“Yes, sir,” Grant replied, nodding soberly.
Hunter rose, and the couple followed suit. As they began walking out, Grant once again placed his hand on the small of Sophie’s back to guide her. Then he abruptly halted, removing his hand. “Uh, is that okay if I touch you here, um, Bonnie?”
Sophie grinned and guided his hand back to its resting place. “It’s perfect, McSailor. Thanks for asking.”
18. Confrontation, Part Two
If you don’t like what you hear, just leave.
Dr. Hayes’ words played over and over in Grant’s head, running in a calming loop as he anxiously made his way to the visitor’s entrance of Gurnee State Penitentiary.
You’re in control now. You’re an adult. He can’t hurt you. Grant added a few of his own reminders to the litany of support. Swallowing hard, he joined the back of the rag-tag line of visitors waiting to enter the prison. As he surveyed the wait ahead of him, Grant was grateful it was only an autumn breeze flapping his jacket, not yet an icy winter wind.
Most of the visitors were shabbily dressed, haggard, and reeking of cigarette smoke. But whatever their scruffy appearance, Grant would’ve given anything to have a visitor like one of them when he’d been incarcerated here. Once his father had forced him to remove Joe Madsen from his list of approved visitors, there was nobody else. It had been a painfully lonely two years.
You have a shield around you. Nothing he says can get to you. You’re an adult now.
Despite the soothing words repeating in his head, Grant’s heartbeat continued to pound in his ears, thumping with a panicked cadence. He looked longingly over to the compact car sitting innocently in the visitor lot, rented for this visit. Drumming his long fingers against his thigh, Grant contemplated running back to that car and hightailing it away from this place that held so many shameful memories.
Then the youthful face of his nephew sprang to mind, and Grant’s throat tightened. If he wanted Ben to escape the destructive forces of this family, he’d have to set the example. He’d have to stand up to them first. He’d have to face his own demons, before those demons sunk their claws into his nephew and dragged him down as well.
The line slowly shuffled forward, and when Grant finally approached the thick steel door held open by a corrections officer, he stole one last glance behind him at the parking lot before inhaling deeply and stepping into the dimly lit concrete structure. Greeting him was a familiar smell: the woven vapors of mildew, sweat, and fear—which instantly unsettled him.
When it was his turn to sign in, he reluctantly handed one CO his driver’s license and submitted to a pat-down by another officer.
Peering at the ID, the CO told his partner, “Hold it, this one’s not going in.” He glared at Grant and pointed to the bright red letters stamped across his driver’s license: REGISTERED OFFENDER. “Parolees can’t visit prisoners, you idiot.”
The other CO nodded, squinting at Grant. “Oh, yeah, I remember you. Back so soon?”
“Yes, officer,” Grant said, keeping his head down. Thankfully neither CO had been involved when he experienced his psychotic break in solitary. He bit his lower lip, slowly pulling a folded letter from the inside pocket of his jacket. “This is a letter from the DOC attesting to the special permission I’ve been granted to visit my father.”
The CO grabbed the letter and studied it carefully. “It looks legit.”
But the other guard still looked suspicious. “We don’t got no prisoners named Madsen here. Who’s your dad?”
Grant took a deep breath. “Vicenzo Barberi.”
Their eyes bugged out and one officer said, “No shit?”
“Yes, sir.”
They stood gaping for a moment, then one officer grasped Grant’s arm and cocked his head toward the visitation area. “Let’s go, then, Mr. Barberi.”
Grant winced.
As they walked toward the cages, the CO suddenly became chatty. “Why’d you keep your family ties secret, Madsen? Your dad could’ve provided protection in here.”
Grant pursed his lips. “I’ve never wanted to be part of them. But I couldn’t get away.”
“They responsible for you doing time?”
Grant cast a sideways glance at the officer. “Something like that, yes, sir.”
“That your brother who was murdered, then?”
Looking down as they arrived at the cage, Grant replied, “Yes, sir.”
“My buddy Carl was the one your dad popped when he heard the news. Barberi broke his damn nose. As far as I’m concerned, he should still be in the hole for that stunt.”
“Sorry about that,” Grant offered, not knowing what to say.
Frowning, the officer said, “Have a seat, Madsen. Your old man will be along any second now.” Leaning in once Grant sat down, he added, “And if he gives you any trouble, you come get me. I’d love to send the asshole back to the hole.”
Grant looked up, surprised and bolstered by the CO’s kindness. “Thank you, sir.”
The CO turned to leave but then paused. “So why now? Why you visiting him now?”
Swallowing, Grant blushed. “Some stuff went down between me and my dad a long time ago, and my shrink—my PO ordered me to see one—he thought it’d be a good idea for me to get some things off my chest.”
“Oh, Lord.” The CO cracked a big grin and looked skyward. “You’re taking advice from a shrink? Good luck with that.”
The officer chuckled as he walked away, and Grant found himself smiling, which released some of his built-up tension—and also surprised him. He hadn’t expected much to smile about today. This whole scenario was preposterous and likely ill-advised. Why the hell he was going through with it? But it was too late to back out now; he heard the jangling keys and the sliding cell door that announced another inmate’s arrival for visitation. Feeling his stomach twist with fear, he instinctively stood. His smile vanished and his eyes became glued to the chained prisoner two COs guided into the cage reserved for the most violent offenders.
Though his father was sixty-one years old, there was nothing aged or feeble about him. He emanated ferocity, even chained and locked up in a cage. The gray had further invaded the black of his thick hair, and the hard lines of his face had etched deeper into his skin, but the coal eyes looked exactly the same as they had five months ago when Grant had last seen him, just before he’d been released on parole. His father would never be released, thankfully.
As father and son sat down, separated by the metal cage between them, they stared at each other for several moments. Grant felt his heart racing, and beads of sweat dripped down his spine, but he also felt a sense of resolve, which kept his anxiety from blooming into panic. He nervously licked his bottom lip and clenched his hands into fists.
You’re an adult now. He can’t hurt you.
Slowly shaking his head, Enzo was the first to speak. “I can’t believe you’re wearing that White Sox jacket. You should burn that fucking thing.”
Grant felt a sliver of relief at his father’s attempt at humor. Enzo had been a die-hard Cubs fan all his life. In response, Grant had become an ardent supporter of the rival White Sox, Uncle Joe’s beloved team.
“It’s my favorite jacket.” Grant held his breath, staring into those piercing eyes, but he exhaled after his father smirked.
“Figures.” Enzo paused for a moment, eventually admitting, “I’m glad you came.”
Grant’s crystal eyes showed surprise and then determination. “I have some things to say to you.”
Enzo arched one eyebrow. “I’ve got some things to tell you too. It’s why I asked you here. Grant, I—”
He was interrupted by his son extracting a folded paper from his jacket. Knitting his bushy gray eyebrows together, Enzo asked suspiciously, “What’s that?”
“I wrote down some things I wanted to tell you,” Grant explained, smoothing the folds of the paper.
A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Enzo’s mouth. “We’ll get to that. What I
have to say is important—”
“This is important too!” Grant shook the paper for emphasis.
Enzo looked dismayed. He wasn’t accustomed to men challenging him, and he intended to quash such rebellion immediately.
“You listen to me, Grant. We’ve got limited time here. I may be locked up in a cage, but you show some respect, damn it. You will respect me.”
His father’s icy tone sent a ripple of fear through Grant’s chest, and he suddenly found it difficult to breathe. Flashes of his father’s belt buckle gleaming in the kitchen light pushed at the corners of his mind, freezing him in place. His entire body tensed, and his eyes took on a far-off look.
“I want to talk about…Logan,” Enzo continued, ignoring his younger son’s lack of eye contact. “I know you two were never close. You boys couldn’t have turned out more different—but what you did for him, well, it was simply…sorprendente.”
Grant stared at his hands as they twisted in his lap.
Enzo frowned. “Look at me when I talk to you.”
Aquamarine eyes snapped upward, startled, and Enzo was bowled over by their crystalline beauty. He remembered those big blue eyes staring up at him with abject fear. But he’d only done what he had to do. His role as disciplinarian had come from necessity—just as his own father had done his duty to keep him in line. It was the natural order for fathers and sons.
Having difficulty speaking while looking into those vulnerable eyes, Enzo cleared his throat.
“I want to thank you for what you did.” His expression morphed from sincerity to fury. “My son was taken from me,” Enzo fumed, his mouth tightening, “and I craved vengeance. I had to have my vengeance. You got that for me, Grant. You avenged my son’s death, and I want to express my gratitude. I’m deeply proud of you.”
Completely overwhelmed, Grant focused on his neat handwriting, catching the one-word instruction at the top of the page: Breathe. He opened his mouth and gulped in some stale prison air.
“You’re proud of me because I killed a man? Because I killed my own cousin?”
“Your cousin was a scum-of-the-earth piece of shit,” Enzo raged. “You made the world a better place by taking him off it.”
Grant kept breathing deeply. “Carlo was messed up, I’ll give you that, but let’s not forget he had some help getting there.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What that means is Carlo stood by and watched a seven-year-old boy, Tony Fanocelli, bleed out in front of him—a boy you killed. And now you’re paying the consequences for that crime. You’ll never leave this prison.”
Enzo’s eyes narrowed, and a hint of a smile crept onto his lips.
“Watching that boy bleed to death screwed Carlo up for the rest of his life,” Grant finished.
Enzo’s jaw dropped. “Are you trying to blame me for Carlo?”
“You and Uncle Angelo,” Grant said. “Though it looks like Angelo won’t be around much longer to shoulder the blame. You and Angelo destroyed Carlo—Logan too, for that matter—and I’m not going to sit by and let you destroy me as well.”
“I loved Logan!”
“You loved him?” Disbelief coated Grant’s voice. “No, you didn’t. You hated him. You hated me and Mom too—you hated all of us.”
“How on earth could you say that?” Enzo lifted his chained wrists to emphasize his point. “I sacrificed everything for my family!”
“This wasn’t about us—this was never about us!” Grant sneered. “It’s always been about you—what you wanted. You chose alcohol over us. You chose crime over us.”
“I did what I had to do to provide for my family. Come back and talk to me when you have your own family! You’ll see how hard it is. You’ll see the tough choices you have to make.”
Grant leaned closer to the cage. “I’ll never become an alcoholic. I’ll never beat my wife or children. I’ll never steal or threaten or kill innocent people and then pretend I did it for my family.” He clenched his jaw. “I’ll never become you.”
Enzo blinked his incensed black eyes several times, and then his voice came, low and menacing. “You ungrateful little shit. You’d be lucky to become half the man I am. I continue to be amazed by how far astray fucking Joe Madsen has led you.”
He leaned forward as well, straining against the chains.
“This is what you’ve come to tell me today? This is why you’re here? To bite the hand that feeds you? Here I wanted to express my gratitude, and you’ve come only to insult me with your complete lack of respect!”
That snarling, hateful voice sent Grant reeling once again, fighting for self-control. He glanced again at his paper, smoothing it out with a trembling hand.
“No,” he forced out. “I didn’t come here to insult you.” Breathe. “I came here for some answers.”
He tried to focus on the words swimming before his eyes, and keeping his head down, he began reading in a quivering voice.
“Dear Dad, I feel like I have so much to say to you, but I have no idea how to say it.”
Shocked that his son was actually reading a letter to him, Enzo was speechless.
Unsteadily, Grant soldiered on. “I wish things could’ve been different between us. I wish you didn’t leave us and go to prison when I was eight—now I feel like I don’t even know you. I wish you would’ve made Logan live with us instead of with Uncle Angelo, because I didn’t get to know my brother either, and now he’s—” Grant gulped “—gone.
“I wish I wanted to come visit you in prison, but I don’t really want to be here. And when I got arrested and was forced to be here with you, I wish you would’ve taken care of me instead of threatening me and cutting me off from the only father I’ve ever known.”
Grant’s voice continued trembling, but he kept the tears at bay. “But wishing doesn’t make it true. I wish I could stop wishing for things to be different and just accept the way things are.”
He slowly lifted his eyes to sneak a peek at his father. Expecting him to be full of rage, Grant was astonished by Enzo’s pained expression. The hard lines of his face had softened momentarily.
Sniffing, Grant wasn’t sure if he should continue, but since his father remained quiet, he added, “I have so many questions for you—I know most won’t get answered, but I have to ask them. I have to try.” He took a deep breath. “Did you want to get married?”
Enzo stiffened. “Yes.”
“Did you love Mom?”
“Of course,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Then why, Dad?” The corners of Grant’s eyes turned down mournfully. “Why did you hit Mom—”
“Don’t!” The sharp word was out of Enzo’s mouth before Grant could finish.
Grant ignored his father’s pleading eyes. “What did she ever do to you? Why did you hit her?”
Looking away, Enzo begged, “Stop, please.”
There was an extended silence between them. When Enzo turned back to face his son, Grant was shocked at the tears glistening in his father’s eyes.
“There are things you don’t understand. I—I never meant to hurt her. I never wanted to hurt any of you. It—it was the booze.”
A look of disappointment crossed Grant’s face. “Don’t you dare blame this on alcohol. Nobody held a gun to your head and forced you to drink! You chose this—you chose to hurt us. Don’t you know why Logan had an out-of-control gambling problem? Don’t you know why he used drugs all the time? It’s because he hated himself! He hated himself for not protecting Mom and me from you. You did that.”
“Logan was a grown man; he made his choice. You’re not pinning that on me.”
Grant shook his head with disgust. “I don’t know why I came here. I should’ve known what to expect from you.”
You can’t change your father. Hunter’s words filled his head. He likely won’t apologize or validate you, but it’s still important to tell him what you have to say.
Grant looked at the paper, which was almost ripped ap
art from his grip. Perhaps his father could deny all responsibility for hurting his mother and brother because both were dead, but Grant was right here. Enzo couldn’t deny the effects of his abuse on the man sitting across from him.
“I feel shame,” Grant admitted quietly, so softly Enzo had to strain to hear. “I feel ashamed of myself. I—I question and doubt myself nonstop. Not so much because of the beatings…” He sniffed. “Though they’re part of it. But mostly because of the way you talked to me. You called me weak, pathetic.”
An image of a dark closet flooded his consciousness, taking away his oxygen. The burn of his backside, the wetness of his pants.
“You called me a baby.” Grant hunched over and wrapped his arms around his torso, suddenly appearing younger than his thirty years. “You told me I was a fucking baby.”
Each word made Enzo flinch. Sickened, he watched as his son continued pulling inward, rocking, almost whimpering.
Grant’s breaths were shallow, and his body was frozen as he looked off into the distance. From far away, he heard a woman’s voice calling to him, coming closer, and suddenly he realized it was Sophie, just like she talked to him when he awoke from a nightmare. It’s okay. You’re not a baby. You’re an adult now. He can’t hurt you. I love you. I love my McSailor.
Grant slowly sat up, tried to steady his breathing, and looked into his father’s dismayed stare.
“What’s wrong with you?” Enzo asked, taken aback.
Looking away, Grant clenched his teeth before bravely meeting his father’s gaze. “I have posttraumatic stress disorder.”
Enzo narrowed his eyes. “Vets get that, right? I knew you shouldn’t have joined the fucking military.”
Shaking his head, Grant scoffed, “This isn’t from the Navy! This is from you! From your abuse!”
“Abuse? That wasn’t abuse—that was discipline. You needed that.”
“Discipline? Is that what you call it? Is that what you call beating your son black and blue for spilling a glass of water? Is that what you call a father forcing his seven-year-old son to shoot a man dead?”
Bad Behavior [Confuct Series #2] Page 24