The Good Wife

by Stewart O'Nan

  Casey’s private about his life, like in high school, his silence over the phone a closed door. He’s not allowed to talk about his work, which frustrates her. He’s got an apartment and a car, he has friends at the lab, but he never mentions girls or dating. Weekends he likes to hike and camp out in the national forest around Santa Fe. He says he’s getting better at cooking. She worries that he’s lonely. At the end of their calls, she says she misses him, and he echoes her, but dully, just to get her off the line.

  “He’s so unemotional,” she confides to Eileen. “That’s not how he used to be. Remember when he was a kid, he was so sensitive.”

  “I think he’s fine,” Eileen says. “That’s just the way he is.”

  “I don’t know if he’d even tell me if something was wrong.”

  “Of course he’s not going to tell you if something’s wrong. He’s a guy.”

  Her mother agrees with Eileen, so does Tommy. She has to learn not to worry about him so much. It might be that she’s grown too used to constantly fearing for Tommy, not knowing what’s happening inside. That’s going to have to change when he gets out. She can’t be worrying every time he runs to the store.

  She tries not to get too excited, but their initial parole date’s coming up. Tommy’s automatically enrolled in the Transitional Service Program. He’s been meeting with his facility parole officer, working with him to put together his file for the board. Even people who don’t know him have to admit he’s done good time. He’s never been written up for any kind of discipline, and his work assignments and program certificates will count in his favor. So will their marriage, and Casey, and that he’s got a place to stay. The only thing he needs help with is a job, and that’s easy: Patty has enough friends in personnel that she can guarantee him a position at Riverview. With all that going for him, she doesn’t see how the board could possibly turn him down. While everyone else is gearing up for the millennium, she’s focused on November.

  It’s not that simple, Tommy warns her. Hardly anybody gets parole their first time. He’s learning how it works in the pre-release class he’s taking. It’s not about how he’s become a better person. The first thing the board will ask him about is the murder. He’ll have to answer their questions without a lawyer present. It’s like a trial except he doesn’t have any rights. Since he’s presumed guilty, they’ll want him to take responsibility and show remorse. If he doesn’t, that’s it, so it’s either lie or be denied right off the bat. They have to rate his crime using a point system. The more forcible contact there was with the victim, the higher the score, and they’re allowed to consider aggravating and mitigating factors, so Mrs. Wagner being old and blind will hurt him just like it did at the trial. He’ll do okay with the prior criminal history score, but on top of the scores there’s the victim impact statement. Patty thinks it’s not fair. The family can say anything they want, but she’s not allowed to testify on his behalf. She’s not even allowed to be there.

  If he does make parole, he still has to report to a local parole officer every week. Because he was drunk that night, he can’t drink—at all—and because he’s a convicted felon, he can’t be bonded for certain jobs, like being a security guard. At Riverview he can clean up after patients but can’t take care of them. He has to pay taxes but can’t vote or own a gun, or even a knife. His parole officer can come to their house and search it without a warrant, or check in on him at work unannounced and demand a urine sample. Tommy can’t get a driver’s license without getting permission, can’t leave the state without permission, can’t change jobs without permission, can’t change residence without permission, and on top of all that, he has to pay the state a fee of thirty dollars a month.

  “Thirty bucks a month to have you home. Sounds like a good deal to me.”

  As the hearing nears, they make the necessary preparations; they just have to go ahead and assume he’ll be approved. The class he’s in has a long checklist he needs to take care of before he’s release-ready, things she wouldn’t even think of, like renewing his driver’s license. She’s amazed at how organized they are: he can apply right there.

  He has his records together. They’ve even located their original defense attorney to give a statement. All that’s left is the hearing.

  She has no idea who’s on the board. Supposedly it’s only two or three people. Again, she feels helpless, putting their lives in the hands of complete strangers. After everything that’s happened to them, it’s hard for her to believe, and that day—so mild she eats her lunch by the river—she keeps busy, tries not to imagine him in the bright room, facing the table of judges.

  He calls that night and says it went well enough. Elsie Wagner did send a statement, but the defense attorney said if Gary hadn’t squealed, Tommy would have probably gotten manslaughter.

  “He’s still saying that,” Patty says. “What did you say?”

  “I said I was sorry for everything that happened.”

  “But you didn’t do it.”

  “I was there,” Tommy says, as if it’s the same thing.

  They’ll send him a letter in a couple of days. If he’s being released, they’ll give him a date; if not, they’ll explain why they turned him down. She’s used to waiting—she’s made an art of it—but the rest of the week seems endless. She smokes too much and upsets her stomach. She’s scattered at work and hides in her office, goes home and watches TV and then can’t sleep.

  When he finally calls Friday night, there’s no drama; she can hear the disappointment in his voice. Because of the age and the physical condition of the victim, the board has given him the maximum, two more years. She tries to convince herself that she knew this would happen. She’s been living on faith for so long, she can’t just suddenly turn it off. She swears she won’t make the same mistake next time.

  AT LAST

  THE MILLENNIUM COMES, AND 2001, UNBELIEVABLE, TERRORISTS knocking down the twin towers, war in Afghanistan. The big event in Owego is the demolition of the Court Street bridge, there as long as Patty can remember. With a couple of puffs, it crumples into the river.

  She turns fifty-five before his next board, older than her mother was when he first went in. Some days when it’s damp and her back’s bothering her, Patty feels her age, but she’s still in decent shape, considering. She’s been lucky healthwise, not like Eileen, still undergoing chemo and having mammograms every six months.

  They prepare for the second board the same way, which makes no sense to Patty, since they’re hoping for a different outcome. There are only three possibilities: the board can give him two more years, one more year, or they can let him go. Since his sentence is twenty-five to life, he can never max out; they can keep giving him two years forever. If they give him one year, that’s good—they can’t go back and give him two years again. But they can keep giving him one year. There’s no logic to it that Patty can see.

  He gets one year. This is supposed to make her happy.

  The year that she waits for his next board seems longer than all the others—but they all seem long. It never gets easier. Bare Hill is worse because there’s no FRP to look forward to, making the time he’s been there feel unbroken, a long swim underwater.

  She still goes up, but not as often, taking the bus from Elmira because the drive’s hard on her back. The other women in the visitors’ center are young and mistake her for someone’s mother. Tommy’s working as a gardener that summer, his arms tan. Every week he completes another module of the pre-release course, building life skills, filling out a monthly budget like a farmwife. He makes fun of it, but she can see he’s tired.

  The board meets as U.S. troops are massing in the Kuwaiti desert for another war in Iraq. The panel is all-male; Tommy’s not sure if that’s better or worse for his chances. He submits his usual stack of documents and answers their questions as honestly as he can. He can’t tell if he’s getting better at it, but by now he knows what to expect.

  For some reason Patty will never understan
d, this time Elsie Wagner doesn’t send a victim impact statement. Three days later, Tommy gets a letter from the state.

  He’s somber when he calls. He doesn’t tell her what they said right off, he just reads the letter. “‘Dear Mr. Dickerson,’” he says, and pauses—too long, teasing—and she doesn’t have to hear the rest of it.

  CONDITION OF PAROLE

  NEVER DID BELIEVE IN MIRACLES

  BUT I’VE A FEELING IT’S TIME TO TRY

  FLEETWOOD MAC

  GATE MONEY

  SHE STAYS AT THE ECONO LODGE ON THE GRUNGY EDGE OF MALONE and wakes up early so she can be there when he’s released. The coordinator told her sometime between seven and eight. They try to get people out before the day’s in full swing; they don’t like to disrupt the routine. Patty gets up at five in the cold box of the motel room to put herself together and checks out while it’s still night outside. In the backseat she has a bag of new clothes for him in case he wants to change, a grocery bag of snacks, a fresh hardpack of Marlboros, and a cooler she just restocked from the ice machine. It’s like they’re going on a road trip.

  She’s already on the right side of town. She drives north, skirting the blue runway lights of the airport. The shifts must have just changed at the prisons, because there’s traffic coming the other way. It’s not far and she’s early, so she stops at the mini-mart for a coffee, then sets up by the main gate.

  It’s strange not checking in at the trailer—closed, since it’s a weekday. Hers is the only car there, a little creepy, with the blinding lights on either side of the gate throwing shadows across the lot. She keeps her parking lights on and the defrost on low so she can see, though there’s no way he could sneak by her. Slowly the sky brightens, revealing the motion detectors and cameras poking over the fence. At the bottom the grass is frosted a solid white. The dash clock passes seven, seven-oh-five. In the mirror the sun’s coming up over the mountains, rising like a balloon. Once it clears the tree line, the floodlights inside click off. The coordinator did say the front gate; Patty has the letter with her but doesn’t have to check it. She expects she’ll have to wait till eight o’clock, maybe later—legally they can keep him till midnight tonight—and then she sees two figures approaching the fence, one in front of the other.

  It’s him. She can tell by the way he walks, rocking slightly forward as if he’s watching his feet. She forgets the car’s on and jumps out, the open-door signal dinging, then silenced as she shuts it behind her and heads for the fence. Tommy spots her and waves.

  He’s carrying a cardboard box and wearing the lined army jacket she bought from a catalog. Closer, she can see he’s got normal khakis on, but still has his chunky black brogans. “Your shoes!” she jokes, pointing through the fence, but he just smiles and shrugs, who cares. She doesn’t even feel the cold as she follows along outside.

  She stops when they stop. He stands aside as the C.O. cracks the lock and pushes the chain-link door open for him. Tommy steps over the threshold, bends to drop the box on the ground, and then she’s in his arms and there’s nothing at all between them.

  He picks up the box again, and she takes his elbow, bumping against him as they cross the lot. She can’t stop looking at him. She wishes she’d brought a camera.

  “Nice car,” he says, but then she has to help him push the seat all the way back and recline it a notch so his head’s not touching the ceiling.

  For a minute they kiss like kids parking, then he says, “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Put your seatbelt on.”

  “Why, are we going to have an accident?”

  “We’re not getting a ticket your first day out.”

  He clicks it closed, then says “Whoa” and braces a hand on the dash as she swings the Subaru over the empty spaces. “Good thing I’ve got my belt on.”

  She thumbs at the bags and the cooler in back, asks if he wants a coffee from the mini-mart. No, he just wants to go. The road’s clear, the day’s bright, and she shifts into fifth.

  “How fast are you going?” he asks.

  “Sixty.”

  “It feels like a hundred.”

  “Want me to slow down?”

  “No,” he says, but she eases off.

  He keeps a hand on her leg as he smokes, watching the lakes and hillsides flash by. He seems especially interested in the few ratty asbestos-shingled houses and boarded-up hunting camps, chains slung across their driveways. He sits up and follows them as they pass, as if he knows the owners.

  The first town they go through is Bellmont Center, a bare crossroads where the one gas station is pumpless and dark. A rotting barn leans in a field. Across the road sits an abandoned trailer, its windows broken out, curtains fluttering.

  “Nice,” Tommy says.

  Patty laughs. “Just wait. We’re not even to the good part yet.”

  The only way back to the interstate takes them straight through Dannemora, right by Clinton. She apologizes in advance. As they ride along the massive white wall, he’s on the side away from it and ducks down to get a better look. The visitors’ center is busy. There are buses, even on a weekday.

  “It’s hard to believe,” he says.

  “What?”

  “It’s even uglier on the outside.”

  Dannemora’s not that big. The speed limit changes at the edge of town and they put Clinton behind them. Up ahead is the collection of chain-saw bears that marks the taxidermy shop. “Fins, Feathers and Fur,” Tommy reads off the hand-carved sign she’s seen a hundred times.

  “You know what’s funny,” he asks.

  “What?”

  “I couldn’t sleep last night.”

  “I know,” Patty says. “1 was the same way. The bed being a rock didn’t help.”

  “I haven’t slept right since I got the letter.”

  “You’ll sleep tonight,” Patty promises. “I’ll make sure.”

  All the talk about sleep must be getting to her, because once they’re on the Northway she feels tired. She needs something to eat, and she could use a bathroom. He says he’s already had breakfast but might have a coffee. She’s lucky she knows the road. There’s a McDonald’s in Peru; after that there’s nothing for miles.

  “It’s on me,” Tommy says, showing her the two twenties the state gave him. “I’m loaded.”

  It’s a nice surprise. She can’t remember the last time someone paid for her.

  As they’re walking across the lot, a black Lincoln Navigator with tinted windows and gold rims rolls past, the bass from a rap song vibrating the air. Tommy watches it an extra second. “I’ve seen them on TV,” he says, “but that thing’s huge.” And all she can say is “Yep.”

  He makes a point of opening the door for her. It’s rush hour and loud inside, people three deep at the counter, amplified voices from the drive-thru mixing with piped-in pop.

  “I’m going to use the restroom first,” she tells him.

  “I should too,” he says, and follows her down the windowless hall.

  She’s always taken longer than him. She expects him to be scanning the menu when she comes out, but he’s waiting for her in the hall like Casey used to.

  When they join the crowd out front, they’re displayed on a security monitor to the side—and that’s the camera they can see. Behind them, a dark globe watches from the drop ceiling. He sticks close to her the whole time, and she can’t blame him. The place must seem strange and new, with its flat-screen menu, the last panel flashing a commercial for the new Harry Potter movie. Half the guys in line are on their way to work, wearing jeans and flannel shirts and Timberlands, hooded sweatshirts and field jackets. Tommy could almost fit in except for the shoes.

  “You want something besides coffee?” she asks, but he’s still trying to decipher the menu, as if there are too many choices. “I’m having a sausage biscuit with egg.”

  “That sounds good,” he says.

  He lets her order everything, hanging back while she returns the server’s volley of que
stions: medium, cream and sugar, to go. He gives her the money to pay and they wait for the sandwiches to come out, stand marooned on the far side of the register before they finally make their escape, and then outside Tommy almost gets run over when he steps in front of a mail jeep.

  “Are you all right?” she asks him in the car.

  “Just out of practice, I guess,” he says, but she can see he’s embarrassed.

  She can eat and drive at the same time, but she’s used to having the passenger seat for a table. She waits till they’re cruising on the interstate to take her first bite. By then Tommy’s almost done with his, cheeks stuffed, nodding at how good it is. When she can’t finish hers, he wolfs it down.

  “Am I nuts,” he asks, “or is this coffee really good?”

  “It’s pretty good,” she admits.

  “I think I ate too fast,” he announces a few miles down the road. When she looks over, he’s grimacing, holding a hand to his stomach. She should have realized, he’s used to oatmeal.

  “Are you going to be sick?”

  “No, but if you see a rest area, 1 could use one.”

  She speeds up to her normal ten miles above the limit, scanning the median for cops. It’s the end of the month, and some of the towns around here balance their budgets with tickets.

  “How are you doing there?” she asks.

  “I’m all right for now.”

  “Another five minutes and we’ll be there.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  She’s been through the same thing with Casey, she’s even done the same thing herself on this road, the long exits making her hold it. The whole thing would be funny if it wasn’t for the timing.

  There’s the sign advertising the rest area ahead, and less than a minute later the area itself, a low concrete block building and some picnic tables, a couple raccoon-proof trash cans. She runs the car all the way up to the handicapped spaces and drops him off before finding a spot.