Returning to Normal (Locked Out)

by Patrick Jones

  I’d kind of hoped he would’ve come to visit, but Eliot lets in family only. I wrote Coach a letter telling him how sorry I was for losing my cool and hitting him. He never wrote back.

  These two and a half weeks were the longest time I spent inside, and I guess I understand now a little more what Dad went through, having every single thing you do controlled by somebody else. Count off. Yes, sir. No, sir. Tuck in your shirt. Put away the book. Shut your mouth. The COs at Eliot are order-giving machines.

  “You got my phone?” I ask just before I head into school. Mom hands it to me. I text Marcus and then Jennie as I walk. For a second, I almost forget how my phone worked. It’s like the rest of the world might’ve jumped ahead while I was stuck in Eliot.

  I hit my locker at lunch. It’s always interesting, the reaction people get once they’ve spent time at Eliot. Lots of guys in the life know you have to do time to prove yourself, mostly prove that you won’t snitch. I get high fives from some, like Tio. But my locker neighbor and old teammate, Ryan, gives me nothing but a cold shoulder.

  “You got a problem?” I ask Ryan when he turns his back on me and starts to walk away.

  “Don’t talk to me, Xavier.” He turns around. “Or to anybody else on the team, unless you make a public apology. But my guess is people like you don’t know how to say you’re sorry.”

  “People like me?” I clench my bruised fist. “What the hell does that mean, Ryan?”

  He’s shorter than me, but he’s all high and mighty when he says, “Criminals.”

  18.

  THURSDAY, MAY 29 / AFTERNOON CHARLESTOWN HIGH SCHOOL COUNSELING OFFICE

  “Xavier, I accept your apology,” Coach Baldwin says. We’re in Mr. Big’s office; I wonder if it’s because Coach is scared to be alone in a room with me. Ryan might be right. Telling Coach I’m sorry was hard enough, I can’t do it in front of the team. It’d be public snitching on myself.

  “I just got angry, Coach,” I explain. Maybe that’s why the judge is sending me to anger classes.

  “Mr. Baldwin,” he says softly. “I’m not your coach anymore.”

  I try not to react, but that hurts. Being on the team mattered. Being on the mound mattered. Even if most of those guys weren’t my friends, when we all wore the same jersey, I was part of something. Now, maybe the only uniform I’ll ever wear is the blue shirt and grey sweats at Eliot.

  “Thanks for letting me come back to school,” I say to Mr. Big, who seems all in charge.

  “It’s not that simple,” he starts talking about credits from Eliot. Sometimes he talks too much, like my lawyer did. I wince when he says “summer school.”

  “For sure?” I ask. Though I guess it might keep me out of trouble. I normally play city ball in the summer, but my ankle bracelet won’t allow the travel.

  “Even without this incident, you probably would have needed it in some classes,” Mr. Big says. “Xavier, you’ve got to get serious about school if you want to have a future.”

  “And don’t be talking about the big leagues yet,” Mr. Baldwin says. “You’ve got the talent in your left arm, but you lack discipline in your life. Without discipline, you’ll fail.”

  “We’re happy to welcome you back here, so prove to us you belong,” Mr. Big says.

  I nod and look at the floor. It feels like I let these guys down.

  “Now, you’re off my baseball team—I don’t have a choice,” Mr. Baldwin says. “But you’re still on my team. I’m still behind you Xavier.”

  “Thanks Coach—I mean Mr. Baldwin,” I say. “So what summer school classes am I taking?”

  This time Mr. Baldwin throws the first punch, not me. “English 10, with Miss Williams.”

  19.

  MONDAY, JUNE 9 / EVENING CHARLESTOWN YMCA MEETING ROOM

  “Xavier, would you like to share?” asks Miss Helm, the anger management leader. Do they get a lady who looks as good as her just so guys like me will come to the meetings? I’d share plenty with her, but I got nothing to tell anybody in this class.

  “If you don’t participate in the discussion, that’s considering not attending. You weren’t just sentenced to be here, but to make a unique contribution. Do you understand, Xavier?”

  I fold my arms around me a little tighter, holding everything inside.

  “I ain’t got nothing to say right now,” I mumble. “So I just contributed.”

  “We’ll come back to you, Xavier.” And then she moves on the next guy. He starts talking, but I’m tuning him out, trying not to stare at Miss Helm, trying not to think about the text Jennie sent me just before I had to come in here, and trying not to think about Dad. He’s still just showing up in our family—he’s not contributing. Might as well still be in Texas.

  Guys keep talking and I end up listening in, although I don’t know why I bother. It’s not like they’re saying anything different. I have no unique contribution because almost everybody in here is telling the same story. It’s like the math story problems we get with too many parts. Start with a family. Subtract the father to the streets, prison, or grave. Add an overwhelmed single mom or overtired grandparent, and multiply that by fear, shame, guilt, and regret. What do you get? Rage.

  “Xavier, what do you want to say?” Helm calls me out, which means time’s almost up.

  “Whose idea was it to force ten angry men into a small room?” I ask. A couple guys laugh, which is better than crying, which it seemed like some of ’em might do. Miss Helm answers the question like lawyers, social workers, and probation officers do, with big words that have small meaning.

  “When the sensation of anger approaches,” she says, “inhale. Take a deep breath. Take as many as you can. Settle yourself. Look for tranquility inside. Resist the anger impulse.”

  I actually think that’s good advice: I’ll call Marcus and we’ll inhale as many as we can.

  20.

  TUESDAY, JUNE 10 / AFTERNOON CHARLESTOWN APARTMENTS

  “Xavier, that’s harsh,” Marcus says when I show him the text from Jennie. She said she doesn’t want see me again. She didn’t say why. “What you gonna do?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer. “She’s hot and all, but she’s been cold to me ever since Eliot.”

  “I bet it’s her folks,” Marcus says as he walks away from me. We’re playing catch in the hallway of my apartment building with the door open so I stay in range of the ankle bracelet monitoring box. It’s my last free day before summer school starts. “You know, even my grandma, when she heard what you done, she had things to say.”

  “Like what?” I toss the ball his way.

  “Said you were bad news and I best be staying away from you.” The ball comes back.

  “So why you here?” I throw the ball, harder, faster.

  “’Cause you’re my friend. Grandma can tell me some stuff, but not who my friends are,” Marcus holds onto the ball. “You ought to tell Jennie that, about her parents.”

  “Good idea.” I drop my glove, pull out my phone and call rather than text her. She doesn’t pick up, so I leave a message saying just about the same thing. “What if she says no?” I ask Marcus after hanging up.

  “She got anything of yours?”

  “Last time we were together, before Eliot, I gave her my hoodie ’cause she was cold.”

  Marcus laughs. “That’s it, tell her you want it back, and then you can hit her with some of your smooth X-man moves and lines when you meet up. Next thing you know, she’ll be back in your arms.”

  “How’d you get so smart?” I put my glove back on and the ball comes my way.

  “I used to watch my mom,” he answers. “I saw how she kept getting tricked by players.”

  I look inside the apartment, where Dad’s sleeping it off. Six weeks out of prison and he’s still out of work, out of patience, but never out of beer or wine. I grip the ball tight and hurl it so hard that Marcus is shaking the hurt out of his hand as I turn and go back in.

  21.

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE
11 / LATE AFTERNOON CHARLESTOWN APARTMENTS

  “Xavier, get out here!” Dad yells. I’m in my room struggling with a hard math problem. I’d ask him to help, but he doesn’t have any more education than me. All that time in prison, I wonder why he didn’t get a GED instead of just wasting time that he couldn’t get back.

  “What is it?” I shout back. He expects me to obey him like he’s the CO at Eliot. Like I did inside, I take my sweet time walking out to the kitchen, making him wait. I got my phone in my hand in case Jennie calls. Dad’s yelling about something, so I steal glances at my phone.

  “Put that toy away!” Everything invented in the last ten years is a toy to him.

  Just as I put it in my pocket, the phone buzzes. I steal a glance. Jennie. “I got to go.”

  “You’re going nowhere, ’cept doing your homework and cleaning these dishes.”

  “I didn’t dirty no dishes, that’s you,” I say. “Clean up your own mess.”

  “Listen, little man, I’m not your mother, you don’t talk to me like that. You get me?”

  I take a step forward. “What you gonna do? Hit me? If you do, guess what, I bet that’s assault, and that violates your parole. Or how about that heater and stash you got? I don’t think convicted felons supposed to be hiding guns and drugs under the sink. You get me?”

  Dad’s eyes light up with rage, maybe the first time I’ve seen them look anything but dead since he came out. “Shut your mouth, little man.”

  “I gotta take this,” I pull the phone out and hold it up. “I’m out.”

  He says nothing as I head toward my room. I slam the door behind me and lock it. I listen to the message Jennie left. She’s keeping the hoodie as a keepsake. Don’t be mad, she says, like that’s possible—anger class or no anger class. After the message, I hit up Marcus.

  “Wassup?” he asks.

  I tell him about Jennie’s message, but not about my fight with Dad. “Marcus, come on over quick. I gotta see her.” I look at the bracelet on my ankle. “And bring a set of pliers.”

  22.

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 11 / EVENING CHARLESTOWN APARTMENTS

  “Xavier, your dad seems a’right,” Marcus says as he walks into my room.

  “You don’t have to live with him.” I motion for Marcus to sit. Normally we hang at his crib, but this bracelet won’t let me go anywhere, do anything, or get in any trouble.

  “Still.” Marcus’s dad died when he was young, then his mom just last year.

  “You bring the pliers?” I ask Marcus. He looks away, so I know the answer is no.

  “You sure about that, X-man?” He asks. I show him the bracelet. “It don’t look so bad.”

  “That’s ’cause you ain’t wearing it. I’m all, beep beep on some jerk’s computer screen.”

  “You’re a live video game!” Marcus jokes, but I’m not laughing.

  “It’s stupid. Not like I can’t do something wrong with this around my ankle.”

  Marcus walks over toward the window, looks outside. “You know how it works. It’s to show the court that you can learn to follow the rules. What did you say it was? Thirty days?”

  “Yeah. I guess, I know. Dad did ten years. I can do thirty days. I mean—” I’m interrupted by a loud knocking on the door.

  “Xavier, open this door so I know what’s going on in there,” Dad shouts.

  I don’t move a muscle. Marcus walks from the window toward the door. “Don’t!”

  “I don’t want no trouble,” Marcus says. “You should do what your dad says, Xavier.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He looks as puzzled by the query as I do by math. “Because he’s your dad, that’s why.”

  More door pounding, but I can’t make myself do what he tells me. For so long, I’ve been doing what I want. Now I’m supposed to listen to somebody that I don’t respect, giving me orders.

  Finally I motion for Marcus to open the door. Dad’s right outside staring at me. He’s nothing like the role model dad he’s supposed to be, like I imagined, and like I need. Only way I know he’s my dad is the same hot blood running through both of us.

  23.

  THURSDAY, JUNE 12 / MORNING CHARLESTOWN HIGH SCHOOL CLASSROOM

  “Xavier Horton.” Miss Williams calls my name. I grunt a response. I look around the room and it’s an odd collection of athletes, bangers, and stoners. Mostly boys, only a few girls. Since I blew off the first day of this class as a power play, I’ll have to get caught up on if they’re single.

  The teacher hands me a paperback book when I raise a hand, like a reward.

  “Tio Hudson.” She hands him a book too, like she has to everyone.

  “I’m here, don’t rub it in,” he says. He gets a laugh, even from me at this hour, in the heat of this classroom. Even Eliot’s got AC, but not Charlestown High.

  Miss Williams fixes Tio with her evil eye, but he just makes a funny face in return. Tio hasn’t hassled me since that one day ’cause I avoid him, but I think he’s Marcus’s kush connection.

  As Miss Williams rambles on about her expectations, I turn to Tio. “Glad you’re in here—this lady ain’t got no sense of humor and—”

  As if to prove my point, Miss Williams calls me out in front of everybody. “Mr. Horton, this is your second chance to succeed in this class.” I grind my knuckles into the hard desk and take a couple deep breaths like they taught me at anger management class. “I hope you’ll use this second chance wisely. Life rarely offers second chances, let alone third or fourth ones.”

  “How about fifth?” Tio asks. “I’ll take a fifth of Bacardi 151.” More laughter.

  “Mr. Hudson, see me after class.”

  I turn around, fist-bump him and say, “You got a date on the first day.” He laughs, but stops. He motions that Miss Williams is headed our way. She’s over my desk like a dark cloud.

  She leans in too close. “Let’s not do this again. Let’s try to learn from our mistakes.”

  I fiddle with the paperback, The Red Badge of Courage, on my desk. I don’t look up at her. It seems learning from mistakes just ain’t the Horton family tradition.

  24.

  FRIDAY, JUNE 13 / LATE AFTERNOON CHARLESTOWN APARTMENTS

  “Xavier, answer your father,” Mom says. We sit around a dinner of cheap frozen food. Since Dad came home, Mom lost her food stamps because he’s a felon. And now we got to move, since this building is Section 8 and Dad’s not allowed to live here. Dad asked me a question, but I couldn’t understand him because he’s slurring his words. “Tell him about school,” Mom pushed.

  I start reporting on summer school because Mom asked me and she don’t ask much from me anymore. As mad as I was with Dad, I know chucking the bracelet would hurt me and Mom more than him. So I stay chained.

  “Where you think that reading’s gonna get you?” Dad says, or something like that.

  “I’m gonna graduate from high school.” I don’t say “unlike you,” but it’s in the air.

  “Then what? Get a job? Go to college? Let me show you something,” Dad stumbles to his feet. Mom says he drinks more ’cause he’s got a UA. If he uses drugs, it violates his parole. He can get drunk and angry on a bottle of wine, yell at me, and push my mom around. But he can’t smoke a blunt and relax. Stupid. Sell weed, go away for ten years. Even stupider.

  Mom motions for me to follow Dad as he walks, with the help of the wall, toward his room. He goes inside, but motions for me to stay outside. “Here’s what happens when you got a felony drug charge.” He slams the door. A few seconds later it opens again.

  “You go to get a job.” Slam goes the door.

  “James, stop it, please,” Mom yells from the other room. Dad ain’t listening.

  “So you think, I’ll start a business, so you go to get a loan.” Slam.

  “Or go to school and learn a trade, but you need a loan.” Slam.

  “Or get out of this dump into a nicer building, but there’s a background check.” Slam.

  �
�Or do anything just to be a man again, but no, this is what you get.” Slam.

  “They lock you inside, but then you get outside, and it’s like you’re still locked in.” Slam goes the door, except this time it doesn’t reopen. I walk back out, and Mom’s crying. And so am I.

  25.

  TUESDAY, JUNE 17 / LATE AFTERNOON EDWARD W. BROOKE COURTHOUSE / BOSTON, MA

  “Xavier, how is your summer?” I laugh in my PO’s face, maybe accidently spit on him.

  “You got me shackled and drawn. How you think it is?” I ask him back. He gives off this salesman vibe with his fake smile, cheap suit, and golf trophies. He doesn’t answer my question, but he expects me to answer his. So I just wait him out until he moves on.

  “I see you’re still attending anger management,” he says, sounding bored now.

  I nod but don’t say nothing, just like in the classes. All this talk hurts my head. Sometimes I wonder if Dad got tossed in the hole just to get away from all these people with power over his life—my life, our lives—talking at us like any of these words even matter. I nod some more, grunt an answer every now and then, and try to stay awake. It’s hard to sleep at home with Mom and Dad always fighting, and no sweet thoughts of a girl in my life to ease me to sleep before the nightmares start.

  “Anything else?” I ask. I keep peeking at my phone, hoping for Jennie. Nothing.

  “Change is hard,” my PO says. I think, No, the lock on the bracelet, that’s hard. He starts giving me a pep talk like he’s Coach Baldwin, but his words are empty. “Try harder, Xavier.”

  As I head for the T back home, I try calling and texting Jennie again, but again I get nothing. It’s like I don’t exist. But what I don’t get is a picture she posted a few days ago. It’s like eighty degrees, but in the pix, she’s wearing my big hoodie. Is that her saying she hasn’t forgotten me? When did I change from a man to a memory? And when did that happen with me and Dad?