by Stacy M Wray
I can’t concentrate on anything. The only other person who would be in contact is Mr. H. And I can’t ask him yet. I decide to give it more time.
It’s just dawned on me that he knows everything there is about me, and I know next to nothing about him. But I know the important things, I tell myself, and that’s what counts.
For the next few days, I drag myself to school, going through the motions. I can’t afford to get behind in my classes. My future is riding on my grades. But I can’t focus.
I finally decide to seek out Mr. H. Maybe, he knows something.
That afternoon, after school, I walk across the street, praying he answers his door. I knock several times, but the house is quiet. I try the door and it’s locked. Mr. H never locks his doors. My eyes sweep the driveway, and I notice his truck is missing. Was it there yesterday? I can’t think.
I trudge my feet home, my questions remaining unanswered. My fear eats its way around my insides, leaving nothing behind except for an empty, black, gaping hole.
The next day, the truck remains gone.
The day after that, no truck.
I can’t function. I’m so hell-bent on waiting for Mr. H’s truck to come home that I fake sick and stay home just to stare out my window like a lunatic.
That afternoon, he finally pulls into the drive. I watch him get out and walk to the screen door on the side of his house. His shoulders hang low as he fumbles for his key in his pocket. After he slips inside, I make a mad dash for my front door, not caring that he just got home. I need answers.
And I’m sure he has them.
I run the distance between our yards. The autumn chill bites me in the face, reminding me that winter is right around the corner. When I reach the screen door, I don’t bother knocking. I barge right in, sure that Mr. H will understand my dire situation.
I stop and take in the sight of him slumped over the kitchen table, his head in his hands.
He slowly lifts his head and looks at me, not seeming the least bit surprised to see me.
“Where is he, Mr. H? What’s happened to him?” I demand, willing myself to keep my emotions in check.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a look of defeat on his face – ever. “Sit down, Harper.” His voice is flat, devoid of all emotion.
My voice raises as I take a step closer. “Where is he?”
He shakes his head. “Please, Harper, sit with me.”
I stamp my foot out of clear frustration. “Please tell me.”
I can’t stop them. Liquid flows from my eyes, moving to my chin as I try to gauge the seriousness of everything laid before me.
“Please,” I beg. And then, I sob ugly, painful sobs. “I love him, Mr. H. I love him so much.” And I crumple to the floor, unable to carry my own weight. Mr. H quickly scoots his chair back, scooping me up in his strong hands, and leads me to a chair.
My shoulders quake as I attempt to catch my breath. Mr. H pats my back to soothe me. Finally, he takes a seat across from me and clutches my hand.
“Harper, you’ve got to calm down.” I nod and take a few deep breaths. When I manage to keep it down to some sniffles, Mr. H begins talking.
“It ain’t good, honey.” He watches my eyes widen in fear, and he holds up his hand. “He’s goin’ to be fine, Harper. You’ve got to trust me on that.”
He’s not giving me anything. His words are so vague. “What? What happened? Where is he?”
“I’m goin’ to talk, but I’m not goin’ to be answerin’ all of your questions. It’s just the way it has to be.” He pauses, and I keep silent, needing his words more than I need my next breath.
“Harper, Reed is goin’ through some serious shit right now. He’s asked me to convey to you that you move on. He’s not at a point in his life where he can continue to carry on a relationship with you. He needs to focus on himself and it may take a while. He doesn’t want you to wait for him.”
His words stab me through my heart. Reed would never say that. Why is he lying? “I don’t believe you.”
“Harper…” He takes a huge breath, releasing it slowly. “I would never lie to you.”
Silent tears stream down my face as I try to decipher what he just said. His words so unfathomable, they may as well have been spoken in another language. “Reed would never say that.” Our pact. We both promised to wait for one another, and I believed him when he said the words.
Mr. H places his fingers beneath my chin, so my eyes lock onto his. “He said it, Harper. It pains me to repeat it, but I gave him my word.”
“Why won’t you just tell me what happened? Maybe, I could accept his words if I knew what was behind them.” I’m begging, plain and simple. I can see this is hard on him, and I’m not making it any easier.
“If you told me somethin’ in confidence, and I gave you my word that I wouldn’t tell a soul, how would you feel if I told someone?”
“I wouldn’t care,” I scream. “I’d get over it.”
“Harper, I’m seventy-six years old, and I’ve always kept my word when asked. I’m not about to start breakin’ my streak now. I will do everythin’ in my power to make sure Reed gets in touch with you…somehow…some way. But right now, the only thing I can give you is his message. Please, don’t ask any more of me.”
From the look in his eyes I can tell that’s it. He’s finished.
Pushing myself up from the chair, I walk myself to the mud room, feeling Mr. H’s gaze on me as I bump through the screen door. My eyes roam the land, the bunkhouse, the shed – seeing Reed everywhere I look.
Right now, I’m numb, and I’ll remain that way until I pick up the pieces and start the healing process.
I will heal.
I will never understand, but I will heal.
I’m an Aries.
Which means I’m a survivor.
It’s just going to take a damn long time.
Chapter Twenty-One
Reed
January 2013
Didn’t my dad always tell me I’d wind up in here?
I learned quickly who to stay away from and whose ass to kiss. I keep my eyes to myself always. If someone takes one of my possessions – fine. They can keep it.
Don’t make waves. Don’t cause trouble. It’s the only way I’ve survived. That, and thinking about Harper.
Mr. H comes and visits when he can. He has no idea what that means to me. But maybe, he does. He never talks about Harper, and I don’t ask. It’s better this way. Easier.
I’m about halfway through my twenty-seven-month sentence. There are times I wonder if I’ll make it. Then, other times, I get used to my daily routine and tell myself “you got this.”
I wrote Harper once. Just once. It ended up being a three-page explanation, apology, and thank-you, all rolled up into one giant letter. But I never sent it. I couldn’t. Being in here has made me realize that my dad was probably right, even though I hate like fuck to admit it. Our paths in life were set in stone the minute we were born. Harper wasn’t supposed to be aligned with the likes of me. I think her astrology shit got it all wrong.
She needs to find someone more like her – someone who has their shit together. At most, at least their temper. I hate picturing her with someone else, some douchebag who might take advantage of her pure heart, her loyal soul. But I know it’s the only way.
I want her, but I can’t have her. I spin on that wheel of disappointment daily.
Another thing I think about is how I never want to end up in here again.
If there’s one thing I have a lot of, it’s time and regrets. Time to think. Regrets to dwell on. Both kick me in the ass.
Time is a funny thing. It toys with me. It knows when I want it to speed up, and when I want it to slow down. It laughs at me until I want to grab it by the throat and throw it against the rough, cinder blocks of my cell. It whispers in my ear when I try to ignore it.
Don’t even get me started on my regrets.
The sounds in prison plague me the most. C
ell doors banging. Buzzers buzzing. Fights and yelling. Guards hitting. Grown men crying.
I’m afraid that I’ll never escape them, even when I’m gone.
Sadly, I haven’t figured anything out, yet. Just that I know I need to turn my life around when I get out of here. Start over.
I just don’t have a fucking clue how.
Maybe, time will be nicer to me throughout the second half of my sentence. Maybe, I can come up with a plan.
“Dude, you got any smokes?” Reggie, the only guy I trust in this godforsaken place, sits beside me on the bench.
I shake my head. “I tell you the same thing every time you ask me that. I don’t fucking smoke, Reggie.” I can’t help but laugh at him. I think he has dementia at a super-young age. He must ask me that same question three times a day.
Or maybe, it’s just a nervous tick.
The guy is in here for armed robbery. Of course, he didn’t do it. None of us did.
I point to the other side of the fenced-in circle. “The weights are free. You feel like spotting me?”
He stands and tilts his head in the direction of the weight bench. “Let’s go. And then, you can help me find some smokes.” I roll my eyes. He’s got a pack wedged into his back pocket, like always.
It’s best to stay as busy as possible in this place. I have a job in the kitchen, washing dishes. I don’t mind it at all. Focusing on something helps keep my mind from constantly wondering what Harper’s doing at that exact moment in time.
Nights are the worst. The loneliness sets in big time. Nights are when Harper’s sweet face and addictive lips seep into my mind, even if I don’t want them to. A montage of memories plays through my mind on a never-ending reel of film. Her smiles. Her laugh. Those short shorts. Her hair frizzing after it rains. Her long eyelashes.
Every night features the same images.
It’s a blessing and a curse.
I have the same thought every damn night before I finally succumb to sleep.
Thank God Harper called me when she did that day. Otherwise, Mr. Beady Eyes would probably be dead.
And I’d be in here for life.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Harper
August 10-16, 2013
Aries Horoscope: This is not the week to be making hasty decisions. They will always prove to be wrong. Furthermore, the need to be flexible is important. You are only inviting trouble if you stay rigid. Decisions of close friends won’t always make sense. Just remember to be supportive just like the Aries that you are. The 14th looks good for finances. Don’t be foolish with extra money. It may be better to save it for a rainy day.
After the best two summers of my life, this one feels empty.
Graduating high school seemed anti-climactic since I knew college wasn’t in the cards. Sure, I signed up for a course online, so I could get started, paying for it out of my savings. It gave me something to do, besides working for Mr. H.
At least, my dad managed to swing me a used car. I think he could sense that I felt like a caged animal at times, never able to come and go. It’s a Toyota Prius. I love it. It wheezes and sputters at times, but it’s mine.
Even though I could have gotten a job in town, now having transportation, I’d rather help Mr. H out. Besides, I love his company.
I’ve noticed how much slower he moves these days, hiring more help at times. I can tell it eats at him, his pride bruised at the realization. Sometimes, it’s hard to see him like that – human.
But it’s just not the same without Reed.
Sometimes, when Mr. H and I are sharing a meal, I’ll stare into his eyes, the questions balancing on the tip of my tongue. It’s as if he knows. His eyes tell me “no” and the questions fall back down my throat, around the lump that forms whenever I think of him.
When will I ever stop thinking about him? Where is he? Does he think about me?
“It’s gonna be a hot one this week, darlin’. Did your dad get your air conditioner fixed yet?”
I shake my head. “No. They’re supposed to come by tomorrow.” Of all weeks for it to go out. I’ve been sleeping with ice packs in my bed. Seriously.
“You know you both can stay over here. I’ve got plenty of room in this big ol’ house.”
I reach out and place my hand on his arm, giving it a squeeze. “I know. I’ve already told him.”
He smiles at me and it reaches his eyes, worn and tired.
“So, what’s the plan this fall? You stickin’ around here?” He gets up to top off his iced tea, scraping his chair along the floor. I’ve become so accustomed to that sound.
“I start my job at the law firm on Main Street. It’s just answering phones, but still. At least, I’ll be in the right environment. And I signed up to take another online class, getting the stupid stuff out of the way.”
He sits back down and salts his green beans before stabbing them with the tines of his fork. “I’m goin’ to miss you around here.”
I smile at him. “Oh, you aren’t getting rid of me that easy, Mr. H. I’ll still be popping in to help you. I like staying busy. Besides, I’m not sure how many hours I’m going to get at the office.”
He grins. I know he likes me being around. We’ve been thick as thieves since the day I broke down in his kitchen. And, dammit, he sure kept his word to Reed.
I never thought he’d remain so tight-lipped.
No, I take that back. It doesn’t surprise me at all.
Mr. H and I take our dessert out on the front porch, setting our drinks on the small table beside our chairs. This is my favorite time of the day, when the low sun sweeps across the blades of freshly-mown grass.
The air hangs heavy this evening, and I feel my clothes hug my sticky body. I’ve taken so many cold showers lately, trying to beat the heat that my body seems to crave them. I rest my iced water on my bare leg, allowing the chill of the glass to provide some temporary relief.
I try to muster some enthusiasm for the next chapter in my life, but it’s hard, these days. The buzz around the ice cream stand consists of everyone talking about when they leave for college. It stings. I’ve always been understanding of my situation. But, lately, I feel envy creeping in, and that’s just not like me.
Everything seems to be changing, and usually, I’m a fan of change. Change brings new opportunities and growth. But sometimes, change yanks things away. People. That’s the kind of change I can’t seem to get on board with.
Staring straight ahead into the corn field across the street, not daring to look at him, I ask, “Do you keep in touch with him?”
His worn body heaves a heavy sigh, and he takes a gulp of his tea. The buzzing of cicada’s echoes all around us while a cardinal calls out in a nearby branch.
But Mr. H stays true to his word, remaining silent.
Just like he said he would.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Reed
January 2014
“Inmate, Reed L. Faulkner, roll up!”
I grab my belongings and head to receiving and discharge. My mouth feels like cotton balls. My heart races in a way it hasn’t since I was arrested. I open the door in front of me and step in.
“Are you Reed L Faulkner, #786743579?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have any dress-outs?”
I wouldn’t think so, but I received notice that someone had sent some street clothes. The only person who could have done that was Mr. H. “Yes, sir.”
“Do you have a ride?”
“No, sir.”
“After you change into your dress outs, you will be provided a ride to the bus station.” The officer slides me a manila envelope. “This is the balance from your commissary account, plus a little extra from your guardian angel.” My brows lift in surprise. “Yeah, that doesn’t happen much around here.”
I pick up the envelope and head to the changing room. I don’t know what to think, even though I’ve been thinking about this day ever since I stepped foot into this place. My m
ind swims with the things I need to take care of. So much to do. Just stick to your plan, Reed.
Before I change my clothes, I peek into the envelope the officer just handed me. A flush of adrenaline tingles throughout my body as I count the bills. Holy shit! There’s over a thousand dollars in here. Again, it has to be Mr. H. Funny thing is, I haven’t heard from him in the past few weeks.
After slipping into the sweats and hoodie provided to me, I leave the room and the officer points to a door. “Your ride’s waiting. Good luck. We look forward to seeing you again,” he says, sarcastically.
Not in this lifetime, fucker.
The driver attempts to make small talk, but I’m not much in the mood for conversation. My mind solely focuses on getting to my house. I know I’m not welcome, and I certainly don’t plan on staying. Just planning on taking what’s mine and moving on.
Pulling up to the bus station, I thank the driver and he says, “Good luck, man.” I nod before getting out.
This is it. This is what freedom tastes like. Smells like. I’ve been locked up for two years and three months. I served my full sentence and paid my debt to society. Thank god I only busted that sonofabitch up. Only stipulation they placed on me was to attend anger-management classes. Yeah, we all know how well those work.
I find public transportation that will get me as close as possible, knowing I’ll have to walk a few blocks. Even though it’s January and cold as fuck, I welcome the brutal temperatures. If I feel it, it means I’m not camped out in a brick and mortar cell.
Standing across the street, I stare at the run-down house. The dingy white paint is peeling in several places and the screen is busted out of the door, hanging halfway down. The first two house numbers are missing, leaving behind a faint, ghostly image still legible from the street merely from the outline of dirt.
Nothing but shit memories in that house. I shiver at the thought of crossing the street and entering. Then again, it could be because I’m so fucking cold.
No cars are in the driveway, and it looks like no one is home. Good. That’s the way I need this to play out.
