by Nesly Clerge
Thursday after school, he checked with the limo service, the florist, and the restaurant to make sure everything was in order. He called Kayla, hoping she shared his excitement, sighing in relief when she said she did.
After school on Friday, he picked up the corsage—one perfect white orchid. A wrist corsage, “So you don’t damage her dress,” his mother had advised.
Six o’clock Friday evening, a white limousine stopped in front of Starks’s house. Corsage in hand, he made his way to the car, pausing to wave at his relatives who’d showed up to take pictures.
In the back of the limo, he took several deep breaths to loosen the knot in his stomach. Everything had to be perfect tonight.
Starks ran a hand over his hair, straightened his straight tie, and looked back at the chauffer. The limo driver gave him a thumbs-up. Starks returned the gesture, took a deep breath and knocked.
Kayla’s mother opened the door.
“Mrs. Dixon? I’m Starks. Is Kayla ready?”
“It’s Ms. Dixon. Better yet, just call me Jessica.”
“Um… okay.”
“I’ll go up and check on her. Have a seat in the living room.”
“I’ll stand, if that’s okay?”
“Suit yourself.” Without looking back, she wriggled her fingers in a wave and said, “She’ll be down soon.”
He walked to the nearest window. The driver waited next to the back door of the limo, ready to treat the young couple like royalty, as promised. He’d told the driver all about Kayla during the ride over. The driver had given him some tips, when he could get a word in.
Starks glanced at his watch. Ten after six. At six fifteen he heard footsteps on the stairs. Kayla’s mother came down first.
“She’s ready.”
Starks’s gaze followed hers to the top of the stairway.
His breath caught as his eyes followed how the fabric caressed Kayla’s thighs with each downward step, how the long dress hugged her body the way he longed to, how the dress matched her eyes—eyes that watched him watching her, and with an intensity that surprised him.
At the bottom of the stairs, she turned to show him the dress. Her waist-length hair moved aside, causing Starks to gasp again. There was nearly no back to the dress. His palms tingled as he imagined running his hands over her back as they danced or when he guided her to tables and through crowds.
“Wow. Kayla, you’re…”
“You look nice, too.” She focused on the clear container in his hands. “What a lovely orchid.”
“It’s a wrist corsage, so it doesn’t put holes in the—” He gestured at the dress, searching for the right word.
“It’s silk.”
“I’ll be right back,” Kayla’s mother said. She returned with a small cellophane package in her hand, which she gave to her daughter.
Kayla removed the white rose bud and pinned it to Starks’s lapel. “One for you, as well.”
“Um… thanks. Ready?”
“Remember, Kayla,” her mother said, looking at Starks, “your curfew is one o’clock.”
“I remember.”
“Unless you feel you have a reason to stay out longer.” She winked at Starks.
Kayla’s face flamed red.
Starks, open-mouthed, looked from mother to daughter, wondering what was going on, and feeling somewhat embarrassed that his own curfew was midnight.
Outside, he offered his arm. “Shall I escort you to the limo, my queen?”
She giggled as she took his arm. “It’s so elegant, Starks. Thank you.”
The ride to the restaurant started out in silence. Starks noticed the driver frequently used the rearview mirror to check on them. After two minutes of dead air, the driver turned the stereo on. Starks mouthed “Thanks” into the rearview mirror, which got a nod from the driver.
“What should I order at the restaurant?” Kayla asked.
Starks took her hand in his. “Whatever will make you happy. I want you to always have whatever you want. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you do.”
He did everything Jeffrey had told him to do, to convey to Kayla that he was a gentleman who knew how to take care of a lady. Dinner went well, though a little awkward at first. By the time they ordered desert, they were easier in each other’s company. By the time they made their grand entrance at the prom, they were comfortable with each other, able to make each other laugh. By the time they danced to “If Only for One Night,” he knew the lyrics that requested she let him hold her tight, even if only for one night, were wrong. One night would never be enough. He wanted every night with Kayla. Delicate, gentle, shy Kayla, who was opening up to him more and more.
Aside from the formal photograph each couple posed for, friends with cameras took pictures as well.
“One day,” Starks teased, “we’ll show these photos to our kids.”
Kayla bit her bottom lip.
Starks stared at her mouth. No matter how much he wanted to kiss her, he’d follow Jeffrey’s advice:
“Take it slow, bro. Practice delayed gratification. Don’t rush the kiss. Wait until you take her to her front door. And nothing over the top. Just enough of a kiss to make her dream about you. Girls love that, especially on a first date.”
Waiting to put his lips to hers was utter, delicious agony.
CHAPTER 32
STARKS’S ARMS WERE around Kayla. One hand held her close, the other gently stroked her back left bare by the dress. With restraint that ached, he kissed her. She responded. He kissed her again.
Someone on the other side of the door was opening it. Starks did not stop the kiss. The person slammed the door open.
The metallic sound forced Starks to open his eyes. His vision met gray all around him.
“Hey, prick!”
Silence.
Sorrow.
“I know you heard me. Answer when I talk to you. I’ll be back in a half hour. Make sure you’re awake and talking.”
Isolation made it far too easy to get lost in memories. It was also easy to lose track of time, with no watch or clock or window. Not that he had a reason to track time. He knew whether it was day or night based on which meal was served and by lights being dimmed or brightened. Were it not for the one hour out of his cell every afternoon, he’d have no contact with natural light at all.
Moments were no longer moments; they were eternities, when he was awake, which was more often than not.
He heard the cuff open. Had it been a half hour, or were the guards messing with him again?
“Yo! You gonna answer me this time?”
Starks’s grandfather had told him silence was sharper than words. He kept his mouth shut.
“You’re gonna talk, whether you want to or not, butt-face. Shrink time in one hour. Be ready.”
“If it’s in an hour, why’d you disturb me earlier?”
“I was bored.”
Accompanied by COs Jakes and Simmons, a shackled Starks shuffled along the corridor then through a number of barred and glass doors before they entered a corridor in the general population area.
Once even with one of the cells, Starks heard someone hiss at him. He recognized one of Bo’s gang members. The inmate sneered at him and mouthed the words, “You. Die.”
Starks halted, careful to keep any emotion from showing.
The gang member lost his smirk. “Hunh,” was all he said.
Jakes said, “Keep it moving. And you,” he said to the gang member, “back it up. Nothing to see here.”
As soon as they were out of the corridor, Starks began to tremble. He was relieved that his game-face had showed up without any conscious thought on his part. It was the result of decades of practice with surly professors and later clients and their attorneys who wanted to see how far they could push negotiations.
But, he wondered, how long would he be able to fake it?
CHAPTER 33
DEMORY GLANCED AGAIN at Starks’s file in the few minutes before his patient arrived. Police sta
tements taken from people who knew Starks were consistent about the man never having previously demonstrated any violent tendencies. Family often lied, but not neighbors and business associates, who usually had no reason to hold back with the truth.
Kayla Starks’s statement, of course, was derogatory. And, as expected, Margaret Hessinger’s statement was scathing.
Having been through a bitter divorce himself, he knew that a person can be pushed beyond a rational point. Although he didn’t condone the action, he could sympathize with Starks for snapping the night he went to his wife’s former lover’s house. The problem was he was still snapping. In here. The last place where he could or should do that. The last place he might ever live, if he didn’t get a grip.
The inmate arrived one minute early.
Demory smiled and motioned for him to sit. Once the guards left and the door was closed, he asked, “How are you doing?”
Starks rubbed the back of his neck. “How do you think?” He rested his clasped hands on his lap and stared, unseeing, at them.
“Why’d you try to end your life?”
Starks looked him straight in the face and said, “You’re kidding, right?”
Demory waited.
“You’re familiar with my trial?”
“I followed the news, and I ordered and read a copy of the trial transcript after I knew I’d be meeting with you.”
“Then you know what my wife did. Finding out what my wife really was—and that she willingly spoke against me—fucked me up bad. Everything I’d ever worked for, what it did to my kids… Then coming here, being locked in isolation for so long… I just wanted it to stop.”
“What did you want to stop?”
“Pain, humiliation, memories that run on a loop. And feeling like I have to live in constant fear.”
“I’d like to talk about the event that led to you being in here; what happened at the Hessinger house.”
Starks’s head jerked up. “I don’t want to discuss it.” He pointed at the file in front of Demory. “Anything you need to know about that night and what happened before that night is information you’ve already read. No need for me to repeat it.”
“I’m afraid we have to discuss it. If I have to ask you each session, I will, until you tell me about it.”
After a minute of silence, Starks answered. “I lost control, went over the edge.”
“What sent you over?”
“He had no shame. Only wanted to shame me. Blame me for my wife cheating with him.”
“How’d he do that?”
Chains rattled when Starks swiped at the trickle of sweat on his cheek. His gaze traveled quickly around the room, his breaths became shorter. Demory waited.
“It’s a long story.”
Demory’s smile was sympathetic. “Time is on our side.”
Starks nodded, looked away.
“Your file indicates you’re still married but that you and your wife had been separated almost a year at that time. Why did you want to talk to Hessinger then? Why attack him then?”
The next forty minutes taunted Starks as he recounted what had been said and done that night. It was more words than he’d uttered since arriving at Sands. More than anything, he wanted to lie on his poor excuse for a bed and sleep. And forget. Even for a while.
He relived events in his mind over and over each day and night, like a form of penance. Feeling forced to do the same in these sessions annoyed him. Although he still felt somewhat justified for what he’d believed was righteous anger and action at the time, he didn’t want to reveal his shame and shameful behaviors any more than they’d already been revealed publically.
“There are no right answers, Starks, only true ones,” Demory had said when he’d gone silent in the middle of their time together. “Answers like ‘I felt betrayed’ aren’t enough.”
“It’s pretty damn simple, as far as I’m concerned. I was betrayed. End of story.”
“You have to face your feelings if you’re ever going to deal with them properly. You need to manage them, rather than let them manage you.”
“If you want to help me, help me stop feeling so much.”
“It’s not feelings that are the issue; it’s that you choose to feel them.”
“Bullshit.”
“We have to look at your feelings. We do that so we can look at forgiveness.”
A spasm of contempt crossed Starks’s face. “Fuck forgiveness. If you think I can forgive him or her after all this, you need to swap sides of the desk with me.”
“Forgiveness isn’t for their benefit, it’s for yours. The moment you forgive yourself, and, yes, even them, that’s the moment you can set yourself free of the feelings giving you such a problem now. You’ll be able to stop carrying what happened in the way you have been.”
Starks shook his head. He got up, noticed three balled-up sheets of paper on the floor. Must have been from his last patients. Pigs. He placed the papers in the small trash can then used his right foot to align the can with Demory’s desk before returning his gaze to the counselor.
“You want me to forgive a woman who lied in court, knowing it could put me behind bars?” He sat back down. “Here’s more that I can’t forgive—that right this moment, she probably has ’em spread for that sycophant she calls her boyfriend. That she and that freeloader are enjoying the expensive house that I built through my blood, sweat, and tears to provide for her and my children.”
He dragged a hand back and forth across his chin and went back to pacing. “You want me to forgive her? Before I came here, she had the nerve to tell me Bret’s going to take over my role as their father.”
“Not the right choice of words for her to use. But do you doubt his ability or willingness to be a good stepfather?”
“Just like I don’t believe a stepmother would ever care for my children like their biological mother would—or maybe I should say should care for them, I damn sure don’t believe Bret will step up and be a good stepfather to my children. Kayla thinks Bret’s going to do exactly that.”
A vein in his right temple throbbed. “My children share a phone; my little girl uses it to play games. They showed me the photos their mother sent to them, of her and Bret acting inappropriately. Can you believe that? As if it wasn’t painful enough for these children to go through this sordid mess. My kids had only known the security of a true family. I don’t know what gets into her or why she can’t see how foolish doing things like that is. More than foolish—hurtful and confusing for them.
“What message does it send to them when their mother is in bed with her boyfriend doing God knows what in the other room? How did I miss this about her? How did I miss who this woman really was? I call her foolish but I was the bigger fool. And this is the woman who’ll be taking care of my children while I’m in here. If she hasn’t used proper judgment so far, how the hell can I trust her to do what’s proper for our children? God knows, I never wanted it to be this way.
“After all her nonsense with Ozy, she had the nerve to tell me she didn’t do anything wrong. It’s so much easier to forgive somebody who accepts fault. Somebody who doesn’t point the finger at someone else.”
“It is easy to point the finger, isn’t it?” Demory leaned back and watched for what response might be given.
Starks whirled around. “What are you getting at? I know what I did to fuck things up in my marriage, but I never pointed the finger at anybody. I accepted my faults.”
“Have you?”
“She’s the one in denial. Look at the marriages she destroyed, that I know about, that is: Ours, Ozy’s, and damn near did it to Jenny and Richard’s. Jenny. Now she’s a woman I’d find easy to forgive. She knew she made a mistake and did all she could to repair the damages, even though Kayla tried to convince her to lie to her husband because—Kayla told her—guys like us weren’t capable of forgiveness.” He shook his head. “I don’t think I can forgive Kayla. I don’t think I can do that.”
“Do you realiz
e how what you just said sounds?”
Starks wore a puzzled expression that lasted a few seconds then said, “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Jenny was contrite; Kayla wasn’t. Still isn’t.”
“Forgiveness can’t have stipulations and conditions. I can help you to find a way to forgive.” Demory closed the file. “Same day and time next week?”
“I’ll come. Because it’s a diversion with a nicer decor. But if you’re expecting a lot from me—”
“Just show up. We’ll take it from there.”
Starks left, debating in his mind which was worse: being isolated with his thoughts tormenting him or having some counselor doing it to him.
CHAPTER 34
THE GUARDS WALKED Starks past the gang member’s cell on the return trip to the isolation block. The man stayed seated on his bed but the two inmates made eye contact and held it until they were out of each other’s sights.
Simmons opened Starks’s cell door; Jakes pushed him inside.
“Looks to me,” Jakes said, as he unlocked the shackles, “like the only person wants to see you is the shrink. No visitors. No calls. No letters. No one here wants to see your butt-ugly face. Doesn’t say much about you, does it?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Simmons said. “I think it says a hell of a lot.”
“Yeah, like nobody cares whether you live or die, Mr. CEO.”
“That’s not right,” Jakes said. “The prison cares. They get paid for every body in here.”
“Always more where he came from.”
The steel door slammed shut behind the COs and their self-amusement.
Starks sat on his bed with his back against the wall and thought about his session with Demory.
What a load of crap.
He’d worked seven days a week to give Kayla everything she needed and said she wanted. All the while, she was screwing Ozy and who knew how many other men. All of them laughing at him, ridiculing him behind his back. She’d given little thought to him, their children, or their marriage.