“Time is funny that way. Sometimes it feels like ages since I’ve seen him, and other times it’s like he’s just up these stairs, and he’ll be down in a minute.”
I know a whole lot more about time than I did before Angola, and I nod in agreement. Time is more like a pool than a river. Deep in one spot. Shallow in another. Able to swallow you whole.
My grandmother seems to remember herself, and she turns to me, her face alight. “Of course, now when dinner’s ready, I’ll have you to call down.”
She says this like it’s good news, like having me here is restitution. And all of the sudden I feel sick again.
Moving past me, she steps into the open room. “The futon flattens out into a bed with just a little fuss.” She pats a folded pile of bed linens. “I can make it up for you now if you’d like or you can leave it just so until tonight.”
I shake my head and find my voice. “I got it, Grandma.”
She nods and points to an armoire on the far side of the apartment. “Annie and I took your clothes and things down from the attic and washed them to get rid of the musty smell, but…” She screws up her face and sizes me up. “I don’t think too many of them will fit. You’ve grown quite a little bit.”
I feel myself crack a smile. They aren’t joking when they say eight years of hard labor. And when the work day is done, exercise is one of the better ways to spend the rest of the time between dinner and lights out. Damn near everybody in prison works out. It keeps you from going crazy.
“I’ve put on about thirty pounds,” I confirm, keeping the details to myself.
Grandma Q raises a brow. “And it’s not around your middle, either.”
This pulls a laugh from me, my first as a free man. When I processed out this morning, Angola gave me the sum of my commissary balance, a whopping $212; $10 gate money — as if ten bucks would get anyone much of anything on the outside — one set of clothes to wear out (underwear, socks, a knit polo shirt, and my prison issue shoes), and an identical set as a change of clothes. They also gave me a three day supply of Zoloft, which one of the prison doctors prescribed for me years ago. If I want to keep taking it — and I do — that’s another thing I need to sort out.
Aside from a few books, one a Bible from A.J., and a few personal effects, this is all I have with me. But looking around the room, I begin to notice some familiar sights. On the bookshelf next to the armoire and beside the bathroom door is a collection of CDs from my old room. And on the shelf above them are pictures.
The one of Anthony and me on my seventeenth birthday has me sucking in my breath through pursed lips, and I have to look away.
Focus on something else. Anything else.
Across from the futon on a makeshift shelf is the TV from my old room and a now ancient PlayStation. Clearly, Annie and Grandma Q have no idea that both of these are stolen property.
Shit.
Pinpricks of black dot my vision. I wonder what would happen if I popped all three of the Zolofts right now. I brace my fingers against my forehead and turn back to Grandma Quincy.
“Um… Is it okay if I lie down for a while?” The words rasp like tearing paper, and my grandmother steps closer to me. I narrow my eyes in a squint so I don’t have to meet her gaze full on.
She raises a hand to my cheek, and when she speaks, her voice is so gentle, I almost collapse at the sound. “It’s a lot to take in. You get some rest, love. I’ll send Annie up to get you when it’s time to eat. Your cousins will want to see you as soon as they get here, but I’ll hold them at bay.”
In the tornado of my thoughts, this is one more mobile home that now spins out of control. But I manage to nod and follow her to the door. She presses a kiss to my cheek before letting herself out.
I turn and move back to the futon. I grab the top sheet off the pile of linens, and without letting myself study them, I pick up each of the framed photos on the bookshelf. I tuck them at the base of the TV and cover the whole shameful pile with the bedsheet.
All of that shit will have to be dealt with. But I can’t face it now. I stagger back to the futon, which is about three inches too short for me, and fall face first. And I weep for the next half hour.
CHAPTER FOUR
EVIE
“Thanks so much for doing this. I just need a few minutes to take my mind off everything,” Janine says, following me out onto the back porch. Janine Mayfield and her husband James bought the house across the street two years ago, and we’ve been friends ever since. “James is watching the baby, so I only have about a half hour, but I just feel like I’ll die if I don’t—” Her voice chokes off, and I watch her eyes fill.
I shake my head, gripping her hand and wanting to soothe her. “It’s all right. I’m happy to help. I actually did a postpartum series at the studio last year, and the moms in the class said it helped a lot.” I set down the two mats in my arms and unroll them.
And that’s the moment my Rhodesian Ridgeback, Gemini, whooshes out of the doggy door and bounds up to us. He immediately aims his black nose at Janine’s crotch before I shove him aside. “No, Gem. Go lie down.” I point toward the other end of the porch where his outdoor bed sits, and with a drooping of his head, Gemini obeys.
A startled laugh escapes Janine, and her tears seem to be forgotten. “He’s such a good boy—”
The words haven’t even left her lips before Gemini jerks his head in the direction of my neighbor’s yard and bounds across the lawn, barking with excitement. I peer over to find what looks like a party at Mrs. Vivian’s house. About a dozen people are scattered around her lawn. A handful are sitting at her picnic table, empty plates in front of them. A couple of guys stand near the barbecue pit, sipping beers, and, at Gemini’s continued welcoming bark, two kids — a boy and a girl who can’t be more than five — streak over to the chain-link fence that joins our yards.
I turn back to Janine and raise an ironic brow. “You were saying?”