If He Hollers, Let Him Go

by Beth Harden

  “I’ll get that for you,” Willis offers, reaching towards the door. As I pass, he rests his powerful hand on my shoulder and applies the slightest pressure. His touch is purposed, premeditated, and perhaps even predatory. Is it meant to catch my attention and cause me to swivel slightly towards him? Or does it stem from the need to circle back around to the scene of the kill just to reclaim it from other scavengers who might encroach? Does he even know who I am? “Thank you. Thank you so much,” he says. Willis reaches out and down from his position of superior height and clasps me in a genuine hug. My overstuffed bag filled with paper supplies buckles against his side. The metal cup in my hand wobbles and tips, dribbling iced chai on my Skechers. Soft mocha-colored droplets blossom on ugly gray tile. Get your hands off me, you prick! Don’t you dare touch me! Did I say that out loud? Willis doesn’t seem to have noticed.

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. I just appreciate you so much.” He releases his grip and I stagger backwards in an exaggerated stumble against the wall. “Oh, my apologies. I didn’t mean for you to hurt yourself. Here,” he adds, bending down to dab at my footwear with the paper towel he produced from his pocket. He swabs at the blotches on the floor and the tiny spatter that has marked the cuff of my linen pants. I knew from the get-go it was an asinine decision to choose off-white between mold, ink, dirty files and a possible misguided menstrual flow.

  “No matter,” I say. “It’s fine.” But it’s not. The breach has happened and we both know it. He thinks he’s got me, but I have him as well. We’re each in a position to jam up the other. It’s an impasse that can only cleared by breaking silence. Willis swings the door open and I step out ahead of him into the mass jam of human traffic on the mainline.

  #

  “Can you get access to camera footage?” I ask. Hastings is alone in the officer’s mess hall when I approach him. He looks at me quizzically, trying to figure the angle on my line of questioning.

  “I’ve got ways, but what are you fishing for, Elise?” he says. “I can’t just stroll down and help myself. There is protocol in obtaining stuff from the Security Division.”

  “Well, let’s just say that I had somewhat of an awkward encounter with an inmate. I was hoping to be able to take a look at it.” My friend is instantly alarmed.

  “He didn’t hurt you, did he? I’ll tune him up myself, that grimy bastard!”

  “No, no. He came on to me,” I reply. “Not a big deal.”

  “Fuck the films. You report the guy and we’ll deal with him from there. They’ll check the cameras as evidence during any investigation, regardless. You can’t taint it by getting your hands in the mix. Where did this happen?”

  “The Interview room in the Main Hall,” I say. His look of disappointment is immediately evident.

  “You’re fucked, then. That camera’s been dead for years. The Administration figured it wasn’t worth a line item on the budget since we have rovers stationed right outside the door and two direct phone lines to Main Control. So, who’s the guy? We'll drum something up and get him shipped out.”

  “No, never mind. He’s leaving soon anyway,” I say.

  “Elise, don’t protect these assholes. If he crossed the line or threatened you, we’ll cuff him and he’s gone.”

  “No, it’s alright. I’ll handle it,” I say. “I appreciate your support.” The thwarted knight grins reluctantly as I pat his shoulder and smile. Hastings is a good man. He can be counted on to do the right thing and to step up for a friend. I give his taut triceps a playful squeeze and shoot him the grateful look of a damsel-in-distress who’s been rescued from her own helplessness. He continues to stare long after I’ve left the break room and rounded the corner down the long hallway.

  #

  The original copy of Willis’s evaluation is in the folder with the others. I scan them one by one into the desktop folder on my computer. From there, each is uploaded individually into the caseload system that can be accessed by the Board of Parole. Our community partners rely heavily on our insight and hands-on interaction with their clients who either walk out early or take it to the gate, based heavily on what is fed up through the pipeline. It’s not a matter to be taken lightly. A generic pass or fail does the public no service. My recommendations are carefully rendered after weeks of intensive observation and mental notes. I am comfortable that I have done the best I can for the people who are out there blissfully barbecuing and have placed their trust in a system that will keep the monsters in the closet and risk at bay. I save Willis’s for last, twirling it in my fingers, holding it to the artificial light as if might illuminate any glaring error. What is the right answer here? How does one measure a man’s transformation in months or years? Is Willis truly a new man? Have a dozen years been enough to complete the conversion from core criminal to model citizen? Salvation is granted in a moment’s repentance, but the path to perfection is a slow, sometimes endless road. Something isn’t right. If this is the man who not only knowingly but willfully inflicted such horrors and havoc decades ago, what is enough? Studies say prison is beneficial only up to a certain point. For the man who has been genuinely rehabilitated, prolonged incarceration becomes detrimental and begins to have the reverse effect. But if it is him, doesn’t the bastard deserve more time? Suddenly, the answer is perfectly clear. I deserve more time; time enough to be certain.

  The evaluation sails smoothly through the shredder and bubbles out in ribbons below. I pull up a blank form and start retyping it. The checkmarks on the top portion snap the reader to attention like warning flags. Poor…poor…fair…poor. The remarks that spool out into the comment section are emphatic and undeniably convincing. The man is a threat, a risk, a manipulator, a persistent offender whose agenda has been covertly disguised behind a bright veneer. I write what I feel: Strongly recommend Denial based on extensive criminal history, severity of violence, lack of ownership, pernicious disregard for and damaging mistreatment of his victims. There. I’ve done my duty. Willis is probably still gloating and shoving that glowing evaluation in everyone’s face as proof that he can come out on top again. Stupid bitch, he’s probably saying. This ingenious fuck you will stay my little secret. And guess who he’ll come running to when he gets the decision handed down to him? That’s right! His oh-so sympathetic counselor.

  CHAPTER 14: DISMISSED

  Pictures don’t lie. Right up there on the big screen monitor at the top of the fourth with the Sox up by two, the camera pans to the crowd and hesitates on a couple who seem oblivious to Big Brother. They are kissing deeply, lustily. Her auburn cascade of curls and his Ken-size build are unmistakable. It’s James Hastings and Sharon Gaudette, the red-haired lieutenant on second shift getting hot and heavy; but then just as quickly, the lens zooms back on the umpire hunched over home plate and the couple is lost among thirty-seven thousand other fans in a collage of red shirts and waving white banners. The paralysis of shock stops me in my tracks. I’m used to being numb, but not this new sensation that comes on its heels, this royal rip of red-hot jealousy that shoots up through my veins and rattles my brain. This is something new.

  “You damn bastard,” I shout. The bowl of pretzels lifts off the table and is airborne. The books go next, landing heavily on the floor. The glass picture frames of loved ones follow. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not! There goes boy Aaron, passive-aggressive prince who never asked me to marry him when he should have. Then another framed photograph of the man-version all grown up in his happy-family Christmas snapshot from Sears. The man who never returned to sweep me up to safety; even now, when he knows he wants to. Fuck him! The accompanying sound of shattering glass is a round of applause in my ears. I let the brothers fly against the brick fire wall; all five put together don’t amount to a lick of shit. They couldn’t see out of their incestuous small world to realize they had a big-picture sister who needed them. Assholes all! God forgive me, I didn’t mean to but in the frenzy of rage, I get carried away and accidentally grab my prize
photograph of Dad and me half-buried in a sand castle on the Cape. It takes off on its own and sifts downwards straight into the hot ash pan. The heat bubbles it immediately. The two of us grin, then grimace and finally huddle into a distorted heap. Now that I’ve ruined the one thing that’s most valuable to me, I need to hurt myself a little more. I sweep all the Cooke family knick-knack china collectibles off the mantel in one motion. Useless things given out of guilt as replacements for words.

  When I finally stop, I’m surprised at the extent of the damage. I don’t remember toppling the plants out of their holders. It looks like one of the dogs might have gotten cut on the broken glass and traipsed through the clumps of potting soil and shredded photo album pages. Sadly, the quiet that comes after a riot is an incomplete peace. Despite the chaotic release of pent-up energy, the root cause remains untouched. I feel weakened, not stronger as I expected. Fuck me! I’ll clean it up later. I sit back down and resume watching the game at the bottom of the fifth.

  By the seventh inning stretch, I’m feeling very confused and less convinced it was him at all. My eyesight is far from perfect. I try to drum up the image of that snapshot again. You could be mistaken. I mean, your memory isn’t the best. Goddamn-it! No, go with your first instinct. I’ve got to fight for what I want. Champions don’t just relinquish their lead. The come-from-behind late in the season Red Sox know this all too well. Big Papi keeps at it, slapping his red gloves and kicking his bat and swinging hard each and every time. And eventually that clutch play comes when he sails a grand slam out to the Green Monster and claims his victory lap. By the bottom of the eighth, I am resolved to win. I sip my Sam Adams lager, take nibbles from the fist-sized microwave pretzel and find myself cheering for the underdog. Myself.

  #

  James comes when I call. He’s eager and happy to be summoned. It’s a Friday night and he’s raring to get out for a little action. He dashes right over after the gym, his face radiant from endorphins and his skin fresh with the scent of Axe. He pulls me tight into an earnest embrace.

  “What would you like to do? What are you in the mood for, my dear? Maybe some Thai food? A movie?” he asks. Then he notices the large suitcase and smaller duffle packed to the brim and pushed to the right of the open door.

  “Oh, where are you off to?” he asks, jovially.

  “We, you mean. Surprise! I made a reservation for the two of us at an inn near Pemaquid Point. I thought we could swing by so you could meet my family and then we can celebrate our newfound happiness for a couple days. There’s a lobster festival going and a Renaissance fair near Camden. Maybe do a little jousting.” My wink and beaming smile is quickly dimmed by his hesitancy to immediately sweep me up and spin me in a circle. Have I misjudged him? His awkward pause suddenly casts doubts on my impulsive move.

  “That’s a lovely idea, Elise. But I can’t disappear like that. Unfortunately, I’m not that expendable at home.”

  “I knew I should have asked first, but I wanted it to be a surprise. I can still change the reservation and make it a day trip if that’s better,” I suggest.

  “You’re so thoughtful, love. Maybe down the road we could make this happen. Perhaps you misinterpreted me. It would be difficult to explain an extended absence away from home. You understand, right?” James reaches for my hand as if he’s poised to waltz me back to the bedroom. “But we can still make the most of a couple hours tonight.”

  “Oh,” I say. I sound like a pathetic adolescent girl who is stewing in her own disappointment. Even knowing this, I can’t help the pout that turns down the corners of my lips.

  “C’mon, pretty girl. Let’s not focus on what we don’t have, but rather the precious moments in hand.” James steps up and kisses me eagerly. I lean back away from him.

  “So, what you’re really saying is it’s too risky to be seen with me in broad daylight. Is that it?” I spit the words out with no polite introduction. He appears startled as I struggle out of his grip.

  “What does that mean?” he asks. He peers at me intently trying to determine if this is one of the sarcastic teases that he likes to deflect.

  “Listen, I’ll cut to the chase and save you some trouble. I can accept the fact that you are married, but not that you would have other girlfriends, too. That’s not what I signed on for.”

  “Now, hold on. What other girlfriends, Elise?” I eye him suspiciously. His face is flushed and he shifts his gaze to the right away from my fierce glare. He looks an awful lot like a cheater coming out a motel room; in this case, caught red-handed with a redhead.

  “You and your flame at Fenway. Ring any bells with you?” I ask. James seems genuinely stunned by this accusation. He scrunches his brow and rubs his jaw, contemplating what tact he should take.

  “You sound an awful lot like a jealous woman right now. That’s not the girl I’ve come to admire and respect,” he replies. “One of the wonderful things about you as a friend is that you are remarkably uncomplicated and understanding. There have never been demands and rules or the need to control one another.”

  “So, is that really all we are? Just friends?”

  “Isn’t that what you wanted? It’s pretty much what we agreed on. Let me rephrase that. How about great friends with a multitude of benefits,” he says sweetly. His faces relax into a gentle smile. “I think we’re beyond the age where we have to post our status on Facebook. ‘In a relationship with a married man’ still isn’t cool, even these days.”

  “I just don’t know if I feel comfortable being one of many,” I say. James pulls up taller and clenches his jaw.

  “I don’t know where the hell you got the idea that I’m a skirt chaser. I told you that I’m madly in love with you and I absolutely am. But that doesn’t erase the rest of my life, the part that came before you and continues to be. It’s not an all-or-nothing kind of thing. I have a different kind of love for my family which can co-exist with the way I feel for you.”

  “So I get my own special compartment in this big heart of yours. And how many others does it accommodate?”

  “What are you talking about?” he demands.

  “That skanky, slut-bucket Gaudette,” I say. “She in there, too?” He bursts out with a laugh and then reaches out to pat my shoulder.

  “Oh, now I get it. I don’t need to explain myself. But I’m willing to, if it makes you feel better. The guys and I drag her along to the bar sometimes cause she’s a hoot and a party girl and knows a helluva lot about baseball. Plus she’s friends with my wife, but for Christ sakes, that’s it, Elise. Now, will you drop it?”

  “So you were with her at the game on Friday?”

  “I was with my wife,” James states firmly. He softens noticeably when he deciphers the look of confusion of my face. “Wait. You’ve never met Lynne, have you? They do look an awful lot alike. Feel better, now?” I should back off and calm down, but the guy and girl in the bleachers are still taunting me. That stupid twit, they say as they wrap their arms around each other. Fooled her. Instead of feeling reassured, I choke back a rush of repulsion and slap his hand off my shoulder.

  “I don’t understand. You got back together with your wife and didn’t tell me? Don’t you think that might have mattered before you jumped in bed with me?”

  “I don’t know where you got the idea that I my wife and are were separated. I never said that. Sure we have our spats and differences and things have been rockier lately, but that’s a far cry from what you’re saying.”

  In the past I could shut down the spigot in my gut and stop any welling of emotion with a conscious crimp in the piping. Something is different inside of me. The boiler is churning with compressed steam. The heat radiates up my chest.

  “I’ve always been honest with you, sweetie. Remember when we very first connected? I told you that I believed we are created to love the special people who come across our path. Be it one or three or however many. You are one of those delights that I am lucky to have been gifted with. My hope is that we can enjoy
a loving, special romance for as long as you are willing and feel the same about me.”

  “Yes, I heard you. One of possibly many.”

  “What’s gotten into you all of a sudden? Are you having a hormone swing or something? You’ve never been clingy before. You’re always so independent and self-sufficient.”

  I clam up. He’s right. This is not at all like me.

  “Elise, you knew exactly what you were doing the other night. In fact, one could honestly say that you seduced me. And Lord forgive me, I wanted you to. Badly. I have ever since I met you and would never have had the willpower to turn you away. I feel no remorse or guilt, but I still love my wife.” I look at him incredulously. He doesn’t see the problem with any of this.

  “You love your wife but you make love to other women. How does that work?” I say flatly with a sting to my diction.

  “Other women? You mean, you!”

  “And don’t forget Sharon. I can’t imagine you were just sharing earned run averages with her.”

  “C’mon, Elise. Sharon’s not smart enough to waste more than the price of a beer on.”

  “But she might be worth the cost of a condom though, right?” The crass statement sets sail before I can catch it. That’s not what I had intended to say. Too late. He’s mad now and sick of dealing with the petulance of an immature girl.

  “I didn’t come here to take a rasher of shit. I could stay home and get that. I’m going to go. Nothing good is going to come out of staying,” James says. He turns decisively and puts his hand on the doorknob. “You’re the one that called me, remember? Maybe it’s best if we just cool things down for a little while. This obviously isn’t working right now.” He swings the door inwards and takes a first step forwards.

  “Screw you! I’m not just some free-for-all, fuck-by-night. I took you at your word, Hastings. I believed that I was someone special to you.” I fly at him from the rear, striking his broad back with my fists. As he twists around to face me, he catches a forceful palm strike on the soft skin of his neck.