“Malcolm Dunlevy’s office, how can I direct your call?”
“Um, yes hi, this is Jason Armstrong, I was told I needed to check in with Mr. Dunlevy within 24 hours of my release.”
I felt a little uneasy about how she might treat me but was pleasantly surprised when she maintained the polite and homey tone.
“Of course, one moment Mr. Armstrong and I will see if he is available.”
I was a bit taken back at being addressed as Mr. Armstrong. In prison I was referred to only as prisoner 57124, or monikers too vile to repeat. I was on hold for maybe 30 seconds before her voice came back on the line to let me know she was transferring me to him.
“Malcom Dunlevy,” answered a deep baritone voice.
“Yes sir, this is Jason Armstrong. I was released from Kenworth Prison yesterday and was told I needed to check in with you this morning.”
“Armstrong…. Armstrong…Arm,” he muttered more to himself. It sounded like he was shuffling papers on his desk looking for something. “Ah, yes here we are. Jason Armstrong. Voluntary manslaughter, sentenced to 15 years, paroled after eight.”
It was ugly to hear him rattle off the details so casually and not sure how else to respond, I replied with another, “Yes sir.”
“According to your parole requirements you are to check in with me within 24 hours, which you’ve already done. You are to continue to check in with me twice a month for the duration of your probationary period which is 12 months.”
Most of what he was telling was not news to me. The day of my parole hearing, after it had been granted, the warden had gone over the details of my probation. But I let him list the details and acknowledged each one of them as he went.
“The final requirement is to be gainfully employed within two weeks’ time.”
This last one was news to me.
“Excuse me sir,” I interrupted. “Did you say two weeks’ time?
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Um, is that a new requirement, because the warden didn’t say anything to me about it after my parole hearing?”
I hated the uncertainty in my voice, but I had no idea how I was going to find a job in such a short amount of time. Not with my record and with Gladys Walters still a very prominent figure in the community even at her age.
“No, it’s a standard probationary requirement,” he answered curtly. “Is there a problem Mr. Armstrong?”
“No sir, it just caught me off guard. I am just not sure that I can find anyone in this town to hire me with my record sir.” I hated to admit it, but it was the truth, “It’s uh, complicated.”
His tone softened a bit, “I am aware of your situation and the prominence of the Walters family. I have spoken with several of the city councilors and they assured me that you wouldn’t receive any prejudice.”
I gave a derisive snort before I could stop myself. Quickly apologizing, “I’m sorry sir. I just hope you are right.”
“I’m confident there are people in this town who are willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”
After a few more instructions, we agreed for me to contact him again in two weeks. I hung up, feeling far from confident. I knew it was going to be an uphill battle, and by no means did I expect life outside prison to be a walk in the park, but two weeks was ridiculous. If anything, the department could have assigned me to some sort of community service. But since my instructions were loud and clear, I had no choice. I was willing to do what it takes to stay out of prison and be there for Jamie. If I was honest with myself, I didn’t want to leave Ally either, but I tucked that thought away as soon as it came up.
Just after midday, I got the newspaper, and worked my way down the list of possible vacancies advertised in the job section. To my dismay there were no real jobs that would suit me right away, most of them wanted credentials, experience, degrees, the list was simply endless. Considering my rep, I stood no chance to get a decent job. My next step was to walk door to door hoping that somewhere, someone would offer me a chance at making something of my life. Luckily our town was relatively small, and the business district was only about a mile and a half away. I wish I could have had my parole officer’s optimism, I thought as I made my way there.
But once I started knocking on doors, reality set in. No one was interested in employing me. It was like a penguin caught in oil slick and then being held in captivity for years until it could be rehabilitated enough to be released back into the ocean. In the case of humans however, there was no such thing as a slow fade back into a world that you had no part of for most part of your adult life. While life inside the prison pretty much stagnated, life on the outside progressed at a much faster pace.
After being turned down by more than a dozen places, some of them even displaying Help Wanted signs in the window, I suspected that either the councilors had lied to Mr. Dunlevy or Gladys had gotten to them already. Some made the excuse that they already filled a position; while some blatantly admitted that having a staff member with a criminal record was bad for business. That much I could still handle, but then there were the ones who were downright assholes, not bothering to hide their hostility.
After being berated by an elderly lady at the fabric store and called a murderer to my face, I had all but accepted my fate and that I would be heading back to prison in next to no time. For a moment, I wondered if that wouldn’t be better, I would be no burden to Jaime, Ally wouldn’t have to put up with me again, and they could both carry on with life in the fast lane. I continued walking, not really paying attention to where I was headed. I eventually arrived at a bar on the outskirts of town called Hennigan’s. So much had changed over the years, new buildings had been erected, some of the older places I did recognize had been completely restored and revamped, and this bar was one of those. From what I could remember it was a downright shady bar, but standing in front of it, it looked like it had been completely transformed.
I had no idea what to expect when I first entered, but I was pleasantly surprised. The ambience was dark without being dingy; the mahogany wood of the bar was polished to sheen, so much so you could probably lick a spilled drink off the counter. And even at 4pm in the afternoon, the bar had a decent crowd. I hesitated at the door, not sure if I would end up running into one of the many enemies, known and unknown, who would want to have a piece of me. I scanned the crowd and then I casually headed up to the bar and ordered a whiskey on the rocks. I pulled a bowl of peanuts closer and grabbed a handful, anything to look preoccupied and not like some shady stranger about to start trouble. The bartender placed the glass in front of me and casually moved on to the next customer. She was a fetching woman in her late thirties or early forties by my guess. She didn’t take much care to get all dressed up and the minimal makeup showed that she wasn’t the type to hide behind a fake face. What you saw was what you got. Although she was a small woman, she looked like she could handle herself; she radiated an air of confidence that could quite easily intimidate.
After a couple of drinks, I ordered an appetizer to soak up the alcohol I have been indulging in, then a second and a third. I must have looked rather pathetic because by the third one, she came over and asked, “Okay, so who pissed in your cheerios?”
“What?” I looked up in surprise.
I guess I had been wallowing in my own self-pity, or she knew who I was and that was her point of entry.
“You’ve been sitting here for three hours, nursing my cheapest whisky, snacking on oily fries and looking like someone kicked your puppy. Spill it.”
I studied her briefly, there was a tenderness behind the cold exterior that reminded me of my own mother, or maybe the whiskey had softened me up and had broken down the walls I had erected around myself. I found myself confiding in her. I told her everything. About being paroled and trying to take care of my sister and how my parole officer had assured me that this town had forgiven me but the harsh reality was that the people here in Galena had the memory of an elephant, and the Walters na
me still had clout.
At the mention of Gladys Walters, her face hardened. I thought for sure I’d done it, and that she too was in the pocket of the Walters. She stared at me for a long minute, before asking pointedly, “You Joe Armstrong’s boy, aren’t you?”
That was not the question I had expected her to ask.
“Yeah, I am,” I answered hesitantly, unsure of where this was going. She gave me a long measuring glance.
“My father knew him before he passed. He was a good man.”
I didn’t quite know what to say, and just swirled the whiskey around in my glass. She uttered the words with such compassion that I felt my heart cramp in my chest.
It was the great mystery of life that always had my mind boggled. I often wondered exactly what it was that maps out the road ahead for an individual. Circumstance and disaster were the things that shaped the yellow brick road to Oz, it either throws a left turn or gives you up hill, and you have no choice but to follow it diligently and hope that you eventually get to the end.
“Are you an alcoholic?” she asked out of the blue.
“No.”
“You do drugs?”
“No,” I answered a bit offended, “I’ve never touched drugs and I don’t plan on either.”
“Good. You can start tomorrow night,” was all she said before walking away.
“Wait, what?” I said shocked.
She glanced back over her shoulder and said, “You heard me. Be here at 8pm.” And with that she walked into the back room as another bartender took over.
Ally
Yawning sleepily, I took another big sip of my grande Caramel Macchiato as I sat in the back booth at Java Jones. I had been coming here for the past few weeks straight, slipping out of the house at 6am to avoid Jason. Jamie had confronted me a few times, but I told her that I was just trying to get in some extra studying since I had papers to submit. I made up some excuse that I wasn’t coping too well with one or two courses, and had to put in extra effort if I was going to pass the mid-terms. In some way, there was some truth to the lie, studying part time and working was a little harder than being in college and running to classes all day. Needless to say, my excuses, albeit valid, still weren’t enough to convince Jaime that everything was okay.
It didn’t help that two days after we’d had sex; Jason had showed up at Hennigan’s. I had been about to confront him and ask him what the hell he was doing there, when Mac came by and introduced him as the new bouncer.
And that right there just complicated everything. Jason was flung back into my life, like a comet out of orbit heading straight for impact. He was everywhere, in the house, at my work, in my head, and there was nowhere for me to hide. At home I pussy-footed around him, uttering an occasional hello or good night. Whenever a conversation started, I darted for my room, with the age-old “I have to study” spiel. As for work, I did manage to get Mac to change my schedule Jason’s first week, but then she started giving me a hard time and questioning my motives. So, I had to go back to my normal working schedule since I couldn’t really give her a good reason for not wanting to work during happy hour when it was the busiest time. That, and I really needed the money. Tips at happy hour were the best, but that meant I had to spend close to six hours a day in Jason’s presence. Thankfully, when it was really busy I was distracted and hardly had time to think about him. But it was during those quiet times, when I could feel his eyes on me, that an undeniable flutter would swirl in the pit of my stomach. Of course, when it came to cashing up and so on, I had no choice but to be civil while he hovered around like a drone. We hardly spoke, but considering the tension, words weren’t exactly needed.
I hadn’t really had time to reconcile what had transpired between us and I had no idea know how I felt about it. Truth be told, I had tried everything to avoid thinking about it. Hoping that ignoring it completely would somehow make it all just go away. But deep down, I knew that it wouldn’t, and that I was nothing but a coward.
We were just getting ready for the heavy night rush, so I made a quick pit stop in the bathroom to freshen up, because I knew I wouldn’t have much time later. Layla, another waitress, was in the bathroom with me and we were bullshitting about work, college, and miscellaneous girl talk while we peed. We had worked together for two years and were pretty comfortable with each other. I was just finishing up when I heard her yell out.
“Oh, DAMN!”
“Is everything okay,” I asked concerned.
“I started my damn period,” she responded, agitation clear in her voice. “And, I don’t have anything with me. Do you have a tampon?”
Automatically, I began rummaging through my purse. I usually only kept them for when it was my time of the month, but I found a couple in the bottom of my purse. As I handed one to her under the stall, it hit me. I shouldn’t still have these in my purse.
While I was doing some quick math, and running through my mental calendar, I heard Layla yell a quick thanks and head out the door. I was thankful for the momentary solitude as my panic began to rise. I had put the tampons in my purse two weeks ago in preparation for my cycle; however I had not had to use them yet. The last time I remember being on my period was during the pop quiz which was almost two months ago. Feeling claustrophobic in the stall, I stepped out and up to the sink and rested my hands on the counter. In the mirror, my face was ghostly pale and my eyes appeared large and glazed as I stared at my reflection. That couldn’t be right, could it? But as I ran back through the days, realization hit me like a tidal wave. My breathing became quick and shallow, as my pulse accelerated. I was late. I am never late. My period has been like clockwork since my first cycle at thirteen. I tried to convince myself that it was just the stress of finals, work, and the situation with Jason that was causing my body to not cooperate, but I knew that wasn’t the case. Even with the stress of my mother’s death, my body has still maintained its rigid schedule. There was no doubt in my mind that I was pregnant. I would still take a test, but in my heart I knew I didn’t need it.
Just then Mac burst through the door in a flurry, “Hey, Ally. What are you doing? Get your ass out here, we’re slammed!”
I splashed some water on my face before apologizing and scurrying out the door. She was right, we were slammed. I didn’t feel all that enthusiastic about work, but there was no way for me to get out of it. All the tables were full; there was even a line outside the door. I was sure we were pushing the limit on capacity, and half expected the Fire Marshall to come in and shut us down.
For the first few hours, things were running smoothly, and once I settled into the evening, I welcomed the distraction. It wasn’t until around midnight when all hell broke loose. I had been serving a group of guys that had pulled two tables together. They appeared to be construction workers. For the most part they had been fairly reasonable to deal with. They ordered a ton of food and several pitchers of beer throughout the night.
It was only when they started ordering rounds of shots that they began to get disorderly. A couple of them tried to convince me to take shots with them, but not only was it against Mac’s policy for us to drink with our patrons; I also didn’t want to take any chances if I was pregnant. Plus, I was not in the habit of drinking with complete strangers. I was able to politely decline a few times, however on the third round of shots, one guy wouldn’t take no for an answer. He grabbed me by the waist and pulled me down onto his lap. I tried desperately to free myself, but my attempts were in vain.
I was getting ready to dump a pitcher of beer on his head, when a deep firm voice came up behind us.
“Let her go.”
I glanced up to see Jason’s big form towering over us. I had never been so relieved to have him here than in this moment. He didn’t yell at the guy. He didn’t have to. His tone left nothing to the imagination. He was deadly calm, but deadly serious. The overzealous construction worker released and pushed me abruptly off his lap. I had to catch the edge of the table to keep from falling over. Ja
son glared at him as he reached out to steady me.
“Tab them out, all of them. They are leaving,” he instructed me with the same eerie calm in his voice.
“We ain't done yet,” the man responded belligerently.
Jason just ignored him and nodded for me to get the tab. I could see Mac watching us from the bar and I hurried over to the register and tabbed them all out.
I handed each one of them their tabs. Most of them begrudgingly pulled out their wallets and began to pay. However, when I came around to Mr. Handsy, he stubbornly refused.
“I SAID WE AIN’T DONE YET!” he shouted, slapping the bill folder out of my hands.
“Pay the lady. NOW,” Jason ordered.
He stood up from the table and for some stupid reason; I put myself in the middle.
Plastering a fake smile on my face I said, “Will that be cash or card?”
But the brute didn’t fall for it. Instead he shoved me out of the way for a second time, only harder and this time. I tripped and fell against the table sending pitchers crashing to the floor and shattering at my feet. Before I could gather myself, Jason had the guy by the scruff of the shirt and was nose to nose with him. He was pulled up so high his feet were barely touching the floor.
I rushed to Jason and laid a hand on his arm. I could practically feel the tension vibrating through him.
“Jason, let him go he’s not worth it.”
Jason didn’t budge. The look in his eyes was pure meanness. It even sent me reeling back.
“Please Jason, for me. Let him go. He’s not worth the trouble,” I implored, my eyes desperately trying to connect with his. I knew that if he got into any trouble, he would be sent back to prison immediately. Finally, I used the one card I knew he wouldn’t ignore.
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