The Row(2)
Today is just one more visit with my father … and that alone makes it special.
“Hi, Ri,” Daddy says when the officer brings him in. I study my father as I do every week. When I decide he doesn’t look any worse this visit than the last, I release a shaky breath. Everyone in Polunsky is in solitary confinement, which is enough to drive a person mad if they weren’t already when they came in. That much time alone isn’t good for anyone’s well-being. He’s lost a lot of weight over the years, developing a leaner and harder look. And sometimes he still manages to get bruises he refuses to explain. I’ve seen enough to suspect they came from a chance altercation with another inmate while being moved around the prison … or from the guards.
Once his cuffs are released, he hugs me tight and I hug him back—the same way I do every visit. I guess when you’re only allowed two hugs from your father per week, you’re never too grown up for it.
The officer clears his throat, and Daddy pulls away from me. We walk over to sit down at the table. Once we’re seated, the guard closes the door and stands outside. This is what we’re allowed. This is what our face-to-face relationship is defined by: a hug at the beginning and the end of each visit. When I leave, the guard will give me the letters Daddy has written to me this week to take home. While I’m here, we must sit on opposite sides of the table. We can hold hands if we want, but we rarely do anymore. Not since I was little. When Mama used to come more frequently, she and Daddy used to hold hands sometimes. It symbolizes their marriage—their romance—to me now. I couldn’t take that away from them.
Mama has had to miss visits and hearings too often in the last year and I know they miss seeing each other, but Mama’s new job is demanding. She’s been the executive assistant to a vice president at an investment firm since last summer. Her boss pays her well and gives her job security as long as she works whenever and wherever it’s convenient for him.
After being fired in the past for reasons like your presence is creating an uncomfortable work environment for others or not disclosing pertinent background information, Mama really cares about her job security.
“How is your mother?” Daddy asks first thing, and I smile. Polunsky has aged him, but the sparkle in Daddy’s eyes when he sees me never changes.
“She’s fine. She said to tell you that she’s excited to see you on Thursday.”
His smile falters. “Are you both coming to the hearing?”
“Yes.” I prepare myself for the argument I know is coming.
“I wish you wouldn’t, but you already know that.” Daddy sits back in his chair and pushes his hand through his thick salt-and-pepper hair. “Ben can let you know how it goes after—”
“We want to be there. Having your family there to support you is important during your appeals—both to you and to the judge. Mr. Masters even told us that.” I shake my head, refusing to budge on this one. Benjamin Masters is Daddy’s lawyer, and a longtime family friend. When I was little, I used to think he was my uncle. It wasn’t until I was ten that I finally understood that we weren’t actually related. He and Daddy were partners in their law firm before Daddy ended up here.
“That’s lawyer logic. I know that and so do you.” He frowns so deep it seems to create new lines on his face. “I’m not thinking like a lawyer right now. I’m thinking like a father, and I’m just trying to protect my family. I hate seeing the media circle you and your mother like a pack of coyotes around fresh meat. You did nothing to bring this on yourself.”
“Neither did you, Daddy.” I reach out and give his hand a firm squeeze. “We’re in this with you by choice. Besides, I’d hate it if I wasn’t there to hear the good news.”
He returns a weak version of my smile and I decide to change the subject. Opening my plastic bag, I pass Daddy the letter from Mama before pulling out the paper chess set and putting the pieces in place.
“Now, on to the really important stuff,” I say. “I learned a new strategy on YouTube this week that’s going to blow your mind.”
Daddy chuckles before cracking his knuckles and leaning forward with a grin. “As the things you tell me you find on the Internet usually do.”
2
BY TUESDAY, I’VE CLEANED my room five times in an effort to keep my mind off Daddy’s upcoming hearing. For the first time I can remember, I almost wish I had school in the summer just so I would have something to distract myself. It’s a momentary and fleeting wish, since most of the time I would give my left kidney to not have to go to that hellish place where everyone—students and faculty alike—watches me like I might morph into a killer at any moment.
Still, saying that I’m in serious need of a diversion is a definite understatement.
I slump down on the couch with my somewhat maimed copy of The Count of Monte Cristo to read for the billionth time. The whole house is dim and I wish I knew when Mama would be home. Rubbing my fingertips against my eyelids, I let the tension from the week seep down into my legs and out through my feet.
I flip open the book, and end up dropping it after only a few pages. I love the story, that isn’t the problem. The house is too quiet around me. It’s peaceful, but sometimes it feels more like our home is wrapped up in a blanket of apprehension. It’s waiting, just like I am. Waiting for the next visitation day, waiting for the next trial date, waiting to read the next letter—or, like right now, waiting for the next appeal hearing in two days.