by David R. Dow
I told him how Mamá used to read the epigrams out loud to Papá and me at dinner, translating to Spanish on the fly. My papá’s favorite was where a rabbi named ben Zoma says a rich person is someone who is satisfied with what he has.
I said, He liked that because it explained how he could have nothing and also be so happy.
Sargent said, Only reason you can say something so dumb, Inocente, is on account a you ain’t got no kids yourself.
I said, Could be. I’m leaving it here because you measure up better than me.
Before I got to the row, there were two guys named Lucas and Antonio who got exonerated within a few days of each other. I’d seen them on the news. I told Sargent about a chapter where the rabbis say a strong man is one who masters his emotions, and I asked him whether he knew either of the guys.
I said, You got any insight into how they kept from being angry?
He said, How you know they weren’t? It ain’t like you can see what’s happening inside a brother’s soul based on whether he’s smiling at you. Just ’cause some shit the rabbis say is smart don’t mean everything they say is. You akse me, anger is severely underrated. Be a better world if more people was to get pissed off now and then, give the masters some serious shit to worry about.
There’d also been two other guys I knew who got released. Both died in separate car crashes months after winning their freedom. I said to Sargent, What about Toney and Guerra? You think the way they went is a coincidence?
He said, Yeah. Matter a fact I do. Anybody who says anything different is a mail-order shrink. Brothers didn’t crack up or kill their selves on account a they forgot how to boil rice. ’Til they got here, all their luck was bad. Why’d you expect that to change just ’cause they walked out instead a being carried?
I said, You’re the one who told me some people plan for the future and others don’t. Maybe those guys died because they suddenly had tasks they weren’t capable of performing and there was nobody around to show them how. That’s how I feel, anyway. My papá was always happy despite having nothing. I have more than I can possibly spend but can’t get past the feeling something’s missing.
He said, Yeah, motherfucker. Your old lady.
I said, That’s not what it is. I spent weeks mourning her. Nothing’s changed.
He said, Inocente, you was inside here longer than you been out. You got brothers who spend like one year in Eye-wrack and they be fucked-up rest a their lives, you feel me? Talk to me in six months. I tole you it’d be hard for someone like you. I didn’t say impossible.
We sat in silence for several minutes, until I said, Okay, six months, and then we were quiet a moment more. Finally I said, You remember the guy who picked up the SPU case?
Sargent said, Course I do. Brother named Nelson. What’s he got to do with it?
I said, I’m writing a book about my time here, and I wanted to tell that story, except I couldn’t remember the details.
I felt bad about lying, but I couldn’t very well say, Hey, you know those two judges who disappeared in a plane crash? Well, I’m holding them hostage. Sargent reminded me about Nelson. He’d been on the row four years and had lost his appeal. His lawyers were just going through the motions, and Nelson was desperate, so he wrote directly to all three judges on the Supreme Criminal Court, insisting he was innocent. He said if they let him die they’d be murderers and have to answer to God. Moss felt threatened and contacted the Special Prosecution Unit, the office that investigates crimes committed by people behind bars.
I said, How is writing a letter a crime?
Sargent said, It ain’t. What happened was they come by his cell to akse him a few questions, and they find he’s got the judges’ home addresses and the names a their kids, and it goes from there. Thing is, Nelson didn’t have nothin’ to do with it. Some Latvian chick, I think, was writin’ him practically every day and sendin’ porno pictures of herself with her own goddamn daughter, if you can believe that shit, least that’s what McKenzie said. Way I hear it, she printed out a bunch a pages ’bout his case off a the internet, and that’s where the information ’bout the judges come from. Brother Nelson couldn’t barely even read. Wadn’t how SPU saw things, though. They moved him to level, threatened his wife and kids, tole him they’d have his nuts in a vise he didn’t say who was helpin’ him.
I said, And?
He said, And nothin’. Brother got executed two months later.
I said, A guy I knew in county paid a CO to mail letters to people he wasn’t allowed to contact.
Sargent said, Okay.
He didn’t want to ask, I could see that, but he knew from the non sequiturs I was hiding something.
I said, It’s nothing, man. Like I said, I’m just thinking about writing a book.
I got up to use the bathroom and wash my face. I hoped the recorders were on. I needed them for insurance. I wrote a note on a paper towel using a pencil I had hidden in my sock. When I got back to the visiting booth, I checked to see whether the guard was watching, then held it up to the glass. On it I had written, Please do me a favor and read the next three sentences out loud. The next three sentences said, If it’s cool with you, can you write my two pen pals in France and let them know what’s going on with my case? I tried to write ’em myself but I think the mail room here is messing with me. If you don’t want to do it, I understand. Sargent did as I asked.
I said, Of course I’ll do it.
He tilted his head and said, For real, Inocente, you cool?
I said, As ice, my friend.
We’d been talking for two hours. The guard in the visiting area caught my eye and tapped her watch. I stood up and touched my hand to the glass. I said, I swear, I’m good. I’ll be back soon to tell you why, okay? Meantime, stay off of level.
He said, I cain’t make no promises, and you better.
On the way out, I bought a bottle of water from a machine and flushed the towel down the commode. In the hallway, a trustee stepped to the side and stared at his shoes until I passed. I retraced my steps to the entry. When I traded my visitor badge for my driver’s license, there was a new guard in the booth. She recognized me and said, Mercy me. Praise Jesus. I said, Actually, her name is Olvido. I didn’t wait for the CO to respond. I walked outside and crossed the highway, but instead of getting into the plane, I stood on the shoulder of Farm Road 350 and held out my thumb. A passing pickup with four Mexicans wearing overalls and smelling of hay stopped for me and gave me a ride to a cluster of fast-food restaurants down the street from city hall. I bought them a bag of burgers and fries, said gracias, and crossed the street. On a yellow pad, holding a felt-tipped pen with my left hand, I wrote, Preacher, Whatever you might hear about your wife having an affair is not true. She has always been faithful to you. I signed it, Somebody who knows. I folded the sheet in thirds and put it in the envelope Moss had addressed. In the other I placed a sheet on which I wrote, Dear Lucian, Your father has always wanted to get straight with you. He loves and admires you, no matter what you might think. I signed it as I had the first. I bought a book of stamps from a vending machine and added more postage than the letters required. I wet my finger with water to seal them and used a tissue to wipe away any fingerprints and, I hoped, to eliminate skin cells that might contain DNA. Using another tissue, I lifted each envelope by the corner and dropped them into a blue mailbox in the parking lot of the US Postal Service.
That evening, back at home, I lit a fire in the grill and tossed the letters Stream and Moss had written into the flames. Once the coals were gray, I cooked a half a chicken and a pot of beans and washed it all down with two bottles of Mexican beer. If you had asked me right then and there, I would have said I was a wealthy man in more ways than one. Later I would wonder why I was not at least a little bit angry.
* * *
• • •
There’s a town I’ve forgotten the name of
near Tulsa where Tieresse and I once spent a week in a lake house owned by a college roommate of hers who made a fortune in the oil business and died when the driver of a tractor-trailer fell asleep at ten A.M. and struck her SUV head-on speeding around the curve of a two-lane road. Tieresse’s stated goal was to teach me to water-ski, but she gave up after half a day and said, There’s also a sailboat. Let’s try to master that. I planned to fly down and see if I could find the house, but I woke to a burning sensation below my belly button and a headache so bad my vision was blurred. So I swallowed four aspirin and fell back asleep. When I awoke again that afternoon I decided I’d just stay around the house. I gathered ripe tomatoes from the hothouse and several heads of lettuce and took a care package into town. I also bought ingredients for a cake.
As I was paying for the groceries, Margaret at the cash register asked me if I felt okay. I said I just had a bit of a fever. But the room was spinning and I had to bend over from the waist and put my hands on the conveyer belt carrying my purchases to the sacker to keep from falling down. At home, I got back in bed without bothering to put the things away.
By evening, though, I felt better, and after an early dinner, I baked. The next day I carried the cake downstairs.
I watched the digital clock as it counted down. When it hit 49896:00:00, I said, One year down, five and a half, more or less, to go. Look, I brought cake.
I said, I mailed y’all’s letters.
I expected at least a touch of gratitude, but neither even looked at me. I said, Happy anniversary, Jane, but Moss said nothing back. I said, You too, John, and Stream said nothing back as well.
I cut the cake in thirds and put their two pieces on two paper plates. I stuck a plastic fork in each slice, like a birthday candle. I said, Y’all enjoy, now, and I slid each plate into their cells. I said, The Bible says to feed your animals before you feed yourself. I took a bite of cake.
I said, The cream cheese frosting doesn’t have very much sugar; I don’t like it too sweet. The black flecks are Madagascar vanilla, no expense spared.
Still neither spoke. I said, Some recipes call for nutmeg, but I leave it out. I’m not a fan.
I said, I’m thinking we’ll have angel food next year, red velvet the year after that, followed by apple, then coconut for our fifth anniversary, and German chocolate, that’s my favorite, for our sixth. But I’m open to suggestions.
More silence. I said, And we can have devil’s food a few months later to commemorate your liberation. Funny, huh, devil’s food?
Not even a smile. They were both in a bad mood.
I tasted the cake. They each put a piece on their forks at the same time. Moss said, Thank you. Stream said nothing. Even though it’s been a year, I still can’t figure out whether Stream’s frequent hostility is calculated or sincere. He might be manic. His swings remind me of Taylor. I also can’t figure out whether Moss has a twinge of genuine regret, or whether that’s calculated too. Honestly, though, I couldn’t care less. I’ve surprised myself, but it’s true. I really could not care less.
Finally Moss said, Thank you for mailing our letters.
Stream nodded and took a bite.
I said, You’re welcome.
On the flat-screen TV molly-bolted to the steel-fronted cinder-block wall, CNN was previewing its upcoming coverage of the tenth anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. I was still locked up when New Orleans got flooded, so I stood and watched video of a scene I’d never seen before. There were people on boats floating in the French Quarter, still photos of an abandoned amusement park, and what looked like a refugee camp inside the Superdome.
I said, Unbelievable.
The advertisement ended. I said, See you around, Your Honors.
Neither one of them laughed, but I did, just a little hint of a chuckle. Your Honors. I do still amuse myself.
By the time I got back upstairs, a thin sheen of sweat covered my forehead. I was breathing hard, and I was dizzy again. I hadn’t seen a doctor in ten years. It was probably about time.
* * *
• • •
In college my freshman roommate was a black army brat born in Mississippi who went to high school in Connecticut. He told me in the South you know who the racists are. They’re obvious. In the North, you have to learn to read the subtleties. I never had, or at least not very well, but still, something about Moss’s manner made me suspicious. She went from glum to grateful way too fast, as if she was saying thank you to elicit a reply. But about what? Whether I had really mailed the letters? Might I have perhaps inadvertently transmitted a secret code? Had they tricked me into doing something I’d regret? I was conscious I had crossed the line into full-blown paranoia. But I also remembered Heller’s line from Catch-22. Someone might really be out to get me.
I sat at my desk and did a search to learn whether the cable and satellite companies keep track of the shows we watch. I could not get a clear answer, so I worried what I was about to do might be incriminating, but Moss had gotten under my skin again, and I could not resist the temptation.
I cued up the three most recent Sunday-morning sermons Moss’s husband had preached to his flock and watched them back-to-back. He was very handsome. He could have been a model. He began with a funny, self-deprecating story, then opened his bling-adorned King James and strutted around the stage. His conversational style was easy to listen to. In the first service, he told his congregants not to let labels imposed by others limit their ambition. Define yourselves, he said, instead of letting others define you. God gave every one of you the power to do anything, so long as you put your trust and faith in Him. In another, he prodded his flock to break out of their comfort zone. He said, We are not serving God if we are always comfortable. Noah took a risk, built a boat, and did not even know how to swim. Abraham took a risk, leaving his father and comfortable life behind. Joseph lived in the house of Pharaoh. That’s what Jesus asks of you. Do not be satisfied merely by dropping a dollar into a mendicant’s cup. Engage. Engage with the homeless mother and the wandering veteran. Engage with the stranger. God told the Israelites they too were strangers in a foreign land. You might think you have nothing to say to the down on their luck, nothing in common with the hungry or the poor. But you do. Say what it is, and the congregation thundered, We are all God’s children. In the last sermon I watched he told the story about Moses rescuing the lamb, and how we are the lamb and Israel is Moses. All in all his preaching owed far more to Norman Vincent Peale than it did to Jesus or the Old Testament, but I was not interested in what he was saying. I was interested in how he was saying it. And if this was a guy hiding pain or grief, he was the Laurence Olivier of the church.
I said to Moss, I watched your husband preach.
She said, What on earth for?
I said, You don’t sound very proud of him.
She said, I fell in love with him watching him preach.
Stream said, What Sarah means is you do not act like a Christian.
I ignored him and said to Moss, I saw his most recent sermons. He doesn’t seem especially sad or distraught.
She said, And you, Mr. Zhettah, do not seem especially innocent.
* * *
• • •
A few months into our romance, I was fretting over a mediocre review La Ventana received from a national magazine. Tieresse sat next to me and said, What is there in the article you can learn from? I’d said, Nothing. She said, Really? Nothing? I said, That’s why it’s so infuriating. The guy doesn’t like the paint shade or the flatware or the fact I’m not selling French wine. His only complaints about the food were he wished the garlic on the potatoes had been sliced instead of crushed and the roasted lemon had been removed from the fish before service. And for that he takes away a star? Tieresse took the magazine from me and said, I’m going to throw this away. You get to decide who lives inside your head, amor. Don’t cede the valuable real estate to any
one who does not have something useful to offer. I said, So this strategy explains why you are always happy. She said, It just seems that way to you. See if you can figure out why.
I needed to evict Moss from my brain, and I knew the perfect place to do it. The Blue Spring Trail in the Mark Twain National Forest was one of Tieresse’s and my favorite hikes. It was lush and quiet, and it paralleled a perennial creek. I put my tent and camping gear in the truck and headed off for south-central Missouri. On the way there, I made a fateful choice.
Every two years, to keep my pilot’s license legal, I was required to have my health checked by a certified aviation medical examiner. These physical exams are not what you would get from your family physician. They are perfunctory checkups taking less than fifteen minutes. They check your eyesight and your weight and listen to your heart. There happened to be an AME on the way to Missouri, and I decided to stop. An elderly doctor examined my eyes and took my blood pressure. He wrote down my height and calculated my BMI and asked me questions about what medicines I take. He asked how much alcohol and caffeine I drink and how many hours I sleep. He sat at a computer and entered the information on the FAA website. Then he put the stethoscope in his ears and listened to my heart and lungs. He said, When was the last time you had a complete physical? I told him I didn’t remember. He said, I think you need to get one. I asked him what was the problem. He said, Probably nothing, but I am hearing some wheezes. You might have some fluid buildup. Have you been coughing lately or had difficulty breathing?
