Unfolding

by Jonathan Friesen

  “Did you know there was a guy locked up in the Max?”

  She reached for a rag and wiped her hands.

  “Am I the only one who didn’t? Why is he in there? I mean, what if he’s some psycho person-eater who could hypnotize me and trick me into opening his cell—”

  “He’s not a zombie.” Stormi took firm hold of my cheeks, then released. She bit her lip, dipped the rag in mineral spirits, and dabbed at the smudges on my face. “He’s an old guy who’s been there forever.”

  “What did he do?”

  “I don’t know. Something awful, I’m sure.” She threw down the rag. “You need to feed him, right? You can do that. Just walk in, drop off the food, and walk out. Like you’re feeding a puppy. Without the petting.” She grinned and I didn’t and she exhaled. “Listen, I don’t know why he’s there. I know it’s for a reason, so don’t, you know, do what you do.”

  “Which is what, exactly?”

  “You listen to people and believe them and then you get hurt.”

  “So, I’m naïve.” I stepped back and folded my arms. “You’re calling me naïve. Just a boy. Same as Dad.”

  Stormi was silent and shifted on her feet.

  “That’s not me,” I continued. “And it’s not fair. You know I don’t trust him.”

  “Well, your dad’s a piece of work. I don’t see how your ma puts up with it. But he’s only one in a very big world.”

  I paused. “Connor!” Silly how triumphant I felt at the remembering. “I don’t trust your brother either. So that’s two.”

  Stormi leaned over the hood, her voice suddenly tired. “Add the prisoner to that list and you’ll be fine.”

  I opened my eyes and shook free from the memory. I’d kept my guard up for about a week, but time slowly whittles away concern. Tres was perpetually good-spirited. I enjoyed his company. But Stormi’s words plagued me when our visits became lengthy. Stormi was never wrong, while I rarely had ideas of my own. Ignoring her never sat well with me.

  Tres smacked his parched lips. “What did Lizza cook on up? Oh, Lord!” His eyes grew. “It must be Thanksgiving. Is it Thanksgiving, son?”

  I slid Tres’s food into his cell and took my seat in the chair across the hall. We were in the only well-lit section of SMX. Here, locked behind traditional bars, a prisoner felt much less confined, unlike the rest of the units, where solid steel doors and a four-inch window were the norm. Tres flourished in minimum security, or so Dad said.

  “No. But the thought of you must’ve brought Ma extreme joy. You are experiencing last night’s leftovers, and the meal was incredible. I tried for a second helping, but she whacked my hand with a ladle. ‘Jonah,’ she said, ‘you best learn now to leave some for the unfortunates in this world.’ That always means you. Now, when it comes to me, Ma’s extreme joy must disappear.” I shook my brown bag in the air. “Peanut butter again.”

  Tres paused, his fork halfway to half a set of teeth. “Growin’ boy like you? You know I’m willing to make a barter—”

  “No, you go on. Remember, that’s both lunch and supper. I can’t complain. Besides, you don’t own anything I need.”

  I glanced around Tres’s cell. Bed, toilet, desk, books, and chessboard.

  My chessboard.

  A gift from Stormi, but I’d never learned to play. At least now it was getting use.

  My gaze landed on Tres and I chewed and stared and chewed some more. I put him at seventy, but it never felt right to question. He was tall, and built with enough muscle to cause apprehension. Tres said he was nothing but a drifter; he said we were doing him a great kindness by providing him food and shelter. I couldn’t figure out how a drifter could be happy locked up, living a solitary life, but here again I never probed. I rarely had the chance. Our lunch talks focused on only two people: Stormi and me.

  “That girl of yours is comin’ up near eighteen, if I’m right.” Tres gnawed on a drumstick.

  That girl of yours? I wish.

  I took a mouthful of sandwich. “It’s kind of hard to say, given that she didn’t blow in with papers or a birth certificate. We’ll go out for ice cream again on July fifth, seeing as Ms. P never sees fit to celebrate.”

  “Still.” Tres swiped grease from his mouth. “I’m certain her actual eighteenth is coming up. Does she look it?”

  “I don’t really follow what you’re asking—”

  “Oh, sure you do, fool. Is she pretty?” Tres showed his teeth. “Like me.”

  I started to rock in my chair. “Well, pretty doesn’t really touch it. I won’t go into what you are, but Stormi—”

  “Finish that, now.” Tres scooted forward on his bunk. “You usually don’t make it this far. But Stormi what?”

  It’s not like the truth would go anywhere; it’d bounce around a cell with an old man.

  “If you could see her. She walks into a room, a packed room, and suddenly she’s in hyper focus, and everyone and everything else blurs in the background. And then she looks at you, and her image gets sharper still. But you can’t hold her gaze long, and just like that you realize you’re gawking at her lips or neck or . . .” I cleared my throat. “Maybe I’ll bring a picture sometime.”

  “I’d like that. Very much.”

  I stared off down the hallway. “She knows me, knows pretty much everything. Maybe everything.”

  “Everything? That’s a poor stratagem. Strapping lad like you must have the ladies falling at your feet.” Tres gently placed his tray on his bed, and his voice softened. “Trusting everything to only one puts a man at a disadvantage.”

  “Disadvantage? I know her better than anyone. And she shares everything with me too, so it’s not one-sided, or not totally one-sided. I don’t think.” I glanced down. “But we’re close. In every way except for . . .” A heavy sigh escaped. “Except for the way she’s close to other guys.”

  It gets really quiet.

  “But what should I expect, right?” I tried to straighten, and winced as my back screamed. “Why would she want to be with deformed me?”

  Tres scratched his head. “What do you mean ‘other guys’?”

  I slapped the floor. “You need it spelled out? She goes out. A lot. And when those guys fill the locker room with their talk, I can’t bear to stick around and listen. But based on the number of times her name flies around, I can only imagine she’s probably not saying no too often. To anyone. Not that I know for sure, I mean, how could I know? No. Oh no.” My fingers tingled. “Oh, God.”

  My eyes blurred, and I slowly lowered myself to the floor. The ringing in my ears overpowered.

  A seizure was knocking on my door.

  “Jonah, calm down, kid. I was just clarify . . . What’s go . . . on . . . ?”

  My hearing muddled and Tres’s syllables fought through in staccato bursts. The chair slid away, and my body curled, fixed and fetal, on the ground.

  I fought my fit for a while, like I always did. I searched for something that made sense, something clear, but when my vision failed and my right eye fell blind, I let the monster inside have its way with me.

  Idiot seizure. Leave me alone.

  It wouldn’t, not for another twenty minutes of mouth-foaming, eye-fluttering misery. I was kidnapped, whipped by the brain meant to serve me. My hands clawed and my head jerked rhythmically against the tile floor.

  I felt nothing.

  But I heard.

  Screams. Girl screams. Boy screams. Ghostly shrieks. A seizure had never brought such terror with it before.

  And then feeling returned. A warm breeze swept over me, and the rhythm of my head slowed. Another minute, and I lay face down, gasping, my back aching, but my body and mind at rest.

  The room stilled. My seizure had gone. But not my tears—they puddled on the tile.

  “You okay, kid?” Tres’s voice was gentle. “You done beat yourself up pretty good.”

  It would be minutes until my legs supported me, and I uncurled and stared at the ceiling. I touched my face, splo
tched with a combination of nose blood and peanut butter.

  “I’ll be all right. Happens once a week or so. Old Rickety decided to interrupt our lunch, is all. I’m surprised he hasn’t taken me in here before now.” I wiped my eyes and forced my head to the side, and frowned. In my distress, I had traveled clear across the hall. My shoulder pressed against cell 119, the one that neighbored Tres’s. A chill worked its way around my neck and weaved down my twisted spine. I glanced back at Tres, his face visible in the mirror he held out through the bars.

  “How’d I get over here?”

  “You scooted, all jerky-like. Old Rickety? That was a seizure, right?” Tres set his mirror down on the table. “Why did you name it?”

  I fired a glance into the empty cell, the one that spooks me whenever I pass. “You can’t hate something that doesn’t have a name.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. I do know your brain and your bend must weigh as heavy burdens. I also know life ain’t fair. These next days’ll be hard on this town. Cryin’ shame that a good kid like you should have to pay for what’s been done.” Tres clasped his hands on the outside of the bars.

  “‘What’s been done’?” Even in a post-seizure fog, the words struck as ominous.

  “Jonah, you’ve been right kind to me. Since your first day, you’ve treated me well. I took notice, son. It’s been noticed. Remember that.” Tres spoke quietly, so quietly I wasn’t sure if his voice came from the inside or the outside of my head. “Don’t be afraid.”

  Understand that in Gullary, biblical admonitions floated around like cottonwood fluff. Tossed liberally into earthly conversations, like table salt, so overused they lost their impact. Unfortunate, really.

  “Maybe next time, let’s keep our conversations about Stormi.” I pushed up to a sit. “It’s preferable to this little morbid path you’re walking.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry, son.” Tres’s strong baritone returned. “But, now, get on up if you can. You done your piece with me, and the gallery needs ya. I’m figurin’ you’ll have a visitor waiting.”

  “Two tours in a day? Not likely.” I raised myself to my feet, picked up the chair, and glanced at the mess on the floor. “I’ll be back to clean this tomorrow. You okay with that?”

  Tres smiled. “Oh, and next time you see her, tell Stormi hello, and, if you would, give her this.” He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a necklace, gold and beautiful. He stroked it and then reached it out to me. “Seeing as I’m in here and she’s not, I’m thinkin’ she’d probably not accept it if’n she knew where it came from, but maybe if you was puttin’ thought on a birthday gift, it could come from you. But it’s your call.” He sighed. “Nothin’ asked, nothin’ required.”

  I stared at the necklace. “It’s really . . . wow, it’s um . . . but how did you get it, and why would you, and all that?”

  “Shut up and take the necklace.”

  “She’ll know this wasn’t from me. She always seems to know.”

  “Take it!” He closed his eyes, and his voice softened. “Try. For me. For you. While you can still head it off.”

  Looking back, Tres left a breadcrumb trail clear enough to follow through the thickest of the Ozarks. No, I don’t reckon I could have pieced it all together, but I should have recognized the puzzle. Unfortunately, hurry, perception’s greatest enemy, had me by the neck.

  He dropped the necklace and a napkin into my hand. “You might want to use them both.”

  I sighed at the mess I’d made, and the mess I’d become.

  “Say, kid, do me one more favor.” He gestured at my chessboard. “Get your brainiac friend’s next move—the quicker the better.” Tres took a deep breath. “This match is takin’ too long. It’s been days since you’ve brought me Arthur’s play. Not much else to look forward to, if you get my meaning.” He walked over, lifted a pawn, and slowly waved it in the air. “We’re entering the endgame, you know.” He gazed into me and then closed his eyes.

  “Who is?” I asked. “You and Arthur?”

  “We all are, Jonah. We all are.”

  My exit involved a slow weave through the most controlled section of the prison to the opposite end, where the magnetic card in my pocket would free me through the service door. Though my vertebrae balked at the distance, I knew I could gut it through; I’d locked myself in before.

  Which is why I knew the terror of cell 119. How could an empty cell create such dread? I hadn’t a clue, but that chamber was evil, as sure as the day was long.

  A bit of history: Reconstruction of the SMX had spared no detail. Following the twister, it was reborn, a twin to the original. The first prison had four wings, as did the second. The first, four courtyards, as did the second. The first, two hundred cells—two hundred sequentially numbered cells.

  But here another breadcrumb fell unconsidered. The rebuild tweaked the cell numbers. There was no cell 118. It had been skipped, like floor thirteen of a hotel, and the oversized unit was given the number 119 instead.

  A little thing. Probably an oversight. No big deal.

  Except that the misnumbered cell always felt dark. Foul.

  Chilling enough to send a post-seizure tremor through my body.

  I lumbered away from Tres and the cell that haunted me, and emerged at the far end of the prison. It was a warm fifteen-minute walk around the perimeter back to the front entrance. I didn’t travel it alone; those screaming voices still echoed in my head.

  I shook them free and hurried to the museum door, which stood ajar.

  I peeked inside. Stormi slid off the counter and swept back her hair, brushing back the few dark strands that clung to her lips. Her hair was wild—not unkempt, just wild—and her complexion tanned. Surrounded by all that smooth darkness, her white teeth glimmered. “I got here as fast as I could.” She cocked her head and let her gaze roam my face. “Peanut butter again. Looks like I’m a little late.”

  “You’re never late. Admit it: You were out here when I was seizing in there. You could’ve come in.” I stared at her hard and unforgiving, noticed her penitent sadness, and kept on. I had a goodly reservoir of righteous anger. “If you had, there would be no blood and no peanut butter, and maybe I would have heard your voice instead of screams.”

  She exhaled, and my hot air balloon floated gently back down to earth.

  “I can’t figure out why Tres frightens you,” I said. “He’s locked behind bars. He’s forever old. A puppy. You told me yourself.”

  She stepped up and wiped my chin with her thumb, her touch setting my body on fire. “You don’t have to believe everything I say. Listen, can we get out of here?” Her face brightened. “I have a surprise for you, so grab your camera. I’m inviting you to a private birthday party.”

  That girl of yours is coming up on eighteen.

  I bit my lip and peeked at the red door. “Your real birthday. You think it’s coming up soon?”

  “Today.” She kissed my cheek. “Eighteen today.”

  CHAPTER 2

  I followed Stormi out of SMX and round Windy Road. A word on Gullary: US-59 brings you in, US-59 leads you out. But if you’re willing to risk your life, there were plenty of smaller routes out of town.

  One being Windy Road.

  As the name suggested, it twisted its spongy finger deep into the Springfield Plateau. Thin, overgrown with forest, and blocked when the rains came, it was a path rarely followed. I’d walked it as far as the Gullary-Green River split, though not without considerable lumbar discomfort. Beyond that, though only two miles from my home, the Windy went rogue and became an uneven trail.

  With a brain eager to rise up and throw me to my knees, the river always seemed a safe place to stop.

  “Keep up, Jonah! I’ll be nineteen by the time we get there.”

  “How come suddenly you know your birthdate for certain? Another prophetess moment? You never knew your birthday before.”

  Stormi glanced back over her shoulder, smooth and tanned in that green straple
ss top that hugged so well.

  “No. This is different. This year I feel my birthday. I felt it when I woke up, and by noon there was no doubt.” Stormi shrugged. “It’s today.”

  How does anyone feel a birthday?

  She reached the moss bridge over the Green, slowing to gloat with a voice full and free. “You’re always falling behind.”

  I slowed further still. “If you’d told me we were going to walk into Arkansas, I’d have stolen the truck. I’ve no desire to hike that far.”

  Stormi gripped the bridge railing, her body swaying back and forth. Hair splashed down on those shoulders and once again I knew: I would follow my best friend anywhere.

  “Then how far do you want to go on my birthday?” She cocked her head and licked those flawless lips.

  Don’t answer that. You always lose this game.

  “Jonah?”

  You listen, you believe, and then you get hurt.

  “Are you talking distance, or are you talking how far, you know, well, when a normal girl asks a normal guy that . . .” My voice lowered to a mumble. “I don’t mean that you’re abnormal, but a person might think you were asking about something more personal or physical or . . .”

  Her eyes were wide, but her face gave away nothing.

  “You know, maybe let’s forget this last minute. I thought maybe that was a real you-and-me question, but I can see on your face . . . I can’t see anything on your face. Let’s go to Arkansas.”

  It’s hard to love your best friend. Over the years, the Line of Friendship is drawn, thickened, deepened, until it becomes a freakin’ canyon. Maybe if I would have grabbed her hand early on, in kindergarten, before my back twisted and my brain rebelled. Maybe that would have built a bridge to get across.

  But time solidifies the status quo. It was too late, and I was stuck on my side, lobbing idiotic emotions across the chasm, hoping she’d bite. I couldn’t tell if she saw me as friend or beast or charity case, but it didn’t matter.

  I only needed her to stick around.

  I raised the camera from my chest and focused the lens on Stormi. She smiled broadly, and I zoomed in and took a perfect shot. Definitely a bedroom-wall keeper.