Page 30 of The Trust We Broke
“Want me to call you back? I can pull over,” I ask.
“Just wanted to see if you’d made a decision over the thing we discussed with Butcher, but it can wait.”
I glance over to Mom, then answer. “Keep it. For now. Leaner times in January and February, right? So, hold.”
It’s slightly coded. But Catfish knows what I mean as I relay Butcher’s advice.
“Sounds like a plan.”
Mom sighs as I hang up. “You sound so much like your father, it’s scary sometimes. I’m proud of you, but I worry about you too.”
She doesn’t need to explain it. I already know. We’ve talked about it multiple times. She fully embraces the life, understands what it means. Heck, she does her own thing her own way, always has. She’s a freelance social media manager for a bunchof different companies. Comes up with campaign ideas and makes all the graphics. But she also quilts and makes jewelry that she sells online.
I place my hand on her knee and squeeze it, for a second. “I know.”
I don’t need to add that it’s because of what happened to Dad. I don’t insult her by saying she doesn’t need to worry. Because we both know what my life is like.
As we pull up to the foreboding correctional facility I was once incarcerated in, I remember how dehumanizing it can be. Prison is a black hole, because it sucks the humanity right out of you. You lose access to the most basic of rights. You lose control of how much food you eat, how often you exercise, how often you sit outside with the sun on your face. You lose control of your personal safety, because it’s way too fucking easy for people on the outside to buy off guards, and to pay off families on the outside for those inside who will do damage on someone’s behalf.
In the cold winter air, blanketed by gray skies, it looks bleaker than ever.
And yet, for all it is, trips to see my dad are the highlight of my mom’s week. Prisons make it hard. You can only have twelve people annually registered to visit. You can only visit for a finite time. The state currently doesn’t allow conjugal visits. You can hold the hand of the person opposite, but in my parents’ case, they’re allowed one chaste kiss when Mom arrives, and one when she leaves.
But Mom? She smiles all the way up to that door.
She’s still proud of him.
She still loves him.
And she tries every day to live in a way that would do him and his name proud.
“Cherub,” Dad says when he sees Mom.
She grins like a schoolgirl. “Sweetie,” she says before they kiss briefly.
I look away. While there is nothing sexual in the kiss, it feels like the least I can do is give them some privacy. It’s awkward, because Dad is only allowed one visitation a day. So, we either both have to come in together as one family, or only one of us gets to see him.
Because I have club business to discuss with Dad, and Mom understands that we come in together, she always leaves about fifteen minutes before the end of our allotted time so I can talk with Dad as privately as you can in a correctional facility.
“Grudge,” Dad says, always using my road name. “Did you bring it?”
I pull out the photograph I’ve got in my pocket. It’s folded up four times. A picture of me in my new cut because you aren’t allowed to wear club colors for a prison visit. Dad runs his fingers over the president’s patch, then glances up at me with tears in his eyes. “Hard to believe. I’m proud of you, Son.”
“Thanks, Dad.” He made it to enforcer before he went inside. Arguably, being the enforcer is the reason he’s in prison, but there isn’t a speck of bitterness in him about it.
Mom puts her arm over my shoulder. “He’s done good, hasn’t he?”
“He has that. Maybe I should start calling you Prez.”
I shake my head. “That would be too weird.”
We chat for a little while. Mundane things. Mom tells him about things happening in their nephew’s and niece’s lives. How Cara had a baby and gave her some ridiculous name. How Jo-Jo’s boyfriend proposed, but my Uncle Sam, Dad’s brother, said no wedding until the guy had a job. She tells him she might have to pay to have a plumber come out because the hot water has become inconsistent.
I glance in her direction. “Why didn’t you tell me it wasn’t working properly? I could have called someone out.”
She waves me away. “I can do it by myself. And I needed to chat with your dad before I spent that much money.”
I have an idea, something that might get around the money issue my parents always have. Toward the end of their time together, I turn from them, shifting as far away as possible on the benches that wrap around the tables, and just glance at the floor so they can say other things to each other in private.
