Wilder

by Andrew Simonet

  “Nobody else called you or wrote to you? Maybe a friend of mine? Have you checked your messages?” A chronic problem for her. She dodged calls from debt collectors, so she let messages pile up, especially if she didn’t recognize a number.

  “Not that I know of, no,” she said. “But I’m so glad to hear your voice, and so glad you’re getting out of there.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know yet.”

  “You tell that fabulous lawyer to get my baby home, OK?” The wind-down. That was quick. Meant she was drunk.

  “I will.”

  “You’re my baby, you know that, right? I’m always gonna be here for you.”

  “I know, Mom. I love you.”

  “Love you, too, sweetie. Call me, OK?”

  “I will.”

  Click. Beep. Recording ending.

  * * *

  The next day, I had visitors. Plural.

  Sweet, pale Stephen, wearing a well-fitted hoodie that I imagined was his stylish attempt at jail-friendly clothes, and Butchie. Butchie? One of my sort-of enemies.

  This was another way I could hear from Meili: she sends a mutual friend. Took her long enough.

  They sat at a table in the way-too-bright visiting room, Stephen utterly out of place, and Butchie trying to look comfortable, which seemed more desperate.

  There was a raucous family at the main table, four kids, maybe siblings, a mom, and a grandpa, all visiting this goofball guy who had tried to tell me jokes when I first arrived in jail. I thought he was coming on to me. Turns out, that’s just who he was. The young kids were loving it, laughing and all talking at once, competing for his attention.

  Butchie chucked his chin at me. Cool, gangstery gestures and language all felt ridiculous in jail.

  “Hey, Jason.” Stephen smiled a little.

  I sat across from them. No barrier separated us, but we weren’t supposed to touch. “Hey, guys. What, uh, what are you two…” I stopped myself. “Thanks for coming.”

  It really was nice of them. There aren’t enough delinquents in Unionville to justify a facility, surprisingly. So I was in Essex, a good forty-five minutes away.

  “I should have come earlier, but it was…” Stephen said.

  “No worries. It’s good. I’m … I’m good,” I said, answering a question no one had asked with a lie no one believed.

  Butchie stared down at a spot on the table between me and Stephen, tracking us without seeing us.

  “How are you guys doing?” I asked. Let them bring up Meili.

  “I’m good,” Stephen said.

  Butchie looked up suddenly. “I got your bike.”

  Huh. “My motorcycle?”

  Butchie nodded.

  Stephen said, “That’s why we came. Butchie told me about your bike, and I said, ‘We should go tell Jason.’” Something in my expression made him explain more. “I mean, I wanted to come anyway and see how you’re doing.”

  Gross. Don’t.

  Butchie perked up, happy to tell his story. “It was at Stewart’s, where you left it. But I guess no one knew what to do with it, so it sat there.”

  A little girl was chased around our table by the goofy guy, who fake-whispered, “Beep-beep. ’Scuse us!”

  I waited till they got back to their side of the room, then said, “Was there anything on it? A note or a message?”

  “No. I mean, not by the time I got to it.”

  “What Butchie’s not saying,” Stephen explained, “is that some people messed with your bike, so he got it and rode it to your house.”

  Butchie nodded. “I couldn’t ride it. I put it on a trailer. It’s in your shed. I locked the padlock, so it should be safe. I mean, I think it’s fixable. There’s just some … physical damage.”

  But no emotional damage. Phew.

  “Thanks, man,” I said. “What was damaged?”

  Butchie shrugged, looked over at Stephen, who said, “Some people, like, smashed it. The mirrors, the speedometer…”

  “Slashed the seat,” Butchie added, helpfully.

  Damn. “Who do you think did it? Ronny and those guys?” I didn’t want to accuse all of those guys since Butchie was obviously not involved.

  The family started singing “Happy Birthday.”

  Stephen shook his head. He had to half yell to be heard. “A lot of people are upset about … what happened.”

  “Yeah, me too,” I yelled back. “You don’t think I’ve been going crazy in here?”

  The song ended with applause. Butchie clapped.

  Stephen said quietly, “I know we’re not supposed to discuss the case, but…” He looked at the sign with all its rules, maybe to avoid looking at me. “It’s just that people were freaked out. Theresa’s mom, she was there, she was in Stewart’s and saw the whole thing, and Theresa said she couldn’t stop crying about it. The fight was so brutal, she was just like: ‘That boy, that violent boy.’” He looked to see my reaction. I tried not to have one.

  Screw Theresa’s mom.

  One way to know you have a problem: you hear people think you’re violent, and you want to pop an elbow into their pretty little cheekbones.

  Breathe, Jason.

  Change the subject.

  “Did she contact you?” I didn’t need to say who.

  Stephen shook his head. Maybe lying?

  “I need to get in touch with her,” I said.

  He nodded. Yeah, you do. And good luck.

  No one spoke. Even the big table was quiet.

  “Do you know how I can reach her?” I said.

  Stephen shook his head. “She left.”

  Left.

  “I want to make sure she’s OK, that’s all.”

  “For sure,” Stephen said in a voice that meant: bullshit.

  “It’s not…” I said. I wanted to justify something, but I couldn’t find it. It just hung there.

  We all waited for someone to speak, to think of something. The family was filing out while goofball watched and waved, big smile on his face.

  Stephen instinctively reached for his phone, which wasn’t there cause you’re not allowed to bring one in. He looked around for a clock. “We should probably get going,” he said.

  Butchie, who had been waiting for someone to say that, stood up immediately.

  “Yeah, thanks for coming, guys,” I said. “And thanks for taking care of my bike.”

  “Let me know if you need anything,” Stephen said, but didn’t mean.

  The sob started to come. I clenched my gut hard, pushed it down. I didn’t risk speaking cause I wasn’t sure what would come out.

  “See you, man,” Butchie said. And right before he turned to go, I saw his worried face look back at me, eyes narrowed, lips pursed.

  And that boy, that violent boy, walked back to his cell.

  * * *

  I was only there ten minutes, then this announcement:

  “J. Wilder to see Jason Wilder.”

  A typo, right? Someone put my name twice.

  That’s why I didn’t prepare, didn’t think about how I looked.

  The visiting-room door buzzed. I pushed it open.

  Jay Wilder.

  Jay Fucking Wilder.

  Jay Ain’t Nobody Wilder.

  “Jay-SON! What’s going on?”

  He always put the accent on the second syllable cause that was the joke: I was Jay’s son, so he named me Jason.

  Ha ha.

  People who do shit like that should not have kids.

  “What’s up, man? I came to see you.” He stared at whatever helpless facial expression I was making.

  “Hi, Jay.” I never called him Dad, just Jay.

  “How you doing, man?” He leaned forward, hairy elbows draped on his jeans. Tucked-in plaid shirt, clean sneakers, close-trimmed beard and stache. Jay had been, probably still was, a hit with the ladies.

  “Good.” One syllable. I was dumbstruck. And what do you say when people ask you that? I’m in jail. My shit is horrible.

  “I was
thinking about you in here, man. I wanted to come out, you know, see how you’re holding up.” He looked around, shook his head. “It’s a hell of a thing, huh? Doing time’s a hell of a thing.”

  I shrugged and, weirdly, shook my head at the same time. Whatever-slash-no.

  “Look at you. Grown-ass man, you filled out real good. What’s going on, man? How are you? How’s your mom?” Jay’s conversations had a racing impatience I used to get caught up in, the seductive feeling that I was so interesting he couldn’t stop asking me things.

  I avoided the first two questions. “She’s not good.”

  “I heard she’s down in Florida, right?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s nice down there, man. I bet she likes it.”

  Just like Meili. You tell someone your mom fucking abandoned you and went to Florida, and all people say is: “Florida, so pretty.”

  “It’s not going well.” I don’t know if I really thought that. But I didn’t want to let Jay off the hook. Everything is terrible, that was my position.

  “She’s a real crazy lady, isn’t she? Beautiful person, though. I hope it all works out for her.”

  I made a neutral “Hm.” Like: “Huh, you said those words.”

  The room was echoey, lifeless because that happy family was gone. Or maybe because my fucked-up family was here.

  “What about you? Finishing school?”

  “I’m in here.”

  “Before, though,” he said. “You’re what, senior? Junior?”

  “Senior.”

  “The finish line.”

  “I wasn’t gonna graduate. Even before this.”

  “You can get your GED in jail. Lot of guys don’t know that.”

  “I’m not in jail. I’m in custody.”

  “Yeah, I know, how’s it looking?” Jay put his hairy arms on the table, laced his fingers together, ready to get serious. “What’s your lawyer say?”

  “I should take a plea.”

  “They always say that. Plead out, do your time. But”—his knee was bouncing—“I don’t want you in here. Look at you, man.” His voice dropped, cracked a little. “God, I don’t want you in here.”

  A sob swelled in my gut. No fucking way. Not in front of Jay.

  His face wrinkled up. Whoa. Jay Wilder crying? Thank god. He took the sob. I could relax.

  “When your mom told me, I was just … I know what it’s like.” He took a big breath. “I don’t want this for you.”

  “I’ll get it straightened out.”

  He squinted and nodded too quickly, too many times. “Yeah, yeah, you will,” he said. His thick wrist smeared the budding tears sideways. “Whew, sorry. Anyway, what else? What else is there, man? You wanna hear what I’ve been up to?”

  “No.” I said it so quick, I might have said it while he was still talking. Every possible Jay Wilder sentence that starts “You wanna hear…” is a no.

  “Fair enough.” He put his hands up like I was being unreasonable. Real crazy, as he would say. “I don’t need to talk about myself. That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Why are you here, Jay?” I liked using his first name. Man to man. Loser to loser.

  “I heard what happened. I’m your father, I wanted to come down and see if—”

  “You’re not my father.”

  “I’m your father, Jason. Believe me. I got the paternity test and everything.”

  Jesus. In my family, shit just gets dropped in conversations. My mom would casually mention “the hepatitis” or “those harassment charges.”

  I ignored “paternity test.”

  “You’re a guy my mom used to date. You don’t know me.”

  In my mind, that was: BOOM. Time for deadbeat dad to break down and ask for forgiveness.

  “I did more than date her.” Oh, you had sex with her? Sweet. “But, look, I’m not here to talk about the past.”

  I snorted.

  “What?” he said.

  “Guys like you never want to talk about the past.”

  Again, POW. Was no one hearing these takedowns?

  Jay glided past it. “I want to talk about how you’re gonna get through this. Cause it can get deep when you’re inside. Real deep. There’s things you might not even realize you’re doing and then, bam!” He pounded the table, and I almost jumped. “Now, you look like you can handle yourself. I heard—whew—I heard what you did to that guy, I was like: ‘Damn.’” He nodded with an approving frown. “Guess that’s what happens when you piss off a Wilder, a grown-ass Wilder.”

  “We’re not supposed to talk about that,” I said, tilting my head toward the rules.

  “I’m just saying, I get it. I don’t need to tell you how to handle your business. I wanna talk about the code on the inside. I wanna give you some advice, cause if you come at people the wrong way, you make a lot of problems for yourself.”

  Fucking advice.

  Hey, everybody, and especially people who are basically fucked-up failures, here’s an idea: don’t give advice unless someone specifically asks for it. And if no one ever asks you for advice, that’s because you don’t have your shit together.

  I honestly think I’ve never asked for advice. Not once. But, damn, did I get a constant stream of it from people who were nothing like me (my teachers, my lawyer) or from walking disasters like Jay.

  “Here’s two phrases you’re gonna use a lot,” he said. “One: ‘I keep to myself.’ Anytime someone asks you what you do, what you’re into, you say: ‘I keep to myself.’”

  A woman came in, my mom’s age, done up a little, plump arms pooching out of her blue dress sleeves. She sat at a table far away from ours, pointedly looking at her nails. Too dignified for this place, or so she wanted to think. Wanted us to think.

  Nobody’s too good for this place. Nobody’s too good for anyplace.

  “The other one is: ‘I don’t take sides.’ If there’s a beef, or some racial nonsense, you say: ‘I don’t take sides.’ And then you shut up, you don’t say anything else. ‘I don’t take sides.’ Period.” Jay casually turned his head to look the woman up and down, decided she wasn’t worth it, turned back. Definitely a guy who still hit on women daily.

  I was trembling. When did that start? I sat on my hands.

  “Hopefully, that keeps you out of the bullshit. But there still might be somebody who wants to test you, especially if you age out of juvie. This is real important.” He leaned in so no one could hear his precious secret. “Somebody pushes you, tries to provoke you, you ignore it, understand? Then, a day or two later, you find another guy. Not a top dog, not some big boy, cause that looks like a power play. But not a little man, either, get somebody in the middle. You pick him out, and you jump him, out of nowhere. No reason, no warning. It’s a statement piece. You’re saying, one, I can handle myself, and, two, you never know when I might go off. Cause if they mess with you and you hit back, they’re in control. They’re making you fight. But you come out of nowhere and drop somebody? Nobody wants to touch that. Make sense?”

  Where to begin?

  “I’m not gonna do that,” I said.

  “Hopefully, you won’t have to. I’m just saying you might need to make a statement if people test you.”

  The jail-side door buzzed, and a skinny guy sulked in, drooping shoulders, eyes on the ground. A loud asshole back in the cells, always talking shit; here, he was tiny, hollow. He slumped into a chair across from the made-up lady, faced sideways, didn’t say anything.

  “That’s not me, Jay. I don’t do stuff like that.”

  “I mean…” He shrugged, let out a little laugh. “Yes, you do. Let’s be honest.”

  “What?”

  “What happened in Stewart’s, that was a statement piece.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The dressed-up woman was sobbing. Neither of them had spoken a word.

  “I’m just saying, you went off on a guy—or two guys, right?” Jay said. “They had no idea what
was coming. That’s your statement.”

  “That’s not what happened,” I said. “You weren’t there, you don’t know.”

  “No, no, no, you misunderstood. I’m not judging you. I respect you. I’m saying you might need to do that on the inside. One time.” He leaned back. “Good news is: do it where the guards can’t see, I guarantee nobody talks. I guarantee the guy will say: ‘Oh, I fell down and hit my head.’”

  Like Ronny. We were just playing. Like me.

  “I’m not—”

  “Key is: don’t go after a big man. You don’t want the general, you want the corporal.”

  “I’m not like that,” I said.

  “And no weapons, right, cause then—”

  “I’m not like that!”

  He leaned back. “I’m trying to help. That’s all.”

  “Don’t help me.”

  Makeup Woman was shaking and blubbering now, wet sobs spasming out of her lipsticked mouth.

  “I’m worried about you, man,” Jay said.

  “Don’t worry about me. Don’t think about me. Leave me alone.”

  “OK. OK.” Hands up again. “Are you angry? Fair enough. If you’re angry, just say so.”

  I remembered Manny’s line. I said, “When I get angry, Jay, you won’t need to ask if I’m angry.”

  He slapped his knee and pointed at me, big grin. “See? That’s what I’m talkin’ about. That’s the stance right there. ‘You don’t want a piece of this.’”

  Fuuuuuuuuuck.

  Ms. Davies, the guidance counselor, wouldn’t let male students use the word “frustrated” when talking about our feelings, because if she did, that was the only feeling we ever mentioned.

  Dear Ms. Davies: I feel frustrated.

  Stop trying to burn him. Change the subject.

  “What happened to your ear?” I said. There was a bunch of nubby scar tissue on the crest of his left ear, translucent like a Tootsie Pop.

  “Had an earring in there, ended up getting torn out.” He squeezed it, and I thought it might burst. “Don’t mind, though. It’s like a tattoo.”

  The earring ended up getting torn out.

  My mom put me on the phone one time, I was eleven or twelve, made me ask Jay why I wasn’t going on a youth-group trip. “The money thing’s gotten a bit weird, kiddo,” he said. “Trips and stuff are gonna take the year off.”