Page 89 of The River Is Waiting

Manny looks up from the TV. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re still hassling you over those turkeys? Why they keeping that alive?”

I shrug.

“Well, don’t let it bother you, Corbs. They’re just idiots. I mean, a missing salt shaker? Give me a break. Those shakers always go missing. If it’s not salt, it’s pepper.”

I say nothing, hoping he’ll stop.

“Hey, what’s that bump on your forehead from? Those goons didn’t rough you up over there, did they?”

Instead of answering him, I ask whether he has any aspirin or ibuprofen.

“I got both,” he says. Opens his lockbox and reaches in. Pulls out two small plastic bottles and shakes them at me like maracas. “Chills and headache or achy muscles and minor injuries?” I point to the second one. When he tosses the bottle to me, I shake out three tablets and swallow them dry. “How hard did you hit your head?” he asks. “No concussion, I hope.”

Without answering him, I ease myself down onto my mattress and shift onto my side, facing the wall.

“Can I just say one more thing?” he asks. “If theydidrough you up, you might feel better if you talk about it.”

“Yeah, thanks, Dr. Phil. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He doesn’t deserve the snark, but I’m not telling anyone what happened, especially Manny. Gay guys are into that anal stuff—tops and bottoms, butt plugs. And sure, he’d understand the difference between a good time and a sexual assault, but Manny’s a talker. The last thing I need to do is second-guess who has or hasn’t found out what those sick fucks did to me. And what if it gets back to Anselmo or Piccardy that Ididn’tkeep my mouth shut? What kind of fresh hell would they dole out then?

Still, IwishI could tell him. Maybe itwouldmake me feel better to let it out. But telling him doesn’t feel safe.…Well, looky there. The baby killer’s got himself a boner. Why hadthathappened? Why was I participatingin my own humiliation? So no, I need to just keep it to myself. Keep crossing off the days on my calendar until I’m out of this place and can pretend it never happened.

I skip five-on-the-floor. Don’t want to be around anybody, guards or inmates. What Idowant—what I need—is to stop the nausea and clean myself up. Later, when I hear Mullins whistling as he lopes down the corridor, I call to him. Ask whether I can grab a quick shower. “I missed shower time yesterday and I’m starting to stink.” He unlocks the cell door. “Realquick,” he says. “In and out. I don’t want to hear ‘Well, how come you let Ledbetter take one?’?” I thank him and grab my soap, washcloth, and towel. It hurts like hell to hurry down the corridor toward the shower room, but I want to respect his kindness.

When I step out of my clothes, the sight of my bloodstained underpants triggers a flash of revulsion. I turn on the shower and step beneath it. The warm water sluicing down my back and between my cheeks feels soothing, but when I try to clean down there with a soapy washcloth, it hurts too much. I have to stop. Watching a string of blood wash down the drain rockets me back to the day I saw Niko’s spilt blood on our driveway. Despair hits me so hard that I double over and wait for the vertigo to pass.…

If therewasa god, here’s what I’d want to know. Can a man who caused the death of his childeveratone enough to be forgiven? Is absolution even possible?

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

October and November 2019

Days 818–31 of 1,095

“Hot dogs tonight,” Manny reports when he gets back from chow. “I was going to sneak a couple out for you, but they were watching us like hawks.”

I tell him I still don’t have much of an appetite anyway. “But thanks for the thought.” He sits down on my bunk, says he’s worried about me, and asks whether we can talk. Bracing for the pep talk that’s coming, I give him an indifferent shrug.

“I know something’s the matter with you, Corby. You’ve been staying in here, skipping meals. Why don’t you go over to Medical and get checked out?”

“Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know, but when I was bagging up the laundry this morning, I noticed there was blood in your underpants.”

I cover my fear of exposure with an angry retort. “How do you figure that’syourfucking business? Do me a favor, will you? Keep your hands off my underwear.”

“Then put them in the laundry bag rather than leaving them under your bunk, douchebag!” Other than that time with the snake, this is the closest he’s ever come to yelling at me and, in a way, I’m proud of him. Most cellies just ride it out in close proximity, but Manny and I have cometo care about each other. He shows it more than I do, but the friendship is mutual. I’m grateful for it, as annoying as he can get.

“If it’s hemorrhoids, they can give you some suppositories, Corbs.” Groaning, I tell him I don’t have hemorrhoids. “Jeez, I hope it’s not an ulcer. My friend Finley had a bleeding ulcer and when he took a shit, there was this blackish blood.”

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