All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook

by Leslie Connor

  Cici and Mira Rojas know me from visiting days. They wave to me, and Mr. Rojas holds a girl on each arm. He says, “Look up! Smile for Perry!”

  I frame the shot and squeeze the shutter. More dads and daughters look up to be photographed.

  There is a holdout. She’s a bigger girl, about my age. I don’t know her dad, except that he’s called Talon. (He has bird claw tattoos that come up his neck and behind his ears.) He’s a bit of a Cold One. Tonight he seems softer. But his girl looks mad as heck. She stands against the wall, one foot up behind her and arms tight across her chest. Her chin juts forward. She won’t look at her father—won’t look at much of anything, except to give me the stink-eye.

  “There’s some dumb boy up there!” She points at me. Mr. Talon goes to stand beside her. “What’s that boy doing?” I turn away. I don’t know what else to do.

  The music is playing. The dancing begins.

  Some dads and daughters kick out, jump, and shimmy. But most dads hold their daughters close, rock them, and twirl in one place. There are still some tears. The warden said emotional.

  I see Talon and his girl step away from the wall. She won’t take his hands, but they dance a little. I don’t get their picture. Maybe they don’t really want one.

  I watch the clock. I don’t stay long.

  Later, Fo-Joe comes to my door with a cup of punch and a napkin full of shortbread cookies. “Brought you a snack, since dinner is late. The party’s breaking up down below. Give it five and you’re free to roam,” he says. I don’t usually have to stay stashed away, especially not on a Friday afternoon.

  When the music dies I step out and look down. The common is empty. The paper birds hang still. I see Mr. Rojas coming up the hall from Block A on his own. He has changed out of his donated suit, back into his light-blue shirt. He carries an apron. He’s a server in the kitchen tonight. He doesn’t see me. When he gets to the common he stops and looks at the decorations still hanging there. He sits back against the wall. He pulls a handful of tissues from his pocket and blows his nose three times in a row. I remember what Warden Daugherty said about privacy. I back away from the rail. I hear sobs and then a few deep breaths that let me know he is trying to stop.

  I know what he did. Mr. Rojas ran a gambling ring. He said it was good quick money. He thought he could sack away everything he’d need to send his little girls to college then walk away from the illegal stuff. I heard him tell it. “I got greedy,” he said. “Just a little more, just a little more . . . ,” he mocked himself. “Now I’m just a dumbass in the slammer who messed up on his family.”

  But actually, Mr. Rojas is smart. He helps the rezzes up in the law library. You have to understand your own case when you are in prison. Mr. Krensky is a good jailhouse lawyer too—maybe even better than Mr. Rojas. But Krensky isn’t nice. He makes people pay for every little thing. Mr. Rojas helps for free. He’s been a good friend to Mom and me. When Mrs. Rojas brings their girls to visit, I feel like more family has arrived. It’s one of the hard things about Blue River. I’m glad that he has been here for us. But I know how much Mr. Rojas misses home.

  I inch up to look down. I see him tying on his apron. I hear Eggy-Mon call from the kitchen, “How do you do, my man in blue?”

  “Blue is the color,” Mr. Rojas replies. “I’m getting it together. But man, we have guys weeping rivers down on Block B tonight.”

  chapter twelve

  MEETING WITH THE WARDEN

  Warden Daugherty offers me her rolling chair. I get the feeling I will not be spinning in it today. No taking a short run to land on my knees on it and surf across the floor. I might be getting too big for that anyway. The warden pushes me forward to sit in front of Mom. She closes the office door and drops the blinds over the glass that looks into the hall, and I wonder why we need privacy. The warden stands beside her desk. Mom does the talking. Her voice is unsteady.

  “Perry,” she says, “Warden Daugherty and I need to tell you something. There’s a new bump in our plan.” Mom presses her hands together. She lowers her head for a second, and when she raises it I see that her eyes are watery.

  Must be a big bump. “Which plan?” I ask.

  “The leaving Blue River plan.” She sighs. “Things are going to go differently than expected. It’s not my choice. But it may not be all bad either.”

  “So, what part of it is bad?” I ask. “If there is some delay, we’ll just wait . . .” I feel bad for saying it. Mom deserves to be out. She shouldn’t have to wait another second. It’s time.

  She clears her throat. Fixes serious green eyes on me. “You know that it’s always been a little unusual that you live at Blue River.” Mom glances at the warden before she goes on. “We’ve been so lucky for that, Perry. But now . . . there’s someone making trouble over it.”

  “Why? Who would care?”

  “Well . . . one can only wonder about that.” Mom huffs, as if there might be more to that story. But I won’t be hearing it right now.

  “Um-hmm,” the warden says. “The scrutiny is really on me, Perry. My practices and procedures here at Blue River—the way I do things.”

  “Are you saying you are in trouble?” I look up at the warden. The tiny nod of her head tells me I’m right.

  “Wow,” I say. I feel like I’m being slowly hit by a bolt of lightning. “And trouble for you means trouble for me?”

  “It means change,” says Mom. “For you and me.” She grabs both my hands in hers. I can feel her shaking right up into the rolled cuffs of her Blue River chambray shirt.

  “Mom?”

  “Perry, I always planned for the two of us to leave here together. And I’m staying on track. I will apply and reapply for parole. Oh boy, will I ever . . .” She gets a little quieter. “But you, Perry, you’re going to live on the outside.”

  I jump to my feet. The chair rolls backward and hits something behind me with a thud. “What? When?”

  “I’m sorry,” Mom whispers. “You have to go now.”

  chapter thirteen

  LEAVING BLUE RIVER

  Late in the afternoon on Sunday I watch the gray clock in the common. It’s ticking away the minutes. Last minutes. Mom wants me to be strong. She said, “We aren’t going to like this. But we will be fine. We are a family. We are a team. We are together even when we cannot see each other.” I’m hanging onto her words. I want her to believe that I am okay. I’ve been to the bathroom two times in seven minutes.

  None of this seems real. Something will happen. A call will come. An order will arrive. An indestructible dome will drop over the Blue River campus to keep me in and keep the thing that is coming to get me out.

  The dark-gray SUV pulls up in the front circle drive. My insides lurch.

  I stand with Mom, Warden Daugherty, Foreman Joe, and Big Ed. Someone could think that we are setting up to have our photo taken, all of us looking out the large front window together like this. But none of us are smiling. At my feet is a rolling suitcase that belongs to the warden. It is filled with almost everything I own. My school stuff is in my backpack. So is my camera. We have filled it with pictures of pictures—all the shots Warden Daugherty and the other residents have taken of me over the years. Mom keeps the prints on her wall. I photographed them all so I’ll have the same set to flick through when I need them.

  When Mom told me that I’d be living on the outside without her, I saw myself wandering around inside the rooms of the house she wants to rent on Button Lane. Alone. That was ridiculous. Now I can’t picture anything. I can’t see myself living outside of Blue River at all.

  My pits are sweating. My head feels airy and floaty and cold on top. I take a few breaths to try to send some oxygen up there.

  A man gets out of the SUV and takes quick, lively steps to the back of the car. He opens the gate. I suppose he’ll put my bags back there. I see him brush the arm of his coat with the back of his hand. He pats back his brown hair with his palms.

  “So that’s him?” I ask. I c
annot feel my lips.

  “Must be,” says Mom.

  “It is,” says Warden Daugherty. I guess she has met him before.

  The man’s name is Thomas VanLeer. I know that he has a wife and a daughter. I also know that he is the whole reason that I am leaving Blue River. I know that I’m going to live at his home. Big Ed calls that “pouring salt in the wound.”

  Mom is twisting beside me. Big Ed’s lower jaw is pushed forward. Fo-Joe is drawing his teeth over his lip. Everyone keeps eyes on Thomas VanLeer.

  Nobody likes this, I think to myself, nobody except smiling, waving Mr. Thomas VanLeer, who is striding toward the door of the Blue River Co-ed Correctional Facility. He’s a big deal in Butler County. He has some important job.

  Thomas VanLeer reaches for the door handle and goes to give it a good yank. Blue River is locked up tight. He nearly bangs his own head into the glass.

  “Yeah, heh . . . there’s a beautiful thing . . . ,” Big Ed says in his under-mumble.

  Slowly, the warden points to the left to indicate that there’s a security call button at the side of the door. VanLeer needs to punch it. He looks around, confused. When he catches on he nods in a goofy sort of way. He gives the button a press. Then he waits. We all wait. Things are awfully silent. I begin to wonder which guard is monitoring the front cam.

  “Warden Daugherty? Do you need me to run up to security and tell them to unlock?” I ask.

  The warden speaks slowly, as if her batteries are dying. “That’s all right, Perry. I’m sure the guard will open the door. Eventually.”

  I look back over my shoulder at the golden walls, the wide halls, the stairs and red railings. No more running the Block C corridor. No more hugging the railing above the common. No all-rise announcements in the mornings. A weight falls through my stomach. I lean into Mom. She pulls me close.

  VanLeer is still waiting, shuffling his feet. What if we just never let him in? I think this to myself, and I feel brilliant. I hear the lock bolt disengage. It seems louder than it ever has before. Mr. VanLeer is inside. My ribs make a tight cage around my chest.

  “Hello, all. Phew! September cold snap out there.” He claps his gloves together. He directs his attention to me. “You must be Perry.”

  “Genius,” says Big Ed in that low rumble.

  “Yes. I’m Perry.” I say it slowly. I know that I have never sounded more miserable in all my life. I don’t offer to shake hands with him.

  Big Ed speaks close to the back of my head. “No reason to be friendly if it’s not what you’re feeling.” I’m not.

  VanLeer looks at Mom. “And are you Jessica?” he asks.

  “Yes. Perry’s mother,” she tells him.

  “Well, I’m Thomas VanLeer,” he says. He introduces himself all around. He gets gloomy responses, but he smiles the whole time. “Pleasure to meet you all.”

  “Hardly,” says Big Ed.

  “You may know, I’m the Butler County district attorney,” Mr. VanLeer says.

  “Funny thing about that,” Big Ed says. “I always thought the DA was supposed to work for the people. And here it seems to me that you’re working against these people.” He fans his hand toward Mom and me.

  “Well, I believe I’m righting a wrong in this case,” Mr. VanLeer says. He is still smiling and nodding. “Which brings me to my business. We all know why I’m here.”

  “Here to take away our Morning Son,” Big Ed says.

  The warden says, “Mr. VanLeer. You have papers for me.” She holds out her hand. VanLeer pulls an envelope from the inside pocket of his coat. The warden takes her time unfolding the papers and even more time looking them over.

  Mom is so silent, she is hardly breathing. Warden Daugherty keeps reading. VanLeer leans toward her impatiently. “Look, it’s all in order, Gayle,” he says.

  “Unfortunate,” says Big Ed.

  “I’m meticulous with paperwork.” VanLeer reaches for the rolling suitcase with my things in it. “I think it best we not prolong.”

  “Hmm. Sounds like you want to get away from us,” Big Ed says.

  The warden fastens the papers to her clipboard. She looks at Mom and nods. “It’s time,” she says, and I feel doomed.

  Mom speaks. “Mr. VanLeer.” She waits until he is looking right at her. “I hope you’ll be as good at providing this interim home for my son as you seem to think.”

  VanLeer smiles broadly. “He’s in terrific hands.”

  “He has always been in terrific hands,” the warden says.

  Thomas VanLeer tells Mom, “Perhaps it’s best for you to keep an open mind.” He claps a hand on my shoulder, and I feel my eyes bug out. “Perry deserves better than he has had.”

  “Says you.” Big Ed coughs.

  “This will be good for him.”

  I can’t stand it anymore. I slip out from under VanLeer’s clamp to give Mom an enormous hug. Then I reach for Big Ed and the warden, who takes her time and hums while she holds me. I give Fo-Joe a high five. He pulls me in for a short, rough hug. Then I hug Mom again. Longer. She is shaking, but she won’t cry. This is my team, I think to myself.

  “I’ll see you all on Saturday,” I say. “Six days away.” I force my shoulders to shrug. “We can handle that.”

  Mom lets out a tiny laugh and that stops her shaking at least for a second or two. Big Ed puts his arm around her. She rests her ear against him. Fo-Joe and the warden ignore the extended contact. This is a special circumstance.

  VanLeer pulls up the handle of the rolling suitcase. I pick up my loaded backpack.

  Mom says, “I love you.”

  “Love you too,” I say. “Six days. Don’t miss me too much.” I push my mouth into a wide smile. I hope that every tooth is gleaming.

  Then I go.

  chapter fourteen

  A NEW STINK

  When I step out of the Blue River Co-ed Correctional Facility, all I feel is wrong and dizzier than before.

  I make my way onto the backseat of Thomas VanLeer’s SUV, which has a new-car smell that crawls straight up my nostrils. “Got your seat belt on, Perry? Need any help with that?”

  “No. Thank you.” I could remind him that I am eleven, and that I ride in a car to school every day, that I know how to buckle up. But I do not feel talkative. I see him looking at me in his rearview mirror.

  “So, Perry, this is a new chapter for you.” He cranks the steering wheel as we begin to roll. I look back and see Mom and Big Ed and Fo-Joe and the warden all standing at the glass, each with one arm raised. I’m not sure they’ll see me, but I press my palm against the glass inside the SUV.

  “You’ll love the house,” VanLeer is saying. “You’ll feel right at home. You’ll have a nice bedroom. A real bedroom. And you can make it your own. We can paint. Put up posters. Whatever you want.”

  I know he’s still checking the mirror. I won’t look up there. I’m watching Blue River.

  “I understand that you’ll miss your mom—and that’s normal. I don’t want you to worry. You’ll still see her. We’ll follow the schedule. Meanwhile, you’ll get to know our routines . . .”

  He is talking too much. That new smell of the SUV is too much. My head feels some kind of horrible.

  “You’ll have a first family supper with us this evening,” he says. He laughs and adds, “They know you’re coming! They’re setting a place for you at the table. Are you hungry now, Perry? Home is not far away, but we could stop. Ever been to the drive-through? Do you like milk shakes? French fries?” His tone changes. “Normally I wouldn’t suggest snack food before supper. But this is no ordinary day . . .”

  My horrible floating head bobs. Once. Twice. I’m in a predicament. There is a floor mat at my feet. I lean up. The seat belt stops me. I’m trapped. I turn my face to the side and lose my lunch all down the inside of Mr. VanLeer’s car door.

  chapter fifteen

  NOT RIGHT AT HOME

  Mr. VanLeer pushes the door to his home open for me. I step inside. The walls feel
close. The ceilings are low. The air is warm and smells sweet and spicy. Better than new-car smell. And throw-up.

  “Ah! I think that’s Thai food,” says VanLeer. “Don’t I smell coconut?” He cocks his head at me. He should know to stop talking about food by now. Maybe he thinks I am empty. “My wife took a wonderful series of cooking lessons in foreign cuisine,” he tells me. Then he calls out, “Hello! Robyn? We’re here!”

  I wait for Mr. VanLeer’s family, even though I’m dreading it. I’m sure my face is gray. They are going to find out that I threw up in their car. A woman comes around the corner from what must be the kitchen. Her face is turned downward for a moment. Her head is all long light curls just like Zoey Samuels’s mom. Another look and I realize she is Mrs. Samuels.

  “Wha—” I don’t get any words out. Something else catches my eye, and that something is Zoey. She leans around the corner.

  “Z-Zoey?”

  “Yeah.” She gives a little shrug. “Hi, Perry.” She winds her finger into her hair then makes a fist. I know Zoey. She does that when she’s nervous.

  “Tom!” I say it louder than I mean to. Everything is silent for a few seconds. I look at Zoey and say, “Thomas VanLeer is Tom.”

  I watch her eyebrows arch up. “Yeah,” she says. “My stepdad. Tom.”

  Mr. Thomas-Tom VanLeer has been very busy this whole time with his head inside the closet, pushing his coat onto a hanger. I’m not sure he has heard me. But Zoey’s mom has. I’m not sure whether to call her Mrs. VanLeer or Mrs. Samuels, but she is giving me a kind smile. I think my mouth is hanging open.

  “We’re glad to have you here, Perry,” she says. Her head tilts in that friendly way. “Can I get you anythi—”