Page 86 of The River Is Waiting

I’m walking back from D Block after an AA meeting that Sunday morning. As I enter our building and start up the stairs, I hear footsteps behind me. I look back and there they are, the two of them, their voices echoing in the stairwell.

“Paints some stupid pictures on a wall, gets in the paper, and now he thinks his shit don’t stink.”

“Thinks he’s Rickerby’s fair-haired boy. Forgets that he’s here because he killed his kid.”

“Harry in Maintenance told me they got orders to paint over Baby Killer’s pretty picture as soon as he’s out of here.”

“Hey, you hear that, Ledbetter? Guess you’re not such a hero after all!”

Two more flights to go. I tell myself to hold on and not react to their goading. Assaulting two COs is a luxury I can’t afford. Instead, to drown them out, I start singing, loud as I can, that old R.E.M. song I used to play in my bedroom with the volume jacked up.“What’s the frequency, Kenneth? Is your Benzedrine, uh-huh…”

It works. They get off on the tier below ours. When I reach our floor, I head to the control desk to check back in. I’m flustered by what just happened, something McGreavy evidently picks up on. “What’s the matter?” he asks. I shrug, tell him I’m okay, and start down the corridor.

It’s the five-on-the-floor break, so everyone’s out of their cells, chatting and laughing, lining up at the hot pot. The bored ones are leaning over the railing to check out the comings and goings on the tier below. There’s a lot of bitching about the latest stupid rule administration’s come up with: the buddy system. Going to and coming back from chow, we now have to march in line with a partner, all of us keeping the same pace. No gaps, no pileups, no talking to anyone besides our partner. Prison’s supposed to get us ready for life on the outside, so I guess when we’re released, we’ll be all set for kindergarten.

“Break’s over!” Goolsby bellows, herding us back to our cells.

“Yo, Corby,” Angel calls. “Look who couldn’t stay away from us.” Following his pointing finger, I see that Boudreaux’s back.

Manny, of course, has the scoop on the Ragin’ Cajun’s return. Before Parole would let him leave the state and head home to Louisiana, Boudreaux got mixed up in a carjacking that won him a return ticket here.“Claims it was a setup and that he’s innocent,” Manny tells me. We say it in unison: “Uh-huh.”

That evening, I can’t get Piccardy and Anselmo out of my head.…Thinks his shit don’t stink.… Thinks he’s Rickerby’s fair-haired boy.… They’ve got orders to paint over Baby Killer’s pretty picture.I doubt that last is true, but it landed like a kick in the balls. To distract myself from hearing their voices, I grab a pen and a couple of sheets of notebook paper and write back to Emily.

Hi, Em—

Thanks for your letter and the congrats. Being able to design and paint the mural was the best thing that’s happened to me here. I wasn’t all that comfortable with the attention I got at the reception, but I survived and was grateful, most of all to Fagie Millman, the Yates librarian. She’s been my champion. I was hoping I’d see you, introduce you two, but I understand. Thanks for sending the clipping.I hadn’t seen it and was sweating out what that reporter was going to write, but she went easy on me. Jesus, what’s going on with Maisie?

I’ve never really accepted Emily’s reason for keeping her away from here. What’s more traumatic: seeing me in prison or not seeing me at all?

That school meeting sounded awful. When I get out of here, we can go to meetings like that together unless you’d rather I don’t go. If you think they were judging your parenting, I’d hate to imagine what they’d think about mine.

I talked to my mom earlier today and she says she’s making good progress since her surgery. Wants to get back to work ASAP so she can see her “breakfast regulars.” I doubt that gang of retirees she waits on are big tippers, but I’m pretty sure she loves the job morefor the social interaction than anything else. Thanks, by the way, for visiting her at the hospital and for bringing Maisie. She told me she really appreciated it and that seeing Maisie and you was the bright spot of her day.

Oh, by the way, at the reception? Some art agent who was there told me he was impressed by the mural and that he might have some work for me after I’m out of here. Probably won’t amount to anything, but he gave me his card. Okay, it’s lights-out in a couple of minutes, so I’ll end here.

I love you, Emily

I fall asleep pretty easily, but an hour later I’m wide-awake and worrying about the future: not only what’s going to happen when they let me out but also what happens between now and then. The attention I’ve gotten because of the mural has fanned the flames of Piccardy and Anselmo’s hatred of me. My pulse starts racing and I move every which way trying to get comfortable. I’m up for an hour or more before I can get back to sleep.

I sleep past breakfast, so I miss the first walk to the chow hall under the new buddy system. Manny reports that things went fairly well; only two guys got tickets for noncompliance. His “buddy” was a new arrival on our tier, a young guy named Austin. “What a hunk,” he tells me. “Green eyes, curly brown hair, and you can tell he’s put in some serious time at the gym. I think I’m in love.”

“Yeah? Sounds to me like you’re in lust.”

He puts his hand on his hip and bats his eyes. “Is there a difference?”

When I ask how old this guy is, Manny says early to midtwenties. Although he doesn’t admit to it, my cellie is fifty-four. What’s that saying? Hope springs eternal? He brags a lot about the hookups he’s had, but cometo think of it, I’ve never heard Manny talk about being in any long-term relationships. Kind of sad, really. The only constant in his life seems to be his sister, Gloria.

Later, when we line up for our ten-thirty lunch, Manny pushes past me and some of the other guys so he can buddy up with his new heartthrob. I’m at the tail end of the line. They must have run out of buddies, because I’m solo, which is fine with me.

God, what a day: sky-blue sky, the sun shining on the vivid oranges and yellows of the dying leaves. It’s a “five-out-of-five” fall day, as they say on the TV weather.

Up front, leading the parade, Officer Anselmo yells, “Get the lead out, ladies! The longer you take to get there, the less time I’m giving you to eat.” Behind me, his lackey, Goolsby, claps his hands and imitates his mentor. “Come on, gentlemen! Let’s see some hustle!” Piccardy usually works the same shift as these two, but he hasn’t been around this week. I’m enjoying the respite.

Halfway between our block and the chow hall, my eyes land on that ginkgo tree I’ve noticed before. Its scalloped leaves have turned a brilliant royal yellow. It looks spectacular and carries me back to an October memory during the twins’ first year.

Maisie, Niko, and I were out at the reservoir where I took them sometimes for midmorning weekend strolls while Emily stayed home, doing her schoolwork. She and I were just a normal couple still, unmarked by tragedy and prison. We both had jobs; we were doing okay financially. Monday through Thursday, we dropped the kids off at a daycare we liked and Emily’s mom took them every Friday. I drank a little too much on the weekends, maybe, and enjoyed the occasional recreational drug, but neither was a problem yet. We were happily unaware of the bad shit that was about a year away from happening.

It was breezy that morning out at the reservoir but warm still. Maisie had fallen asleep in their double stroller, but Niko was awake and alert, his arms reaching up toward all those dancing colors in the trees. “Comehere, buddy,” I said, and lifted him out of the stroller. Held him up to a low-hanging branch of a majestic red maple. Just as he was reaching out to touch a leaf, a strong gust came up. Fluttering vermilion leaves fell down around us. When I managed to grab one and give it to Niko, he squealed with delight at his treasure. On our way back to the car, I stooped to pick up others for his collection: a yellow elm leaf; the coral, burnt orange, and scarlet yield from a row of oaks and sugar maples. He clutched, studied, and babbled to his bouquet on the drive back to our house. He was responding emotionally to the palette of colors he was holding. Of the two of them, Niko was the one who was already showing an artistic sense. Had the artistic temperament, too. When Maisie, awake by then, reached over and grabbed at his leaves, he howled in protest and swatted her. “No!” I yelled, and they both froze. Then Niko handed his sister two of his treasures.

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