Page 99 of The River Is Waiting

He also says yes to two rolls of toilet paper, half a bottle of shampoo, a three-pack of Slim Jims, a barely used deodorant stick, my rubber shower shoes, an unopened package of smoked almonds, and a fingernail clipper. The only things he declines to take possession of are the come-to-Jesus books my aunt Nancy has sent me. It’s not that I don’t appreciate her thoughtfulness; it’s just not the kind of reading I’m drawn to. Guess that’s my father’s influence, but at least I’m not as judgmental as he is about religion. It still strikes me as weird that one sibling becomes a Holy Roller, the other an avowed atheist who thinks believers have been duped.

I take the six books out of the box, spread them end to end on my bunk, and read the titles:The Sacred Soul, Find Your Way Back to God, When Jesus Speaks, Are You Listening?, Chicken Soup for the Prisoner’s Soul, Christian Awakenings to the Glory of God, andThe Whole World in His Hands. At first, I consider just tossing them, but then I decide I’ll donate them to the library. They’re still brand-new and some of the born-again dudes in here might want to read them. I want to say my goodbyes to Mrs. M and Javier anyway and return that book I’ve had forever,Native American Genocide.

Goolsby’s at the control desk. Rather than giving me a hassle because I hadn’t already put in a library request, he okays my going over there. “You’re out of here pretty soon, aren’t you?” he asks. I tell him yes, Tuesday. “Good luck then. Go to the door and I’ll buzz you out.”

I’m halfway down the corridor when Goolsby calls me back. Hanging up the phone, he says the mail room just called, wanting to know whether I was still in custody. “I told them you were here until Tuesday, so they asked me to send you over there before they close for the day. Go see what they want before you go to the library.”

The system here is that inmate mail gets sorted, inspected, and sometimes opened and examined before it’s sent to the blocks, where it’s distributed to each tier’s control desk, then shoved through the traps of our cell doors. So I have to ask Goolsby where the mail room is. “Same building you’re going to,” he says. “In the basement.”

It’s a happy surprise when I get to the mail room and a familiar face appears at the window. “Lieutenant Cavagnero? Wow, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Didn’t expect to be back until a month ago,” he says. “I can’t get around like I used to and was filling out my paperwork to retire. But then Rafferty left and this position became available. Less wear and tear on the body and no second or third shift, so I decided to stick around a little longer and max out my pension. How are you doing? Painting any more picturessince that one on the wall?” I tell him no, that was it. “You’re getting out soon, huh? Well, I’m happy for you.”

I thank him. Tell him what my plan is, as much as I know at this point. Ask him why he wanted to see me. “Oh, yeah. Just a sec,” he says, and hobbles to the back of the room. It’s good to see him again. Reminds me that some of the COs around here are good people just doing their job.

When Cavagnero comes back, he’s shaking his head. He’s holding a bent-up envelope. “Gotta apologize for getting this to you so late,” he says. “Rafferty? The guy I replaced? Nice enough guy, but he left this place a mess. Me and my workers took some time reorganizing things, moving the shelving and tables, and this showed up jammed behind that cabinet over there.” When he hands it to me, I read the return address. It’s from my father. The cancellation stamp says August 31, 2017. That would have been my fourth or fifth week here, around the time when I was thinking about how I could end my life. It would be too heavy-duty to open and read it now, so I thank Cavagnero, stick the letter in one of the books I’m donating, and head toward the stairs. I’m curious about what he had to say back then, but I’m not sure I want to find out. A part of me wishes his lost letter had stayed lost. Climbing to the top floor, I recall what he looked like when the judge sentenced me—the way he, of all people, was the one in tears.

At the library, I say goodbye to Javier first. We shake hands and when he pulls me in, we share one of those quick, back-patting embraces that even the macho men in here find acceptable. “Stay strong out there, hombre,” he says. I tell him to do the same in here. We make a promise to reconnect after he gets out, maybe grab a meal and go to a meeting together.

Mrs. Millman is in her office. While I wait for her to come out, I place my book donations on the circulation desk and read the sign she’s posted:Beginning February 18, the hours when inmates may use this library will be limited and may fluctuate.“What’s up with this?” I ask when she comesout to the desk. She shakes her head and says it’s about cost-cutting. The librarian at McFarland is leaving and they’re not replacing him. “I’m told I now have to divide my time betweentwolibraries and cut the hours at each by fifty percent. Oh, and the new materials the superintendent promised us? They’ve cut his budget, too, so that’s kaput. Sometimes I don’t know why I bother.”

I tell her it’s because we need her. Ask her whether she’s going to take on the other library plus this one.

“I’ll try it for a couple of months,” she says. “And if it’s too much, I’ll retire so that Howie and I can hang around the house together and drive each other crazy. But that’s enough of my tale of woe. I want to hear aboutyou.”

I tell her I’ll be living at my mother’s place and spending as much time as I can with my daughter. And that I’m hoping to get a job, maybe two, so that I can contribute toward Maisie’s childcare and pay my mom a little toward expenses. “I may be able to get my driver’s license back eventually, but for now I’ll have to figure out the bus schedule and get ahold of a used bike.”

She says her son’s old Schwinn is just taking up space in their garage and I’d be doing her and Howie a favor by taking it off their hands. She jots her address and phone number on a slip of paper, folds it, and hands it to me. “We’re not supposed to share our personal information with you guys, so don’t let the officers see this when they discharge you,” she says. I smile and tell her I’ll swallow it if I have to.

Noticing the books I’ve brought, she picks them up and looks them over. I ask her whether they’re anything she could use. “Oh, sure,” she says. “Our spiritual books are always in circulation. We have a couple of these, but we can always use extras, and we’re happy to get new titles. Thank you.”

“Yeah, and sorry to be returning this one so late,” I tell her, pointing toNative American Genocide. “Took me forever to get through it. It was a tough read.”

“How so?” she asks.

“It was hard reading about how badly we screwed the Indigenous populations—‘we’ being the white man, of course. I mean, I knew about the Trail of Tears and Wounded Knee and all that, but this assumption of white supremacy went all the way back to the holier-than-thou Puritans. They tried to wipe out the tribes—attacked and slaughtered them, enslaved the survivors. You wouldn’t believe the cruelty.”

“Oh, yes I would, my dear,” she says, smiling sadly. “I’m a Jew.”

We lock eyes for a couple of seconds. “Yeah,” I say. “Right.”

We share a long goodbye hug. “So now you know how to get ahold of me,” she says. “Stay in touch. And Corby…” She whispers the next in my ear. “Promise me you won’t get too busy to practice your art. Don’t squander your gift.” Without a clue about what will happen after I’m out of here, I promise.

On my way out, I stop at my mural. My eyes wander over the various figures and come to rest on Niko. “So long, kiddo,” I whisper. “I love you always.”

Then I’m out the door. I’m halfway down the stairs when Mrs. M calls to me. “Forget something? This was stuck in one of the books you dropped off.”

Had I forgotten it? Or had I subconsciously tried to get away from it? I’m not sure. Why had Dad’s letter been hiding behind that metal cabinet in the mail room for years, waiting to boomerang back at me today when I’m feeling a hundred different emotions already? I spent the better part of three years hoping he might reach out in some way—be a real father instead of just the checkbook dad who paid for my lawyer and kicked in toward my commissary account. I concluded that he wouldn’t or couldn’t reach out in any personal way because he was too ashamed of me. My crime and conviction, my status as a prisoner, reflected poorly on him. Tarnished his sterling reputation. Receiving his letter now, three years after he sent it, leaves me bewildered. Having finally convinced myself that his rejection no longer matters—that I’ve become impervious to his disapproval—I realize I’m as vulnerable as ever.

When I get back to our cell, Manny’s not there, so I take a deep breath and, with trembling hands, open the envelope and take out the handwritten four-page letter.

Dear Corbin,

I’m writing in response to your note thanking me for paying your legal fees and coming to your sentencing. You’re my son; no thanks necessary. I just wish your lawyer had been able to keep you out of prison. There are some rough characters in there, so I hope you’re holding your own.

I’ve been doing a good deal of soul-searching since that day in the courtroom when I watched them handcuff you and take you away. At first, I assigned most of the blame for your addiction to your mother. I told myself that if she had been less casual about her use of marijuana, you might not have come to rely on the addictive substances that led to such a terrible outcome. More recently I’ve admitted to myself that blaming Vicki left me off the hook. As I became more and more unhappy with your mother’s and my married life, my drinking increased and I made no effort to conceal this from you. Added to that was how my moving out may have impacted you. Of course, there had to have been other variables at play. Children weather their parents’ divorces all the time without there being such dire consequences later in their lives.

I’m so angry, I have to stop reading and catch my breath. Par for the course that he was blaming Mom, his favorite scapegoat. Her smoking weed had nothing to do with it.… His abandonment “may” have impacted me? Most kids from broken homesdon’tgrow up and cause “dire consequences”? So which is it, Dad? Are you still trying to wiggle off the hook or is your big ego telling you that your defection had such a big influence that… And his name was Niko, Dad. He was a beautiful little boy, notjust a “terrible outcome.” You might have gotten a kick out of him, maybe even loved him, if you’d bothered to see him and his sister more than once. Your loss, Dad. Maybe I should rip up the rest and throw his bullshit letter in the trash. Instead, I keep reading.

---