Winter Flower

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

  I ended up as the only casualty.

  Ironically, I’ve ended up just like Daddy. I’d been so focused on providing economic stability that it never even occurred to me that my marriage had turned into a ghastly parody of my parents.

  No more.

  I didn’t know if I could ever expect Erin to forgive me. I doubted I’d ever be able to forgive myself. My actions had brought ruin on my family.

  I couldn’t fix the past. But I could try to do better for the future. I wanted my family back. I wanted to put my arms around them and beg for healing and forgiveness.

  Brenna was alive. I wanted her home.

  Traffic began to ease up as I finally got past the exits for the mall in Douglasville, but I stayed exactly at the speed limit. I didn’t think that traffic tickets could affect my probation, but I wasn’t taking chances on it either.

  As I drove, I thought, maybe I should send a thank-you card to Jeremiah. This wasn’t the first time he had shared some hard truths in our friendship. In fact, Jeremiah had been the very first person to visit me at the Deep Meadow Correctional Facility in Southern Virginia.

  I could never forget the horror and shock of those days. During the weeks I’d been awaiting trial, my company put me on paid family leave. Of course that only lasted until my conviction—I lost the job permanently the day I went to prison. I remember sitting in the courtroom, helpless as my attorney and the prosecutor talked with the judge.

  The judge, a stern Asian American man with grey hair, had said to me, “You understand that in accepting this plea bargain, you are pleading guilty to felony assault. You will lose your right to vote. Until your probation is over, you won’t be free to travel, and you’ll be periodically monitored, checked for drug use, and called in for interviews. You are waiving the right to a jury trial in accepting this. Is all of this clear?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  I felt like a bug as the judge looked down at me. “Mr. Roberts, I understand that you were in extreme circumstances, and I sympathize deeply with the disappearance of your daughter. But my sympathy doesn’t extend to you becoming a vigilante. You committed a serious crime and did permanent injury to an innocent bystander. I’m sentencing you to nine months in prison plus five years’ probation. If you screw up during probation? God help you. Do you understand, Mr. Roberts?”

  I told the judge I understood. But I didn’t really. How could I? I didn’t even understand what was going to happen to me the next hour, much less the next several months. Almost without a chance for a breath, a court bailiff handcuffed me then led me out of the courtroom. I didn’t get a chance to kiss Erin goodbye, or to say anything other than a quick, “I love you!” before I was shoved out the door. A few moments later I was in a small room standing in front of a counter while a bored officer sat with one eye on a security monitor and the other occasionally drifting down to his cell phone.

  The bailiff removed my handcuffs, then said in a curt tone, “Remove your tie and shoelaces.”

  I was panicking. “Can I get a drink of water?”

  The officer behind the counter looked at the bailiff incredulously. “Pace, did you tell him to talk?”

  The bailiff hooked his thumbs through his belts and gave me a scornful look. “Nope. Let me give you a word to the wise. When you get to the state lockup, don’t open your trap unless you’re invited to. You might have been a big cheese where you came from, but here you’re just another convict. Understand?”

  I didn’t know shit about prison, just what I’d seen in bad movies and television. Gangs. Rape. Savagery. I needed to learn quickly if I was going to survive.

  “I understand.” I began to undo my tie.

  It took a little over three hours to drive from Fairfax County to Deep Meadow, riding in the back of an unmarked white van. Seven convicts, including me, were seated on two hard metal benches that faced each other in the back of the van. The ride was rough, every pothole and bump sending shock waves up my spine. It was dim in the van, the darkness flooded with the acrid shock of sweat from the men.

  I would have done a lot to have been able to change out of my suit before getting in the van. Four of the men in the back already wore prison uniforms. The man on my right wore jeans and a white T-shirt that strained against bulging tattooed biceps. He desperately needed a shave and stank of body odor. To my left was a kid, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two years old. The kid had slightly too long hair and a hipster beard, and wore brown corduroy pants with a button-down white shirt. His eyes were red from crying, and he turned his face away from everyone else in the van as best as he could. The five across from us, all of them in prison uniforms, were a study in contrasts. Three of them were African American, two of them in their early twenties or late teens, the third my age or older. The first man on the bench across from us would have looked at home at an accounting convention.

  One of the young guys across from me, his face twisted with scorn, looked at the kid next to me and made a kissing motion with his lips. Then he winked and chuckled. The older man next to him elbowed him. “Leave the kid alone. He’s obviously in way over his head.”

  I stood out in my suit, but there was nothing I could do about it now. Except maybe salvage what I could.

  I had a dull sense of dread in my stomach, knowing that I was going into a situation far more savage than the business world I’d lived in for the past decade. I needed to somehow reabsorb everything I ever heard from my cousin Lucas’s dad, who had done his own time in prison.

  I always knew: I was never going to end up in prison. I wasn’t going to be like Uncle Bill—or Lucas, for that matter. The violence that characterized their lives wasn’t part of my life.

  I was better than they were.

  But nevertheless, here I was.

  I wondered, briefly, what my parents thought. Daddy would understand, I thought. He would likely have done the same thing if presented with the same set of circumstances. Mother, however, would refuse to speak of it, now or ever. She would raise her nose in the air and go play bridge and pretend I was off on a work trip for the next nine months.

  What I really knew was this: I would be tested, probably within twenty-four hours. They were going to find out if I was a victim, and if I failed that test I might not survive prison. I had to pass that test, no matter what it took.

  The guy on my right with the bulging biceps muttered, “What are you in for?”

  This was no time to fuck around. “Assault with a deadly weapon. I pleaded down to assault.”

  The guy looked at me skeptically and said, “You don’t look the type.”

  I shrugged. “I’m not. But the guy fucked with my daughter.”

  The guy smirked. “I can respect that. Man’s gotta protect his family. Name’s Paul Vance. I’m up for armed robbery. But there was extenuating circumstances.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “Shut up back there.” The words from the corrections officer in the front of the van were harsh.

  I wondered what kind of extenuating circumstances there were for armed robbery. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that I find allies quickly. Because I was in more danger than I’d ever been in my life.

  It was incredibly frustrating sitting in the back of the van, with only the vaguest idea where I was going and no way to see outside. Every once in a while, the kid on my left would start shaking as he struggled to contain his tears. It was almost evening when we arrived, stepping out of the van into a brisk cold breeze. The sun was setting, but I couldn’t see it anyway, because the view of the horizon was blocked by a thirty-foot high wall and a confusing array of chain-link and razor wire fences between several buildings. At intervals along the walls, guards stood with rifles.

  Only then did it sink in how serious this was. I barely heard the corrections officer order us into the building and walked zombie-like through the process of exchanging my suit for a pair of prison jeans, a too-small T-shirt, and a ridiculously large short-sleeved
blue shirt. During the in-processing, I learned the kid’s name: Kyle Pawlenty.

  Immediately, I recognized the kid’s name; he’d been all over the news. He’d been a senior at George Mason University who drove home drunk from a party and killed a family of four in a violent accident when he ran a red light and hit their car without slowing down. Not malicious, just careless and stupid. But all the same, an eight-year-old boy and his four-year-old sister were dead along with their parents. His trial, much like mine, had occupied the front pages of The Washington Post.

  Our heads were shaved, and we were sent through showers with a terrible chemical smell. Delousing. Despite my own fear, I felt for the kid. He stood in the shower, turned away from the rest of us, his head low. Vance, showering next to me, muttered, “Kid’s gotta man up or he’s going to get all fucked up.”

  When it was all over, we were led to our new cells.

  It was a week later that I got my first visitor. A corrections officer escorted me to the visiting area, a large room that vaguely resembled a school cafeteria, with small tables lined up in rows. The walls were painted a pale blue, almost the same color as the uniform shirts. Half a dozen guards were scattered around the perimeter of the room.

  Jeremiah Walker sat at one of the tables. When I saw him, I felt an immediate exhalation of relief. It wasn’t Erin and Sam. I didn’t want them to come here, I didn’t want them to see me like this. Jeremiah looked good. He wore khakis and a black shirt, and was sitting calmly when I entered the room.

  I walked toward him. He stood up and wrapped his arms around me in a bear hug. “Good to see you,” he muttered.

  We sat.

  Jeremiah seemed to study me, his brown eyes looking me up and down. “How you hanging in there?” he asked.

  “Trying to grow eyes in the back of my head. But so far, so good. Have you talked with Erin? Sam?”

  He nodded. “Erin’s … well, you know. She’s pretty broken up, too much has happened. But she’s trying to stay strong for Sam. Erin and Ayanna have been talking a lot lately.”

  “I’m glad. She needs someone to talk with.”

  “Whatever happened to Angela?”

  Jeremiah’s question was a tough one. Over the years the two women had grown further and further apart, and I often had the uncomfortable feeling that I was the cause of that distance. I just replied, “They don’t talk much anymore.”

  Jeremiah grimaced. “That’s too bad. Everyone needs close friends. Especially at a time like this.”

  I nodded. Then I said, “Has there been any word about Brenna?”

  Jeremiah shook his head. “Nothing. I’m sorry.”

  I leaned forward and rubbed my eyes with my right hand. “I hate that I’m stuck in here instead of out looking for her.”

  “Well, keep your nose clean and don’t get your sentence extended. You got any friends yet? Anyone to help protect you?”

  “Yeah. Guy named Paul Vance. He robbed a liquor store. He’s … dangerous. Biker type. Lots of tattoos. I wouldn’t fuck with him in a million years.”

  “Good,” Jeremiah replied. “You want guys like that on your side.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do. You know I got fired?”

  “I expected that. You didn’t really think they were going to hold your job for you while you went to prison?”

  I shook my head. “No. But…” I shrugged. “I have no idea what to do from here.”

  “You stay tough and get through the next few months. That’s all you do. Erin’s got things under control at home. Look, Cole … if you’d had a different shade of skin standing there with that gun, Erin would probably be a widow. Consider yourself lucky. If you can’t get a job when you get out, you’ve got a standing offer from me.”

  Back then, I couldn’t see that ever happening, but the offer meant a lot. Looking back, I want to kick myself in the ass. Even there, sitting on the wrong side of prison bars, I thought I was too good for the career he’d chosen.

  “Thanks, Jeremiah. I think I’ll be okay, but I appreciate the offer.”

  I was such an asshole.

  Not long after that, visiting hours had ended and Jeremiah left to make his way back to Georgia, and I went back to my cell to what would be a months-long struggle for survival.

  Tonight’s talk from Jeremiah had shown once again just how good of a friend he was. I had never returned that kind of friendship. Yet another area where I had failed. But I wasn’t going to fail anymore. Not when it came to the people who mattered in my life.

  It was almost ten when I drove up to the house in Oxford. I surveyed it critically for a moment, noting the rotting wood on the front porch and the duct-tape repair to the picture window in front. This is what we’d been reduced to. But it wasn’t the house that mattered, or the cars, or the paycheck, or any of that.

  As I got out of the car and walked toward the front door, the sound of insects swept over me, a chorus of buzzing that might have been in a jungle it was so loud. I could smell the cow manure from across the street.

  I opened the front door. It was quiet, but every single light in the house was on. Typical. Sam didn’t have to pay the electric bill, so he didn’t think about it.

  Let it go.

  Okay. I took a deep breath. And let it go. I really let it go. We had a much more important conversation ahead of us. I surveyed the scene. An open pizza box was on the kitchen table, half of it eaten. At least he’d ordered dinner. I walked to the hall and knocked on his door.

  “Sam?”

  He opened the door. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Can I come in and talk for a few minutes?”

  Sam sucked in a breath and flinched a little. What was he expecting? He looked terrified. “Okay.”

  He opened the door all the way and sat down on his bed. I noticed he’d taken some of the boxes out of his closet, books and other stuff that he hadn’t gotten around to unpacking since the move.

  I sat down next to my son and looked closely at him. He looked so much younger than sixteen. Was it just that I couldn’t remember what sixteen-year-olds looked like? I didn’t get them anymore. I hadn’t understood Brenna, and I didn’t understand Sam. It looked like he was wearing eyeliner or mascara or something. Why? I guess guys did that sometimes now. I’d seen some of the goth kids wandering around the mall, trying to look like vampires. I didn’t think Sam moved in that crowd.

  “What is it?” he asked, his voice trembling.

  “Sorry,” I said. I didn’t know how to begin. I swallowed.

  “Just get it over with.” As he spoke the words, his voice began to quaver. “She’s dead, isn’t she? That’s why Mom left and you’re hesitating. Brenna’s dead and you’re afraid to tell me.”

  My heart sank. Oh, God. We should have taken him out of school for the drive, so we could explain things. He must have been sitting here terrified all night. “No. That’s not it. Sam … listen…”

  His eyes widened and he seemed to shrink in on himself.

  “Your sister is alive. We don’t know where she is now, but about three weeks ago, she was, um … picked up by the Portland, Oregon police.”

  “Portland!” he cried.

  “Yeah. Anyway, the police didn’t know she was missing, and the links with the FBI were down or something, and they didn’t put it together until today. You remember Agent Wilcox? He called your mom this morning.”

  As I spoke, Sam just sat there, eyes wide, trembling. Silent. Tears began to run freely down his face.

  “When … what—”

  “Sam … we don’t know where she went from there. Mom is flying to Portland to look for her. It’s the best lead we’ve had since she first disappeared.”

  Sam’s shoulders rose and fell as he took a deep breath. He wiped at his face, smearing the makeup or whatever it was. So strange. With his hair the way it was, he looked so much like his sister I felt my heart cry out.

  “Why aren’t we all going to look?” He wiped at his face again but only c
ried more. “When can we go? Why aren’t we all going?” Each sentence came out slightly higher pitched, his voice beginning to tilt toward a wail.

  I put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. We can’t all go. I can’t leave work … and you’ve got school. And I’m not … I can’t legally travel to Oregon anyway.”

  Sam jerked away from my hand and came to his feet. “Fuck work and school. It’s Brenna! Can’t you get them to let you go? Can’t you … can’t you talk to your probation officer or boss or someone?”

  I swallowed. I wanted to so badly. But then we’d lose what little we had left. My voice was rough as I said, “It won’t do Brenna any good if we’re homeless.”

  “Let me go, then. You stay here and work, and I’ll go find her with Mom!” Sam looked like he was in agony. He was, really. He sniffed back snot that was running down his face.

  “Sam. I would let you go if I could.”

  The wail that came out of him seemed to come from the bottom of a well. “I want her back!” he cried, breaking down into sobs.

  I pulled Sam to me, wrapping my arms around him. “We’ll do our best. I promise. We’ll do our best.”

  Sixteen

  Erin

  When the alarm went off at 6 a.m., I didn’t know where I was. My thoughts immediately ran back to the phone conversation with Sam right before I went to sleep, and that placed me in time. The devastation in Sam’s voice made my heart ache. I wanted to hold him in my arms like he was still a little boy. I had failed my son just as much as I failed Brenna.

  That phone call, and maybe the sudden distance away from Oxford, made me see things in a much starker perspective than before. I pictured Sam coming and going to and from school, into his room, locking the door … while I slept or sat despondent. How lonely he must have been.