My words whispered against his neck.
“I was your teacher, but you’re the one who taught me about myself, about who I could be.”
He straightened up, his hands stroking through my hair.
“You are the most amazing person I’ve ever met. You’re good and kind and smart and so damn beautiful.” His hands dropped to his lap. “And I’ll never forget you.”
Before I could say another word, he opened the door and strode toward the halfway house.
Garrett
WALKING AWAY FROM her was the hardest thing I’d ever done. And the best.
Life had taught me that if you don’t make yourself number one, no one else will. Until I’d met Ella. She’d put her energy and strength into helping a bunch of loser jailbirds, and she never once looked down on any of us. Not even the assholes like Fisher.
She’d taught us writing and shit that would help us pass our GEDs, but it was her; the way she talked and smiled, the way she treated us as equals—that was the real lesson. There are people in the world who give a shit; there are people who will put others before themselves.
Seeing her in that little car of hers the day I was released . . . yeah, that nearly broke me.
But if she stayed with me, I’d bring her down to my level: in the gutter, among the garbage.
And that’s why I had to walk away from her.
As I rang the bell on the door of the halfway house, I refused to look behind me. I knew she was still parked at the curb, watching.
Drive away, damn you!
A tall dude with a salt and pepper beard and glasses opened the door, glancing over my shoulder then fixing his pale eyes on me.
“Garrett, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The name’s Clyde. Come on in. That your ride out there?”
I hesitated before giving a curt nod.
“She coming in?”
I shook my head.
He glanced at Ella once more, then closed the door behind me.
“Okay, son. This will be your home for the next three months. You’ll get your own room, three meals a day, mandatory counseling, and we’ll help you find work. Curfew is 11PM: miss it, and you’ll be in violation of your parole which means you’ll finish the rest of your sentence in prison. Any guests have to be on an approved list, and there are no overnight stays. You won’t drink alcohol or take drugs, and there’ll be weekly testing to make sure you stay clean. Your room can be searched at any time.” He paused. “I’m told that you’ve been studying for your GED?”
“I was.”
“We’ll get you signed up for night school. You got any belongings with you? Anything going to be sent on to you?”
I shook my head.
“No? Well, we have a stock of clothes from the Salvation Army that might fit you. You got any questions?”
“No, sir.”
He turned and led me into the dimly-lit hallway, his winter boots loud on the tattered linoleum.
He called over his shoulder, “Welcome to Beacon House.”
Ella
I WATCHED HIM walk away, but I didn’t follow. I was so shocked, I didn’t know what to do. He’d been ice cold, then burning hot, then shuttered, and finally his eyes had closed as if it was too painful to look at me.
So I went home, ran a hot bath, my tears mingling with the soapy water.
When I’d cried myself out and watched my skin wrinkle like a prune, I climbed sluggishly from the tepid water, lethargic and empty.
My thick terrycloth robe was comforting, and I wrapped it around me tightly as I curled up on the sofa, bewildered and unsure as shadows crept across the bare ceiling.
Four months, I’d imagined every possible outcome of Garrett’s release day. The date had been marked on my calendar ever since Hudson had written it at the end of an essay. But it turned out that I was wrong, because none of my imaginings had ended with Dane Garrett walking away.
I wished I could talk to Becky, but I couldn’t. As far as she knew, Dane had been transferred for reasons unknown. She’d commiserated on me missing my ‘hottie-con’ to ogle. She didn’t know what had happened that day, or that his transfer was my fault. And she had no clue that I still thought about him every day and dreamed about him every night. I certainly hadn’t told her that I was planning to meet him the day he was released.
Her words echoed in my brain: “If he was paroled tomorrow, would you date him? Introduce him to your friends? Would you take him home to meet your parents? Can you honestly see a future with an ex-con?”
I’d denied it at the time, but now it seemed the answer to those questions was simply yes.
My friends wouldn’t understand, and my parents would be horrified. And I wasn’t completely naïve—I knew how hard it was for people who’d been in prison to make it on the outside. I desperately wanted Dane to succeed, and I hated that he’d never gotten to take his GED because of me. I owed it to him as well as myself to try again.
So, I went over every word, every action, every look that he’d given me, replaying it all in my mind.
From this, I drew two conclusions: first, Dane didn’t want to say goodbye—something was making him act that way; and second, I was not going to let him go without a fight.
I had work to do.
Garrett
I FLATTENED THE palm of my hand against the cold pane of glass and stared out.
There were no bars on this window, and I could see snow laying thickly outside, the sidewalks covered in slush. Heavy clouds were half hidden by neighboring buildings and the world seemed washed with gray.
I looked around my tiny room, taking in the narrow bed, empty bookshelf, and hooks on the wall to hang my clothes.
I’d been looking forward to this day for five long years: 1,825 miserable fucking days, 43,801 torturous hours. I should be happy, I should be fucking delirious, but instead, I felt turned inside out and empty.
I dreamed about her, and every waking moment was filled with silent questions. Where are you? What are you doing right now? Are you happy, Ella?
I kept busy, in the way people who are afraid to think fill their hours with doing. I’d attended two of the mandatory group counseling sessions, listening to some dickhead tell me to remember to wipe my ass after shitting because that would make me more of a model citizen. The other ex-cons dozed off during these fun little lectures.
I exercised in my cell-like room, pushups and crunches until I vomited; I circled every job in the newspaper, the words no experience necessary drawing my attention like a beacon. There weren’t many. I waited in line to get my turn at one of the two computers, searching job sites. I filled in job applications, typing with one finger:
Qualifications. Answer: none.
Recent employment. Answer: none.
Reason for leaving last job. Answer: Grand Theft Auto.
Clyde wasn’t so bad, doing what he said he’d do and fixing me up with night school so I could at least get my high school equivalency. On my third day, he said he had a lead on a job for me, too. And if everything went well, I’d be fulfilling my lifelong ambition to say, “You want fries with that?”
But work was work, and it would feel good to have money in my wallet.
Ella. No, don’t think about her.
“Garrett, you there?”
Clyde knocked on my door, then opened it and peered inside.
“How you doing?”
I shrugged.
“Well, slap a smile on your face and get your ass over to East Broad Street. You’re interviewing with the manger, Ms. Carter.” His hard expression softened fractionally. “She’s expecting you.”
I’d never had a job interview before, never held down regular work. I’d helped out in a couple of auto repair shops, being paid off the books, but that had all been by knowing a guy who knew a guy. I’d been in juvie, then a few years of living on the wire, then done my stint in stir.
All that must have shown on my face because Clyde clapped a
meaty hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye.
“She knows you’re an ex-con, son, and she’s willing to give you a chance. Just be truthful and polite.”
I shrugged into my secondhand coat, and pulled a tattered beanie over my too-long hair, then pocketed the bus fare that Clyde gave me, and squinted at the street map.
The burger bar was brightly-lit and full of people. The neon glare made my eyes hurt and the crowd made me edgy.
I pushed open the door, the warm air scented with grease blowing across my face. My eyes skated anxiously over the customers and the servers working the counter. Unsure what to do, I joined a line.
When my turn came, the bored blonde blinked up at me, not even bothering to smile.
“How may I help you today?”
I don’t really want to help you. Go away. Leave me alone. I serve fries in my sleep.
“I’ve come for a job, um, about working here?”
My words sounded uncertain, tumbling awkwardly from my mouth.
“You need Ms. Carter. She expectin’ you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Unexpectedly, she giggled.
“ ‘Ma’am?’ Oh wow, you’re a hoot!” Then she pointed over her shoulder at a door that said ‘Staff Only’. “Go on through.”
I nodded and walked away, only thinking after that I should have thanked her.
My palms began to sweat. How could I be normal when I’d never known what that meant?
At my cautious knock, the door opened.
“I’m Garrett. Um, Dane. I was sent . . .”
“Oh yeah, right. Come on in.”
A tired-looking woman with a heavily pregnant belly waved me into the tiny cubicle and pointed at a folding chair.
“So, Dane . . . any customer service experience?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Any catering experience?”
“I worked in the kitchens when I was . . . I’ve done some kitchen work.”
She looked up, sucking her teeth thoughtfully.
“I’ll be frank with you. I’m doing this because Clyde did my cousin a favor when he came out of prison. I’ll give you a week’s trial. Only the district manager knows about you—none of the staff here, and I’d like to keep it that way. Word gets out that I’ve got an ex-con working here and next thing you know things go missing, the till ends up short . . .”
My face got hot and I had to force myself to stay sitting.
She held up a hand.
“I’m just saying that some people would see it as an opportunity to cover their own tracks, you feel me? I got a few staff I know and trust, but a lot of short-timers, too. And customers can be just as tricky. They say they give you a twenty, but they only give you a ten. You’ve got to be careful. So you being an ex-con stays between you and me. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Hmm. Anything you good at, Dane?”
Yeah, fucking up my life.
“I can fix car engines.”
“Can you now? Well, how you think you’d get on with our second deep fryer? I phoned for a repairman three weeks ago and ain’t seen sign of one yet.”
“I can try.”
She smiled for the first time.
“Keep that attitude and you and me gonna get on just fine.”
Ella
THE MANAGER AT the halfway house wouldn’t tell me anything about Dane. But then his eyes narrowed, flitting to my Mini Cooper.
“You gave Garrett a ride the day he arrived.”
“That was me!”
He scratched his beard thoughtfully.
“Wife? Sister?”
I shook my head.
“Friend,” I said weakly.
He nodded slowly.
“Who should I say dropped by?”
“Ella.”
“Any message, Ella?”
“Tell him . . .” I lifted my chin. “Tell him I can hear the birds sing, too. And that I’ll be waiting.”
His smile was kind.
“I’ll tell him.”
I came by every day after I’d finished at Nottoway, leaving one prison for Dane’s self-imposed banishment, but he was never there. On the fourth day, Clyde took pity on me.
“He’s at work, Ella. I shouldn’t really be telling you this . . . but he gets off at 10PM. If you decide to wait for him, I can’t stop you.”
I couldn’t help flinging my arms around his neck, thanking him over and over, wringing an embarrassed chuckle from him as he awkwardly patted my back.
“Keep your car doors locked.”
I came back that evening on the dot of ten. Since I didn’t know how far away Dane worked, waiting was agonizing. And a little creepy, sitting alone in the dark.
Finally, after I’d been waiting the better part of an hour, I saw him. Despite the heavy overcoat obscuring his body, and the woolen hat covering his hair, I recognized him immediately. Even the loping stride was new, but my body warmed instinctively, drawn to its other half.
I stumbled out of the car, adrenaline surging through me.
“Dane! Dane, wait!”
He glanced both ways along the street before he strode over to me, gripping the top of the car door as I stood in the gutter staring up at him.
“What are you doing here, Ella? I told you . . .”
“I know what you told me, but I’m not letting you go like that. Please.”
I trembled from cold and longing, desperate to touch him.
He sighed with frustration, then gestured for me to get back in the car. When he slid into the passenger seat next to me, the car was filled with the pungent smell of chicken fat.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
I took a deep breath, ignoring the unpleasant aroma of fried food.
“I had to come.”
“You need to leave.”
I reached out for his cold hand, wrapping it in my smaller ones.
“I miss your voice, I miss your smile. I miss the way you run your fingers through your hair when you’re upset or annoyed. I miss the way the left hand side of your mouth lifts when you’re trying not to smile. I miss your letters. I miss reading about your hopes and dreams. You’re finally free, Dane Garrett, and the only thing keeping us apart is you. I miss you.”
He shook his head slowly and closed his eyes, pulling his hand away. When he spoke, he wouldn’t look at me.
“You’re wrong. I’m not free. I have a curfew every night. If I miss it, I’ll be sent back. I can’t have a beer, or I’ll be sent back. I can’t live where I want, or do a job I want. Right now, I’m stinking up your car because the only job I can get comes with a lifetime supply of onion rings.”
“It’s an honest day’s work, Dane. There’s no shame in that.”
He turned to stare at me.
“I’m no good for you.”
His voice was sharp, attacking, angry words.
“I decide who’s good for me,” I shot back, matching his rising fury. “No one else—just me. And I happen to think that a kind, thoughtful, caring man with gentle hands will suit me fine.”
“Goddammit! Don’t you ever listen?”
“Yes, I listen to my heart. And my heart wants you.”
His rage ebbed like a turning tide, reluctant and slow.
He blinked, staring at me with puzzlement.
“Would you tell people? Would you tell your folks about how we met?”
“I’d tell them we met at work.”
He snorted with amusement and irritation, then scrubbed his hands over his face.
“Prison is hard,” he said softly. “But I know how it works. Out here . . .” and he gestured with one hand, leaving the sentence hanging.
“Then let me help you.”
He shook his head.
“I’d only pull you down with me.”
Finally, I was getting somewhere.
“Ah, I get it now.”
“Get what?”
“Your noble act.”
His jaw tightened and his eyes became small and mean.
“I’m not acting.”
“Yes, you are. You’re being all ‘woe is me’ because you think you’re saving me from some faceless future. But you’re not; you’re being selfish.”
“The fuck I am!”
“Yes, selfish! I have worried and waited for you. I watched you from a distance for three months before that. And now I’m waiting outside your apartment every night, freezing my ass off because you won’t give me the time of day. I call that pretty damn selfish.”
He stared at me with wide eyes, my storm of words soaking into him.
“Every night?”
“I didn’t know you worked an evening shift until earlier today.”
“You’re too good for me . . .”
“According to my father, I’m too good for every man that doesn’t walk on water,” I growled, fixing him with a fierce scowl. “So perhaps I should just go be a nun. Is that your recommendation, too?”
“A fucking sexy nun,” he muttered.
I laughed a little, and some of the tension left the air.
“Dane . . .” and I reached out to touch his cold cheek.
He leaned into my hand minutely, his lips opening.
“Dane, what’s really keeping you away from me? What are you scared of?”
He moved away and sat up straighter.
“Failing.” His eyes met mine. “I’m scared of failing . . . of failing you.”
“Oh, Dane, no . . .” I touched his cracked lips with my fingertip. “I’ve been so scared of failing you!”
Ella
I WAS FIFTEEN when I started dating, and I was one of those lucky kids whose parents said, “We just want you to be happy.” Even when the boy I brought home had blue hair, a lip ring that he chewed on constantly, and played bass guitar—badly—in a thrash metal band. Although actually Kevin was rather sweet.
It was only when I dated in college that I realized, “We just want you to be happy” translated as, “We love you so much that we just want you to be happy, but preferably with a man who’s a doctor and has a vacation home in the Hamptons.”
Behind The Wall: A Novella Page 7
