by Beth Harden
“Welcome back, Counselor,” he says cheerfully.
“Greetings, Mr. Davenport. What’s new with you?”
“Still living the dream. Did you hear what happened while you were gone?”
“Big goings-on while I was away, huh?” I ask as nonchalantly as possible. “I heard quite a few of the inmates got food poisoning.”
“True story. The Health Department shut us down for a spell. A batch of bad bird done it.”
“Too bad we couldn’t just open up a KFC franchise in here. You and I could make some serious bank on that extra crispy chicken.”
“No doubt, Mizz A,” agrees Davenport.
“But seriously, that was a bad scare. All those guys are fine now, aren’t they?” I ask.
“Yes ma’am,” agrees Davenport. “But that ain’t the story I was getting at.”
“Well, what’s the dirt then?”
“That piece-of-shit Terran Willis had a major stroke and nearly died from an overdose. They saved him but I’m not sure that was a kindness. The man is ruined.” I’m astounded by the caustic tone and uncharacteristic venom in his remark. This man is a self-professed born-again child of God now.
“An overdose of what, Mr. Davenport? Do they know?” I ask.
“They claim it was Suboxone. Don’t make no sense, though. The man was a known dealer but never did the stuff. A real professional never does. I hear they found a big stash in his cell.”
“What?” I ask incredulously. “How’d he get his hands on that stuff?”
“Rumor has it that some C.O. planted it there and jammed him up just before he was due to get out.”
“You don’t sound convinced,” I say.
“Between you and me, that’s cuz I know different. Word is there was a batch of arsenic in Willis. That’s more likely what nearly kilt him,” says Davenport on the down-low. “I’m surprised we all ain’t died from it, what with all the shit this old building throws off.”
Arsenic. I know all about it. Atomic number 33, the forerunner in the family of malicious poisons. Its symbol is As in the periodic table. White arsenic, a toxic chemical that in acute overdose causes black water urine, cardiac failure, hemolysis, nerve damage, shock, delirium and death. Disguised as a harmless-looking powder, this poison is virtually undetectable in food or drink and can be quickly fatal in small doses. A near-perfect murder weapon according to those who have either studied the science behind it or those who have gotten got caught administering it. But even in my darkest dreams, I never considered using this deadly compound; nor, as it turns out, could I have followed through on it. Murder was never what I was after. In the end, it was just me and God left to choose how to make this bad thing better. I decided that the good Lord had way better perspective on things, looking down as He was from a dramatic height far enough removed from all the faulty workings and inconsistencies in human hearts; and with good men like my father by his side, advising him, He would know what to do.
“Are they saying who the dirty cop on the inside is?” I ask.
“They ain’t sayin.’ Truth be told, they don’t care enough to find out. They’ll conduct an investigation but they’re just goin’ through the motions. You know how that shit plays out here, Mizz Abrams. Nobody tolerates the guys who hurt women and little children. Most think he had it coming to him.”
“You knew he was a sex offender?”
“Hell, everyone did, Counselor. The brothers were too afraid of him to take matters into their own hands, the way we used to handle things back in the old days. But like the Good Word says, ‘vengeance is mine.’ When justice comes round, it can be a real bitch.”
“I don’t know what to think,” I say, stupefied.
“I say if a man puts his livelihood and his family on the line, he’s either crazy or a better man than the rest of us. If Hastings did do it, then he had reason to do it.”
“Did you say Hastings? Why would you think such a thing?”
“He and I have growed up together. After twenty years in this joint, you get to know a man, know what I mean? Enough to judge his character and figger out whether you can trust him or not.”
Then in a blazing bolt of illumination, it all comes clear. I recall that arsenic is an ingredient found in household items like rat poison and weed killer. The veteran officer who is entrusted with every key to this kingdom also supervises the outside clearance crew on their landscape and garden duties. He has access to the lawn chemicals and the MSDS closet of hazardous materials. My friend and ally, James Hastings. My heart takes off on a wild run of adrenaline. I should act shocked like everyone else who can’t equate what they see on the surface to the deeds that emanate from the heart, but I know better. What this wise old convict understands is pure wisdom. The truth of what one says lies in what he does. Hastings had kept his promise, stepped outside the circle of boys and took that big brave leap to manhood. I am awed and humbled by the overwhelming realization that I have finally looked into the face of true love in all its raw glory, and found favor.
“Who else knows, Davenport?”
“Only you, ma’am,” he replies humbly. We exchange a knowing look that serves as my oath on a code of silence that neither of us will break.
“Stranger things have happened, you know,” I reply.
“Sho’ nuff,” teases the old convict. When I don’t answer, Davenport lifts his gaze.
“What’s got into you, Mizz Abrams? You win the lottery or something while you be gone? Most folks round here don’t start lookin’ happy ‘til it’s close to shift change.”
“I don’t know, Davenport. You think all this effort is worth it? At the end of the day, do you think any of them will change?”
“I believe God can make saints out of sinners,” he answers without hesitation.
“I believe that, too. Otherwise I couldn’t walk in these doors everyday and do what I do. Got a new class starting up today and it’s going to be a challenging one. I’m expecting a bunch of very resistant guys. Anyway, I gotta run. We’ll finish catching up soon,” I add.
“Yes, ma’am. We sure got plenty of time. I’ll be lookin’ for that smile of yours come mornin.”
“Lord willin’ and the crick don’t rise,” I say.
Davenport grins, lowers his head and resumes his menial task. I leave him kneeling on the dirty floor and step confidently through the sally port. It’s impossible to act like this is just another dull day in the land of outcasts where people walk robotically through the motions of maintaining sanity. Can’t they see it? The beam of redemptive light that has just broken through the window struts overhead and anointed me? This is my end of sentence, my time to shine when the main gate jerks into motion, roll backs and I am released into the first day of the rest of my life.
THE END
ALSO AVAILABLE by Beth Harden
Small town New England has unique charm and a shared pride. It’s a place where folks notice such things as strange cars and unfamiliar faces. Here, residents keep a close pulse and a protective eye on their neighbors, particularly if the newcomers are of a different culture or color that challenges the accepted mindset and jars the commonplace.
“Beth Harden has captured the essence of this American genre in her novel, Pissing Match. If it sounds familiar, it may well be. Those in her reading audience who hail from rural hamlets find themselves peering closer at a character that sounds an awful lot like them, or peeking up from the page to double-check names on road signs. Some have gotten completely stuck at the intersection where fact and fiction meet.”
Harden is humored when asked if her book is based on real people or true happenings. “There’s a little bit of all of us in here. It could be any, and is every small town. Human nature is not confined by boundary markers and stone walls,” Harden says. “It’s got folks talking and as we all know, word of mouth is what small towns thrive on.” Press Release. 2013.
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