. “What you got there?” he asks, pointing to the bag of cookies. I explain about the library, the reception, the fact that they’re leftovers. He makes me hand them over. “You want cookies, order them from commissary like everyone else. Where’s your ID at?” I take it out and hand it to him, explaining that the deputy warden told me to take it off for the program I was going to. “Oh yeah? What program was that?” I explain it to him again, adding that I was kind of like the guest of honor at this library thing. He smirks the way a lot of the guards do when they think they’ve caught you in a lie. He writes down my name and inmate number and says, “Okay, Ledbetter. Put your ID back on. To be continued if I find out you’re bullshitting me.”

Climbing the stairs to our tier, I remind myself that if I was “the man of the hour” over in the library, my hour’s up.

Back in our cell, when Manny asks how it went, I give him a thumbs-up. “See? Itoldyou you’d enjoy it,” he says.

He’s blasting his music and I ask him to turn it down. The day’s taken its toll and my headache’s getting worse.

When it’s quieter, I lie down on my mattress and turn onto my side. Closing my eyes, I try for a nap, but I’m both exhaustedandoverstimulated. In my mind’s eye, I see all the things in the mural I’d like to fix. See that standing ovation. Hear that reporter:Is that your son? Is he your Icarus?I hope to God that whatever she writes isn’t going to dredge everything up again. I can just imagine the Facebook outrage.This is how they’re “punishing” a guy who killed his own child?…

When I roll over onto my stomach, I hear the crinkle of paper. Pull out that poem Mrs. M gave me and, with it, that guy’s business card. I pick it up and read that first.John-Michael Chesley, Art Agent International,New York, San Francisco, London. Specializing in the commissioning of new works of public art.Well, okay, I guess he’s legit. Maybe thereisa job in this for me down the line. And even if not, it feels good to be validated by someone who knows art.

That poem she gave me is titled “Musée des Beaux Arts,” whatever that means.

About suffering they were never wrong,

The Old Masters: how well they understood

Its human position: how it takes place

While someone else is eating or opening a window

What’s the deal, Mrs. M? Why did you think I might like this or even know what the hell it means? And what’s it got to do with the Icarus painting? I’ll read it again tomorrow, but for now I’m just going to try to sleep my way past this headache.

As I start to doze, I invent reasons why Emily didn’t come today. Maybe she’s having car trouble. Maybe Maisie’s sick. Maybe she just didn’t care enough to come. And if that last one’s true, what’s going to happen when I get out? Okay, come on, Corby. Deep breaths. The present, not the past or the future. Go to sleep.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

October 2019

Day 809 of 1,095

A week after the reception, I get a letter from Emily.

Hi, Corby—I hope you’re doing well. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for your reception. I was planning to go, but at the last minute, I got called in for an emergency meeting at Maisie’s school. She had gone to the girls’ bathroom and scribbled in crayon all over the walls. She also took a boy’s Spider-Man action figure out of his cubby and tried to flush it down the toilet. She denied she’d done these things at first, but the principal, Mrs. Sotzing, finally broke her down and got her to admit it. For her consequence, her teacher, Ms. Demko, made an example of her with her classmates, then moved her desk to the back of the room by herself. At the meeting, I said I thought there were better ways to make her accountable than by shaming and separating her from the others, especially since during the last meeting, she’d voiced concern about Maisie not socializing with her classmates. They barely listened to my objection.

If I’d been at that meeting, I would havemadethem listen.

The school social worker suggested Maisie may still be showing signs of grief about the significant losses in her life. I’m not so sure. The tantrums have stopped. She never talks in that weird language anymore or freaks out about having her poops go down the toilet. I don’t think she has any memory of Niko at this point. She understands that you’re “away” but that you’re coming back. (We still have to figure out how that’s going to work.) I left that meeting with the names of two child psychologists and the distinct impression that my parenting was being judged. I cried all the way to my mother’s house when I went to pick up Maisie. When we got home, I sat her down and asked her why she had done those naughty things. She said it was because she was sad, but she didn’t know what she was sad about. To me, her actions seemed more angry than sad. She can be so hard to read sometimes. I should probably call one of those psychologists, but when I took her to that last one, it didn’t seem to make any difference. I’m not sure my insurance will cover it. I think what upset me the most at that meeting was their arrogance. I’ve been a teacher for twelve years and know a thing or two about child psychology myself.

But it’s not about you, Em. It’s about Maisie.

Congratulations on your mural! I wish I’d been there to see it in person. I know your Creative Strategies job was more about the paycheck than about doing what you loved, but it sounds like you were able to go where you wanted to with this project. Artistic freedom in prison? That’s pretty ironic. The write-up in theCourantwas great and, from the little I could see in the photo, the painting looks amazing. It must feel good to get such a positive reaction. You’ve probably already seen the article, but I thought you might want this extra copy.

Maisie and I visited your mom at the hospital. Her surgery went well and they’ve already got her up and walking. We broughther flowers and Maisie drew her a get-well card. For some reason, it had these weird potato-shaped people with toothpick arms and legs that she’s been drawing lately. Of course, Vicki fawned over it and said what a great artist she was, just like her daddy.

Love,

Emily

I hadnotseen that article but was relieved to read that the reporter didn’t go into my conviction or include any of the “gotcha” stuff from her interview. Warden Rickerby must have loved the piece, too; it praises her for her progressive leadership and her encouragement of innovative rehabilitative activities for inmates. Please. Mrs. Millman didn’t even get a mention, but that probably bothers me more than it does her. She’s just happy that she may be getting more funding for books.

According to Mrs. M, the response to the mural from people coming into the library has been positive, and this includes staff as well as inmates. “Ledbetter’s one of the decent ones over there in B Block,” Captain Graham told Mrs. Millman. “But I didn’t know he could do something like this.” A few of the guys on our tier got passes and went over there to see it. Manny and Angel both got a kick out of seeing themselves floating down the river past this place. Lobo was with them and Manny said he stared at the mural for so long, it was like he was hypnotized.

Despite all these pats on the back, I haven’t gotten away unscathed. During the weeks I was working on the mural, Piccardy and Anselmo pretty much left me alone. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. I figured they’d maybe gotten their fill of harassing me and gone on to some other con who’d challenged their authority. But no.

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