Lifers

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  The shower felt amazing. It was a real luxury to have as much hot water as I wanted, and not have to keep one eye open the whole time for who was coming into the shower block. I still couldn’t get used to having so much privacy. When I first got out, I used to forget where I was and wore my boxers in the shower to wash them. In prison, everyone did that—for obvious reasons. But as I only had the one pair, oftentimes I didn’t bother wearing any now that I was home.

  The water stung my arms and legs. I had to admit I was looking pretty busted up. But I’d had worse in prison, and had gotten several black eyes and my nose broken once. I’d been put in solitary for 72 hours even though it had been nothing to do with me, just the wrong place at the wrong time. Shit like that happened; there was no point being a whiny bitch about it. And anyway, it had healed pretty straight.

  I was surprised to see that Dad was waiting in my room after I finished in the shower.

  He looked at the new holes in my body but didn’t comment.

  “This isn’t workin’,” he said, flatly. “I cain’t have your momma harassed like this. She’s gettin’ so she’s scared to leave her own home again.”

  I stared at the bare floorboards, pretty sure I could guess what he was going to say.

  “We have our home searched by strangers; comments in the street—you don’t know what that’s like for us. Then last night with your brother’s truck—well, that was the final straw. I’ll contact your parole officer and tell her you need to move out. They have places for people like you in the city; I think it would be best for everyone if you just left.”

  He stood up and walked out. I didn’t bother to argue because, well, he was right. And it didn’t matter to me where I went—I still had to live inside my skin. But maybe it would be better if I went somewhere no one knew me. I wouldn’t be leaving anything behind—except Torrey.

  I felt the pain of regret in my chest. Yeah, I’d miss her.

  Torrey

  I didn’t want to admit it, but I needed to talk to my mom.

  I called her cell phone, but it went straight to voicemail. When she turned it off it usually meant she was visiting with some parishioners. I waited a while, standing in the kitchen staring into the garden as the shadows lengthened. I could see the hulking shape of the dumpster with long fingers of torn brambles hanging from it, as if they were trying to crawl out. The idea made me shiver.

  I looked at the clock on the wall again, ticking away with annoying regularity.

  In the end, I decided to head on down to the church in case she was caught up there.

  It was close enough to walk so I didn’t bother taking my car.

  It was the kind of neighborhood where people walked their dogs, and kids rode their bikes and played in the street. Real small town. Nothing like where I’d grown up.

  The church was in the middle of a bunch of newish houses on the intersection of one of the bigger roads. It was large, but as I stared at the outside, I was unimpressed with the bland modern exterior. It wasn’t supposed to matter what a place of worship looked like, but I thought the right ambience helped, you know?

  But as soon as I walked inside, I was swept into another world by the scent of beeswax polish. I hadn’t smelled anything like that since my grandma’s house. It brought back memories of home baking and listening to her bedtime stories.

  “Torrey? What are you doing here?”

  Mom’s voice floated out from behind one of the rows of chairs.

  “Oh, hey, Mom! What are you doing on the floor?”

  She sighed.

  “Both of the ladies from the cleaning roster called in to cancel. One has gone to look after her sick sister in Gainesville, and the other has an ingrown toenail so she can’t walk.”

  “Jeez, Mom. You run this place, sit on all those fu… darn committees, set up for the parent and toddler group and clean the church? You should ask God for a raise.”

  “Don’t be flippant, and hold the blasphemy,” she said, but I caught the smile in her voice, too. “You could help me, you know.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Just so long as you know that cleaning is against my religion.”

  She laughed. “I’ve noticed. Just tell yourself it’ll be good for your soul.”

  “Whatever. What needs doing?”

  She pointed me in the direction of some rags, a can of polish and a darn large pulpit that needed to glow in honor of God’s glory, or some such.

  Grimacing, I slathered some polish on a cloth and got cleaning.

  “So, what’s so urgent that you deigned to set foot inside our church?” she asked, her voice amused.

  “It’s about Jordan,” I replied, diving right in.

  “I thought it might be,” she said, quietly.

  “Someone slashed the tires on his truck last night. And if that wasn’t enough, they sprayed paint all over it. Also, I’m pretty sure that the same someone tried to run him down this morning. You saw how banged up he was. He wouldn’t tell me about it, but it’s obvious he’s being victimized.”

  “Did he report it?”

  “No, and that’s part of what bothers me. He refused to involve the police. I mean, I get why he wouldn’t want to—he’s kind of allergic to the boys in blue—but if he doesn’t do something, I’m worried it’s just going to get worse.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” she said, tiredly. “I’ve been preaching about tolerance and forgiveness until I’m blue in the face: ‘With all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love,’ but it doesn’t seem to have made much difference.”

  She sounded despondent—that wasn’t like my mom.

  “I was hoping you’d have some ideas,” I admitted.

  “Honey, Jordan’s problems aren’t your responsibility.”

  “I know that, Mom, but it’s totally shit the way people around here treat him. They painted the word ‘murderer’ on his truck. Is it true?”

  She shook her head immediately.

  “Not in the eyes of the law.”

  “But in your eyes?”

  She sighed and looked down.

  “Jordan is responsible for the loss of a life. It’s not for me to say more: I believe he’ll be judged by a higher power when the time comes, as will we all.”

  Her answer was only partially satisfying.

  “He’s really trying, but no one will give him a chance,” I said, quietly. “Even his own parents act like they hate him.”

  “I didn’t know you’d met them.”

  “Well, only his mom, this afternoon when I gave Jordan a ride home. She didn’t even manage to say ‘hello’ before she was asking me what trouble he’d gotten into now. He says himself that they hate him, and he has to live with that twenty-four/seven.”

  She sat down heavily on one of the chairs.

  “I was afraid of that. I thought having Jordan home would help them work through their problems together, but from the sound of it, that’s not happening. I don’t think they’ve even grieved properly. They’re stuck in the anger stage. They can’t seem to get past that. I tried to get them to go to counseling but they refused.”

  “Jordan said he had a counselor in prison, but he didn’t say what they talked about. It might not even have been that sort of therapy.”

  Mom shook her head. “As I understand it, Jordan received the kind of counseling that’s designed to help a prisoner readjust into society prior to being released. He may have had some grief counseling at the time…”

  She didn’t sound very certain.

  “Could family therapy help them?”

  “I’d really like to think it could, honey, but getting them there is the problem. I’ve even offered to help them from the church’s hardship fund, but the Kanes are proud people.” She looked up at me. “Sweetheart, I know this isn’t something you believe, but will you join me in a prayer?”

  “Mom…”

  “Just listen, you don’t have to say anything.”

  She g
ot on her knees and faced the altar.

  “Lord, I ask for your divine help to shine on the faces of your children, Gloria, Paul and Jordan Kane. Bring peace in their hearts and light into their darkness. I also pray for my daughter, Torrey Delaney. Show her the path, Lord, and help her make the right choices. You have turned my mourning into dancing; You have put off my sackcloth and clothed me with gladness. To the end that my glory may sing praise to You and not be silent. O Lord my God, I will give thanks to You forever. I ask for these things in Jesus’ name. Amen.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I made a joke of it.

  “Hey, you’re getting pretty good at this, Mom!”

  She clambered off of her knees and raised an eyebrow. “Well, gee! Thanks, honey! Good to know. Do I get a sticker with that?”

  Okay, so maybe I got some of my sarcasm from her. It was kind of cool to find that I didn’t mind so much.

  “Funny, Mom. You could do stand up.”

  “I do, honey, every Sunday. You should come.”

  “Um, no!” I shook my head vigorously, and she laughed.

  My thoughts drifted back to Jordan again.

  “Seriously. Do you think you could maybe talk to his parents so they don’t give him such a hard time?”

  She sighed. “I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  We finished the cleaning in silence, each lost in our thoughts.

  Torrey

  Mom woke me ridiculously early.

  “I’m sorry, honey, but I have to head on out to a meeting with the bishop in Houston. I just wanted you to know that I’ll be contacting the Kanes to see if I can meet with them. I’m going to try and do it on the way back, so I might be pretty late.”

  “And you couldn’t put that in a note?” I asked, grumpily.

  “Yes, I could, but I wanted to see your smiling face,” she smirked at me.

  “Okay, Mom. Drive safe.”

  “Will do, honey. Oh, one more thing … you said Jordan’s tires were slashed?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, I remembered that there’s a junkyard over toward Corpus, about eight or nine miles out of town. I left the address on the kitchen table for you. I thought you could take Jordan over there and see if there’s anything he could get for his truck that wasn’t too expensive.”

  I sat up in bed, pushing a tangle of hair out of my face.

  “That’s really nice of you, Mom, but I don’t think he has any money at all.”

  “If you can get something for $50, I’ll take the money from the hardship fund. That’s what it’s there for. Just make sure you get a receipt.”

  I think we were both surprised when I pulled her into a tight hug. We didn’t have a touchy-feely relationship, but I thought this definitely warranted a show of affection.

  “Thanks, Mom. You just keep on surprising me—I like it.”

  “Oh you too, honey. I’m so proud of the compassionate young woman you’ve become.”

  “Yeah, don’t overdo it, Mom.”

  She laughed and stood up straight. “Don’t wait up!” she called over her shoulder.

  I was wide awake after that, so I decided to ignore what Jordan had said and go pick him up. Then we could drive straight to the junkyard and get him some new tires. I hoped.

  And I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to get four truck tires in the Princess, so we might have to make two trips. Better get started.

  I admit that I had an excited bubbly feeling in my stomach at the thought of having a whole day to spend with Jordan. I wanted to help him, for sure, but there was more to it than that. And not just the fact that the guy was seriously hot. I wanted to know him, and I wanted him to have the chance to be the person he was meant to be, not just the shadow of a man he was right now.

  And hell, if I had to stay in this small town another four or five months, I may as well do someone a good turn if I could. Jeez, I was turning into my mother. Was that like some kind of curse? We all end up turning into our parents no matter how much we fight it?

  I took my time in the shower and pulled out my favorite jean shorts for my non-date with Jordan. I wasn’t hungry, but I was desperate for coffee so I made a full pot, drank two cups and filled a thermos with the rest to give to Jordan.

  I was a bit apprehensive driving to his house, especially after last night’s little scene with his mom, but I struck lucky. I spotted him jogging down the road, his backpack thumping against him with every stride. I took a moment to appreciate the smooth glide of his gait despite the thick scab on his left knee, and took pleasure in watching the muscles lengthening and contracting in his strong thighs.

  He looked surprised and slightly worried when he saw me. That was okay, it was his default setting—one I was determined to try and change.

  “Hey, cowboy! Did ya forget your damn coffee?” I yelled out of the window, waving the thermos at him.

  He cracked a smile and leaned against the car, one arm on the roof.

  “Thanks! I could definitely use it. Are you headin’ out for the day?”

  “Sure am. Hop in.”

  “That’s okay. I can make my way on over to your momma’s place—you don’t have to give me a ride.”

  “Get in, doofus, we’re going shopping.”

  He was half in the seat when he honed in on the word ‘shopping’.

  “Um, pardon me, but what did you say?”

  “You heard—shopping! There’s nothing wrong with your hearing, cowboy.”

  He clipped his seatbelt into place and watched me as I put the car in drive.

  “Why are we shoppin’, Torrey?”

  I liked the way my name sounded when he said it.

  “Waaal,” I said, drawing out the word the way I’d heard him pronounce it, “my mom is one of those Christian types who likes to do good deeds…”

  “I’ve noticed,” he said, his voice toneless.

  “Yeah, and she’s decided that I can be her sidekick, like…”

  “SpongeBob and Patrick Star?”

  “Oh, boy! You watched waaaay too many cartoons in prison. No, I was thinking something cooler like Batman and Robin.”

  “You think Robin is cool?”

  “Fair point. Well, maybe not the Burt Ward version…”

  “Not any of them.”

  “Okay, well Catwoman then.”

  “Catwoman was Batman’s arch enemy.”

  “I know, but the outfit was cool.”

  “I thought it was hot,” he said, raising one eyebrow.

  I liked the way he looked when he did that.

  “Yeah, but that’s not the point…” I reminded him.

  “So there is a point?” he smiled.

  I loved seeing his smile, too.

  “There was when I started, I’m not so sure now; I keep getting interrupted by a giant know-it-all.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  “So, where we goin’ again?”

  “I told you: shopping.”

  “Shoppin’ for what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  He huffed, looking irritated. Yay! At least he didn’t look anxious or scared—progress!

  I patted his leg.

  “Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”

  “Can you go back to the bit where you were sayin’ your momma liked to do good deeds?”

  “I don’t know, are you going to interrupt me again?”

  “Nope.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yep.”

  “Hmm…”

  “Hmm?”

  “No, I’ve changed my mind.”

  He ground his teeth with frustration and shot me a dirty look.

  I couldn’t help laughing out loud and watched from the corner of my eye as he cracked another smile. If he kept this up, smiling would become a habit.

  It took nearly 30 minutes to drive the nine miles to the junkyard, mostly because I took a wrong turn out of town. Then
I realized I was getting near Jordan’s ten-mile limit, and had to turn around and start from the beginning, turning the whole trip into a 35-mile drive.

  Jordan didn’t seem to mind. We chatted about random stuff—films he’d liked as a kid, a few that he’d seen while in prison.

  I should probably have asked him the way to the junkyard, seeing as he’d lived here since he was born, but I wanted to surprise him.

  When I turned into the dusty lot, he was definitely surprised.

  “We’re at the junkyard,” he said, flatly.

  “Yes, Captain Obvious. We’re looking for truck tires,” I explained, climbing out of the car.

  A look of disappointment crossed his face.

  Darn. Maybe I should have told him earlier where we were going.

  It was a pretty depressing place. Wounded cars and trucks littered the whole area, the aluminum and steel glittering under a layer of fine, brown dust. The dead had been heaped into pyres of crushed metal, waiting to be taken away and recycled—the Soylent Green of the auto world.

  A mountain of rubber tires stood out darkly at the rear of the lot. It was a grim reminder of where cars came to die. I swear my Firebird quivered in terror.

  “Um, good surprise?” I asked tentatively, risking a glance at Jordan’s blank expression.

  He frowned slightly and shook his head.

  “Torrey, this is real nice of you, but I don’t have money for new tires. I told you this.”

  “True, but you weren’t thinking of God’s bounty.”

  “You’re gonna have to explain that.”

  “Mom gave me fifty bucks to get you some new tires. And before you argue, it didn’t come out of her own pocket, so don’t start bitching about it.”

  He crossed his arms, a move that made his biceps look lickable, I mean, likeable—whatever—and he leaned back in his seat.

  “You mean the money came from the community hardship fund, don’t you.”

  “Aw, you guessed,” I said, pretending to look disappointed.

  “I cain’t accept it,” he snapped.

  “Sure you can.”

  “Folks around here won’t…”

  “Folks around here won’t know. And guess what, even if they did know, it’s not their call. That money is Mom’s to dispense as she sees fit. Besides, don’t you find it an interesting paradox that it was people from the community who slashed your tires, but that the same community will pay to replace them? Some might call that serendipity.”